The Golden Round was established a hundred years ago by Doge Ivoric Deirdre, and every year Scuttleway played as its host. It was, ostensibly, a great mercantile holiday, an opportunity for traders from across Londoa (and beyond) to come to Scuttleway to browse wares from across the multiverse, to laugh and swap stories of their travels, for the entire city to come together under a single banner. During election years, it was set up to help heal wounds that may have opened or reopened during the election, for the Houses to swear themselves back to their city, for without the Great Orange Crab, they were nothing.
As such, the entire city bloomed to life with decoration. Before, the setting up of the Golden Round had been a halfhearted affair, the election having drained much of the life of the city. Now, however, with a new Doge and a new future, people took to the streets with renewed gusto, hanging streamers across buildings, setting up circus rings in and around the colosseum, summoning multi-colored balls of light to make Scuttleway shine as though night were a neon day. The Weatherfolk had been hired to clear away the snow that crusted over the cobblestone streets, and one of their most powerful members, Clostara the Summer Elemental, blanketed the city in a pocket of warmth.
It had an immediate effect. One walked across the barren, icy plains leading up to the city, only to feel warmth wash over you. The snow disappeared. The city was alive with music.
Joseph, as he looked out a window in the Lady Deirdre's manor, privately compared it to the landscapes of Nesona. Even in the noble district, where the Lady Deirdre had cordoned herself away after the election, he could hear the city.
It had been three weeks since the election. Since Doge – no, Lord Busciver – had been dethroned, and Doge Rithmound had risen in his place. The hobgoblin had immediately set to work organizing the great festival. He had sent members of his faction across the city to help heal old wounds. Lord Korgan, one of Rithmound's old friends, was visiting the Lady Deirdre today. He was sipping a cup of tea as the two of them sat in her office.
“-And that's the only contribution that House Busciver is willing to give to the Round,” he said.
“Just fireworks?” Lady Deirdre said, “My, that's... petty.”
“Probably needs to work on re-organizing his funds,” Korgan said, “You've heard that Sunala split off from him.”
“Indeed,” Deirdre said.
Joseph was only half-listening, still looking out the window. Now that the election was over, many of the attempted assassinations had petered out. He'd missed all of the action.
But...
“Joseph,” Lady Deirdre said.
The metahuman blinked. Came to.
“W-What?” he said, “Something you need?”
She quirked an eyebrow. Lord Korgan rolled his eyes.
“Thought you Amber Foundation were supposed to be professional,” the orc said.
“Ah, sorry,” Joseph said, “Just...”
“A lot on your mind,” Lady Deirdre said.
He nodded.
Rosemary was still in the infirmary. Whatever had happened to her during her travel back to Chliofrond, she still hadn't recovered. Not fully. He had only been able to properly visit her once or twice.
There was Becenti, too. Joseph still hadn't been able to talk to him after...
Well, after the news about Chliofrond came out.
“I was wondering your opinion, Mr. Zheng,” Lord Korgan said, “You worked closely with the Lady Sunala on that dead plane, didn't you?”
“I did,” Joseph said, his voice guarded.
“What do you think of her now?” Lord Korgan said, “Now that she's out of her little puppet.”
Joseph grimaced. Looked out the window again. He took a second to think.
“I... I'm not sure, if I'm being real,” he said, “She’s made her authoritarian politics pretty clear, being part of the Verdant Reclamation, and all. And she's lost the election.”
He glanced over at the two nobles.
“I'm still guarding you for a reason,” he said.
Korgan scoffed. The Lady Deirdre nodded. They continued to sip their tea.
Outside, the city prepared.
***
“Alright,” Lazuli said, “Starting test fourteen in three, two, one-”
The android pressed a button on the mobile keyboard in his hand, his digitized face squeezing into a look of panic as nothing happened at first.
“Odd,” he said, “It normally doesn't do that.”
He and Vicenorn were in the Braindoll's lab, and their work of the last few weeks stood in the center of the room. A frame, linked to the vat that had stored Vicenorn's brain and lungs since he lost his old body. The frame was metal in appearance, with a gel sac in its ribcage, where the organic form of Vicenorn now rested. The man's voice came on through a small, tinny speaker located near the frame's head.
“You didn't power on the auxiliary batteries, Laz. They need to be on, otherwise if the main power shuts down, I won't be able to move.”
“That...” Lazuli clicked a few buttons on the keyboard, “Sounds very funny.”
“Har,” Vicenorn said, “Just get the damn backups on.”
“Alright, alright,” Lazuli said, chuckling to himself, “Alright, it's on.”
As though on cue, a bright blue light flickered on near one of the tables, cords hooking up the backup power to the vat and the frame. Lazuli entered a few more commands, before putting down looking up at Vicenorn.
“Starting test fifteen in three, two one-”
And he pressed the key.
The frame shuddered. Vicenorn groaned. For a moment, the lights in the room flickered.
Then went out.
“Uh,” Lazuli said, “...V-Vicenorn?”
There was silence.
And then he spoke.
“That's why we have the backups.”
The lights came back on. Vicenorn stood, for the first time in months. He, through his new, unsteady frame, staggered forward a step, nearly fell. Lazuli reached to help support him, but the Braindoll brought up a newborn hand to stop him.
Another step.
A second.
“...There,” Vicenorn said, “I...”
He looked down with new eyes. New eyes, but not young, for they were Fedtek replacements that had existed for over four hundred years, scrounged by Lazuli from downstairs in the storage rooms of Castle Belenus. Vicenorn saw the world in grayscale. When he walked, he could feel his entire body creak. His mechanical ears were cursed with a ringing.
He looked down at Lazuli. The monitor-headed android looked nervous.
“What do you think?” he asked.
“It...” Vicenorn took a deep breath. He could not even feel air go into his lungs. Not like his old form, “It is sufficient.”
“It's just temporary,” Lazuli said, “We knew that. But it's a practice run, to see what we're dealing with. I'm going to run a diagnostic on you, make sure everything's working right.”
“Alright,” Vicenorn said.
Lazuli got to work, running a scanner over his guildmate's form.
“Everything's working, connection to your brain's good enough, Cryzofilm's holding, the frame's starting to churn in the right way. I think... I think you're self-sufficient. For now. Obviously, need to work out a few things here and there. I don't think you'll want to leave the guildhall any time soon, in case something goes wrong...”
He was rambling to himself, talking more to the scanner than to Vicenorn. Lazuli glanced up to see his guildmate simply standing there, looking down at his hands. The face on the android's monitor fell.
“It's only temporary,” he said, “You know that.”
“Some part of me is aware,” Vicenorn said, “But I... I...”
Vicenorn hugged himself with primitive arms, held to a primitive chest.
“I don't want him to see me like this.”
“We'll get to work on getting your old body back, or something like it,” Lazuli said, “You won't be a frame forever. Maybe we can make it muscular, too, make it-”
“I prefer to have the consistency of marshmallow, Lazuli,” Vicenorn said, “It helps trick the body, trick myself that I'm not just... a metal frame and a brain.”
Lazuli was quiet. He finished his diagnostic.
“It's only temporary,” he repeated, “It's only-”
Vicenorn began to shake.
“Oh, geez,” Lazuli said, and he patted Vicenorn on the arm, “It's alright, it's going to be fine. Please don't cry, I don't – I don't know what to do when people cry. Please don't, please...”
***
The day wore on. A statue was put up in the town square, an effigy of the Elven lord Silvuril, the last of the Tlantoian kings to rule over Scuttleway. The man who had been executed by the rebels of the Inner World at the end of the revolution. With a frame of wood and skin made of hay, armor patched out of tinder and sticks, it was ripe for the burning that would herald the start of the Golden Round proper. Doge Rithmound himself helped pull the giant scarecrow to its feet, heaving and laughing with the workers and barking out orders as he worked. He was laughing, having taken off his overcoat, his white undershirt stained with sweat. Isaac knew this to be a farce, of course, a calculated effort to ingratiate the morose man in the eyes of the people. He knew that, even with the market square packed full of people, laughing and jeering and joking, that the new Doge had set up security. Khosrau flew high above. Ket stuck to every shadow.
But it was working. With a final grunt, they pulled the effigy of Silvuril up. There was clapping. Doge Rithmound laughed, shook the hand of the worker's headmen, and swaggered over to Isaac's side. He took his son's offered cup of water, draining it greedily.
When he finished, the smile casually disappeared. Back to business.
“Getting too old for that, I think,” he said.
“You'll put out your back,” Isaac said, “We'll have to take you out of the public eye. Again.”
“Hmm,” Doge Rithmound drawled, “Anything but that.”
They chuckled. A rare moment of humor. His father was in good spirits.
“I heard Lord Busciver's imported fireworks,” Isaac said.
“An invitation,” Doge Rithmound said, “I asked him about it a few days after the election. He already had them on order, probably in preparation for his ill-estimated victory.”
Isaac nodded at that. He poured himself and his father more water from a pitcher brought from the Bronze-Hued Keep. Tested for poison. They would need to be doubly paranoid, now that his father was in the ultimate position of power in the city.
They both drank. A few sorcerers were playing tricks for the children, lights dazzling from their hands, little sparks of magic that popped and fizzled, one passed out a small flame to a curious little goblin, who held it in her hands, her eyes wide in wonder.
“Listen, Isaac,” Doge Rithmound said, “About...”
He was quiet for a moment. Isaac glanced over. His heart began to hammer a bit, for he knew what his father was going to say.
A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.
“Courtship,” Doge Rithmound said, “I've... been giving it some thought.”
Isaac glanced over at his father.
“And...?”
“I would... like to once more dissuade you from Lady Busciver,” his father said. Isaac rolled his eyes.
“I understand, father,” he said, “But, no, my heart is set. You cannot sway it.”
“It has little to do with your heart, Isaac,” Doge Rithmound said, “You must think of-”
“I have other business to attend to,” Isaac interrupted. He made to leave.
“I am your father, Isaac-”
“I am speaking to you not as your son, but as a servant of the city,” Isaac replied, “There's a Golden Round to plan. Merchants to talk to. I know that a few dignitaries from Ded-A-Chek are angry about where they've been allowed to set up shop. I need to soothe a few ruffled feathers.”
When he looked up at his father, his eyes were hard.
“Is that a problem?”
Rithmound hesitated. Then nodded.
“Go, then,” he said, “...Good luck.”
Isaac nodded. And moved out into the crowd. Lord Rithmound watched his son go, until he was out of sight, and then went off. There was more work to be done, indeed.
***
Mallory, Broon, and Ezel visited Rosemary in the infirmary to eat dinner with her, as they had every night since her return. Elenry gave them all sly looks as they filed into the medical wing, dinner in hand. Orion had been cooking tonight, a traditional meal from his home plane, chicken covered in an orange, spicy sauce and a plate of brown rice. The man had been a Far Traveler before joining the guild, exploring the multiverse with Gouffant and Rathia, and had been their cook. His home cooked meals were so good that Rosemary was on the verge of tears when she finished eating.
“Elenry says I should be out in another couple of days,” she said, putting her empty plate on her nightstand, “Provided the treatment she has me on holds.”
“What has she been doing?” Ezel asked.
“Oh,” Rosemary said, suddenly a bit nervous, “A bit of this and that. A couple of pills-”
Elenry, listening in the corner as she read over a couple medical files, snorted.
“And a magic spell that Urash commissioned for me. He had to ask a couple of his contacts in Krenstone for it.”
“Krenstone, eh,” Broon said, “Must've been some treatment, to have him reach out to home for help.”
He smiled at her. But Rosemary, at his words, could do nothing but feel guilty.
“Yeah,” she said, lying through her teeth, “It's... nice.”
They cleared away their dishes. Said a few more words to Rosemary, before departing. Rosemary settled back into her bed, a ghost of a smile both sincere and not still on her face.
“They love you, you know,” Elenry said.
She glanced over at the gloivel. Elenry was starting to put away files, the door to her office ajar.
“All of them,” she said, “They'd do anything for you.”
“I'd like to believe that,” Rosemary said.
“There's no need to hide yourself, Rosemary,” Elenry said, “You... know that, don't you?”
The faerie was hesitant. She looked down to the foot of her bed. She felt frigid, still, even though the influence of the cold iron was out of her system. Elenry had covered her with a quilt from her family, a couple of heavy comforters, she had even set out a warming spell that hovered just beneath the bed.
And yet, she was still cold.
“It took a lot of awkward conversation to make that arrangement with Urash,” Elenry said, “Not revealing your true nature to him was difficult.”
“Thank you,” Rosemary whispered.
“Who else knows?” Elenry asked.
“...Phineas,” Rosemary said, “Wakeling and Becenti, obviously. I bet you Broon suspects. Nash, too. S-Sunala.”
She took a deep breath at that. She didn't want to think about it.
“You.”
“And... that's it?” Elenry asked.
“That's... that's it,” Rosemary said.
“Not even Joseph? Or Mallory?”
“Not even them.”
“Hmm,” Elenry said. She put away a few files. When she returned, she had a cup of hot cocoa in hand. Rosemary took it. Sipped. Felt warmth flow through her system. Part of her wondered if the others had asked Orion specifically to cook up something spicy tonight, to help warm her up.
“Your secrets are your own,” Elenry said, “And I won't pry, nor will I go about gossiping. But just remember, you've spent a long time on your own, having to hide away. And I don't think you need to be quite so...”
“Dodgy?” Rosemary said.
“Not quite that,” Elenry said, “But... you've got people here who trust you. Who love you. We'll accept you, no matter who you are.”
She rose.
“Remember that.”
***
The Golden Round started with the burning of the effigy of King Silvuril. Doge Rithmound himself was the one to light the scarecrow pyre, wearing the ceremonial robes and armor of the Doge of Scuttleway, the Great Orange Crab emblazoned on his chestplate, the Phrygian Cap upon his head. He lit the effigy at its base, fire licking up and consuming Silvuril entirely. The audience applauded. A series of fireworks lit up the night, oranges and blues of a thousand hues. Even as the Inner Sun blinked out, Scuttleway lived and breathed and shined, children playing on the streets, through the markets filled with items from across the multiverse, the smell of food wafting through the air. Music droned on from a hundred bands spread across the city. Every tavern was full.
And the Amber Foundation, or most of them, turned out from Castle Belenus to enjoy the Round. Broon and Tiger shopped in the markets for new weapons, Urash dragged Rathia along to browse a potions stand that had been set up in the noble district, the seller having come all the way from Edris Spelkomea. Ezel and Broon watched a play set up in a temporary theatre, the story of Raul and Himiko, a romance of the heirs of two rival families. They saw Alonso Moriguchi there, the Roshador giving him a wave, and the three of them spoke at length as the performance ran on.
Lazuli had his own goal. He entered out into the city, wrapped up in a cloak. He sneered as he went out, powder bombs in hand, for his night of pranks and mischief.
He was caught by the Militia an hour into his escapade, and spent the rest of the night in the city jail.
Joseph and Guerico accompanied the Lady Deirdre, the three of them getting into a carriage and rumbling into the city. None of the Lady Deirdre's family accompanied her.
“My daughter is in mourning,” she said to Joseph, “I thought it best to leave her to her privacy.”
Joseph looked out the window. He could see the entirety of Scuttleway alive, lights dancing in mosaic rainbows, laughter and music slithering through the crowd. Part of him wished he were out there, to join in on the celebrations. Get drunk. Make his own mistakes. But he was on a job.
“I get that,” Joseph said, “But...”
He hesitated. The Lady Deirdre nodded.
“Say what you wish.”
“You're not going to take a night to yourself?” Joseph asked, “You've been entertaining your guests, working after the election. Every time I've been with you, you've been working.”
But the pale noblewoman shook her head.
“I am the head of House Deirdre, one of the most prominent Houses of the city,” she said, “I am too busy to mourn.”
Joseph found that heartbreaking. But he said nothing, as he watched the city around him outside.
***
Captain Ramsey, too, stood apart from the festivities. He watched them from atop the city jail, cigarette in hand. All around him was light, and he felt uncomfortable in its glow. But he had a job to do, and already the Miltia was already out on its patrols, making sure things didn't get rowdy.
Or, ah, too rowdy.
There was a sickening feeling in his stomach, a thud in his gut that something about tonight was off. He could not shake it off. He carried his mace tonight, the familiar weight hanging on his side. It made for some comfort, at least.
More fireworks rang off. Popped and snarled, and sent Ramsey on edge. There were no firearms on Londoa, not unless you were with a guild like the Amber Foundation. But he had his fill of lead from his time on Amdusias. He never liked the sound.
Someone came up to the roof. Ramsey turned around. Then looked down, at Lieutenant Antsy.
“Cap,” she said.
He nodded.
“Go on, Lieutenant.”
“Silverfish for ya, Cap,” Antsy said, “Waitin' in yours office.”
Ramsey nodded.
“Thank you,” he said, as he made his way to the stairs back into the base, “Everything's alright?”
Antsy gave a mock salute, though she had to jog a bit to keep up with the Captain, stumbling for a second, her hand still at her forehead.
“Aye, Cap,” she said, “No troublemakers out yet. Caught one of them guildfolks, though, 'e's in the jail.”
“Let me guess,” Ramsey said, turning a corner, “Lazuli?”
“One and the same.”
“Let him stew,” Ramsey said, “I know it won't teach him anything, but it'll keep him off my mind for tonight.”
“Aye, Cap.”
He entered his office. Sat down at his desk, hand absently sticking his cigarette into the ashtray. The Silverfish was set up in the center of the table, having been set up a week prior.
In anticipation, Ramsey supposed, of Ichabod's findings. It had been months since the cybernetic man had last checked in. The Captain was getting anxious. He clicked the Silverfish on, and he could hear, through ragged, scratching, electric interference, the guildfolk's voice.
“This Captain Ramsey?”
“It is. Is this Ichabod?”
“Yes,” and the cybernetic man exhaled, “Good god, man, it's good to finally hear you.”
“Where are you?” Ramsey asked.
“Doesn't matter. The waves have ears, and all that. I'm here to tell you who the assassin's client was.”
Ramsey stood up, leaning over the desk.
“...Tell me,” he said.
“It's Sunala,” Ichabod said, “She commissioned Like Shadow to assassinate Lord Rithmound. Had OzTech cover it up.”
He was quiet for a moment. He didn't realize that Ramsey was quietly beckoning Antsy to get a squad of the Militia ready, the two of them exchanging a series of quiet hand signs. Ramsey's heart was racing. He grabbed the cigarette out of the ashtray, re-lit it, took a drag.
“Seems like a pretty bog standard hit,” Ichabod noted, “Nothing major. We lost a man, because of it.”
“I'm sorry for your loss,” Ramsey said, “Truly, I am.”
He took a deep breath.
“Right,” he said, “You’ve got evidence?”
“Got the contract right here,” Ichabod said.
“How long until you get back to the city?”
“Another few days,” Ichabod said, “Are you going for her now?”
Ramsey grimaced.
“Just get yourself home,” he said, “However you can. It’s absolutely paramount that you get the evidence to me. Sounds like you're on the run, so be careful. We'll handle Sunala.”
“Alright,” Ichabod said, “Have to go. Signal's going funny.”
And the Silverfish deactivated. Ramsey glanced over to Antsy.
“Squad's ready,” the gnome said, “We all movin' out?”
“Yes,” Ramsey said, “For Sunala's estate.”
***
The Militia moved silently across the city as the Golden Round blazed around them. Soldiers, one and all, wielding maces, spears, bows and arrows, a couple of magicians in their number were already getting spells ready. They moved up the winding streets by carriage, by foot, by flight spell, towards Sunala's estate. The tower stood tall, swan white pillars dancing with flame from the city's celebration, the glass dome shimmering with the reflections of the fireworks high above.
A couple of air elementals patrolling the skies were dispatched. Ramsey's carriage rolled up to the estate just as a couple of the Militiamen apprehended the guards at the entrance. It had been a bloody affair, and Private Smalls had been injured, the hobgoblin on the ground and contorted around a vicious cut on his stomach.
No quarter. The two elves had been killed.
Ramsey grimaced. This was already going to be bad. Sunala still had not emerged from the estate. Doubtless she had detected the contingent of guards moving in on her position. And yet no response from the manor.
“Get the doors open,” Ramsey said, then, louder, “Get the doors open!”
Mage Anthronaz flicked a hand, and the doors of the estate pulled free from their hinges. She flung them inside. Soldiers swarmed inside, switching out spears for shortswords and maces. Ramsey walked in after them, light pouring from outside into the dark entry hall.
There was no one here.
“Secure the area,” Ramsey said, “Apprehend anyone you see.”
The soldiers moved off. Took to the side halls of the estate, the small studies, the extra bedrooms. The servant's quarters were empty. As was the armory. The kitchens and dining hall. Ramsey and a few others took to the stairs, ascending up, noting that even the enchanting rooms were empty. It was as though they were treading the inside of a corpse. Nothing living. They had to light torches to guide their way, for there was no other illumination here.
They made their way up to Sunala's bedroom. Ramsey glanced over to Antsy and the rest. Four other Militiamen accompanied him. All of them were steeling themselves. Sunala had to be in here.
The Captain of the Guard took a deep breath.
Then kicked the door. Once. Twice.
It broke with the third. With a loud, creaking snap of wood.
Small will-o-the-wisps floated gently, like fireflies, in the grand top room of Sunala's estate. The domed ceiling reflected the sky above, with its multicolored neon fires from the other side of Londoa. Her four-postered bed was already made, and the painting of Montaine, the founder of Scuttleway, glittered in the warm light of the lit fireplace.
The Lady Sunala was in the middle of the room, at her desk. She was waiting expectantly for them, a demure smile on her face, both hands on the table.
Aye, both hands. She had finally replaced the missing stump, her sacrifice from the now-dead Chliofrond. A wooden prosthetic, enchanted and glowing a faint green, the fingers ended in nasty, curved claws. Its roots had burrowed deep into the stump, had wrapped around bone and muscle. A painful process, for such a thing. But, then, the most ancient of Elven magic was painful.
“Lady Sunala,” Ramsey said, “I'm sorry to say this, but you're under arrest.”
Dully, through the glass ceilings, through the marble walls, they heard fireworks go off. One exploded just over the estate, cracks and embers smoking downwards like a dying star.
“On what charges?” Sunala asked.
“Soliciting to murder,” Ramsey said, “You hired an assassin.”
“Which one?” Sunala asked.
Ramsey grimaced.
“Your enforcers and hitmen are all over the city,” he said, “Aren't they? I know you were in deep with the White Feathers, with the Verdant Reclamation. It's over, Sunala. Your man lost. Now, come along easy. This doesn't have to get violent.”
“Oh,” Sunala said, and another firework went off, “But it already has gotten violent, hasn't it? You've killed a few of my men downstairs.”
Ramsey was quiet at that. Two of the Militiamen began rounding across the room, looking to surround the noblewoman. Sunala sighed.
“Well, tonight was the night,” she said, “And you were on the list.”
She tapped the table with her new hand. The claw left marks on its surface.
“I do wish it wouldn't come to this, you know,” she said, “I personally find you to be an honorable man, your race notwithstanding.”
She pulled out something from beneath the desk. Ramsey's eyes widened in sudden horror. An assault rifle.
“But that was not to be, I'm afraid.”
She fired. The world became alight with sound and death. Ramsey gasped as the spray tore through his armor, his body. He collapsed at once, hitting the ground hard, blood – his blood – pooling beneath his form. With fading eyes, he saw Sunala wheel, firing off on Antsy. The others.
And six corpses filled the room.
Sunala reloaded the rifle with a new clip, snapping it into place. Her ears, even with the magical enchantments protecting them, were ringing.
She could hear more gunfire downstairs. Those hidden agents, also armed, cleaning up the rest of the strike force.
Her heart was hammering as she stepped out of the room. Went down the stairs and out of the estate. An air elemental had landed outside, the largest one in her collection. Even now it was suffocating the remaining Militia, twisting the air from out of their lungs, letting them choke out on the cobblestone streets. Other elves attended to her. Most of them were still wielding weapons of their homelands, blades and spears and bows, but a few of them were armed with other technology.
Like her.
“You know the targets,” she said, “Secure the Grand Commons. The prison. Castle Belenus, if we can. They are no friends of ours. Go, and go well.”
She took to the air elemental with a few others. They flew up into the night, amid the fireworks still sounding across the city.
…
…
The coup had begun.