The lady showing us around (surely not a Lady, but still, ‘woman’ wouldn’t do justice to the level of condescension she showed) was the best-dressed person I’d seen in my life. A creamy gown covered in webs of delicate lace fell from her bosom to her ankles, the whole thing shimmering with specks of diamond. Across her shoulders and down her arms, a tiny black coat of thick, fine wool served as her shawl. Her pointy-heeled shoes clipped the polished oaken flooring smartly as she strode and, as though it were us and not her teetering on high-heels, we were forced to walk quickly to keep up.

Sunspring had elected to saunter the wide, high-beamed corridors as a big, thistle-green cat, and despite the envoy’s disparaging remarks no one seemed to want to actually do anything about it. We younger champions, perhaps a little over-awed, were more reluctant to utilise our gifts. Better to scurry along like a mere mortal. In any case, there was too much to look at for me to focus properly on my powers.

The windows displayed the outer grounds and the wall on one side, but on the other I was treated to a view of inner courtyards, no less splendid than the gardens – fountains lit with rainbow lights that shone only on the droplets in ever-changing hues, statues seemingly moving and reciting facts about themselves, vast flowerbeds still vibrant at the end of Illost… it went on and on. And on the walls between each window, painting after painting: the deeds of every illustrious First Lord of Mund, every war victory and every diplomatic negotiation, every new discovery in magery and every great monument raised in Hightown…

Not one image of Zadhal, I noted, even from the days preceding the Diamond War, the days of Zadhal’s glory.

This was not to suggest that all the art was historical in nature. Much was in the modern style, there to be interpreted, impart wisdom rather than knowledge – my favourite was a sculpture of a metallic, golem-like hand holding in its palm a human skull, through the roof of which a fabulous blue rose was bursting. At the same time as I admired it, I did wonder at its presence here. Could our rulers really be so decadent as to openly mock the state of the world? This world they’d ushered into existence? I was nonplussed.

The employees and the lords – guards, secretaries, dignitaries, ministers – it was hard to tell them all apart, frankly – didn’t seem to even notice their surroundings. Striding alone with purpose or in small groups and engaged in low conversation, we must’ve passed a hundred people in the span of two minutes and not one of them was actually looking at any of the finery on display all around them.

I supposed that was just the way of becoming habituated to places, but some of the people out in the courtyard were actively avoiding the walking talking statues, as though their presence were more an annoyance than a marvel. I guessed it would get annoying after a few times, though; to be sitting there eating a sandwich, the likeness of the Fourteenth Evil Seat from two hundred years ago creeping around behind you, waiting for the opportune moment to spring out and describe his crummy contribution to Mundic law yet again…

These posh folk didn’t even look at us, beyond an initial cursory glance. Derisive smiles were the order of the day. I reduced my shields down to the innermost, the reinforced circle, after the first time I accidentally shoved someone into a wall – thankfully he seemed low-rank enough to not make a fuss and scurried away, looking at least as perturbed as me. No one else gave a sign that they’d noticed the brief commotion.

Then we crossed the busy landing of a great sunken foyer that spanned several storeys. There were a number of wide stairs leading from other landings down to its burgundy-carpeted floor.

My steps faltered, and I slowed, lost pace with the others.

Staring.

“It is ze door to ze Chamber of ze Realm’s Council,” Em whispered, linking my arm and drawing me on. “Ze Arreax.”

I craned my head around to try to take it all in, the doorway that was the focus of the massive, bustling room.

Of course it was the door to the high council of the world. What else could it be?

It wasn’t just that the doorway was a fantastic arch of burnished metals, twenty-something feet high, inlaid with a thousand gleaming stones; it wasn’t the runes in Old Mundic embossed on the surfaces of the two closed doors, or the surfaces themselves, shining platinum –

It was that I’d dreamed of that door – I was certain of it. I couldn’t place the memory precisely but I’d seen that door, damn it – seen myself, knocking on it, desperate to get in?

I’m not a diviner. I’m not a diviner. I’m not a diviner.

“You’re not. There’s no way you can get that off me.”

Nice of you to join in. How’d you know that?

“Arch-diviners in front of me, arch-diviners behind me – not exactly my idea of fun.”

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

So she was going to ignore my question.

“You’re right – I guess it’s possible, but it’s never… Let’s talk about it later.”

Either way, the internal conversation helped calm me, distract me from my reverie, and I looked ahead again, tried to get my head back in the game. We’d left the foyer behind, following the carpeted corridors into another building.

It was only now that I recognised the new closeness between Killstop and Spiritwhisper. There was nothing overt about it, but they walked at each others’ sides with a casual familiarity I hadn’t noticed before. When their arms brushed one another’s, they didn’t adjust their courses to give each other more room – they stayed near, maintaining the contact.

I smiled. It was nice to see the two of them were progressing.

Then I spotted as Neko suddenly changed back into his gnomish form, his autumnal robe and beetle-like, mandible-sporting mask – and I knew we’d arrived.

The windows of the room into which we were being led were all curtained-off with massive seaweed-green drapes. It was a long and narrow chamber of white globes and deep shadows; the obvious focal point was the massive table of varnished redebon stretching out to the far end of the space, like a single seamless plinth of dark, blood-spattered marble. Almost three dozen high-backed chairs of the same wood, gleaming in the globe-light, lined either side of it, and in the farthest seats three people were waiting. They stood as we entered, their jewels glinting across their fingers, around their wrists, hanging from their necks.

On the left, a frog-like fellow in a silly black velvet hat – it looked like he’d got his head stuck in some kind of sack – and a matching coat, equally tasteless-looking (to me, at least). The man on the right was incredibly old-looking, face covered in whiskers with a crescent-moon nose that had to be a good inch longer than any I’d ever seen before, the hair hanging to his shoulders so white it was yellowing.

And in between the two men, at the very head of the table, the First Lady herself: Twivona Sentelemeth.

She wasn’t tall or particularly scary-looking, neither old nor young; her face was round and welcoming, skin pink and healthy, not pale like her advisors. But her gaze was imposing, even if she was doing her best to give us an inviting smile. Her gown, like all else here, was only the most expensive apparel, a shimmering thing of silver-grey scales. A demure mantle of blue fur spotted white was about her shoulders; yet it was her golden griffon’s-mane hair, framing her head like a feathered halo, that most drew my attention.

No one had ever mentioned that the First Lady was pretty damn hot.

Our envoy slowed after the guards at the door stepped aside, and swished her arm at us as we filed down the room and fanned out beside the chairs. “Champions of Mund – show your reverence for the Honourable and Dignified First Lady Sentelemeth, the Honourable Lord Justice Haid, and the Honourable and Dignified Lord Shadow Wenlyworth.”

Timesnatcher bowed. We all showed our reverence, more or less. I managed to dip my head without it falling off, which was good going for a Sticktowner confronted with lords the likes of these.

Possibly the three most powerful people in the world – politically speaking, of course – looked us up and down.

“Honourable and Dignified First Lady,” the envoy continued, “Lords Justice and Shadow, might I present these seven brave champions, names put forth by the formidable Timesnatcher himself –” she indicated the arch-diviner “– Sunspring, our most-venerable druid –“

“Hmph!” the gnome erupted.

“– ah, Spiritwhisper and Lovebright, whose previous experiences with Dreamlaughter may prove to be of some value; and the Liberator of Zadhal, Feychilde, Stormsword, and Killstop, about whom the darkmage’s recent escapades appear to centre.”

“Hey, leave me out of that one.” Killstop had her arms folded across her chest. “These two, sure, but the witch can’t find me.”

I went cold inside, felt myself tense, hearing the combative tone to her voice.

Doesn’t she realise these people could have us killed at their whim?

I didn’t have to trust her judgement just because she was an arch-diviner.

“Killstop is the juvenile I mentioned,” the envoy said at a slightly lower volume, “if her chosen moniker did not already inform you.”

“At least I’m not wasting months waiting for Dorel Mitethron to give me a rose.” Killstop shrugged. “One just couldn’t help but wonder what you were doing at my age, Phengil Antara.”

The envoy’s jaw dropped.

“It’s quite alright, Ms. Antara,” the First Lady Sentelemeth said forgivingly, her voice deep for a woman of her slight stature. She sounded surprisingly informal given the extremely upper-crust accent. “You can leave us to it, now.”

“As m’lady commands.” Phengil, the envoy, curtseyed briefly and backed away three paces before turning and leaving. The guards closed the door behind her, staying on the inside of the room with their eyes averted, staring fixedly across the doorway at the plumes atop one another’s helms.

“Plus, I’m fifteen in less than nine months,” Killstop concluded brightly.

“Happy birthday,” Sentelemeth retorted dryly. “There’s no need to stand on ceremony. Please – sit –“ she lowered herself back into her chair, the lords on either side of her following suit “– and would anyone like a glass of wine, before we begin? Or some fruit extract for our young protector here.”

As we found our places, she clapped her hands together smartly, and a concealed door at the back of the room opened, a pair of servants shuffling in.

I glanced at them, then glanced away, sitting down in my chair heavily.

“I don’t think so,” I murmured.

Neko, who’d become a beetle and flown rather than face the indignity of physically climbing into the chair, also shook his head.

“I’m up for one,” Timesnatcher said, looking at me.

“You should give ‘em a taste of Flood Boy’s grape,” Spirit muttered.

Sentelemeth’s eyebrows were raised. “What’s this?”

I smiled benignly. “Since none of the arch-diviners are leaping up to stop me…” I waved a hand. “Might I present Flood Boy, of the otherworld-realm?”

The frog-man with the stupid-looking hat, Lord Justice Haid, gasped a little as my portal produced the faun. The First Lady and the ancient Lord Shadow Wenlyworth kept their composure, though.

“Give them a nice bow, Flood Boy; these are very special people.”

Olbru sneered at me, then cocked his leg and bowed over his hoof. “Pleased to make your acquaintances, special people.”

“What is the meaning of this?” frog-man Haid spluttered.

“A very fine, very fortified wine,” I answered, encouraging Flood Boy with a twirl of my hand. “Go on, show them your goblet. Have we got some glasses?”

* * *