“Being the nice guy in charge sucks bad,” Princess Kristie told the Mick as she sat down next to him.

“I don’t think ever in me whole life I been referred to as a nice man, Yer Highness,” he replied neutrally.

“Well, I’d say the same of myself, but Ranthas have different standards,” she half-laughed. “Where to next?”

“Depends on the skull-talking the lass does,” he asked, waving at me sitting on a Disk nearby, Gross and Kopf withdrawn silently to a discreet distance. “I’m thinkin’ there be at least four more Royal Scout paper-pushers who deserve the deaths they been pushin’ t’ advance themselves.”

“It can wait a few months,” I spoke up from behind him.

“Why be that, lass?” he asked over his shoulder.

“Because I can then Geas the arseholes to active field duty until they die with honor, overcome by their duty and the glory of dying for their people and country.”

“Hoh, another spell that ain’t nice. Yer living up t’ yer words, lass.”

“Damn Good, Lord Mick.”

“Aye, fucked be we all.” He took another swig of his rum, the expression on his face unreadable. “Hoped I’d put all this shite behind me…” He heaved a deep breath.

“You talk about the Crimson Craft like someone who indulged in it?” Kris asked neutrally.

“Fah. I were worse than any assassin, but I didnae broach Asheron’s Protection, that were true. I killed dozens of things for naught more than a hearty clap o’ empty Karma and sheets o’ paper not worth the spit used t’ make ‘em, now. Killin’ others, forgoing the Protection so ye could, that were just entertainment, with the deathstones around. More sending a message than aught, an’ it still only worked with those who chose t’ go red.

“An’ the mages had the advantage, o’ course. A mage-archer sniper team were pretty deadly.”

“Entertainment. Not the real Crimson Craft. Going to contact Oswald?” Kris waved dismissively.

“I knew where the old man were as soon as I read the instructions, an’ then thought over what ye said he could probably do.”

“Do tell?” She leaned in with interest.

“Aye, he’s up abouts the Plateau or Stonehold in the North. This drop be an open point in the Tukals. There be no cover, ye can see anyone coming fer a mile or more. He just pops in once a week or so, then flits off home. No one to see him come in or leave.

“He weren’t going to leave his woods behind, an’ the northern people always been independent sorts. With the Portals shut down, they’d’ve needed his help badly, yet the place is out o’ the eyes of the likes of the undead, shades, an’ virindi, an’ wouldn’t take much t’ fortify against anything wandering around, being only one way up as it has. The olthoi don’t go that far west, the Viamontians be stuck in the Vesayans again, an’ he could flit over there t’ cause mischief, or see ‘em if they try t’ land on Dereth with boats or the like.

“Aye, he’s up there now, mebbe usin’ a new name an’ nobody knowin’ or carin’ who he is, just another paramount who knows his shite teaching the folks what they need t’ survive.”

“The Plateau or Stonehold?” I asked, trusting his opinion.

“I dunno, lass. Stonehold would be harder t’ defend, an’ close t’ the Frozen Zone,” Lord Mick said, taking another sip. “The tuskers an’ gurogs there, not t’ mention the frozen Gellidite undead, probably swept over the place an’ erased it if they were workin’ together. If they were not, well…” He trailed off thoughtfully. “Nobody’s gone far enough northwest t’ see if they survived, see, what with no quick way back or avenue o’ retreat. The undead don’t tire, see, an’ if ye got some intent on running ye down, that’s exactly what they’d do, never giving up until ye’re flat on the ground in exhaustion, not like the old days, an’ they can butcher ye with ease.”

“And it not helping that they couldn’t die… unless you’re someone who could kill them forever…” Kris murmured.

“Aye. So ye kin bet the undead know he’s there, an’ that t’ attack there is t’ risk the greatest human assassin comin’ after ye an’ yers, an’ takin’ ye out forever. Aye, the high-ups, like Rytheran, an’ Geraine, an’ Aerefalle, probably got nothing to fear. But all their underlings? They’d get the knife, an’ the power o’ their faction would plummet. The old man would hunt them all patient-like, he’d run away when he needed t’ run, an’ he’d pick them off, while they’d get nothing in return.

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“Aye, it’s off their sight, they got no ambitions in the area, an’ they’ll just let things lie.”

“No, they wouldn’t,” I countered. “I believe you mentioned he was on the outs with the Assassin’s Guild. Wouldn’t they send some after him?”

“Of course they would. Ye think he doesn’t know who they are, that he hasn’t been watching ‘em? If he can flit across the world an’ nobody else can, he’d use it.

“Anyone they sent after him either never made it there or vanished inta the woods. He likely knows who any an’ all of them are, an’ if it’s time t’ clean house, it’s gonna be fast an’ brutal.”

“You believe he has access to the Halaetians, too?” I spoke up. Those were the islands in the northwest the Viamontians had first arrived at all those years ago.

“If as ye said is true, aye. It’s said he first came to the world fleein’ the Viamontians, an’ ended up there. Escaped from there years ahead o’ them.”

“Then he’s probably a contact for the Aun tribes at Marae Lassel to those in the Vesayans. Or… he’s been evacuating them slowly, one or two at a time, getting them off the island there and bringing them here.”

The Mick paused in his drinking, thinking that over, his eyes falling on the campfires below.

“Well, isn’t the old man still a clever bastard,” he finally agreed. “I always thought the Aun were consolidating the wanderers who survived, but aye. When I be thinkin’ about it, an’ adding up the numbers of Aun through the islands… that number were quite a few less than the adults spread about the Vesayans now.

“He’s probably the patron saint o’ the Aun now. O’ course they wouldn’t give him up, or even mention he’s alive, even t’ the likes o’ me. They know what he did, but that’s a great debt o’ honor t’ them, an’ they’d belike t’ die before speaking o’ it.”

“Would he have evacuated Isparians, too?” Kris asked, curious now.

The Mick considered that. “The Viamontians had two factions, the royalists in Sanamar an’ the rebels in Silyun. The former hunted an’ captured Oswald at one point for daring t’ kill off a few of their priggish nobles at the behest o’ some other nobles. The latter, led by the Bellenesse Clan, had enough of the royalists an’ rebelled back in Ispar, fleeing here. The King butchered the Lady Bellenesse in captivity, so there’s no love lost with what survivors there be there between the rebel clans, an’ they had no ill will towards Oswald. Fairly decent folk there, really.”

His dark eyes narrowed. “I not be knowin’ what the islands were like after the Fall, but the royalists an’ their madman o’ a king were doing crazy awful shite, looking back on it all. Like Binding loyal knights t’ their armor t’ give them more strength an’ assuring their loyalty. They mass enslaved these creatures called eaters, unnatural things made up by the Fiuns in a mad accident, turning them inta their hounds an’ tools an’ breeding ‘em like crazy as attack dogs for their forces.

“I be imaginin’ what happened when an’ if they done lost control o’ their armored slaves an’ the eaters, an’ their vaunted armies started killing ‘em.”

“Comeuppance for massive arrogance and foolishness is always fun to watch, right up until it swallows you, too,” Kris nodded. “Now, how much of those armies were real, and how many were Summons?”

“I dinnae know,” the Mick admitted. “They had some form o’ deathstone protection, so they kept coming back, an’ the eaters ended up dominating whole swathes o’ the Summons points, hard t’ tell the real from the fake. Were one Viamontian Hand, Sir Toricello, I think belike I killed the bastard forty times over the years. He didn’t much like me,” he said dryly.

“Could you take him without your maxed Gear?” Kris inquired directly.

His free hand moved thoughtfully to Bunita’s hilt, caressing it unconsciously. “It’d be a close thing, aye. I’d probably need fair better armor, at the least. The Hands had fine armor, an’ were as strong as any paramount, fast an’ mean an’ vicious. A normal soldier had no chance against them, be chopped apart in no time. Only the fact the blighters never got Buffed by their own kept us on top in the fights. Their mages were always concerned more about blastin’ ye themselves instead o’ setting ye up for the warriors… or, p’raps, so many were Summons it were hard t’ tell their honorable pride an’ foolishness apart from blindly followin’ orders an’ the like. Proud and arrogant shites that they were, more concerned with how good they’d look than aidin’ their peers or lessers.”

“That sounds about right for the flower of Viamontian nobility,” Kris agreed sagely. “Right up there with slavishly obey your superiors for the chance to show off in their sight and maybe be elevated with an empty title or battle honors, or just die trying.”

“Ye know ‘im well,” the Mick agreed blandly. “Some get over it, but they ain’t the ones born noble, for the most part. And, o’ course, any non-Viamontians were just dirt under their heels, t’ be treated as however they wanted, less than their beloved cattle in their eyes.”

“Well, of course. Cattle give meat and milk and cheese and leather, non-Viamontians are squatting on the land you want and consume all that food that should be theirs. They are barely acceptable as peasants, not knowing their places!” Kristie agreed in a perfect bored Viamontian noble’s stuffy accent, her nose in the air.

His laugh was dry and hard. “Well, ye definitely dinnae like Viamontians, an’ ye’d find some fine, fine representatives o’ the culture in the Vissidals, aye. They took the worst parts o’ their people an’ done found new an’ unholy limits to ‘em. Here’s hopin’ it bit ‘em in the arse at least as hard as the undead bit us.”

“So, you’re saying a visit to the north is in the works, or do the contact before then?” I inquired from the side.

“Oh, we can leave a message for ‘im, but it might not hurt t’ let him know that he’s not as deadly an’ untouchable as he thinks, aye?” the Mick nodded slowly.

“That’s not nearly as hard to do as he might think,” I confirmed. “His teleportation ability can’t be anything but the most rudimentary, and I imagine he doesn’t go into any place that’s been Warded against unauthorized Portaling previously, as I’m sure the undead have. I can rap his knuckles without actually threatening him without too much effort.”

“Well, then we should rap away, when we take the time. In the mean, ‘tis time for ye to knuckle down an’ start some hard learnin’ an’ teaching, I reckon?” he asked the both of us.

“Two viable Dungeons for Karma to keep me busy right close, and some others only a few miles of hiking away? This is decent for us to keep getting our exercise, and to challenge your scouts,” Kris agreed.

“I have so many Masteries to catch up on,” I sighed softly.

“Then let's be about upgradin’ an’ startin’ a new day for the people again,” the Mick agreed, and it was set.