The next morning, Donik is idling in his bed, imagining the future of his domain without him. He just received word from one of his courtiers that Cyrus would be disappearing without incident. This is not very reassuring. He would like his children to succumb to greed before they become useful to another ruler, especially Czar Jace of Poqdovia. Interrupting this train of thought is Ryler. He has plans to travel around the maritime centers and have his brothers locked out of many ports as possible. “I think I want to land in Zhugo first,” he informs his father. “Maybe I can catch the Fairy Fish along the way!”
According to popular legends, the Fairy Fish is a magical fish with a body shaped like a wrasse, vertical stripes of every colour, and the wings of a dove. It is reborn every century, and whoever eats it lives an extra fifty years. Powers from around the world search the Naxna Sea to find and claim this precious prize. One rumor suggests that the previous Czar of Poqdovia, Jirc, had a crew find it. However, when it was handed to the chef to be prepared, he ate it himself. This outraged Jirc, who ordered for the chef to be beheaded under the charge of treason. To the shock of everyone, the chef’s mouth moved with the intent to speak, and his eyes continued to blink. The royal family held onto this oddity for the next fifty years before burying it with the rest of the chef’s body.
“Why yes,” Donik nods. “You said you had started the search as soon this sickness appeared.”
“I still have people looking for it. But in the meantime, I love carving and painting wooden statues of all the world’s mystical creatures,” he chimes. Ryler pulls out a small Fairy Fish statue from his sack places it on one of his father’s night tables. His craftsmanship has made for a decent side hustle, with him selling three of these statues a day.
“If only I could just eat that,” the Czar proposes half-jokingly, wishing it could be that simple. He wonders if the fish was already found and kept a secret. In fact, he is finding most of these superstitions to be unproductive. Not once has Ryler found any of the ensorcelled items or mystical creatures he had learned about. Yet there was not much other hope to cling onto. Donik’s doctors have made it clear that their medicines have been experimental. Everything he is prescribed is presented as a miracle waiting to happen. He looks down upon most of the physicians he has seen, presupposing that they are desperate for recognition instead of invested in the wellbeing of their ruler.
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Luther is taking a carriage down the hill. He would like to improve the lives of as many citizens as possible in case he loses his life during the power struggle. For security purposes, he rented a wagon made of oak planks with a white hood concealing him and some local garrisons. The unit is even transported by Luther’s own coachwoman, ensuring there is no room to corrupt the driver into sabotaging the ride. He scribbles notes about what he would like to tell the people living outside the city walls. The words are spread into small sections around the page as he bounces between thoughts, and this creates very few coherent sentences. All Luther knows so far is that nobody should learn about the level of danger he is in. The garrisons are all wearing iron plated armour, complete with a helmet covering their faces. The prince becomes familiar with their voices, though, as they all have questions for him.
“So,” one voice pipes up, quite brittle for a seasoned professional, “how d’you plan to come out on top of all this?” The sound is muffled by the helmet. But Luther is sitting directly to his left.
“Simple. If the peasantry gets rowdy enough, that ruins everyone else’s plans. We call that popular revolt,” Luther elucidates. There are many more steps involved, which he maintains the privity of.
“Aah!” the garrisons chorus, catching on. One man’s leg jerks, causing his pike to tumble off of his lap. It bounces with each rotation of the wagon’s wheels. The man who dropped it, too tall to stand in the cart, slides off the bench seat. Crouched, he takes his pike off of the floor and returns to his spot.
“Sorry about that.” Everyone laughs along. “You know, one thing I hate about these closed tops is not being able to see outside. You ever look at the city much, Luther?”
Luther returns to writing notes as they chat. The ride has become less rickety now that it has reached the bottom of the hill. “Sometimes. My window faces out to sea, though. I’m usually looking at ships passing by instead.” His tone flattens as his focus shifts away from the conversation. While beginning to work on a proper speech, Luther realizes that if he kills the Czar after riling up the common folk, he has no need to play by any rules. Rules that he feels take away his natural advantage. The oligarchs love Perun and the others, but the people love me, he believes. In fact, he could exterminate all of his brothers in a properly planned uprising. He dares not say this aloud, since a preponderant majority of the military is loyal to Perun, Donik, or Raskidon as a whole.
Everyone feels the cart coast to a stop. After having but a gravel road, the cart in from of them, and each other to look at, the passengers notice what appears to be a military checkpoint. This is a peculiar occurrence for the middle of the city.
“I can take care of this,” a croaky voice volunteers. The leader of this escort unit, Preston, lifts himself off the bench seat and steps down from the rear of the cart. He has a considerable amount of experience talking his way out of predicaments, since his job consists of assuaging the rowdy citizens in many cases. A quick look around confirms they are in a major shopping district. Wooden stands with fresh produce run by enthusiastic hunters, farmers, and fishermen are compressed outside the shops of more refined goods. Tailors, potters, masons, and tanners are set up in orange brick buildings. Some had two floors and could devote an entire first floor to business, while others had to make do with the foyer so there was still space to live.
“May I ask why you fellows are set up here today?” Preston inquires.
Someone approaches him with caution to discuss the situation, wondering who else could be in the wagon. He is an older man with bushy eyebrows and a sizeable belly. “We have to watch the area around the Moxi Church. Edwin’s orders. You’ll find my guys on every street that leads to it, so just tell me what you’re up to, and I can let you go no problem.”
“We just want to visit a few villages outside the city walls. I can’t give too many details. That defeats the purpose of this escort. But you can put my name, Preston, on whatever record you want.”
This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
The men running the checkpoint evaluate the risk of letting this wagon through. All of them have noticed a growing amount of secrecy on the part of the military. Soldiers have been expressing reluctance to discuss their days. Yet at the same time, all of them are suddenly watching each other. While heightened alertness has been an important part of any state security service for generations, those in such services cannot help but notice a rapid shift in extent. It is as if an invading force is on the way, but none of the nobles have levies raised. Regardless, they have no valid reason to keep Preston waiting any longer.
After whispering amongst themselves, the patrolmen break from their group huddle to move themselves and the roadblocks out of the way. “You folks are good to go,” confirms one of them. Preston clears his forehead of sweat and climbs back into the wagon.
“Great!” Luther cheers, pen and paper set aside. “We can get moving again, Calice.”
The coachwoman, wrapped in a red, crocheted cape takes the hint to start back up again. She enjoys how cheery the young prince gets during long travels. At first a slave to Luther’s mother, Rina, the two have been friends working together as coachwomen for years. Knowing the dangers of travelling with her son, Rina asked Calice to manage his transportation. Since then, she has been eager to get close with him in more ways than one.
Starting up the carriage once more, Calice replies, “Of course, my dear. Let’s keep going!”
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On the east end of Myriad Palace, troops train and officers plan in the place of arms. This section of the castle is at the very front and overlooks the city of Palazo from the second floor. Protruding farthest out are the sentry towers, where archers can fire from the murder holes and firepots men could dump boiling oil from the rooftops. The towers are safe from mining, as they do not touch the ground. Their width covers a few important offices, such as the command center, where Perun is meeting with the rest of the high command.
The room has eight desks pushed together in the center for all the officers to speak with each other as they work. There are various maps posted on the walls showing locations of fortifications, camps, trade routes, battlegrounds, and other information they high command likes to have for its planning. Bookshelves around the room are stocked with the top officers’ favorite memoirs, journals, and chronicles. Raskidon’s coat of arms is painted in the center of the ceiling, so that it overlooks the generals. A gaming table by the barred windows has nine men’s morris, draughts, and some dominoes imported from the far north, all of which they enjoy gambling on; so much so that a handful of the meeting’s attendants are doing so right now.
Perun, howbeit frustrated with his compatriots’ inattentiveness, has just recounted the details of the Czar’s announcement and wants to prepare with them. In response, Jarylo, one of the few leaders not to have gone senile, spits out a small key from under his tongue into the palm of his hand. He squats down and inserts the key into a chest underneath his desk, which has a few cobwebs around the edges. Jarylo picks up a peculiar pole weapon. It has a tube hollow on one end and a string attached to the other. Once he stands up, he finds his shiny, silver bangs messy and begins franticly fixing them with his fingertips.
“I saw a regiment utilizing these while working as an attaché for the Kingdom of Bellic. I wish I knew how, but this thing was expelling bits of gravel and glass. If we could reverse engineer this part,” he runs the back of his hand along the tube, “and design some booby traps based on the mechanism I saw, we could kill everyone with almost no risk!” To his dismay, none of the generals were paying attention. Jarylo assumes they understood none his findings. “S-Sorry, that was the best I could explain it.”
“Hey, you dolts!” All of the games pause, and all of the eyes dart to the side. “You probably don’t have a clue why, but this is the best news we’ve gotten in ages. So, if you could just listen for once in your overlived lives, that’d be great!” The Czar never made clear if Perun had the prerogative to bark such orders. It is assumed that the one prince involved in the military is in charge. Thus, their heads turn as far as their stiff necks would allow. “Thanks.” He spits out the word. It pains him to. “Jarylo, continue.”
“Yes. Of course.” Jarylo passes around the pole and tries to pick up where he left off. “I was considering some visits to weaponsmiths and engineers. But we have to ensure this stays a secret.” The old men inquisitively inspect the gadget one by one, trying to determine how it could fire such small projectiles with efficiency anywhere near that of an arrow. How it would even hurt or shoot straight is a mystery to them. “Perun could probably find someone and get the help covertly. He seems to be friends with quite a few unusual folks.” One of the generals drops some marbles in the tube and thrusts the pole forward. They come out as expected, dropping to the ground after not even a second of flights and getting little momentum. Jarylo watches marbles roll towards him, catching them with the outsoles of his boots. “Let me clarify. There was a substance in there that helped launch the pellets.”
Without warning, a cloaked individual peers inside the room and asks, “may I borrow your boss for a minute?” Perun makes his way outside while the others watch, clueless as to who this is. He shoos their eyes away with a few flicks of his wrist. Nobody dares to pry into this situation, lest they incite his anger.
Perun closes the door behind him, fully apprehensive of who this is: one of many members of his crime network. She has been tasked infiltrating the Czar’s Friendly Shadows for five years, having earned enough trust to be a part of Perun’s obsession with counter-intelligence. Ludmila was an unlikely pick for such a job, as only men were allowed to work for Corvus; she, however, proved her worthiness by creating an elaborate disguise. Her hair is cut short and compressed with a pin. Her feminine figure is already concealed with great efficiency by the outfit worn by the agency, though she appeared in baggy jackets and pants when first working in the Spymaster’s office.
The two walk over to the training ground. It is a sand pit in between the defense towers. New recruits are training by flailing at each other with sticks, showing little to no technical skill as they spar. Yet they all appear to be having the time of their lives. So young. So full of hope, Perun observes. Trainees are off to the side practicing their axe throws. Perun gawks at one who lands four in a row on a dummy’s head. “Sheesh. I need to keep an eye on that one. That’s something I would never try in a battle.” He clears his throat. “So, did you find out where Miccolo was going?”
Ludmila would like to give a more reassuring answer. She is just as afraid as him of what someone working in intelligence could to a thug like her. Nervously, cautiously, she raises her shoulders. “Sorry, Perun. They never said. Miccolo pulled the Spymaster aside to talk about the specifics in secret.” The mole expects the new to bring disappointment or perhaps more frustration an already irate man.
At worst, however, Perun has to worry if the Czar’s Friendly Shadows already suspect the presence of plants in their ranks. “Don’t worry about it. Just keep following their meetings, and be ready to get them on my side when he dies.”
Perun may look down upon his siblings, but he is always keen on maintaining good relations with his underlings. In Raskidon, mutinies and fragging are generally seen as the result of poor leadership. Officers are replaced before their bodies make it back home during these incidents, which are known by soldiers to go unreported. Many commanders look back to past conflicts and wonder how different their circumstances would be if army discipline were not such an afterthought. But others contend that this is the cost of being freer and more powerful than the common soldiery. As Donik always likes to say, “with ownness comes onus.”