Trailing behind a liveried servant, McKenzie (and the girl, who refused to be separated from him) were at last allowed past the gates and up the stairs. At the top of the initial grand flight, there was a pleasant surprise: the servant gestured for them to step into a cage with a sliding door.

"Well I never - there is a lift after all," McKenzie said.

"An innovation of Her Wisdom's," the servant guy explained serenely. "A mechanical device that-"

"That means you don't gotta use the stairs," McKenzie finished for him.

"Precisely, sir," the servant said, sounding not at all miffed that he'd been cut off mid-explanation, which McKenzie thought was good of him.

It was a proper lift, too: it had an adjoining shaft for a counterweight and safety locks, which began to give McKenzie suspicions of Lemuel's involvement.

The girl seemed nervous - or at least more nervous than she was already - about the lift.

"It's okay," McKenzie told her. "It's harmless, you'll see what it does in a sec."

They all got in. The servant paused by the door to announce 'Floor Forty-Seven' into a speaking tube, then stepped in and rattled the door shut.

"The ascent will take a few moments, sir and madam," the servant said, and then adopted the customary 'facing the door' position.

"Cheers," McKenzie said, then turned to the girl. He hadn't really paid her a great deal of attention, until now.

She was tiny, five foot nothing if even that, but she had the sort of build you'd expect from an acrobat: lithe and muscled. This was plain for anyone to see, because she was wearing nothing except a few sequins sewn onto a few square centimetres of cloth, ensuring that anyone looking at her didn't have to rely on their imagination too much. Her feet were covered in blood from the hall floor, though, and her tanned skin was lost under a layer of ash and further splashes of blood (McKenzie supposed he was even filthier, given he was the one who'd been doing all the splashing). She was pretty in the same sort of delicate way as Danandra, and that was when McKenzie clocked the ears underneath her hair: pointed - elf.

"Hey," McKenzie addressed her. She jerked her gaze from the floors flashing past to McKenzie. "You injured?"

The girl shook her head.

"Got a name? I'm McKenzie, by the way."

The girl hesitated.

"Don't worry," McKenzie said. "You don't gotta tell me if you don't want to."

Not exactly chatty, then. Fair enough, all things considered.

The lift slowed, and then came to a stop with a moderate jerk and a loud clank. The servant slid the doors open. "Please follow me."

They walked out onto a wide, curving corridor - McKenzie guessed it ran all the way around the inside of the tower. They passed three ornate entrances and a number of servants and other people, and then came to a pair of doors which had been thrown wide open.

"Your guest quarters," the servant said. Other servants were still busy bringing things in - mostly large jugs of hot water. "Baths have been prepared for you in your individual chambers, and refreshments are on the table. We should be most happy to take your garments to be washed, and a selection of clothing has been provided for you. Please summon us if anything is not to your liking. Will either of you require body-servants?"

"No idea what one is, but I'm thinking probably no," McKenzie said. The girl shook her head, and the servants all filed out and the last one closed the doors.

The guest quarters were impressive - the far wall was all balcony, looking out over Melindron through billowing white drapes. There were comfortable seats and cushions scattered around, expensive rugs on the floor, flowers placed in appropriate locations and a selection of fruit, bread, food and some jugs, bottles and goblets on the table. All in all, McKenzie felt that it was oddly inappropriate to be standing in such a room in anything less than a state of sartorial perfection and immaculate grooming: dripping blood and ash onto the floor seemed like an act of sacrilege. There were a few doors leading off to the left and right, two of which had been left open. A dress had been hung on one, and a black cloak on the other, presumably to indicate which set of clothes had been left in each chamber. It was wonderfully quiet and scored highly over McKenzie's previous location in the categories of not being full of trolls, on-fire-ness and the roof not collapsing in a hail of burning timber.

"Nice gaff," McKenzie said, externalising these thoughts in slightly foreshortened form.

"Narra," the girl said.

"I'd say it's wider than it is long, actually, but-" McKenzie replied.

"No. My name. Narra," Narra repeated.

"Oh. Right," McKenzie said.

"Thank you for rescuing me," Narra said quietly. "I owe you my life."

"All part of the service," McKenzie smiled. "Don't worry about it. Listen, they zapped me from here to there, y'know, where you were, Knars-whatever it was called, basically really easily. I'm sure they could do the same for you, so you can hook up with your people again. Chances are they got out fine, got back to what I assume was your ship tied up behind the castle. You can ask the Archmage when we see her in like an hour. I'm sure she'll see you right."

Narra nodded.

"Okay then. Well, I gotta take a bath, get changed, check my email. See you out here in a bit," McKenzie said.

A pair of tears formed, and Narra gave vent to a sob. "She ate my friend!" She burst out. "She nearly ate me!" Then she dissolved into tears and leaned against him.

McKenzie sighed. "I'm not really much of a grief counselor," he said, awkwardly putting an arm around her shoulders. "I'm sorry about your friend. You're alive. You're armed. Someone's laid on clothes, a hot bath, and something to eat and drink. There're worse outcomes to what we've just been through."

Narra didn't appear to take much comfort from this, but clung to him and cried for a couple of minutes.

"Are you a mage?" She asked, when she'd finally got it together and pulled away.

"No idea," McKenzie said. "Probably not. I've just got a very high tolerance for being beaten, kicked, stabbed, cut and magicked at."

Narra sniffled in response.

"Go have a bath, drink some wine, get changed. You'll feel a bit better," McKenzie advised, then headed off to his chamber before she broke down again, snagging one of the bottles from the table on the way past.

It wasn't as large as the main chamber, but contained a large bed and, as advertised, clothing had been arranged on it, along with the bag he'd left with the mage. A few wisps of steam escaping from an adjoining chamber betrayed the existence of the aforementioned hot bath.

McKenzie ached all over and a bath seemed like a genius idea, but before getting undressed he refilled both clips and loaded the pistol, leaving only nine bullets from the last box of ammo, put everything else apart from the phone into his bag, shucked his clothes and only then climbed gratefully into the hot water. He pulled out the cork with his teeth, spat it over the side, and took a long swallow of the bottle's contents. Wine. White.

He put the gun on a table within grabbing reach, and then unlocked the phone, holding it over the side of the bath. It was a rugged model, and supposed to be waterproof, but he was taking no chances with the only piece of electronics on the entire planet. His emails took a while to download - there was a slew of junk, as usual, but the last one was from Susie. The subject line simply read 'Answers'.

"Good," McKenzie said to himself. "I like answers."

McKenzie,

I'll keep this as short as possible, as I can only assume you're running your phone off a solar charger. God alone - or possibly also my husband - knows how you're getting a signal.

It seems, as unlikely as this might sound, that you're not the first person to find yourself in this predicament. This is from the journal of Wenric, a deeply obscure 8th century monk who made it his business to speak to chaps of questionable sanity and write down what they said, just in case they were inspired by God. I've cast it into modern-ish language and cut down on the more esoteric words so you'll have a chance of understanding it.

"You always were a snippy cow," McKenzie said under his breath, mostly because he didn't know what 'esoteric' meant.

"And then, after he had taken his ease and partook of much mead, the traveller - a mighty warrior of some renown - recounted unto me how in a foreign land the Lord had granted him the power to take from his enemies their powers, that he might bring them low, in His name. When I asked how he knew this to be the case, he said that when he felt his sword arm waver, and thought all was lost, his enemy cast upon him a powerful curse known to make the very rocks split asunder. The warrior died not, but laughed, and the curse was returned upon his enemy, who was smote, and the day won. He spoke of a fire within him, which I took to be the power of the Holy Spirit. When he wished to be but a warrior, he banked the fire and kept it low, though it cost him great effort. When he wished to let free the power, he let the fire burn high, though ofttimes it might overmaster him and let his enemies have their chance."

Not much to go on, I know, but people like us are rare throughout history and until recently tended, as you know only too well, to keep their gifts hidden and not speak of them. I hope that this means more to you than to me.

S

"Keep the fire low, is it?" McKenzie murmured, then hit reply.

Awesome, he typed. I think I know what the guy meant. I'll give it a go and let you know how I get on. Thanks, McK.

The email sent: he closed the phone and put it next to the gun, then set about cleaning all the nastiness out of his hair. The bath water wasn't a nice colour by the time he'd finished, but he felt a lot cleaner than he'd done in days.

The mysterious ancient warrior's advice, if you could call it that, made sense. McKenzie had just, by any measure, endured a shit-kicking of epic proportions, but had remained conscious and functional. He'd been concentrating on the job at hand, and had kept a firm hold on the 'fire within' and not let any of it out. When he'd been hit with the ballista bolt, wherever it had actually hit him, and ended up on his current detour, he'd been considering letting the lightning loose - and it seemed that simply considering was enough. It was a possible connection: McKenzie made a mental note to keep on top of the reservoir of oddness within.

The bath was growing lukewarm: McKenzie hauled himself out and grabbed a large square of towel-esque material from where it had been placed on a stand for him, dried off, and then considered the clothes on the bed.

Whoever had been in charge of selecting his potential wardrobe had evidently decided that McKenzie was best classified as an assassin, and assassins apparently wore all black, because there was nothing in any other colour. McKenzie selected some normal looking black trousers through which his belt fit, a black shirt, a black tunic type thing that seemed to go over the shirt, and, after cleaning all the crap off, put his own boots back on. The trousers did at least have pockets, so there was somewhere to put his phone and spare clip - everything else seemed a bit unnecessary in his current setting, save for the few silver coins he had. The gun actually rode a bit more comfortably with these trousers than his jeans.

He wandered out of his room and over to the table, and helped himself to a slice of rather nice meat pie, some bread, and more wine. Narra came out of her room hesitantly, wearing an outfit actually quite similar to his, but in various browns and greens.

"What do you think?" She asked.

"I think women should wear what they want to wear without seeking the opinion of the nearest bloke as to whether it looks okay or not, but that said, if you really want to know, yes, you look good."

"Thank you," Narra replied, in a neutral tone. She seemed profoundly ill-at-ease, but she at least didn't start crying again. "McKenzie?"

"That's my name, don't wear it out," McKenzie said, then cursed himself for a dick. She'd just been through a really shit time, after all. "Sorry."

"Um, I don't really like...formal places. I always worry I'm going to end up being forced to do something I don't want to do by important people. You will, um, look, I know you're not my bodyguard, but would you look after me, if anything should...happen?" Narra asked nervously and hesitantly.

"What was it, arranged marriage? You didn't kill anyone, did you?" McKenzie asked.

"No!" Narra replied quickly. "I mean, no, I mean- What do you mean?"

"Lemme guess: you're in hiding, basically, hence the circus. You're afraid you'll be recognised by the Archmage or someone else upstairs. If you are, you want me to do something about it," McKenzie said.

"Yes. No. Sort of," Narra said. "How did you guess?"

"No-one's ever gonna accuse me of being the sharpest tool in the box, but I'm not thick either. That was a classic 'I'm in trouble but can't say what trouble, please help me, but I can't say how, exactly' speech. Heard them a hundred times. Made one a few times, probably. So, did you do something you really, really, shouldn't have, or is it just that you legged it to avoid something unpleasant?" McKenzie asked.

"The last one," Narra said. "I didn't do anything wrong. I'll swear it by whatev-"

"Good enough for me. Look, you're right, I'm not your bodyguard. For reasons that'd take a long time to explain, I don't have total freedom of action here. Also, from what I gather, that's a very scary lady upstairs, who, by the way, you don't have to see. But I'll do what I can."

There was a polite knock on the door. McKenzie went over and opened it.

It was the servant from earlier. "Her Wisdom will see you now, sir and madam."

"Cracking," McKenzie said. "You said somethin' earlier about doing laundry?"

"It will be taken care of, sir," The servant said.

"Champion. Right. Are you staying here? I'll ask her about getting you back to your people if you don't want to come," McKenzie asked Narra.

Narra looked like a rabbit in headlights for about five seconds, looked down, up, back into the room, then looked at McKenzie and shook her head. "I will come with you." Decisive girl.

"OK. Lead on then mate," McKenzie told the servant.

Going to see the Archmage involved another trip upwards in the lift, but this time it was a short ride, only taking a few seconds.

The servant hauled open the lift cage and ushered them out. Guards came to attention as they exited, which seemed to make Narra even more nervous.

It was a similar corridor to their floor, but very busy - clerks rushed left and right with scrolls, people clustered together for quick, unofficial meetings - an office corridor, in other words. Four guards fell in behind them as the servant led them along the corridor, through a large ante-chamber, and thence up to a large pair of golden doors, flanked by more guards.

"Her Wisdom's chambers," the servant said. He murmured something to one of the guards, who spoke into a tube mounted by the door. He received a confirmation and nodded - something heavy went clunk within the door, and they swung noiselessly inwards.

McKenzie had expected a throne room after that, but what he actually saw more resembled a boardroom. It was balconied along it's entire length, and most of the room was dominated by a massive, chunky table besieged by a small army of chairs. Two of these chairs, McKenzie was not overly surprised to note, were occupied by Sharinta and Danandra, to whom he shot a very cool look. Leni was conspiciously absent.

There were a number of items on the table. The most obvious, and the one which drew a surprised intake of breath from Narra, was Malice's severed head. It had been placed on a large - for real - silver platter, and bore a distinctly miserable expression.

Malice's golden armour, axe, an oversize golden necklace, some bracelet-sized rings and dinner-plate sized bracelets were arranged behind her head. They had been cleaned, although they were still damaged - the breastplate in particular had a number of puncture wounds.

In front of her head, McKenzie's cutlass had been buffed up a bit and provided a scabbard, as had the dagger, since McKenzie had lost the original.

Then there was the Archmage.

McKenzie had pictured some sort of tall, robed, imperious woman with a face of ageless but cold beauty - maybe a crown or tiara of some kind, possibly even accessorised with a staff or sceptre for that authentic 'powerful witch-queen' look. What he got was a slim blonde woman of average height. Although the cold ageless beauty was undeniably there, she didn't have a robe (she wore a garment that looked a little like a sari), a crown (her hair was in a practical short bob) or a sceptre (she wasn't holding anything).

What she did have was presence. She was the focus of any room she chose to be in. Danandra was giving off waves of magical power, but she was a bonfire to Xixaxa's roaring furnace - McKenzie had to suppress the urge to hold his hand up to his eyes. Even without his newfound sensitivity to such things, McKenzie guessed that it would have been noticeable.

"Welcome, both," she said. She sounded even more authoritative in person, even with a simple greeting.

"Thanks," McKenzie replied, immobile. Narra performed a half-bow, half-curtsey, and kept her eyes down.

"So you are the infamous McKenzie," the Archmage said. "You are not what I expected from Lord Lemuel's description."

"Um...sorry about that?" McKenzie ventured.

"I have spoken to the Lord Lemuel many times. I have never seen him wince, except when he spoke of you."

"Well, him and me don't exactly get on," McKenzie said.

"That much is obvious," she said. "Thank you for taking care of my little troll problem. Malice's head is going to be mounted on a spike in the great hall - tacky, I know, but people expect that sort of thing - everything else on the table is yours to do with as you wish. The dagger is now just a dagger, before you ask. You would need a very great deal of magical power to make it open another portal."

Oh really, McKenzie thought. I know where I might be able to come by some, as it happens.

"Your boy downstairs said he had a whole box of 'em," McKenzie told her. He picked up the cutlass and dagger, casually.

Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

"He lied," the archmage replied. "You were given the only real dagger: you were the only person we really expected to return."

"You knew who I was, then?" McKenzie asked.

"Barden reported your presence," the archmage said.

"You could've just asked, you know," McKenzie said. "It's not hard: hey, McKenzie, would you mind awfully going and killing a troll-mage-pirate-lord-nasty for us? We'd sure appreciate your help on this one. Yeah, sure, happy to help your archmageness. See? Not hard. In fac-"

A thought occurred to McKenzie, and he turned to Sharinta and Danandra with a hard look. "If I learn Leni has gone looking for the captain of the ship I arrived on, there's going to be trouble beyond your most harrowing expectations. I'm not going to learn that, am I?"

"Barden passed your message on in it's entirety," the archmage answered for them. "Lady Violentia is in her quarters, and for obvious reasons" - she glanced at the nervous Narra - " I would prefer there to be no further discussion of her at this point."

"Fine by me," McKenzie said, relaxing. He nodded at Malice's armour and possessions. "The island, I forget it's name, looked to be in kind of a mess. Might be a good idea to sell off all that bling to help with the rebuilding."

"A noble idea. I will see it done," the archmage said.

"I have one further request," McKenzie said. "My friend here was a prisoner in Malice's castle, along with her people. Will you help her get back to them?"

The archmage nodded. "Another noble sentiment. We shall of course help Her Highness get back to her people."

Narra's shoulders slumped. "Oh no," she said.

"Come again?" McKenzie asked.

"I did not greet our honoured guest properly," the archmage said. "May I introduce Her Imperial Highness Princess Anaharra, heir apparent to the throne of Vyrinia."

"Gods!" Danandra said softly. "It is!"

"Holy fuck! And here was me thinking you'd just brought back a souvenir," Sharinta said.

"Thank you, Lady Sharinta," the archmage said smoothly, with 'shut the fuck up' written between the words.

"Please, Your Wisdom," Narra said. "I simply wish to return to my friends. I have given up all claim to the throne."

"I am truly sorry," the archmage told her. "But unfortunately, the throne has not given up all claim to you."

Narra turned to McKenzie.

"Your Highness, please do not prevail on Lord McKenzie to help you," the archmage said. "I have no doubt he would try, but is prevented from doing so by a force stronger even than I."

She was right: McKenzie could feel the curse locking his muscles. Narra sighed and turned back to the archmage. "Please, there is no profit for anyone in my returning to the empire. You do not understand the trouble that-"

"I understand it all too well, Your Highness - I deal with it every day. Your absence from the Vyrinian political sphere has prolonged a desperate situation. Governors that would have vied for your hand in marriage now vie instead with armies and assassins. People are suffering. It is within your power to end decades of strife and do what I have so far been unable to accomplish: end the war of succession and re-unite the Vyrinian empire," the archmage said.

"Great idea, one problem," McKenzie said. "She doesn't want the job. How did you even know she was there to send me to go and get her, anyway?"

"You underestimate the role of chance in life, McKenzie," the archmage returned coolly. "I had no idea of Her Highness's whereabouts: I recognised her only when I witnessed your arrival here an hour ago."

McKenzie looked at Narra. "Sorry," he said.

"You had no choice," Anaharra replied, then managed a small smile. "I am alive, am I not?" Now that the worst was over and her secret was out, she seemed more self-possessed, as if the title and extra letters in her name had imbued her with a little more confidence. She turned back to the archmage. "What next, then, Your Wisdom? Am I to be ransomed to the richest of the imperial governors?"

The Archmage laughed. "This is Melindron, Your Highness, and what you describe is perilously close to slavery. I do not propose to auction the legitimacy you bring to any of the would-be emperors of Vyrinia: I intend to put an Empress on the throne. You."

Narra nodded, as if she had expected this. "The governors will never accede to such an action. The rest of the world is not like Melindron."

"I know - but I'm working on it," the archmage smiled coldly. "Governors are not hard to find - if one should decide against bending his knee before a woman, I'm sure his successor will feel differently."

"You plan to put me on the throne by killing anyone that opposes me?" Narra asked.

The archmage shrugged. "It seems to be the customary method - who am I to disrupt a centuries-old tradition? Please bear in mind that we're speaking of people who think nothing of sacrificing a thousand men or more - I won't even try to factor in civilian casualties - simply to add a few more farms to their dominions. They can either change their ways and be ruled by you or they can die: as long as those thousands of people aren't getting killed any more, I'm happy either way."

"I can see why you and Lemuel get on," McKenzie said. "That's as ruthless a plan as I ever heard him come out with."

"My Lord McKenzie, don't presume to lecture me about the morality of political assassination," The Archmage raised her eyebrow at him.

"My Lady Archmage, don't presume to think you can give me a look like that and refer obliquely to some fucking thing Lemuel's told you and think I'll be all' ooh, she's right, what a hypocrite I am'. I don't give a fuck," McKenzie replied.

"I have killed men for lesser insults, McKenzie. Mind your tongue in my presence."

"It wasn't an insult, Xixaxa, it was a statement of fact. Also: bring it the fuck on," McKenzie retorted.

There was silence. Danandra, Sharinta and Narra were wide-eyed. McKenzie sniffed. Xixaxa glowered.

"I am not required to 'bring it on', McKenzie. The curse ensures your obedience, if not your civility," the archmage finally said.

"For now," McKenzie said levelly, then sighed. "Look, we've got off on totally the wrong foot here. From what you say, a bit of regime change'd do this place the world of good. Change imposed from the outside don't always work how you'd expect, though, and as you've just hinted rather heavily no-one knows that better than me. So, take my advice: let Virry Neos work it's own problems out and chuck all those resources at stamping out slavery instead. Having just been reminded how bloody awful it is I'm totally behind that as a policy."

Xixaxa regarded him for a moment. "If I had the freedom to choose, that is perhaps what I would do. Regrettably, however, I do not. The empire needs a ruler, and I have decided that she is standing next to you."

"You're going to get her killed, is what you've decided," McKenzie said. "Didn't you just say something about assassinations, armies and ruthless violence?"

"Congratulations, my Lord McKenzie, you've been paying attention," Xixaxa said drily. "Fortunately for Her Majesty, she will enjoy excellent protection."

"Wow," McKenzie told Narra, for the benefit of the room. "The promotions are coming thick and fast today - we walked into this room a circus girl and an escaped slave and now I'm apparently a lord and you're Queen of the World. Congratu-fucking-lations."

"You're about to receive another one: now that you and your three friends have been effectively re-united, you're Her Majesty's bodyguards. I think between you you're proof against almost anything - you will be very well defended, your Majesty," Xixaxa said.

McKenzie knew he had to comply. "Fine. Nicer job than my last gig, that's for bloody sure."

"Then I would be pleased if you would escort Her Majesty back to the imperial quarters, Lord McKenzie. We will meet again soon, I am sure. Your Majesty: good day."

"Your Wisdom," Narra said icily, inclining her head fractionally.

McKenzie paused before leaving the room, even though the dismissal had the power of the curse behind it. He glared at Sharinta and Danandra. "Oh, by the way, There Will Be Words when I see you two and Leni again. I am fucking pissed off with you three."

And with that, he left.

The archmage expelled an irritated breath, and sat down. "Lady Violentia, you may come back in now," she said, as if to the air.

"Well, Your Wisdom, that's McKenzie," Sharinta said. "Bit of a fucking handful, like I said."

"He's everything you said he would be," she remarked, then turned to Danandra. "The curse barely has a hold on him. It must be the quintessence."

"Sorry, the what?" Sharinta asked.

"McKenzie's magical gift. Raw magical power, very dangerous. He can wield it, but no-one has ever controlled it. I've told him not to use it-" Danandra told her, then paused, took a deep breath, and let it out. Her cheeks coloured.

"Take your time," Sharinta said, grinning.

"Sorry," Danandra said. "He seems to accept it cannot be used."

"Good," Xixaxa said.

"Tenuous or not, though, the curse does hold him, Your Wisdom," Danandra said.

"For now, as he said," Xixaxa stated. "You would do me a kindness, Lady Sharinta, by subtly conveying to our angry young man that I, too, am a slave of the curse. I would rather have his sympathy than not, if, one day, he should find a way to break these chains that bind us."

"You think it likely?" Danandra asked in surprise.

"I think it more possible with him than with any other. I wonder at the wisdom shown by our master in sending him here," Xixaxa said.

"I kinda got the impression that our mutual boss wasn't too happy with what he was doing back where he comes from," Sharinta said.

The door opened, and Leni, bending down slightly, entered.

"Lady Violentia. Did you hear everything?"

"Yes ma'am," Leni replied, entirely unaffected by the sight of Malice's head on the table. "Are we really going to put her on the Vyrinian throne? Seems, y'know, impossible, not to put too fine a point on it."

"Impossible, yes, but you four will be taking her to Vyrinios as if you mean to do exactly that. You may even end up doing it," Xixaxa said, then looked at Leni. Xixaxa was the complete mistress of her face, so the expression of distaste did not register.

"May even?" Sharinta asked.

"Yes. There is the possibility that the plan will be exactly as I told McKenzie and the girl: declare her the Empress, kill anyone who argues. There is also the statistically more likely probability that one or more of the existing Imperial governors, learning of this possibility, will suddenly become more amenable to a deal that Lord Lemuel represented to them some time ago. If this should happen, then, well, Her Majesty will cease to be a potential asset and become a very real liability. Should that happen, well, I don't have to draw you a picture, do I, Lady Violentia?" Xixaxa said quietly. "There must be no trace."

Xixaxa's expression remained neutral and controlled, but the other two, as used as they were to Leni, looked down.

"Ooh, yum. Elfmaids are totally my favourite," Leni said with a grin. "Not a problem, ma'am."

"Lord McKenzie is not to be told of this contingency," Xixaxa said emphatically.

"Too right - if it was down to him I'd be on a forced diet of animals," Leni said, with a grimace. Sharinta and Danandra nodded, both with reluctance.

"Very well," Xixaxa said. "I must consult with Lord Lemuel and ponder what our course of action should now be. I'm sure you three have an emotional reunion to go to: Lady Sharinta, ensure that Her Majesty is put at her ease concerning Lady Violentia."

Sharinta shot the Archmage a surprised look as she stood up. "Er, Your Wisdom, I'd kinda prefer not to have to do that myself if-"

"Just do it, Sharinta," Xixaxa said heavily. "Her eventual fate is not your responsibility, whether or not she goes to it willingly, and if such an end is inevitable, isn't it better for her to meet it with equanimity and not terror?"

Sharinta didn't say anything for a moment, then simply nodded her acquiescence before they left.

- o O o -

Narra said nothing on the way back to their chambers, and upon arrival, immediately crossed to the table and poured herself a large goblet of wine.

"Well that was a total donkey-fuck, and no mistake," McKenzie said with feeling. "Um, Your Majesty."

Narra gave vent to a snort of bitter laughter. "You have a way with words, Lord McKenzie."

"Wait until you speak to Sharinta," McKenzie said. "Listen, I'm sorry. If it was down to me, we'd be gone already, but it isn't. I'm cursed - literally - and as well as being tied to the two women you saw in there - not literally - and a tr-, um, another, um, someone else, as well as that it seems I have to do what I'm told by the archmage. There's no way out and-"

"Please, Lord McKenzie, you promised to do what you could, and you did. Thank you for arguing the case for an alternative course of action: I know that the Archmage is not lightly defied by anyone," Narra said. "You have nothing to apologise for, and no explanations to make to me."

She already seemed a different woman, as if when she had been recognised her old persona had come to the surface and the circus girl had been discarded.

"Well, alright. I'm still sorry. If there is a way out of this, I'll find it, for both of us. In the meantime, well, turns out I am your bodyguard. You'll be well protected. I'm fairly good at the fighting thing, and the other three you've been assigned are, from what I understand about this world anyway, not to be messed about with," McKenzie told her.

"You are a considerable stroke above 'fairly good', my Lord." Narra told him. "I have never seen such-, actually I don't really know what it was I saw."

"Just me being a dumbass, as usual, and miraculously not getting killed," McKenzie said. "Oh, by the way, do me a favour and don't mention the gun."

"The what?" Narra asked.

McKenzie grinned. "Exactly."

"No, I genuinely do not know what you mean," Narra clarified.

"Oh, shit, yeah, of course," McKenzie said. "The metal thing I was holding in my hand that went bang, Your Majesty. Must keep remembering to call you that."

"Oh. Of course," Narra said. "You may rely on my discretion, Lord McKenzie."

"Thanks. One thing, Your Majesty? Don't call me Lord. Just McKenzie," McKenzie asked.

"One thing, McKenzie. Don't call me Your Majesty. That is a fiction that will almost inevitably not come to pass," Narra managed a wan smile.

"Hold that pose," McKenzie said. "Here, I'll do your first royal portrait." He dug out his phone and snapped a few pictures of Narra.

"What are you doing?" She asked, bemused.

"Little to the left, look at the ceiling," he said. Narra smiled and complied.

"Here," McKenzie held the phone up for her to see. "My previous remarks about female image insecurity notwithstanding, you do look good in that."

"Amazing!" She said, as McKenzie flicked through the few photos he'd taken.

"No need to be conceited," McKenzie commented

"Oh, I-, ha, very funny. That is an ingenious magical device, as you well knew I meant," Narra said. "Would you like some wine, not-a-lord McKenzie?" She asked.

"I had a fair bit in the bath, but yeah, why not?" McKenzie said, and Narra filled a goblet for him. "Come to think of it that'd probably explain why I decided to argue the toss with the bosswoman."

"No, I think we already know that one," Sharinta's voice cut in. "You argued with the archmage because you're fucking crazy." She had entered, with Danandra walking behind her.

Narra jumped, spilling a little wine. McKenzie whirled around, but didn't. "Fuck's sake, Sharinta, don't you ever knock?"

"Men are usually quite pleased when I enter their chambers. Did I interrupt something, and if so, can I join in?" Sharinta smiled wickedly.

"Not me, no and no. You're a master of the inappropriate, d'you know that?"

"Mistress," Sharinta corrected. "Actually, I quite like that. Lady Sharinta, Mistress of the Inappropriate."

"I'll print you some fucking business cards," McKenzie grated, then took a drink.

"Do," Sharinta said. "Well, aren't you going to introduce us?"

"In a minute. First, here's what you should've said when you came in." McKenzie affected a falsetto. "McKenzie, we're so glad to see you alive! McKenzie, we're so sorry that we left you behind, in the middle of fucking nowhere, after you saved our asses yet again by taking out not one but two - two - fucking airships! We're so sorry that we ignored a fucking awful nasty curse that's supposed to make us incapable of doing any harm to each other except when it's fucking convenient for us to ignore it apparently, an option which we note doesn't seem to be open to you, who had to rescue himself from slavery and was fucking fortunate that the captain of the enemy fucking ship who turned out to be nicer than we are gave you a lift to your destination, otherwise you'd still be pissing well walking trying to catch up with three people who apparently wouldn't reciprocate the bloody effort. We won't even start to go into the little diversion to a troll infested castle under false pretences, which while technically being the archmage's fault we completely understand you're holding against us anyway and we agree that this is totally reasonable."

"Yes. Sorry about all that," Danandra said quietly.

McKenzie glared at her, then gave Sharinta a harsh look.

"What can I say?" She said, then fluttered her eyelashes. "I'm a bad, bad girl. Punish me?"

McKenzie continued to glare.

"We thought you were fucking dead!" Sharinta added. "You were seen being shot with a ballista bolt, the natural assumption is that's pretty fucking deadly."

"Did you see where it hit me?" McKenzie paused in his anger to ask.

"No," Sharinta replied. "Why didn't you ask the guy who shot you, since you apparently hitched a lift with them?"

Good point, McKenzie thought, but he wasn't about to let Sharinta know this hadn't occured to him. "He didn't remember," he answered.

"You were shot with a ballista bolt?" Narra asked, amazed, but nobody heard her.

"Anyway, we did look. A bit," Sharinta went on.

"My arse you did. Apology accepted, however, as it seems useless to labour the point. Empress Anaharra of wherever-it-was-again, this is Sharinta, Mistress of the Inappropriate and Danandra, scarily powerful mage girl. Girls, this is Empress Anaharra," McKenzie growled in a grumpy tone. Sharinta and Danandra performed curtseyesque actions.

"Ladies, an honour," Narra said. "I am sure I will enjoy excellent protection."

Sharinta looked slightly ill-at-ease for a moment: Danandra looked away. "Was there a fourth person mentioned?" Narra asked.

"Yes," Sharinta looked up and into Narra's eyes. "You'll trust her. You have nothing to fear from her."

McKenzie caught the flash of power. Danandra sighed heavily, looking weary. Sharinta, McKenzie thought, looked a little sick. Narra took a step backwards and blinked.

"What was that?" McKenzie asked. "You did somethin'."

"Just...put her at her ease about Leni. For obvious reasons," Sharinta said: she looked exhausted, as if she'd just run a marathon in a split-second. "The archmage's orders. I'll explain later."

"Fuckin' right you will," McKenzie promised her.

"Sorry, what did you say?" Narra asked, then: "Are you quite alright, Lady Sharinta?"

"Fine, thanks, Your Majesty. I was just saying that Lady Violentia will be along in a moment," Sharinta said. She had recovered her composure quickly, but McKenzie would swear she'd lost some of her tan.

"Oh yes, of course," Narra smiled vaguely. "This wine seems to be going to my head already - pray forgive me."

"Of course, Your Majesty," Sharinta said.

On cue, it seemed, Leni knocked thunderously on the doors. Danandra let her in.

"Oh shit," McKenzie said.

"I've had more gracious receptions," Leni said to him, then inspected Narra with evident interest. "Well hello, Your Majesty. Don't you look just lovely. I'm Lady Violentia, call me Leni."

"You are a...troll," Narra stated hesitantly, looked a bit confused for a moment, and then brightened. "Of course you are. My apologies. Well, I'm now doubly certain I shall have nothing to fear with four such protectors."

McKenzie looked darkly at Sharinta. "Later," she said, again looking profoundly uncomfortable.

He briefly considered calling her on what she had done then and there, but he could feel the curse stir against it. McKenzie had, not too long ago, been locked in a cage, but the curse was by far the more invasive inhibition of his freedom. He finished his wine.

Sharinta was talking to Narra, explaining that one of them would be nearby at all times. Just to remind himself who he was in the face of the curse and everything else supernatural that was happening to him, he pushed down on the reservoir within him, as hard as he could. It was the mental equivalent of trying to squeeze a balloon into a sock, but he felt that it was contracting.

"-so you can be assured of your total safety at all times," Sharinta was saying, and then, between one sentence and the next: "Insita ton nadahara jos tel marunos, son Vyrinios-" McKenzie let the pressure off "-where we will press your case before the senate. Not sure when, right now, obviously, Your Majesty."

Well, it was good to have that confirmed. I'll try that next time I get in the way of a massive high velocity spear, McKenzie thought.

"Okay, so who's up first?" He asked.

"Pardon?" Danandra asked.

"Guard duty. Who goes first?"

"Well, you were here fir-" Sharinta started.

"But we have to have that urgent chat, and come to think of it I've got something else to discuss with you and Leni also. Danandra, looks like it's you," McKenzie said.

"But-"

"My room, now, and no fucking predictable jokes, Sharinta - or predictable fucking jokes, for that matter. If you'll excuse us, Your Majesty," McKenzie said, purposefully not using her shorter name. She hadn't used 'Narra' with anyone except him, so he didn't either.

"Fine," Sharinta and Leni both said, and walked in the direction he was pointing through the door to his bed/bathchamber. The bath had been cleared away by industrious servants in his absence, his dirty clothes removed, and the others tidied away.

"Opulent," Sharinta said. "You could get lost in that bed. Want to try?"

"It's gettin' old, Shar, stop hittin' on me," McKenzie said.

"You haven't been around, I have to make up my quota."

"Hilarious," McKenzie said flatly. They'd left his rucksack - just as well since he'd put the grenade back in it. He dug around and came out with the steel tube containing Jahistra's recollections of how, by whom and where she'd been hired.

"Here," McKenzie handed it to Sharinta. "Meriskos. Short, ugly, pale. Imperial Governor of Lesser Jerry-somewhere. He's the one hired the three ships to attack us, take us out, whatever. He was specifically after you three and all your stuff - he didn't know about me. I'm guessing he was after anything you ripped from Malrak-"

"Mahrak," Sharinta corrected him.

"Mahrak, fine. Probably the mirror specifically, but what do I know and anyway I'm having a hard time caring to be frank. That's point one - actually, point one-b, before I go on - where's my fucking bag?"

"My room," Sharinta said. "But how did you find out about Merisk-"

"The captain. I sprung her from the slavers, she gave me a lift, like you said, and she told me that," McKenzie said. "You spent my gold coins, at all?"

"No!" Sharinta said. "Well, no. Yes. One." She parted her blouse to reveal a silver necklace set with an emerald. "It's a beautiful gift, thank you ever so much."

"Cow!" McKenzie said. "You owe me for that. Right, point two, on the subject of the captain of the Huntress, if she's inconvenienced by you in any fucking way, Leni, start looking behind you for the rest of your life, 'cos one day I'll break this curse, and when I do, you'd better fuckin' hope you haven't done anything to bring me after you. I killed-" McKenzie looked upward momentarily and counted under his breath as he tried to recall the morning, "-several trolls today. Fuck me was it hard work but I'm looking on it as a public service. So you're leaving the captain alone?"

Leni nodded sulkily. "Fine, I'm leaving the captain alone."

"Good," McKenzie turned to Sharinta. "Point three, Sharinta, like an hour ago Anaharra was completely freaked out by trolls. Suddenly Leni isn't a problem for her. Care to explain? Hint: make it good."

Sharinta knew she had to choose her words very carefully. "It was the Archmage's orders," she said. "Leni can hardly guard Her Majesty very effectively if she's constantly terrified of her."

McKenzie grunted. "So you did some voodoo and made her chilled out about the big ugly monster?"

"Oi!" Leni protested.

"Yeah, in a nutshell," Sharinta replied, ignoring Leni's outrage. "Don't fucking start to think it was that easy, though. You don't wanna know how much effort it takes to slide a thought into someone's head like that without them noticing."

"That's...horrible! Fuck's sake, Sharinta, you can't go fuckin' around with people's brains like that." McKenzie shook his head.

"I was ordered to, McKenzie," Sharinta said.

"Yeah, but there's orders and then there's orders. Just because you can do somethin' doesn't mean you should," McKenzie argued. "Leaving aside considerations of free will, the brain's a super-complicated, delicate thing. Even I know that. You could fuck someone up proper bad."

"I know, that's why I fucking hate it. Like I told you: I was fucking ordered." Sharinta shot McKenzie a dark look. "The curse makes us all do lots of things we'd really rather not, so some of us have learnt to be a little sympathetic when someone else gets leaned on." Her look got darker. "Some day it'll be your turn, then we'll see how much it hurts to fall off a horse that high, Mr-fucking-ethics."

McKenzie grunted. "Well, when that day arrives, we'll see just how strong the curse is, won't we?"

"Stronger than you can imagine," Sharinta said. "Don't fucking think, for a fucking second, that I agree with half the things I have to do."

"Um, do you two need me here for this?" Leni asked, but they both ignored her.

"Have you even tried?" McKenzie asked. "Between you and Danandra that's got to be quite a lot of magicky type energy. Did you ever just have a pop at it?"

"Have a pop at it?" Sharinta snarled back at him. "Have you even got the slightest fucking idea of the power and complexity of this bloody curse? A few floors above us sits, arguably, the most powerful mage since the days of Ilias the Younger, who has the exact same fucking curse problem as we do. You may rest assured that if she hasn't been able to break it – and believe me, she hates it as much as we do - we haven't got a hope. So don't lecture me about what I should and shouldn't do, you fucking asshole!"

McKenzie had to hand it to her: Sharinta could row with the best of them.

"Well excuse the fuck outta me if I haven't given up yet," McKenzie said, in acid tones.

"Go on then," Sharinta snapped.

"Go on what?" McKenzie asked.

"Have a 'pop' at it. Do to the curse whatever you did to Mahrak. Grab it, tear it, smash it," Sharinta said. "Rip it's tail off, board it and drive it into the ground. Storm its castle and kill it. Set us fucking free, hero boy."

McKenzie didn't reply for a moment. Sharinta was right, there was nothing there to burn, rip or break: just that infuriating knowledge that he wasn't his own master.

"When - not if - I break the curse, Sharinta, you'll know about it. I can guarantee you that," McKenzie said, and then stalked out of the room.