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Big and blue; that’s the sea. You wouldn't believe just how big and just how blue. You can be told what it’s like, but you won't truly get it until you’ve gone and seen it for yourself.

For one thing, you can smell it from afar. It smells—well, it smells bad, to be honest. But not bad-bad; bad in a very peculiar way. In a peculiarly annoying, but also vaguely charming way. Like the sweat of a girl you like.

Technically, it’s not the first time I see an ocean—I was born on seashore!—but the Gulf of Edria is worlds apart from that raging black madness I saw back then. The water’s putting on its nice face today and there’s not one cloud in the sky to darken it.

But after the ocean, there’s not much to look at.

I was told there’s a town here, Bendehol, but I see no town. Only a loose row of weatherbeaten shacks scattered along the shoreline, not a flake of paint on them. I'm getting chronic flashbacks to Buckinworth again. The hovels look like they’ve been put together from driftwood using the holy spirit. Like the locals knew any passing hurricane would level their hovels anyway, so instead of putting in real effort, they chose to not even try.

The population lives off of fish and nothing but fish.

They eat fish, they trade fish, and nearly every waking moment they have is spent out there fishing. They’re the kind of people who probably grow gills too. There are no harbors, or docks, or even rudimentary piers in the village. They drag their primitive log boats up on land in long rows for the night, and head out again before the sun comes up. I couldn’t imagine a more wretched existence. And I’m told our connecting flight leaves from that profoundly unpleasant place.

Do we really have to go closer?

“Master,” I turn to the older guy. “Why didn’t we just open the Gate all the way to Amarno? Would save us a lot of time.”

“You know the reason,” Master Endol answers me. “Do make an active effort to remember.”

“I could try to remember. Or you could just tell me.”

He’s going tell me. Wait for it. He can’t resist. He loves his own voice too damn much.

“Very well, but this will be the last time.”

He’s telling me. I told you he’d do it, hahaha!

The Sage’s explanation this time breaks records in brevity.

“Because of the ocean.”

I wait in silence, but no more details appear to be coming.

“...The ocean?” I repeat with a raised brow.

Nope. Not getting it.

“Were you sleeping in class again?” Master Endol finally elaborates with a sigh, “They may seem parts of the same whole planet to us, the land and the sea, but in thaumaturgical terms you should view them as separate planes of existence altogether. Different rules apply. Rituals of a fixed affinity are disrupted when the surrounding system changes primary alignment. The leylines do not cross over, navigational data cannot be acquired. Many are the ambitious sorcerers who have sought to conquer this barrier, one way or the other, but met only tragedy. As the clever human saying goes, a solid boat beats the arts of an archmage when on the waves.”

“Huh.”

“Come on now. I thought you wished to see our airship.”

Right. The airship.

We ride a narrow path down a grassy ridge and to the low, long strip of bone-pale sand. Children run out to gape at us as we pass through the shackville. The only ones not out there fishing now are those not beefy enough to pull the nets, meaning under four-year-olds and over eighty-year-olds. It’s some view. Not all of them even have clothes. The villagers have been catching and eating fish for so long they’ve started to look like fish themselves with their bulging eyes and round, slack-jawed faces.

I scan the ghetto with my eyes, but see no sign of an airship port, and not even one beach bunny. Is the ship hidden underground, or what? Underwater? Can’t deny this is a great place to hide a UFO or two. Who would want to look closer? If I didn’t know better, I’d say this place is the saddest heap of trash I’ve ever seen, and that's saying something.

Endol guides his horse along a narrow lane past the salt-striped cabins, and I follow on my mule, which seems no less unwilling than I am. We eventually come clear of the village and the barren coast spreads in front of us. It looks like the tourist season has gone by; trash everywhere. Planks and tarps washed ashore by the waves. I see a tarred, naked, mast-less boat hull resting on blackened, slippery logs, junk all around it. Sheets of filthy, colorless canvas, sewn together of irregular scraps; old, worn ropes, barrels, crates.

Smack dab in the middle of the desolation burns a decrepit bonfire, a solitary local man squatting at it. We stop.

The chaotic junkyard overwhelms me. I gaze over the clean sea to soothe my nerves and listen to the gentle hum of waves as they caress the sand and push the garbage higher up. What a world. Then I force myself back to reality.

“Hey, Master?” I speak to the ancient guy. “Aren’t we missing a little something here? Like, I don’t know, maybe that glorious airship you told me about? Know anything about that?”

“Why, it is right there, in front of your very eyes,” Master Endol says and climbs off his horse.

I drop off of the saddle and force a hollow laugh at his joke.

“Haha, very funny. You're killing me. A real rib-cracker. You know, I’m actually glad you said that. Because it’s starting to look to me like—THERE’S NO FUCKING AIRSHIP IN HERE!”

No, I see it now.

That raped, sun-burned husk of a barque that’s missing its masts and rudders; that filthy pile of patched sheets, sown in a shape reminiscent of a pig's bladder and partially propped over the campfire to take in the smoke and heat; the clusterfuck of ropes strewn about, tying the disaster together…My needlessly clever brain has already put together the puzzle, no matter how I want to deny it.

Yeah, okay. In some very abstract Platonic world of forms, that thing might represent the concept of an air-capable craft. And I understand I’ve been fucking scammed.

Master Endol waves grandly at the garbage and announces,

“Allow me to present to you, the Order’s private airship—the Solveig.”

I lean on the mule and take a moment to steady myself.

I should make a few things clear to my enlightened mentor now while I can.

“Okay, Master, listen. Listen to me. Let me put this as clearly as I possibly can: you can not just strap a hot air balloon on an old boat frame and call that an ‘airship’. You can’t! That’s bull and that's shit. It's immoral! It’s a crime. A crime against aviation. An insult to engineering and aeronautics. That’s—playing on an innocent maiden’s hopes and dreams. And—”

“—Ay, Endol, old buddy!”

The local man comes waving at us and interrupts my sermon.

It’s a scrawny guy wearing a tattered, oversized shirt and baggy cargo pants. The clothes are so washed out, stained, and coated in dried salt and sand, you can’t tell the original colors anymore. They’re also so loose they probably couldn’t stay on if he hadn’t roped them around his skinny figure. There’s a black scarf wrapped around his head, with a pair of darkened goggles to protect his eyes from the sun’s glare. On his feet are crude wooden clogs, and that's all.

“How ya doin’?” the man greets Master Endol with a big smile, baring his gold-patched teeth.

“Ah, Master Gideon,” the Sage returns the greeting. “We’re sorry to have kept you waiting.”

The man waves away his apologies. “No, no, yer timing’s right on perfect, as ever! I’m just ‘bout done with the prep work here! We'll be ready to haul the anchor and set sail in a hot minute! Perfect day for a flight, innit? The faeries are on yer side!”

“I should hope that is the case.”

“Who?” I ask and frown.

“Here is the Captain of our ship, Master Gideon,” Endol introduces us. “Gideon, meet our newest recruit, Miss Zero.”

“Why, I’ll be, if she ain’t pretty as a picture!” Captain Gideon remarks. “A right pleasure to meetcha, missy!”

The man thrusts out his hand to me. A hand covered in dried tar and soot and grease and sand.

I raise my paws up high. “Man, I’m so sorry, I’m social distancing.”

Thank god they invented a pandemic before this story was published.

Suddenly, I notice there’s a kid standing next to me, also holding out a hand to squeeze. When I look again, I see it’s not actually a human child, but a chimpanzee dressed in red shorts and a leather vest. It’s even got a little tarpaulin hat on its head. Please tell me I’m hallucinating and this isn't really happening.

“Oh,” Captain Gideon utters, “that's Sam, my First Mate.”

His actual name is Sam? The chimp grins wide at me. I force myself to smile back, so it wouldn’t bash my head off.

“Your second-in-command is a monkey?” I ask the Captain, greatly worried about our flight plan.

“Yes, why not? The rig couldn’t bear a crulean, haha!” he laughs. “Can I get ya guys anythin’? Come, come! Make yerselves comfortable! How ‘bout a cup of coffee, while ya wait?”

Now that I look again, he’s got a battered mocha pot on the fire he’s using to fill the balloon. Talk about multi-tasking.

“Ah, I shall gladly accept,” Master Endol says, displaying unusual flexibility and lack of hygienic care, as he follows the Captain to the fire.

“I—I think I’ll pass,” I say and remain rooted in place. The monkey is still there, staring at me.

I don’t take it black, but I sure don't want to see them whip out any milk either.

5 : 272 : 09 : 58 : 09

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The crude stitchings of the canvas groan loud as they tighten. The hempen rigging is pulled up high and taut by the rising balloon. A low, grating sound follows the keel of the barque when it detaches from the logs and floats up in mid-air. One by one, we untie the safety ropes and climb to the Heavens' embrace. I can't believe it.

“See?” Master Endol tells me. “It flies. You worried about nothing.”

I look back at him. “It flies because you stuck a goddamn antigravity engine on it.”

Master Endol poses next to a bizarre metal gadget he's fixed in the middle of the deck. The thing looks like a probe the ETs will jam up your butt if they catch you driving alone at night.

“Which compels me to ask, if you were going to bring out cheat technology like that, why couldn’t you bring a real airship?”

“Don't be silly,” the Sage responds. “This device is made entirely of local, renewable materials, incorporating techniques already established at varied points of human history. It is thereby perfectly in accordance with the rules, even if it hasn't occurred to humans to merge those techniques before. There is no 'cheating' involved.”

This guy, I swear.

At any rate, the pile of trash boards, leather, and tarp have been somehow converted into a functional aircraft, and I still can’t make up my mind if I should sing the inventor’s praises, or get him burned at the stake.

Okay, well, it is sort of exciting how illegal and life-threatening it looks. It’s probably the most rebellious thing our lawful good brotherhood has done to date. I’d applaud, if my own life weren't riding on it.

Below the deck in the stern, down a small hatch, is a cramped passenger cabin, where to sleep or take shelter from poor weather. Deeper in, towards the bow, are more compartments for cargo and supplies. It seems Captain Gideon isn’t only our dedicated air cab pilot, but also moonlights as a merchant. Or a smuggler. I don’t want to know which. I really hope there aren’t a hundred illegal immigrants crammed down there in the hold.

“Awright!” the Captain in question hollers from behind the steering wheel near the aft. Is the wheel even connected to the guidance system, or is he just trying to establish character? “This's yer Captain speaking! Welcome aboard the Solveig! Hold onto yer butts, dear passengers, and try not to fall overboard! Our express flight to the Dominion has hereby set sail! Yaa-hoo!”

First Mate Sam cheers loudly, hanging on the rigging high overhead. Or maybe he's panicking? I don't speak chimp.

Thankfully, there’s nobody over the age of five to see us off. Otherwise, I might be embarrassed to be here. I lean on the port side bulwark and peer down as we glide over the waves, where our reflection grows smaller and smaller.

Oh, I’m getting nervous with anticipation. Will I get sea sick and throw up, or won’t I?

At last it's a pretty nice day.

I then go have a seat on the deck with Master Endol and his steadily humming, blue-glowing magic contraption. There are things I need to check now, while I can still survive jumping off.

“We’re not going to fly like this all the way to Amarno, are we?”

If I remember anything from geography class, there are about 3,200 nautical miles between the two continents. Our current speed is roughly four knots per hour, if I’m generous. Which is close to eight kilometers per hour, for those of you who never went to school. Casual jogging speed. In other words, granted we maintain the same speed day and night—it should take us over thirty days to cross the sea. A month stuck in a creaking bath tub with an immortal jerk, a deranged fisherman, and a chimpanzee. An arrangement very inappropriate for a pure, innocent maiden like me. I didn’t even pack that much snacks with me.

I may have made the worst decision of my life when I agreed to this.

“Relax,” Master Endol makes an effort to calm me. “We are using the Lunar Bridge.”

“The what now?”

“Look over there.”

The emiri points ahead and above.

I look ahead and get up and go join Sam at the bow, wondering if there’s something wrong with my eyes.

There’s a gigantic metal ring floating in the sky.

A thick, obviously artificial circle, plated with what look like sheets of polished brass, dangling perfectly still in midair, though there’s nothing holding it, and I perceive no magic either. Our zeppelin is headed straight for that steampunk doughnut.

The chimpanzee grins at me, like he’s laughing at the face I’m making.

“Once, in an age now gone,” Master Endol speaks, “a great highway passed through here, over the continent that stood in place of the sea. All the land was swept away in the War of the Gods. But the highway was spared, removed from the devastation on land. Though now inaccessible to most travelers due to its altitude, we, who yet retain memory of Galanthea, may still make use of it to cross otherwise unwieldy distances.”

We continue to rise up, towards the metal ring—the access terminal.

It’s huge enough for our ship, balloon and all, to fly right through with plenty of room to spare on all sides. What kind of traffic passed through here in the past? I’m sure Master Endol could enlighten me, if only I asked. But I’ll rather leave it to imagination. I grip the rigging and brace myself, not knowing what will happen when we go in. It’s going to feel awful, isn’t it? I’m going to puke, aren’t I?

I grit my teeth and hold on as our boat slips through the metal hoop.

“...”

We don’t enter the hyperspace, or experience the force of 600 Gs. Friction doesn’t peel the skin off my bones, or even mess up my hairdo. Instead, it's the ocean scenery below that undergoes a dramatic change. All color drains away. The surface starts to wind by at a staggering pace, as if someone hit the fast-forward button. Clouds materialize in the western sky and shoot by like sheep with jetpacks. The ocean is set aboil, relentlessly trembling. I lean further over the side and see the boat glide along rails of pure light, though everything’s at peace and easy on the deck.

Now isn’t that weird?

“Hahahaa!” Captain Gideon laughs at the helm. “Never gets old!”

How does this even work? I stare at the unsettling show for a while, until it makes me dizzy. Then I turn away from the bow, return to Master Endol, plop down, and try not to think about it. There are more important things.

“Okay, so,” I say. “What’s the plan? How are we going to get your folks to help us against the big bad?”

“Before I lay the minutiae on you, I should first inquire what little, if anything, you remember of our classes and what I’ve told you about the Dominion?”

“What, you want me to recite the whole chronicle?”

“Only the essentials of present day governing will do, for now.”

Why are you even here, if I have to do the info-dumping too?

Okay. I’ll do this seriously. I can do it.

The United Dominion of Amarno is split into nine states.

Not fifty, just nine. They call them simply “districts”. Each district is basically an autonomous kingdom with its own governor. The nine governors of the nine districts form the highest juridical body in the coalition, called High House.

The Dominion is a pure meritocracy. The people don’t get to vote for their presidents; leaders are chosen by the other leaders, based on competence and past achievements. As long as you can show you’re the right guy for the job, you can keep your chair—forever.

Do a bad job and the High House will judge you.

Death penalty is a thing. Actually, emiri know no other legal punishment but death. When you’re immortal and can live to no end, you stop seeing life as something rare and precious, and start to pay more attention to the overall quality of it. If one guy sours things for others and can't take a gentle hint, they consider it better to just remove said guy from the picture, like he was never even there.

Hell of an incentive to be a better person.

Luckily for everybody else, the pointy-ears are typically content to play by themselves, and don’t try to force their values on the other realms. Or, that’s how they used to be.

There’s a certain Mr Yaoldabath now, who doesn’t like the usual hippie crap, but wants to send the world to hell in expedited delivery, who knows why. It also happens our Mr Y is the governor of the district of Elevro, and a permanent member of the High House. Everybody at home thinks he’s cool, while he’s secretly pulling the rug from under the planet.

So we’re going to fight fire with fire.

We’ll go straight to the biggest, oldest, and most powerful district of the Dominion, and tell their boss this guy’s an ass. If the other lords of the High House disavow Yaldie, it’s going to make life very, very difficult for him, and our job of saving the world a hell of a lot easier.

There’s only the minor, technical problem of how we get them to believe our tall tale in the first place.

Master Endol doesn’t look fully satisfied with my summary, but let’s it go.

“Well, such is more or less the state of affairs.”

“Okay. So, how do we do this? I trust you have a plan? Because I have no idea.”

“I do have a plan,” he says. “Firstly, it is imperative our hosts receive this message directly from humans—you as their representative. If I were to accuse Yaoldabath, it would be seen only as a personal feud between him and myself, and the others would refuse to get involved. We must convince them his actions pose a direct threat to the entire global community, in which case the Accord necessitates action be taken. You must achieve this.”

“Hang on.” I hold up my hand. “You mean, I have to talk to them?”

He nods. “You have heard me correctly.”

I’m gobsmacked.

“What, I can’t do that! I’m not a politician, or an ambassador! I hit people for a living!”

“Pray tell, what did you think your role was going to be?”

“I thought I’d, like, carry your bag. Or, hold the hotel door for you.”

Master Endol sighs. “No. This is the role Lady Irifan has assigned to you. Even if misplaced, you bear her good faith. Failure is not an option. I have already received confirmation the High Commander will see us. An honor such as this will not be granted twice within your lifetime. There is no choice but to go through with it. Now, or never.”

“Oh come on. I don’t even know what to say…”

“As much was within expectations.” Master Endol proceeds to take out a paper scroll, which he unceremoniously hands to me. “I have taken the liberty of writing your speech for you. The speech you will deliver to her eminence at the meeting tomorrow morning. Memorize it by then.”

“Tomorrow morning?”

Are you shitting me? No matter how you slice it, that’s way too soon! I was looking forward to a month-long vacation in a land of big-breasted elf ladies, chilling at poolside, buying souvenirs, working on a tan—but I have to actually be a professional? What the crap?

I unravel the scroll. A bewildering jungle of foreign words floods my retinas. True to his style, Master Endol spared no words in the composition. The wall of text goes on and on and on, and I’m again left in awe by his talent for bullshit. What does he think my brain’s made of? He should know me better by now than to randomly assume I can digest such a monologue, let alone deliver it faithfully in any formal capacity.

I give the Sage a doubtful look, wondering if he’s going to say, “punk’d!” He doesn’t. He looks like he actually believes his own delusions.

I toss the scroll away over my shoulder. “Well, now I know what to wipe my ass with when the time comes. That was going to be my next question. But honestly, what am I really going to say, for realest real?”

“Is that how you mean to make up for your failure in Nikéa?” Master Endol asks me in return. Somehow, the scroll is in his hand again, and he gives it back. “Did you not vow you would do better next time? Now is that time. Recall what is at stake and study the speech. It is fine to alter a word here or there, or make other rearrangements, so long as you deliver the key points. As much should be within your ability and education.”

“Let me get this straight: either I learn your declaration of independence by heart and recite it to your POTUS tomorrow, or they’ll let an evil maniac destroy the world? Cut the crap! Nobody can do that! You can’t just dump an impossible job on me and say it’s my fault if I fail! That’s evil! Pure evil! And I hate you? Have I told you before how much I hate you?”

“I’ll be with you every step of the way and support you as best I can. Could you not give up on it, before you’ve actually even tried?”

I fall down on my back on the deck, kicking and wailing,

“No! I don’t want to! This sucks! This whole jobs sucks, I hate it! I want out! I want to go home! AAAAAH! I WANNA—”

[ We are experiencing unexpected technical problems. Please wait! ]

Shit. I know I'm just venting. It’s a mission impossible, but what choice do we have but grin and bear it? For the world. For little children. For voluptuous elven ladies. For lesbian cinema. For our movie adaptation. There are so many reasons to not give up. Too many.

“...”

Damn, Irifan would be so much better suited for this job. As a leader, as a human, and as a speaker.

If only she were here, we’d have it in the bag, for sure.

Too bad. Even if she wanted to, Irifan couldn’t have come with us.

After all, if she ever left Orethgon, it would mean the end of her life.