The sun came pouring down on the city of Lufthaven with the bright slickness of gutter water. It was a cold miser of a sun, shedding only enough of its warmth to give the air an unwholesome clamminess. Neither did it spare much illumination, for the perpetual smog and the dark rows of tenements were as impenetrable as the walls which soared upwards in a sierra of bulwarks and crenelations.
From the high spires of the Principia, the young man watched as the life returned his to city, a slow trickle of tiny figures moving down the streets and thoroughfares. He followed the peddlers pushing their carts to the market, the horned satyrs taking their begging bowls to their usual corners. Hired pixies snuffed the lamps like miniature lighthouse keepers while the coaches trundled along their daily routes, horses leaving their first steaming layers of dung for the day. Rickshaws pulled by towering ogrish joined the morning milieu, the simpleminded creatures wearing iron neck collars fastened with cowbells to warn pedestrians of their approach.
Seeing it all now, the young man’s chest swelled with pride. Here every species had its place within the League, from dull, plodding humans to the ephemeral creatures of fae. All were loyal subjects to the crown bound together by the one true creed of Solarism, wherein all races were made equal beneath the benevolence of elfin rule.
It was a heavy burden. Elfinkind bore it well, because no else could. The almighty will of the Lustrate had chosen them for this task, investing them with a divine mandate to bring all sapient beings into the light of civilization.
But who kept the wheels turning and the fires of that civilization stoked and fed? Who greased the gears which drove forth the machinery of statecraft? Why, none other than the humble, brave, undercompensated servants of the Commissariat.
“You have to wonder if they’re grateful,” Caspar said aloud. He stood by the window of his quarters, absently fiddling with brass buttons of his uniform, a dashing mix of red tunic and white pantaloons which cast his legs in rather flattering relief. No doubt the ladies at parade today would share his appreciation. Rather self-consciously Caspar adjusted the gold-and-silver sundial he wore on a chain around his neck, the symbol of office of every member of the Commissariat.
“Fat chance,” Venzini replied, “I’m not sure roundels even know the meaning of the word.”
“True,” Caspar conceded, “You’d think after all this time they’d learn to show some appreciation for our efforts. But it’s just as they say: no good deed goes unpunished.”
Caspar took a swig from his goblet of spiced wine, then frowned at the gilt epaulets on his shoulder. The gold thread was fraying at the ends. Was it really too unreasonable to ask for competent tailor? It served him right for hiring gnomish tradesmen, but then again his allowance was tight, and those moneygrubbers knew how to make counterfeit silk nearly as fine as the genuine article.
“Someone’s extra fussy today,” Venzini teased, “That last bit sounded almost personal, Caspar. Anything I can help you with?”
“I doubt even you have that much suction with boys upstairs, old chum,” Caspar heaved a sigh.
“It’s called flexibility,” Venzini chuckled, “If you just bothered to remove that stick you seem to have stuck up your backside, maybe you’d finally learn to bend at the waist.”
“Bend over, you mean! I refuse to play their games!” Caspar said. He went over to his dresser and frowned at the mirror, brushing back the brown curls hanging delicately over his eyebrows. This hairstyle was all the rage at the ballrooms these days. It was a shame, really. He considered his eyebrows to be his most winning feature—angular and thin in that distinctly elfin way, capable of expressing a whole suite of emotions. He tried a few of them out to decide which he would wear to the parade. Stoic resignation? No, too bland.
“And that’s why you’re still stamping sick leaves, meanwhile I’m rolling around in customs inspection, up to my neck in favors. Face it. They won’t promote someone who isn’t willing to compromise now and then.”
“Arselicking. You mean arselicking.”
“Call it what you like, but you can’t deny it works.”
Footsteps in the corridor beyond. Venzini held up a hand in warning: “Speaking of which, it’s time to get your tongue wet. Ten-shun!”
The heels of their tight leather shoes clicked on the tile floor as they sprang into a salute right as the door swung open.
Deputy-Commissar Lansil vin Caradina entered their quarters, holding a sheaf of papers behind his back. A wasp-waisted imp of a fellow who barely came up to Caspar’s chest, Lansil had a remarkable way of filling up a room with the stench of his rosewater perfume.
He took in their messy, unmade beds and the scattered pieces of their knuckleboard, then gave a disdainful sniff, twirling the ends of his wispy moustache. Ignoring the pair who were still standing at rigid attention, Lansil strolled casually to Caspar’s writing table and sat on it, one leg folded daintily over the other.
“Oh, but don’t get up on my account. At ease,” he finally said.
Caspar lowered his hand, unconsciously curling it into a fist. What was it with superiors who insisted on smearing their greasy backsides all over other people’s tables? Didn’t they realize people worked on those things? There were two vacant chairs in the room that were perfectly designed for the odious task of supporting rose-scented arseholes.
“To what do we owe the pleasure, sir?” Caspar asked.
“I just thought I’d brief you on the arrangements for the victory parade later in the afternoon.”
“Has there been a change?”
“A few minor rearrangements, come to think of it,” Lansil stroked his wispy moustache, a smile playing on his lips, “I’ve been just been informed that I am to be given the honor of joining the chiefs of staff at the center podium. You know, the one adjoining the palatial podium, where the Lord Castellan sits.”
“I’m aware of the seating plan, sir,” Caspar said evenly, though inside he was simply furious. What were they thinking, letting this fool go hobnobbing about with the great and good of the land!
“That’s wonderful, sir!” Venzini broke in, “I can’t think of anyone more deserving.”
“Obviously,” Lansil snorted, “Stahlka isn’t in the habit of rewarding the undeserving. Do you mind?” Lansil gestured to the decanter of wine. Without waiting for Caspar’s permission he took a glass and poured himself a drink.
“Not at all, help yourself,” Caspar said icily.
“They’ve made me personal aide-de-camp to Executor Anzelmo,” Lansil said, sipping the wine, “I’ll be running important dispatches, logistics. I’ll spare you the details—it’s all a bit above your salary.”
“Plenty of refreshments at hand, I’ll bet,” Venzini said jealously.
“The very finest,” Lansil agreed, “Sherbets and chilled wine, with a selection of pastries.”
“Getting some practice in early, I see,” Caspar pointed at the decanter in Lansil’s hand, “Mind you don’t sprain your wrist. Who else will pour their wine for them then?”
Lansil sniffed. He took out the papers and them tossed carelessly on the writing desk, letting them slide to the floor in a heap.
“Oh my. You’ll have to excuse my clumsiness. Those are your new duty rosters. You’re to supervise the queues. Someone’s got to punch those tickets, after all! I believe such a task lies within the scope of your considerable talents, wouldn’t you agree, Deputy-Commissar Caspar?”
“Yessir!” said Caspar and Venzini, snapping once more to attention.
“Dismissed.”
This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.
As Lansil left he paused and very pointedly flicked the last of his wine out the window, “Bit tart for my taste. Not bad for table wine, though.”
Caspar waited until he was out of earshot before giving the door a solid thump with his fist.
“Damn his rotten hide!” he yelled, “Just because he’s some blue-blooded fop, he gets to have a leg up in the world?”
“Careful…” said Venzini, stooping to pick up the papers with a grunt.
“To hell with the arrogant swine!” Caspar raged, collapsing into his chair, “He comes in here and disparages my family’s wine, insults my lineage! I’d rather die than take another year of this impertinence!”
“Patience, my friend,” Venzini soothed, sorting the papers into a neat pile, “We have all the time in the world to take what’s ours.”
“Twenty-four years old and I’m still glorified clerk. And do you know why? Because my blood might as well be water to them!”
“Look at how far you’ve come, Caspar. Few halfbloods can boast the same.”
“It doesn’t matter how high I climb when the piss still flows downhill,” Caspar sulked, “There’s only one way out. Either I get that rise in the ranks this year, or...”
“Merely conceive of victory,” Venzini purred, “And it is all but won.”
Caspar had to grin despite himself. Venzini always knew what to say, “A toast then, to our imminent good fortunes. May you remain ever victorious.”
“Ever victorious, my friend,” Venzini agreed, lifting his goblet before they both downed it in one swig. Caspar grimaced and said:
“Confound that little twit, but he’s right. It is tart.”
And with that he, too, tossed the dregs out the window.
#
Bodis felt something spatter on his copper helmet and run down his collar into the small of his back. Despite his best efforts to remain still he squirmed and had to look up. Was it raining? He hoped not. It would be just like the gods to ruin Victory Day with a spot of bad weather.
“Not again, Bodis,” Lieutenant Wrevyn, “Stop drifting off and pay attention!”
“Sorry, sah,” Bodis said, slowly returning to the here and now, “I figured it was raining.”
“Raining? In the middle of summer?” Wrevyn gave him a pitying look, “Bodis, have you heard a single blessed word I’ve said these past five minutes?”
“I wouldn’t know, sah,” Bodis scrunched up his face at the question, “I hasn’t got a pocket watch.”
“He couldn’t read one even if he tried,” someone said. Sniggers went up the line of assembled militiamen. The 4th Conscripted Labor Battalion were all standing in the assembly yard outside the barracks in full attire, twoscore-odd men and women of various species all dressed in copper helmets, breastplates and plumed conical helmets, the latter accessory being their sole concession to the day’s festivities.
“Settle down, you dogs,” Wrevyn barked, “No room for mistakes today. I want you all squeaky clean and smelling like roses, as innocent as babes in the cradle. The last thing we need is to disgrace ourselves in front of the powers that be! That means no ‘extracurricular activities’. No roundels slipping and falling down thirty flights of stairs. I especially don’t want to see anyone sucking on a hip flask while on duty. That means you, Polter!”
He stabbed an accusing finger at a ginger-headed gnome who was leaning against a wall, oversized helmet slipping down over his chin as he nodded off. Bodis gave him a gentle poke in the ribs and Polter came to with a start, helmet slipping off with a loud clatter.
“Whas th’matter?” he warbled, “Urggh. I feel gorbloody fogged.”
“It’s me who’s fogged,” Wrevyn sighed, “I’m the one has to clean up after your mess.”
“What if the roundels get uppity?” a militiaman asked, cracking his knuckles. Wrevyn broke into a nasty smile.
“Then we mail em a fist in a velvet glove.”
“But why?” Bodis asked in bewilderment. The thought of wasting valuable postage stamps on such parcels disturbed him, as did the mental image of severed hands crawling around in the newsmatic tubes.
“It’s a fissure of speech,” Wrevyn waved the question aside, “If you see anyone trying to be funny, by all means, break their funny bones. Anyone who spoils Victory Day has revoked their privilege to own a working pair of kneecaps. But only when you’re provoked, unnerstand? That’s it. Now form up, you sorry sods.”
The militiamen filed down the street in a double column, truncheons in hand. Bodis flinched as more droplets spattered against his face. Despite the lieutenant’s assurances, he felt there really was going to be rain today. But never mind all that. It was time to earn his wages.
His column marched into the busy crossing of Wexter by Tulip Lane, passing beneath a triumphal arch festooned with rose bouquets and yellow streamers. The laborers who were putting the final touches to the decorations heard the rolling tread of their boots but were slow in scattering.
“Gangway! Civil Militia, coming through!” Wrevyn yelled. The militia thrust out their chests and ploughed straight into the crowd. Trying to appear equally enthusiastic, Bodis gave a skinny satyr girl a shove that sent her sprawling into a basketful of flowers with a loud “Oof!”
“Beggin yer pardon,” he murmured, before stepping carefully over her and continuing on his way.
#
Tirce spat rose petals out of her mouth and glared after the column as it turned the corner.
“Should’ve gotten out of the way,” Wunther rumbled. The big redheaded man helped to to her feet and dusted her off with platter-sized hands.
“And risk losing the count?” Tirce replied.
“Thattagirl,” Wunther said approvingly, “Let’s have it.”
The pair faded into the droves of laborers who making the glorious festivities a reality. Floral wreaths festooned with roses and pink carnations hung from the gables, bright orange streamers fluttering between streetlamps and the mouths of stone gargoyles.
“Three companies of militia from the 4th Labor as well as the 8th and 13th Storm battalions, roughly eight hundred all told,” Tirce related to him, “The Queen’s Cuirassiers on horseback will bring that to an even thousand. They’ll divide the force to cover each side of the city square and form the cordon in the center. It’ll be thickest round the podium where the great and the good of the city will be seated, the smug little ponces,” she paused to look up at the rooftops of the adjoining tenements. Her eyes were yellow at the rims and as she stared their pupils split lengthwise like the sheaves of a book, “Four rangers concealed on the gables and another in the belfry.”
The distant marksmen were clothed in grey cloaks that matched the soot-stained of the rooftops. But humans made for easy marks to one such as Tirce fein Eider. As a satyr who had been born beneath the boughs of the Pale Woods, she was one of the chosen few who could command the low craft of sarkomancy, otherwise known as blood magic.
“Looks like they’re outfitted with steel crossbows,” Tirce said, noting a twinkle of light where the sunlight struck glass, “With those new gnomish embiggification lenses, as well.”
“Nothing but the best for our lords and saviors,” Wunther chuckled, “The Lord Castellan, Vestal and the heads of Stahlka—all the eggs in one basket…”
“So why don’t we smash em?” Tirce said hotly, “You said it yourself, they’re ripe for the taking!”
“We’ve been over this,” her uncle sighed.
“They’re so comfortable in their victory that they’ve forgotten we exist.”
“Which is just the way I like it,” Wunther insisted.
Tirce tossed her tawny curls in frustration. Her uncle and many others had lost faith after the Axiom’s unexpected collapse. For with it had vanished dwarfish regional power, the fiercely independent human fiefdoms of the Powder Barons, and any hope of supplying and sustaining a Terranist revolution within the League of Light. All that was left, it was said, were the sad, deluded, rabid elements of a once-proud movement—the desperate individuals whom the public labelled the Mad Hatters.
She took out her own hat now—a smart green beret with a brown hawk’s feather in its band—and as they slipped into the shade of a nearby alley, she popped out the crown and settled the brim on her head at a rakish slant. Tirce had never stopped believing in their inevitable victory. How could they fail with people on their side?
Terranism was the only political movement that could unite the subjugated species. Who did not wish to be free? Who did not wish to be held
“Now don’t give me that ugly look, Tirce,” Wunther said, “We’re on the cusp of something truly grand here, Tirce. Our first real chance of victory since the Iron Axiom blew itself apart. The last thing we need is to tip our hand by getting up to some damned foolishness.”
“You keep saying that, and yet you won’t breathe a word of your plan to me or anyone else,” she said resentfully.
“Redmaine believes we should keep things discrete,” Wunther said.
“Redmaine!” Tirce stopped in her tracks, “You’d trust that old cutthroat more than your own niece, and me a sworn sword of our conclave?”
Wunther and Tirce belonged to the Dusk Troupe, oldest of all the revolutionary conclaves. Among the others, only the Revelry could match the respect and influence they commanded within the Terranist movement. The Dusk Troupe favored acts of subterfuge and slow indoctrination of the populace to slowly weaken the grip of the elfin overlords, whereas the Revelry preferred waging an open rebellion, burning everything down regardless of who got caught in the blaze.
“Nobody mentioned anything about trust,” Wunther took her by the elbow and pulled her on after him, annoyed, “But for this to work, the Revelry need assurances. They asked specifically that you be left out of this. I think you know why.”
“Because they’re a bunch of airheaded arseholes and I keep telling them as much?”
“Exactly,” Wunther grinned, “But try to keep your opinions to yourself at today’s moot.”
“We’re attending?” she said, surprised.
“You are, at least,” Wunther explained, “I need you to keep an eye on the Revelry delegates there, see if they’re planning any mischief.”
Tirce found a rose floating in a puddle and picked it up. Her eyes shrank back to their normal circumference even as the nail on her index finger grew out into a long black claw. Absently she began pruning off the rose’s thorns with its razor-like edge.
“They’re just boys here in the city,” she told Wunther, “I wouldn’t take them too seriously.”
“But I do. And my opinion is worth more than yours, so you can just go ahead and—ow! Hey!”
Tirce had just flicked a loose thorn at him.
“Very mature,” he said dryly, “Anyway, I need you tail them, just in case. If there’s any trouble…”
She struck off the stem with single blow and tucked the flower behind her ear.
“Nip it in the bud. Understood.”
“Good. Oh, and Tirce? Don’t go starting any trouble yourself, please?”
But Tirce only smiled and said nothing.