“Your ticket slip, please,” repeated Caspar through gritted teeth. Once again, the old woman rooted through her threadbare purse and came up emptyhanded.

“Oh, but you’ll have to forgive me, my dearie,” she with a saccharine smile, “I believe I’ve misplaced mine. Might it be possible for you to simply issue me another?”

“As I have explained, madame—” Caspar began, but the horrid creature cut him off by holding up a ration slip. The people in the queue behind her shifted their feet impatiently.

“I’m afraid a fiver is all I have at the moment. Will that do? I was supposed to have twelve but I gave away the rest of it for my Etson’s new shoes. You wouldn’t believe the cost of chittermark leather these days! Simply ruinous!”

“Madame,” he said desperately, “I must remind you that ticket slips are not for sale, but are distributed by the Commissariat according to ethnic or vocational designation. This area is reserved for those of at least three-quarters elfish descent. Now, do you meet the ethnic criterion?”

“Why, no. I’m as common as dirt, is what I am,” she said happily.

“Then what is your profession?”

“I’m a grandmother, dearie. Haven’t you been listening?”

Caspar wiped a hand across his mouth, biting back a yell. The people in the queue behind the woman sighed and shuffled their feet with impatience.

Every block for miles around was packed with celebrants. Still more people watched from their balconies and windowsills, waving their handkerchiefs in a frenzy of excitement while packs of street urchins clung like squirrels from the tops of the lampposts and bounced peanuts off the hats of the people below. Someone had to bring order to this chaos! He couldn’t afford to be held hostage by this senile thing.

For a moment he was tempted to use the sundial on her. Then Vicenzi came to the rescue, oozing sunshine and smiles, and said:

“I believe your place is over there, madame,” he said, pointing back to the heaving mass of spectators crammed cheek to jowl on the sidewalk. A thin line of militiamen were doing their best to keep them from spilling out into the streets.

“But there don’t appear to be any seats,” she said hesitantly, “My knees aren’t what they used to be.”

“Yes, well,” Vicenzi lied, “The front rows are for those who prefer to stand. The seating area is further back,” she dithered, and Vicenzi was quick to add: “and in any case I can reserve a seat for you momentarily.”

“Will I be able to see Her Worship from back there?”

“I’ll make certain of it,” he said, gallantly offering his elbow. She took it and allowed herself to be led away.

“I thought that old bag would never leave,” said a portly artisan, bustling to his chair.

Caspar snatched the slip out of his hand with a grunt. He’d had quite enough fraternization with the roundels for one day, thank you very much.

Stahlka had arranged the citizens in concentric rings radiating outwards from the Aegis Cathedral, each stratum sectioned off from the rest with rope cordons, with the most undesirable elements being kept furthest away from the parade, out of sight and out of mind.

But if these here were the tolerable specimens, Caspar thought, they certainly didn’t smell like it. Most had been too lazy to change out of their work clothes, and the sweat of their morning exertions mingled freely with the humid smog. This coupled with the closeness of the crowd created a potent cloud of bodily fragrances that made Caspar feel quite faint. He was relieved when Vicenzi finally returned, sans the old woman.

“Well played,” Caspar chuckled, “I don’t know how you can manage them like that, but I appreciate the help.”

“It was the quickest way to be rid of her,” Vicenzi replied.

“Or we could have told the militia to haul her back where she belongs.”

“See, that’s your problem,” Vicenzi snapped, “You don’t know when to spare the rod and dangle the carrot.”

“How enlightened of you,” Caspar said, surprised at the irritation in his friend’s voice but refusing to give ground, “But tell me, did you actually reserve a seat for her?”

“Don’t be absurd,” Vicenzi scoffed.

“So much for your carrot, then. At least the rod would’ve been honest.”

For some reason Vicenzi took offense at this and fell into a surly silence. This suited Caspar just fine; it was too hot for conversation anyway. But as they worked their way through the rest of the queue, Caspar thought about what he had said.

It was the duty of the Commissariat to preserve social cohesion, to make sure that people did not forget their place in the greater order of things. It had been vital to war effort for everyone to remain at their post. Under their watchful guidance bakers baked, soldiers soldiered, farmers farmed and aristocrats…well, he wasn’t quite sure what they did, but he had no doubt it was twice as important.

But Vicenzi had raised a good point. It seemed easier to get people to do things your way if you lowered yourself somewhat by speaking to them as though they were your equals, in a purely figurative sense of the word, of course.

Perhaps he would adopt the method after all. Surely it couldn’t be that hard? He looked at the roundel on the other side of the cordon, saw burly man sitting on the bench with one of his legs folded on top of the other in a way that seemed familiar. Then Caspar remembered how Lansil had sat in exactly the same manner earlier that morning.

“Straighten up back there!” he shouted, feeling a surge of venomous emotion.

“A-are you talking to me?” the man stammered, jowls quivering in shock.

“You heard me, lard-gut! How dare you receive Her Worship with such insolence!”

“Mercy, sir,” the man yelped, his back going as stiff as a ramrod, “I didn’t mean nothing by it, honest!”

Caspar stalked away with a scowl. None of his betters had ever extended him such a courtesy—why should he behave any differently? He was a prisoner of rank and circumstance, indistinguishable from the rest of the herd. The thought rankled. A bleak future stretched out before him, a vision of an endless queue of blank faces shoving their tickets into his hand.

No! There was only one Caspar vin Destia, and he refused to fall into despair! He would claw his way ever higher, hoping against hope that one day some blind miracle might lay open the corridors of greatness.

But how long could he keep that candle burning before it snuffed itself out completely? How long before it was his day in the sun?

Clarions and trumpets blared as the head of the procession came within sight. The Queen’s Cuirassiers on thirty white horses formed the vanguard, their iron shod hooves sending up showers of sparks against the cobblestones as they advanced at an even trot. Cheers went up from every side, so deafening that they drowned out the brass band that came marching after the cavalry.

Caspar and Venzini nodded to each other before reaching for the sundials around their necks. It was time. He pressed the side button and heard the click of the spring mechanisms as the radiant energies stored within began to leak into the surrounding ether. Caspar tapped into this reserve by allowing it to pass through his mind, molding it so that it matched the patterns of his thoughts and eventually grew to reflect them.

He let the pattern radiate outward into the minds of the people around him. Let the roundels have their fun for the day.

#

Bodis felt a huge grin split over his face. He couldn’t help but join in the fun.

“Huzzah!” he screamed, boots teetering on the edge of the pavement as the procession thundered past, “Forward, brave cuirassiers!”

But some people seemed immune to the festivities.

“Back, you devils!” Lieutenant Wrevyn was yelling, shoving at the mob to stop them from spilling into the street, “Get em under control before we have a stampede on our hands!”

With a heavy sigh Bodis slid out his truncheon and got back to work. Peacekeeping was a delicate process, but one that he had down to a science. He rapped knuckles and stung thighs with just enough force to get the point across, occasionally throwing in pieces of advice like “piss off before I break you” or “you there with the brick, don’t even try it!”.

He didn’t even have to look when a glass bottle came flying at his head, ducking under with practiced ease as it sailed past and smashed into the helmet of the militiaman beside him, laying him out cold.

Bodis helped drag their unconscious comrade out of the way while the lieutenant and the others went charging after the miscreant responsible. He checked the man’s neck for a pulse and found one. Satisfied, Bodis took the opportunity to take a breather and enjoy the parade. The lieutenant was dragging a man along the gutter by his hair while everyone else took turns giving him a kick in the pearls. It would keep him occupied for a few more minutes at least, Bodis hoped.

The lords and ladies of the Principia were riding past now, their purple dress uniforms studded with so many medals that they glittered and clinked like knights in mail. Then came the dukes of the seven districts and the marquises of the vinelands, followed by droves of minor nobility in plumed helmets and bright sashes, each trying their best to outdo their peers with combinations of color that would put a flock of peacocks to shame.

The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

At the very end of this procession of power came a plain grey carriage drawn by a single mule. An awed hush fell over the street at the sight. Even the lieutenant had to pause and help the man out of the gutter, awkwardly smoothing down the front of his jacket and giving him a friendly pat him on the shoulder as if everything was forgiven. A ripple spread up the street as men and women knelt in supplication, stretching out their hands to touch the untouchable.

“Illumination,” they murmured, “Grant us illumination, oh lady of the light fantastic…”

The carriage reached the end of the junction where the podium had been prepared. Its door opened and a young woman stepped out. Or rather, she appeared young in that timeless way which only the truly ancient elfs had, a porcelain beauty that was as fragile as it was flawless. She was wearing a simple silk gown and a diadem without any jewels, its only decoration being a silver sickle superimposed on a golden disc, the sigil of the Diad. But jewels were a waste in any case: the Vestal would have just outshone them all. It was like looking into the sun without the having to go blind.

The air around the Vestal seemed to bend the light inwards like a focusing lens. Then Her Holiness spoke, and Bodis felt his mind slip into a warm and sunny place.

#

Tirce saw the Vestal climb to the top of the podium and let out a string of unladylike adjectives. She’d lost sight of Baston and his friends some minutes ago in the crushing press of bodies, but she knew the fools had to be close.

“Ostende, my beloved,” the Vestal began, her voice as graceful as the bend of a river, “Well met in the morning. On this day eighty years ago, your forefathers contended with the abominable powers, against a terrible cataclysm which threatened to swallow our land entire, enslaving our minds and bodies to the mad whims of a demiurge. But this was not to be!”

The city bellowed its worship. Tirce picked her way carefully through the assembly, thankful that they’d all stopped jostling and were standing spellbound at the Vestal’s words.

Tirce could taste the smell of burnt ozone emanating from the Vestal, the sign of immense thaumaturgic potential. Most of it was being channeled into creating an aura of love and trust while siphoning off negative emotions. One of the first lessons Tirce had been taught as a recruit was resist this mind-cleansing effect. She shuddered at the thought of such power being wielded in rage. Baston’s crew was insane to try for a thaumaturge of such potency. Even if they did surprise her with their toys, hundreds might still die if she chose to lash out.

They would split up to increase their chances of success, Tirce thought. Which meant she would have to eliminate three marks in quick succession, all while escaping notice herself. Tirce wasn’t the only one immune to the Vestal’s aura.

Standing at attention at even intervals all throughout the mass of people were the agents of the Commissariat, grim-faced men and women with the gold-and-silver sundials around their necks. The aura was always strongest when their kind were around, and they were trained to spot anyone who deviated from the norm.

As Tirce slowly picked her way through the worshippers, she saw someone else moving parallel to her along a row of shops. It was one of Baston’s friends, a pimply ginger in a bowler hat. She didn’t dare use her yew wand this close to a true caster, so instead she reached into her other sleeve and slipped on her brass knuckles.

She worked her way behind him, cocked her fist, then reached out to tap him on the shoulder. He whirled around, his acne-scarred face pale with terror, and Tirce realized that he had already lost his nerve and was about to chuck the plan altogether. But better safe than sorry. She risked a quick and easy glamouring that loosened her vocal chords, casting her mind back to find Baston’s timbre and range.

“Oy, what are you doing?” she said in perfect imitation of Baston’s voice. When the Reveler turned around she hit him with a shovel hook that came all the way down from the waist and took him right under the chin, Tirce twisting her hips into the punch for extra leverage. It was a sneaky blow that Wunther had taught her. His head snapped up, eyes flickering like window shutters. Tirce caught him before he fell over and let him sag against a display window, legs stretched out in a sitting position before covered his face with his hat. A few citizens broke out of their religious reveries and looked at them curiously.

“My brother is feeling a touch under the weather,” she told them with an apologetic smile, “Dyspepsia, you see.”

They hemmed and hawed in sympathy, with one woman even offering to let him sniff the smelling salts in her purse, an offer which Tirce graciously refused.

“For the walls of Lufthaven turned them back!” the Vestal continued, and abruptly the strangers lost interest, turning towards the sound of her voice, “The very stones of this city are mortared with the blood of martyrs, paved with bones of heroes! Through immense sacrifice and unyielding faith we purchased our survival at a terrible cost…”

Tirce slipped away and spied another of Baston’s friends creeping towards the back of the podium, hunched over as he hugged something close to his chest. He was only thirty yards from where the Lord Castellan and the chiefs of staff were sipping sherbet, oblivious to what was coming. A few more seconds and he would be in ideal throwing range. All that stood in his way was a single bespectacled commissar. The fool appeared to have procured a footstool from one of the shops and was busy offering it to some frail old seamstress.

“I thought you’d forgotten all about me,” the grandmother said, “Aren’t you the perfect little gentleman? Thanks ever so much!”

“It was the least I could do, madame,” said the commissar dismissively, though Tirce could see his pointed ears flushing, “Now if you’ll excuse me, I must return to my post.”

A tricky business, Tirce thought. Anything too flashy and the commissar was sure to notice. Unless…

It was an evil little idea, but Tirce couldn’t see another way around it. She stood behind the old woman and waited until her mark came within a few feet of her before surreptitiously hooking her foot on one of the legs of the footstool and yanking it out from under the old woman. The seamstress toppled over with a wail.

“Good heavens!” the commissar cried, turning back, “Are you quite alright, madame?”

“I’m not sure,” the old woman said groggily, “I just lost my balance all at once.”

“You rotten jackanape!” Tirce said, giving her mark a hard shove that sent him stumbling forward.

“Watch it!” he began angrily, but Tirce interrupted him:

“So you like picking on old ladies for sport, is that right? For shame! Didn’t your mother teach you any better?”

“Now, see here my good man,” the commissar bristled, “Is this true? Did you purposefully adjust this furniture with the intention of causing this woman injury and acute embarrassment?”

“I didn’t do nothing!”

“The use of a double negative,” the commissar said icily, his hand grazing the pommel of his rapier, “Implies the positive.”

“What?”

“I’m afraid I must ask you to come with me.”

“Go suck on an egg!”

“I’d advise against taking that tone with me, sir.”

The commissar snapped his fingers and surly militiamen appeared, cracking their knuckles. Tirce helped the old woman back to her feet and left just before things got interesting.

So much for the small potatoes. Now all that remained was big cheese himself. Now where had he run off to?

“Looking for me, love?” said a voice to her right. It was Tirce’s turn to spin on her heel, going into a half-crouch and balling up her fists.

Baston was standing not five yards away with the satchel dangling from one hand. She could smell the sulphur from where she stood.

“Fancy meeting you here,” Tirce said sweetly, “Mind being a good boy and handing that over?”

“Why certainly, Tirce. But only since you asked so nicely,” he mocked.

“I’ve already sorted out your friends. There’s no point in taking this further.”

“No point?” Baston grated, face contorting with rage, “Wunther wouldn’t get the point if I took it and rammed it up his arse! All you lot do is scurry around like rats in the gutters, waiting for a day that never comes! That ends now. I’m making a statement—”

“The only thing you’ll be making today is a corpse,” Tirce interrupted.

“Perhaps,” Baston gave a nasty chuckle, “But it won’t be mine. Now, Easel!”

An arm snaked over Tirce’s shoulder and wrapped around her throat, tight as a vice, followed by the click of a flipblade. The matchstick girl! Tirce had dismissed her entirely as another brainless floozy. Her mistake. It was always the little ones that surprised you.

The matchstick girl’s grip wasn’t strong, but by the time Tirce managed to break out of it, six inches of steel would be buried in her neck. So she did the only thing she could, and screamed bloody murder. Or at least, she tried to; all that emerged from her windpipe was a strangled whine.

“Sorry about this,” Baston told her, reaching into the satchel, “But it’s got to be done.”

#

Where on earth had Venzini run off to? Caspar thought. The stuck-up ponce had disappeared five minutes ago and left Caspar to do all the psionics himself. Caspar would be damned if he shared the blame if their superiors found out. Already he could see the people around him beginning to yawn and rub their eyes, an indication that the Vestal’s aura was losing its effect.

He heard something like a thick sob from one of the citizens. Was someone crying? Goddess forbid! A reversal of psionics in one individual could very well spread in all directions, contaminating the entire effect. Caspar activated his sundial and aimed a concentrated beam of fear in the general direction, hoping to offset the effect.

“Settle down back there,” he commanded.

#

The knife slipped from the girl’s nerveless fingers, clattering to the ground. Tirce saw Baston hesitate, his hand halfway out the satchel.

“I…” Easel began, “I don’t…”

Tirce felt an overpowering surge of panic. Then the grip around her throat loosened and the panic turned into hope. She elbowed Easel in the ribs then slammed her own head back, heard the crack of a splintering nose. Easel stumbled back with a bloody face and Tirce sprang for Baston. But he was already ploughing forward through the crowd, one hand hastily cramming his red muffin cap onto his head while the other wound back for a throw.

“This one’s for Vylem Redmaine! Take this you sharp-eared bastards!” he yelled at the top of his lungs. People came to their senses, saw him running at the podium with a potato masher-shaped object in his hand.

“He’s got a bomb!”

“Protect the Lord Castellan!”

“Look out Your Worship!”

Pandemonium ensued as everything happened all at once.

“What the hell is going on back there?” a blonde commissar petulantly demanded, “I said settle down!”

Once more came the wave of sickening dread. Tirce and Baston doubled over, quaking in their boots. The commissar strode over to them, clicking his tongue.

“Well, whatever do we have here?” he picked up the sack with a smirk, “Rotten eggs?”

“Open it and find out,” Tirce told him.

“Don’t even dream of telling me what to do,” Caspar snapped, “You’re under arrest for sedition and disrupting a state procession—”

He paused, frowning. The sack was emitting a steady ticking. Curious, he let the sack fall away and with it his easy, confident grin. He now held in his hands a fist-sized knob of metal on the end of a stick, the whole apparatus roughly shaped like a potato masher. To this was attached a comically large clock whose hands even now were inching ever closer to midnight.

“Guh,” Caspar gulped, “Erm…”

Baston leapt up with an oath and sprang at him, trying to wrest the masher away. But off nowhere a militiaman sprang into existence, his truncheon swinging low. Baston collapsed with an agonized yell, his kneecap protruding at an unnatural angle.

“Your privileges has been revoked,” Bodies solemnly informed him, “Begging yer pardon, sah,” he said to Caspar, taking the grenade from him and hurling up into the air as high as it could go. His throwing arm was as good as ever, for the masher went some sixty feet up, spinning once, twice, and then as its flight reached its zenith next to the penumbral array it flew apart in a loud bang and sent tiny shards of shrapnel every which way.

“You idiot!” Caspar screamed as the shards rained down upon them, “You’ve killed us all!”

Bodis barreled into him, knocking him out of the way as the great array above them collapsed with a groan of buckling metal and glass, shattering the cobblestones where they’d been standing a moment ago.

Meanwhile, the dignitaries on the podium screamed and ducked under their chairs for all the good it would do them. But the telekines among them had the matter well in hand and stepped forth, luminessors flashing.

The shower of twisted metal and glass struck an invisible dome of force, bouncing and sliding off to the side the rain off a parasol. Men and women screamed as the pieces scattered among them, pulverizing bone and lacerating flesh, but the brunt of the explosion had been absorbed.

"Get off me!" Caspar shoved the militiaman off him in desperation. This was his moment! His day in the sun, and it was slipping out of his grasp. But wait! There was still the terranist, if he could just apprehend one of them, the opportunity of this moment might still be saved. But the militiamen were already hauling away Baston, and when Caspar looked around for the girl, he saw that she had somehow vanished in the confusion.

Now he was alone, irrelevant, ignored. Caspar could’ve wept. His moment of heroism had been thoroughly eclipsed by that militiaman’s buffoonery. Was nothing fair in this universe? Was Caspar vin Destria doomed to never receive his just desserts?

Unfortunately for him, those fears would prove unfounded. He strode away fuming to himself, unaware that up on the podium a man was watching him from behind a pair of steel rimmed pince-nez. Watching, and weighing.