TR: 32

Chapter Thirty-Two: The Calm

The ambassador drummed his fingers against the marble balustrade anxiously as he stared out over the sprawling city before him. The chamberlain had never seen the man in such a wreck, and he had tended his quarters for more years than he could recount. He gave the ambassador wry looks in between pouring his afternoon tea; it was if something pulled at the man, like an invisible hand continually drawing him back into a place he would rather not be. In their line of work, diplomacy often put a man in a situation or situations that were far from ideal, but the shadow that had been cast over the ambassador–this was something else entirely. The chamberlain placed the teapot back in its warmer and brought the steaming mug out onto the balcony.

“Your midday cup, sir.”

He handed the ceramic mug to the ambassador who took it with a perfunctory nod, never letting his gaze leave the horizon. The man continued to lean
over the balcony, staring down at the streets stories below, watching the innumerous townspeople carry about their lives, the hovercraft zipping by in endless droves like the worker bees they were; holos flashing vibrant expositions against the stark forms of skyscrapers, littering the land like mechanical appendages reaching toward a heaven that would not have them. Just when the chamberlain had forged the impression that he was being ignored, his master spoke.

“How long has it been since the beginning, Darrik?”

Darrik clasped his hands behind him. “The beginning of what, sir?”

From his vantage point, it appeared that the ambassador wore a vexed expression on his face yet he somehow, like always, seemed to
maintain his stately composure, despite himself. He glanced at Darrik for a moment, a questioning stare, as if he had forgotten who he was speaking with, before turning his attention back to the city.

“Yes, of course. There have been so many beginnings as of late, haven’t there?”

It always worried Darrik when he talked like that.

“I saw a woman as she was mugged today, Darrik. Two men, of average size, and no one stopped to help her. They just walked around the calamity as if it were a regular day occurrence.” He turned and looked at Darrik, an unreadable look on his face.

Darrik cleared his throat. “Yes, well…while unfortunate, to be certain, these kinds of things do happen every day, sir. Those, or worse yet.”

The ambassador nodded. “And I did nothing. Just stood watching, like a hawk gazing down upon a mouse being mutilated by some other predator. For that, I am no better.”

He pushed himself away from the balcony in disgust, walking back into his chambers, rubbing the back of his head.

“But what could I do? I suppose I could have called the authorities, but of course they are too preoccupied with the reform…” He trailed off, placing a hand on his bureau, grimacing at the heaping pile of paperwork littering the top of the desk.

He sighed, falling back into his chair. “It seems everyone is too busy doing their job to do their duty in this city.”

The ambassador took the cup that Darrik had brought in and placed on his desk. He stirred a circle in the tea with his finger, contemplating. Darrik cleared his throat in the awkward silence.

“If I may sir, I think the problem is not with the governing body but with the loss of brotherhood, in this case. I see it all around me, in the everyday little things, from just walking to the store to buy groceries, for example. This city is not unlike my home in that regard; when you put fifty million people together in one place, mixed opinions become mixed fists quite quickly…”

The ambassador placed his tea down on the desk with force, splashing liquid on his work, irritated. “The problem always starts with poor leadership, Darrik. This city is run by men who would rather save face than a life. What once began as a noble undertaking has now turned to collecting a six-figured paycheck. And if there’s anything that this station has taught me it’s that credits are a prime motivator to become unmotivated.”

The ambassador swept his hands out in front of him, knocking stray papers onto the floor off of the motley collection across his desk. “Well, the dirt is piling up around us, and now it’s sifted into our streets. Is not the owner to blame for a dog that bites?”

Darrik nodded as he began picking up the papers without argument. “Granted, sir. But we can only be so diplomatic in fragile times like these. The Thirteen could hardly blame you; on one side, our trade is cut, on the other, political systems are failing. And under our own roof, the kettle boils with lid on. Perhaps, half of the delegation is corrupt, by all accounts, so your friends are your enemies and your enemies are your enemies. I hardly think one would blame a gardener for a field full of weeds when he’s the only one tending it.”

The ambassador rubbed his face in frustration. “I know, I know, Darrik. Platitudes aside, you must understand my responsibility: I cannot allow this country to go to war. There is too much peace time behind us. But I swear, if that bloody prince doesn’t…”

A knock at the door cut him off. A balding man wearing a fancicoat popped his head into the room. The ambassador recognized the man by his house sigil on his chest, but could put no name to him. Minister of jibber-jabber, officially Parlance. Why they needed a ministry for that, on top of all the other ministries, the ambassador could not surmise. But here he was, standing awkwardly in his doorway, another disgruntled turkey.

“Good evening, minister. What news do you bring?” Asked the ambassador.

The man harrumphed, fixing his collar which chafed at his saggy jowls. “I was not aware that this was an informal conference, sire.”

The ambassador glanced down at his robe and slippers. He looked to his attendant. “What time have you?”

Darrik pulled out a pocket-watch fastened to a gold chain. “Fifteen past the hour, sir.”

The ambassador rubbed his chin in thought. “I do not recall any planned engagements this evening.”

Darrik interjected. “The chancellor just announce an emergency press conference, sir. His office is meeting in a quarter time at the Chandrykan Hall.”

The ambassador looked down at the work piled in front of him. Rising with a sigh, he nodded to the man waiting at the door and
the he let himself out.

“Ready a carriage, Darrik. Let’s see what the old kook has to say this time.”

***

The two men walked down the posh halls of the embassy, housekeeping staff and white collar workers intermixed with serving mechs, milling and flitting through the air around them.  Many stepped back out of their way, bowing–at least the ones with legs. The ambassador nodded curtly as he acknowledged them but the minister paid them no heed; they may have been part of the decor for all he cared. The corridor that led from the ambassador’s office to the main foyer was well lit by gilded, swan necked lamps protruding from the walls at intervals, and glitzy chandeliers hung overhead, adding to the ambience. Rectangular mirrors also lined with gilt framed the walls, adding an unworldly depth to the corridor as it extended into seeming infinity. Embassy staffers could be picked out among the fray by their colorful jackets, laced in brocaded patterns of golden embroidery, the embassy’s insignia on chest. Such was the culture at the Central Atlandian Embassy, an organization steeped in age-old traditions dating back thousands of years. Also, steeped in money. And while consistency did certainly have its merits, the CAE was not without its criticisms. Originally founded as a branch of one early Zirkyan dynasty, tradition held that only those of ‘sufficient lineage’ could hold any office or title. In other words, one could only achieve rank within the CAE if they had enough High Elf blood in them, the purer the blood the greater the opportunities. Such was the case with the ambassador, himself a pure blood Zirkyan, as was typical of any that held station even remotely close to his position. Ironically, any racist connotations that this had did not transcend into bigotry toward women, who were held in the highest esteem across most Yan cultures. So, perhaps, the CAE’s classist roots were offset some by its absence of paternalism. Of course, to the hundreds of non-elvish attendants and servants that slaved day and night for their masters, this was hardly a gratuity.

The ambassador had on his finest livery, his jerkin alone worth more than most layman’s yearly salaries. He had his black hair slicked back in a ponytail and tied off with a red ribbon to match his suit and his kapspran leather boots were polished to gleaming. He was dressed for the finest of occasions; that is to say, he was dressed as he usually did. As they walked down the serpentine halls of the embassy, the minister chattering on with the utmost banality as he recapped the most mundane of points from a recent parliamentary proceeding, the ambassador looked on sternly, his handsome yet weathered face flexing as he became lost in thought.

“I can’t help but wonder what that means. It has brought much discussion to the board.” the minister prattled. “Perhaps some counter measures are necessary at this point, you know, to divert their attention. That bloody emperor, I tell you, only understands the currency of force…”

The ambassador looked over at his reflection as he walked, the other man babbling on beside him. He stopped to adjust his lapels with a sigh and turned back to the massive staircase leading down to the main foyer. Their lacquered boots clicked as they crossed the marble floor to the double doors exiting the building, the minister’s voice echoing off the vaunted ceiling where ancient frescoes had faded away in time, like graffiti washed out by many rains. They exited the building through one of the countless glass panels surrounding the main floor like a crystalline belt, passing by one of the many slanted columns–as large around as a man was tall–which supported the complex interworking of trusses and beams which made up the girdle fanning around the building like a brutalist skirt. As they made their way down the last of the veritable mountain of concrete steps, the ambassador was thankful for his retinue of attendants waiting for him at his carriage. With a well-established glance, the attendants honed in on the ambassador’s discomposure and helped divert the minister’s attention away from himself, if for but a moment, so the ambassador could step away and collect himself. As his minions attended to the self-possessed minister, the ambassador took out a handkerchief and wiped the sweat that had collected on his brow. Since when did it get so hot in the city? It had been such an usual year for weather. As he dabbed at his forehead he looked back at the embassy, to the large gilded letters sitting high above them, juxtaposed against a backdrop of complicated architecture.

CENTRAL ATALANDIAN EMBASSY.

He remembered seeing those very same letters looming large when he was a boy passing through Brazen city, how they had pulled him in, each letter calling to him as if it had a history in itself, waiting to be discovered. There were always so many people coming and going, even back then, he couldn’t help but wonder what happened within those walls. And now that he knew, the mystique of the place now lifted, he couldn’t help but feel that maybe it had been better off a mystery. While he had achieved a great deal in his time in office, every time he came home to the CAE he couldn’t help but feel that he had let someone down. Usually, himself was at the top of that list. Somehow, he could always convince himself that he hadn’t done enough, that maybe just one more hour here or call there would have changed the course undeniably. And in those rare times of self-reflection, such as seeing those letters there in all of their stark, storied glory, he felt as if he didn’t deserve to know their secrets–that he hadn’t earned their respect or that of the CAE. The thought dithered in his mind then slithered away into the dark recesses, back where the regrets and pains hid in the undercrofts of his mental world. He frowned and turned away, pocketing his kerchief as one of his attendants ushered him into the carriage. The minister caught the motion out of the corner of his eye and waved the conversation away as one would a bad smell, following the ambassador into the carriage. Once they were in, an attendant closed the door, the whip was cracked and the horse’s hooves clicked against the paving stones as the carriage left the embassy, making its way down High street, one of the main downtown avenues.

“You didn’t listen to a thing I said, did you?”

The ambassador shook himself out of his daydream, staring out the small cabin window, meeting the minster’s perturbed expression with a haggard yet surprised look that, from the outside, seemed to say it was the first time he had ever seen the man.

“What? Oh, no I agree. There is much that needs to be done. Much to be done.” He trailed off, looking back out the window as they rolled past shops with vendors selling their wares, vehicles of all sorts zipping and rolling by, people coming and going about their daily lives. The Minister sighed and placed a hand on the ambassador’s shoulder.

“Don’t let it get to you. I know that last foray wasn’t what you had hoped it would be, but these kinds of….inconsistencies are the only constant in our line of work, I’m afraid.

The ambassador nodded, leaning back in his seat as he wiped a hand over his face. “Wise words, indeed. It’s just that…this portfolio is nothing like anything I’ve ever worked before. It has a life of its own. It has teeth…and edges…sharp all around. And the days are so ever long. I feel more and more like a war correspondent than any kind of diplomat, you know?”

The minister nodded. “What is a diplomat?” The minister smiled, the ambassador acknowledging the reference to their creed which every high ranking official recited upon taking up office in the upper echelons of the CAE.

“…If not what the people need them to be.” The ambassador finished. “Yes, yes, of course. How could I forget our oath? Well, emotionally speaking, that part is self explanatory, I figure.”

“You need not explain anything to me, sir.”

“You are too kind, minister. So, what is all this about then? I can’t imagine it is too important if it didn’t involve the paper chain.”

The ambassador referred to the many pages and scribes that were usually involved in parlaying information from one ministry to another, often involving the exchange of documentation between too many gloved hands.

The minister crossed his arms over his ample stomach which threatened to breech his ill-fitting breeches. “I know little more than you, I’m afraid. Only that it involves the Kaine dilemma, as it were.”

“Well, that is vague. How convenient of the chancellor to take up the torch of expediency whilst in the midst of his personal campaign. Probably a PR stunt to help boost public image for his upcoming reelection. I can’t imagine anything else that would have prompted a such a sudden change of preoccupation.”

The minister raised his eyebrow at the ambassador. “That is not to say the Kaine portfolio is not worthy of preoccupation?” The minister added with a cautionary tinge.

The ambassador caught the rebuke. “No, no of course not. To be clear, it is a serious matter. I of all should know this. I meant it in the most metaphorical sense. One does not call a fish to water, and such and such.”

The ambassador could see that the minister wasn’t buying it.

“What is really going on with you, Manin?”

The ambassador studied the minister silently for a moment before he sighed, leaning back in his seat.

“I haven’t had any word from Celine. The whole matter has made me irritable.”

“Ah, yes. Her. Well that explains it then. Not like you to let this town’s daily petty politicking get under your skin. How long has it been?

“The last we heard she was meeting with the delegates in Offenon. That was over a week ago. Nothing since.”

“Perhaps…”

The minister was cut short by the whip-crack of the crop as the carriage came to a halt, the driver reining the horses to a stop. He promptly hopped down from the dickey box and signaled to the footman who leapt from the rumble with seasoned swiftness, letting out the delegates from the cabin. As the ambassador stepped down onto the flagstones he fixed his jerkin and turned to the footman who stood stiff-backed, waiting on them.

“Time?”

The servant pulled out a fat gold pocket-watch. “Twenty-five of the hour, m’lords.” He said in an alacritous tone.

The ambassador handed the man a silver coin and he accepted with a grateful bow.

“Very good.” said the minister, flicking gold to the driver.

Once the carriage had taken off, the ambassador took in the sight of the structure before him. It was a grand feat of architecture, standing five stories tall and spanning nearly the width of the embassy. The great marble archway bore reliefs of men carved by the great Sardonnis; political figures frozen eternal in their greatest historical moments. Some shook hands, others expounded forgotten lessons with outstretched arms, and others just sat around looking incredibly important doing so. All, of course, were Zirkyan. The Arch of the Calm, named as such because any that passed through it were said to have complete absolution of past judgements, be they legal, spiritual or otherwise, but only while under the arch. In that respect, it was a neutral space; an enclave where all were given safe harbour. Yet, atop its humble purport lay a veneer of extravagance, belying the recrementitious nature of the Zirkyan forefathers who built her; highly adorned pilasters, corbels, buttresses and other marvels of stonework were scattered around the Arch like salt. Despite its seeming bombast, the Arch had an endearing quality to it, in the same way that a well-to-do college ground would, perhaps. The nostalgia of the place was palpable, like a low-lying fog that hung in the air, where anyone who walked into or through it could not deny its presence.  And while inarguably the most breathtaking feature of Chandrykan Hall, the Arch was just one of many marvels within the compound.

Beyond the Arch, a broad concourse lead into a vast arcade lined with marble columns decorated with volutes and embellished capitals, before branching out into many tributaries, like a Gorgon’s snakes. The tributaries lost themselves within a massive topiary maze which was manicured pristinely, trimmed to precision. Groundmen buzzed like bees as they worked their horticulture magic, along with multitude of servants who kept the grounds clean. The ambassador watched from under the arch as delegates came and went through the arcade, walking past workers on their knees scrubbing the white-washed stones to spotless, paying them no mind. Every time he came to the Hall he was confronted with the paradox of remembering how far he’d come–a reminder that made him proud–but also how so many were still stuck in destitution, forced to work grueling jobs just to make ends meet while their masters got fat and rich off their hardships. Of course, this kind of hierarchy was readily abundant within the embassy as well, with all of its servants and maids, but there was something about being at the Arch, that majestic relic from another time boasting of humanity’s greatest achievements, while hundreds toiled under it, that drove the message home: humanity really hadn’t come that far. The ambassador sighed and joined the throng of be-fancied delegates as they made their way toward the main building.

***
The conference room was on the third floor of Chandrykan Hall and was regarded as one the foremost venues on the continent for business, entertainment or otherwise. When not in use for private functions, it served as a de-facto gathering space for political goings-on, although the ambassador personally felt such events did no justice to its original intent. Constructed by the master builders of the earliest Zirkyan dynasties, no one truly knew how old it or any of the other the main buildings in the parliamentary complex were, though carbon dating and educated best guessing came up with somewhere in the very early First Era, perhaps dating back even to the time of even the Kaldan–the progenitors of all the Yan. Despite its mystique, the hall was nearly acoustically perfect, structurally superior to any modern building, and the highly embellished architecture within the room itself rivalled the best work of any living craftsman. Such was the nature of anything touched by the masters of yore; many had sought to recreate similar designs using computer models, fancy algorithms and complicated machinery, but all fell short. It was if the walls themselves were imbued with millennia-old magic; ancient secrets that lived and died with their creators. The conference room was comprised of a rotunda with numerous outlet offices and halls circumscribing it. The tiered design of the floorspace was put to use naturally, where seating was arranged by authority; the chancellor–the prime delegate–sat in the center of the room, followed by his two houses (Treasury and Culture) then his cabinet, ambassador Vassik among them. After that, elected officials voted in to the delegation, et cetera., with the lowest ranking members of the delegation up high at the back of the room (it was assumed that the least important voices need not be as prominently heard). There was also the well-worn rumor that the conference center had been designed similar to a Zirkyan symbol, but this was pure conjecture and no written record divulging such was ever found.

As the last of the delegates filtered into the room, the ambassador shifted in his seat, wondering why these kinds of meetings never had comfortable chairs. He looked around, the jerky movement of a media mech floating through the air, its ostensibly important telephoto lens glinting in the sea of camera flashes. The ambassador tsked:

Algreaves probably sent for the vultures himself; the man can hardly put on a show without an audience. Not surprising this has turned into another press junket.

The chancellor cleared his throat, the clamor of voices dying to a sparse few as security signalled each other, rounding up the press and ushering them into their designated seats. Though many had come to hear the chancellor’s urgent conference that day, the man himself was not much to look at. Chancellor Algreaves was a short, fat, balding man of later age with more creases on his forehead than a wrinkled shirt, and was about as exciting as one would expect a veteran politician. He had served two terms as chancellor over the last ten years and was up for reelection for another, though he was hardly the popular vote. Brazen City had fallen on hard times during his tenure, welcoming an unwelcome recession, greater division of the classes, and a not-so-subtle war looming in the west. Thus, it was fair to say the chancellor knew he was walking on eggshells and made very concession he could to garner public favour, even if it meant calling press conferences every time someone in the senate wanted to make an amendment to a sentence in the constitution, which is exactly the kind of humdrum meeting the ambassador expected this to be. It certainly wouldn’t be his first.

“Thank you all for coming on such short notice.”

The man sounded like a toad. He shifted through a pile of papers in front of him, licking the tip of his finger as he turned to his page. He pulled out an oblong case from his chest pocket and put on his reading glasses. The chancellor looked down his nose at his assistant sitting beside him and nodded. The assistant pressed a red button on a small device that he held, a tape recorder. The chancellor rose to his feet.

“First, I must apologize for summoning all of you on such abrupt terms. I assure you, however, that my reasons are justified. As you are all aware, our economic ties with the Kaineian Nation are strong, to say the least, and we both share a rich history in growth and development. Four hundred years have gone by with virtually no conflict of interest on either part; we exchange frequently in trade, commerce, military supplies, foreign aid services, which makes Kaine a staple contributor to our nation. Until now.”

The ambassador shifted against the rigid plastic chair. He was in charge of the Kaine portfolio, with nearly twenty other ambassadors beneath him, going back and forth, constantly feeding him information; he should be the first to know if anything had changed as of late. The thought that Algreaves had some kind of intel that he didn’t both angered and terrified him. Something felt seriously wrong. The Chancellor switched pages, continuing.

“A fortnight ago, the Imperial House of Atlandia received a distress signal from the military base in Makis, informing of an attack on a Kainean supply frigate forty
bouts off the coast. The crown has of yet to ascertain the threat but delegates have been sent to investigate and ameliorate the situation, if needed.”

There was a round of murmured rabbling in the room, the press clearly agitated and struggling to restrain themselves from launching out of their seats at the mouth of the chancellor, were it not for the security guards armed and glaring hawk-like down on them. The Ambassador had had no word of this development in Makis. Either the information was erroneous, there was a serious intel supply chain defect on his team’s part, or it was an inside job on the part of Algreaves and his ministry. Either way, it felt like someone didn’t want him knowing something, and that got his hackles up.

Algreaves removed his glasses and placed them down carefully on the podium. “Gentlemen and gentlewomen, we do not know what we are dealing with here. It was first assumed an act of piracy, but we now know that we are dealing with something much more serious. The targeted ship bore no profitable goods and any half decent sea shag would know this. This motiveless offense has perplexed us all, and we must investigate further into this situation. Ambassador Vassik, I leave it to you to meet with the colonel in Makis and gather their intelligence. I expect a detailed report before the end of Bilitzah.”

Vassik nodded, struggling to keep his composure under the many eyes of the media mechs now trained on him. Not that he wasn’t used to the attention, but this was something different than he had ever experienced in his thirty plus years of service. He felt like he had just been asked to walk into a trap. And if there was anything he had learned in all his years of diplomacy, it was to trust your gut; in his line of work, the gut was an indispensable tool–the ‘diplomat’s dowsing rod’, as it was colorfully referred to in the trade. Algreaves was up to something, of that much Vassik could now be certain.

“Is this the only information we have to go by, chancellor?” The ambassador asked, following that line of internal criticism.

“Indeed, it does seem like you are throwing us in this like a fish into a boiling pot.” Another ambassador added.

The chancellor’s face reddened. “I have no intentions of sullying this up any more than it already is, but I can assure you that I have told you what I have
been told and…”

“And you trust the Prince?” A delegate shouted from the audience.

Murmurs of unrest spread throughout the delegation.

“How can we be sure that the reports even match? He hides away in that dark corner he calls his estate, month on month. What else does he hide from us?” The same voice bellowed.

The clamor grew.

The chancellor held up a hand. “Order! Order! I can assure you that his majesty divulges exactly what is imparted onto him, always for the good of the people. If there was anything else…”

The sound of doors slamming open cut the chancellor off mid-speech, a marching procession of robed figures entering the room. The dozen or so security guards in the room turned to the noise like magnets, firing off plasma rounds before any questions could be asked. The procession did not even stop to consider the retaliation as the shots backfired off of tower shields, ricocheting precisely back along the trajectory from which they had come, striking each of the guards squarely in the midsection, knocking them dead to the floor. The intruders were donned in red flowing robes, plated with ebony armor that glittered dangerously in the light. The helmets were also of a unique design: half the face was covered with plating that slanted downwards on an angle to a lethal point, and at the back was a crest bearing a razor edge arching from the base of the neck to past the forehead. Once the guards had reached the base of the chancellor’s podium they split into ranks on either side of the corridor, fanning out around the room until they had completely surrounded the central dais. They planted the butt of their lance and shield against the floor and stood statue still, waiting. A metallic clanking sounded from beyond the hall as it made its way into the rotunda. The delegates leaned over their seats to get a preemptive view past the terrace on which they sat, especially the press who clearly were savouring every moment of the development. The sounds grew closer and the chancellor’s stood up erect like a frightened gopher, eyes wide as the figure approached his position.

The man who entered the room bore no resemblance to the soldiers bearing his way. He stood an arm taller, if not more, and his armor was of a different breed, a form archaic from a lost time. The plating seemed to shift colors under the light; one moment it was deep ebony as black as the Mrvonian Sea, the next a penetrating crimson like age-old Kye. A flowing yellow cloaks draped from one shoulder, fastened to a golden medallion on his left breast plate, dancing like snake as he strode down the plush carpet towards the chancellor. On his face he wore a golden mask that wrapped itself around his face like a sea creature embracing its prey. His eyes shone cerulean blue in the light through two narrow slits, above which two other pairs of engraved eyes were etched. His mouth, exposed, betrayed no expression. Two security guards ran into the room with weapons drawn, roused by the commotion. One look at the contingent of lethal soldiers surrounding the chancellor’s dais and the bodies of their former comrades and they balked, backing out of the room slowly in an ironic attempt at trying not to get involved. Unperturbed, the large figure marched past his retinue and up the small set of stairs toward the chancellor, his metallic, knee-high boots clanking with every step. The chancellor stepped aside as the man made his way past him, billowing cape brushing against the chancellor’s face, which he swatted away irritatingly. The man took a large step up onto the chancellor’s vacant seat and hoisted himself up on top of his desk where he stood hands on hips as he took in the room. For a moment the man turned and looked back over his shoulder at the chancellor, as if he were pondering his existence, then, as if deciding he wasn’t worth the consideration, he turned back to the room and raised a gauntleted hand.

“M’laredda.” He said in a deep bass.

The delegates in the audience exchanged confused looks with each other and nervous murmurs began. The man cleared his throat.

“Pardon my indulgence. It has been a most extended time since I have spoken any other tongue save my own.” His voice was surprisingly charming, yet commanding as that of a leader’s.

“If you would all please be kind enough to take your seats, we can resume our conference.”

Delegates exchanged furtive glances with each other but one look at the soldiers surrounding the center platform reminded them that this was clearly not a man to be disobeyed. After several seconds everyone in the room was seated and the room was pregnant with silence. As everyone steeped in the dangerous soundlessness that followed, Vassik ruminated on thoughts of the past.

He knew this man. Though only briefly, they had crossed paths not so long ago:

***

Several years earlier, there was a civil dispute in a penal colony just outside of Neomachi–the capitol of Kaine, in the Southern Kainean canton of Ristad–where a mass breakout of prisoners had managed to overthrow the local authorities and take control of the inside. When supply carts from Yescher came through the Leicha Pass, the soldiers were ambushed and an entire month’s supply of keetha was ransacked and confiscated. Without this valuable grain, the colonies would lose much-needed feed for their livestock, severely hampering local farm production. Several days into the coup d’état, word arrived to the CAE apprising of the situation abroad and a big fat folder was slapped down on Vassik’s desk, adding to the already heaping pile. Of course, things couldn’t be clean and dry and the man in charge of the Neomachi insurrection was none other than an Atlandian, previously detained by NeoPol (city police) for alleged contraband smuggling, though he was never tried in a tribunal and no evidence of his charges was ever presented outside of a dirty docket and a handful of colorful phone calls. The Emperor’s Justice they called it, as if it were gifted secondhand by the creator itself. And so it was that the CAE was given an ultimatum: the man would be condemned not only as a trespasser, vandal and conspirator, but also as a traitor to the Empire, and thus dealt with according to those violations. In short, he was to be executed. Diplomacy be damned. What did the emperor care of foreign policies; this was an attack on a king! And who this man was, they did not know, but the CAE could not risk accusation of mass collusion against Kaine, and so the ambassador set sail the next day to intervene on behalf of his nation and, if Kaine’s ample nuclear arsenal had anything to say about it, the rest of the world.

Upon arrival in the Guard Town of Yescher, he was escorted by the Tvet Setar, otherwise known as the Argothian Guard, though those days the Guard had little if anything to do with the tropical island that bore their namesake. History had a funny way of choosing which important things were worth remembering, apparently. The soldiers wore strange color shifting armor and helmets that slanted down to a point. They spoke little and when they did it sounded like the sea. As it happened, these were the very same soldiers surrounding the chancellor’s dais in that moment, though Vassik had no idea how or why they had come. His memories drifted back to his time at the colony. Once they arrived at their waypoint, the diplomatic corps was surprised at the scene that greeted them. What was purported to be the spitting image of anarchy and subterfuge was more akin to a refugee camp. The colonists–already rounded up and subdued–had been imprisoned in crudely-erected cages, hardly fitting for wild beasts let alone human beings. And those were just the one lucky enough to have survived the Guard’s “official response”. The emperor’s men worked in teams hauling corpses onto heaps of piled bodies, thrown in shallow graves where they were promptly lit on fire to avoid the spread of disease. Many such human pyres had already been lit, the charred effigies of once-upon-a-time souls frozen in ashen time, contorted and in eternal agony. The sight was nearly as traumatizing as the act itself. The diplomatic corps agreed that the poor lot could not be buried fast enough. And the stench… it was the most putrid thing the ambassador had ever smelled, and his storied career had taken him to many a fishport.

Before any questions could be asked, he and his colleagues were ushered into a nearby guardhouse on the east end of the camp, at the emperor’s utmost insistence. Inside the house there was a single man, bound and gagged, sitting at a table as he stared at the floor motionless. Vassik couldn’t be sure if he wasn’t already dead. The room bore little furniture other than the table and chairs and served its purpose well: an interrogation room. The guards motioned for the ambassador to sit and he took up the free seat opposite the bound man while his three colleagues remained standing. A guard removed the gag and, jabbing the prisoner in the ribs with the butt of his rifle, barked what sounded like an order in Javengo. The man recoiled, slowly raising his head, meeting the ambassador’s gaze. His eyes were sunken and lost, as divested of life as the rest of him. In his then twenty-three years of service, the ambassador had met several Imtek warlords, his fair share of tyrants and dictators, and even a false prophet. This man was none of those. He was not staring into the eyes of a conspirator; he was looking at a conspiracy.

“What happened here?” The ambassador pried in a firm tone.

“That all depends on who you believe.” The man said with no expression. He had a strange accent. It sounded Vos...

“I want to know the truth.”

The man chuckled, leaning back in his chair. “Are we talking capital T Truth? Or are you looking for something else, perhaps? The truth can mean many things. It can mean what someone wants you to believe, or it can mean what they don’t want you to believe. Either way, it may not be the Truth at all. I don’t think I am in a position to speak any Truths on this day.”

“And why is that?”

The man eyed the guard beside him. “There are no truths when you are forced to live a lie.”

The ambassador was beginning to get annoyed with the man’s metaphors.

“Listen, Alteir bantering aside, I have been told that you are one of ours, and so I am the closest thing you have to a friend in these parts, so I would be careful what you say next, friend.”

The man turned his head away indignantly. The ambassador nodded. “As an ambassador of the Royal House of the Enbrazen, I require you to explain your actions in accordance to the charges placed on you.”

“What charges are placed on me? They don’t tell me anything. They just burn us!” he spat.

The ambassador swallowed a dry lump in his throat at the thought of the corpses. How could this man not know what he is being tried for? Clearly, he had seen the bodies, the aftermath of his actions. Yet, his pleading sounded sincere enough. So either they were dealing with a sociopath or his suspicions were correct and something else was going on. Vassik decided to play his cards close to his chest for the moment.

“They are accusing you with high conspiracy and trespassing. You took control of a military operated establishment and disrupted the distribution of a very important shipment of stock.”

“Did I?”

“Are you not the man I should be speaking to?”

The guard jabbed the man in the ribs again. He grunted.

“They would have me tell you something different, but as my life has been nothing but lies to this point, I choose to die in truth.”

The guard mumbled something in Javengo. It sounded like a threat.

The man continued. “It is important that you know that I am not from Atlandia. I am from the hills of Rua, in the Quantzing canton. I was a shepherd, tending Dekhi. I had a wife and three children who I loved very much.”

“If what you say is true, what are you doing in Kaine?”

The man shifted uneasily in his chair, glancing over at the guard who stood poised to strike.

“One day, about a year earlier, I was out in the pasture seeing to a newborn calf, when a strange sound started coming from the wood outside my home. Living in the valley one hears many sounds, but this wasn’t something natural. It was terrifying. Agonizing. It was the sound of death itself, sir. Worried that someone may be in trouble I grabbed a gaff and took towards the trees. I followed the sound for a good long time until, eventually, I came into a clearing where….” The man stopped. He frowned as if haunted by his memories.

“What did you see?”

Before he could speak the guard smacked the man across his face, sending him onto the floor on his side. Two of Vassik’s colleagues rushed over to help the man back up, the guard moving to strike them. Vassik reached out and grabbed the guard’s weapon, restraining him.

“What are you doing? Stand down, soldier! This man is a key suspect in an international investigation. Assault him and you assault the Royal House itself!”

The soldier paused for a moment, unspeakable rage in his eyes. A flash of clarity across his face and he jerked his assault rifle out of the ambassador’s grasp. He leaned in close, speaking quietly but with venom in his tone.

“You are far from home, ambassador. Be careful who you give orders to here. Do not forget: it was not so long ago that your kind were in chains just like them, huh?”

The solider stormed out of the room, disappearing through a canvas sheet that led to the outside. Once the prisoner was righted again, the ambassador sat back down across from him.

“Did you suffer any damage?” The ambassador asked.

The man squinted in pain, sneering at the man across from him. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

The ambassador nodded. “Please, when you are ready, continue.”

The man hesitated for a moment, his tongue moving around his mouth, checking for broken teeth. He sighed. “They all laughed at me when I told them. They all think I’m crazy. But on my grave I swear to what I saw.”

“What did you see, there in that wood?”

“When I came into the clearing, there were a group of armored men surrounding a tree. What purpose they had there I couldn’t have guessed, but they looked foreign.”

“What were they doing with this tree?”

“Don’t get the wrong picture here ambassador; this wasn’t just any tree. I have never seen the likes in my life, and I was raised in the woods. This tree must have been thirty toks around, and as high as I could see. With the sun shining down as it were, ’twas if it disappeared into the clouds.”

A smile touched the man’s face as if the memory brought with it the warmth of that very day. “But of course that couldn’t be.”

The ambassador stared at the man with a questioning look. The man shook himself out of his trance. “Right, right. They–the armored folk I mean–had set up some candles and altars about the base, and they were performing some kind of ritual. What it was I can’t say but there were also hooded blokes in cloaks, chanting some sort of language I’ve never heard.”

“So it was a séance of some kind?” The ambassador stood up, folding his arms behind his back and began slowly pacing the room. “Continue.”

“It was then that one of the hooded men pulled out a dagger covered in jewels up to its hilt–a piece alone worth more ‘an all that I own, to be sure–and he thrust it into the base of that tree. A horrible scream sounded all around, as if it were coming from every direction at once. It wasn’t human, but it wasn’t animal either. I don’t know how it happened, but it was the most terrifying sound I have ever heard. Slaughtering a dehki don’t even come close.”

The ambassador stopped pacing. The man was trembling slightly.

“They pulled out some sort of bottle, and when they removed the dagger a red liquid poured out. They collected it in those bottles until the wound ran dry, and then they would stab it again. And again and again, each time the same wailing scream like something being eaten alive slowly. They were screams of suffering. That’s what they were.”

“So let me clarify your story. You, by happenstance, ran into a séance being lead by the Tvet Setar, in a remote forest on an entirely different continent, stabbing screaming trees that bled?”

“I know how it sounds ambassador, but I am telling you just what I saw. And I never said that I knew what it meant either. I just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“And how does that tie in with you and your charade here, halfway across the globe and a prisoner being tried of mass conspiracy?”

“Well, after seeing those barbarians go on like that, I couldn’t stomach the screams any more and I had to leave before I got sick. When I turned to go, there were two guards standing over me, as if they had been there the whole time allowing me to witness their unspeakable acts. They bludgeoned me over the head and when I came to next, I was here. Wherever here is.”

The ambassador just stared at the man. He didn’t know what to think of the story. Guilty or not, the man was an offender on paper, a paper which told of an international crime. But his intentions were as clear as silted spirits.

“If there is any truth to your words, then tell me: why would the Argothian Guard involve the embassy of another country not involved in this plot by any stretch? And if they were trying to hide something then why let you live at all?”

“I’ve asked myself the same questions every day that I’ve been in this hell hole. Unfortunately, sir, I have no answers. But I will tell you why I did what I did; why I attempted to free those men and women out there and hightail it out of this pit. Are you a spiritual man ambassador?”

“There are adjectives more fit to describe me, but I suppose I am somewhat educated in the matter of religion.”

“Then you are familiar with the book of Azureus are you not? ‘An Angel beareth the world who doth lay the seed of life?’”

“You are making reference to A’shylla Sh’kal? The tree of life.”

The man leaned forward in his seat. “Even if there is a chance it’s true, would you not have fought as I did to have people know? People deserve to know! Imagine how many people that tree could help if it is indeed what it appears to be. These monsters–the emperor’s dogs–they are keeping it to themselves and they are up to something. Something…evil.”

The ambassador stared at the man silently for a long moment, contemplating. “So you do not admit to sabotaging the Leicha supply route?”

The man seemed offended. “I’m a farmer meself. Why on the name of the good father would I attack my own?”

The ambassador rubbed his chin. The logic checked out. “If I were to arrange for you to lead a survey team back to these woods, would you be able to prove that what you are saying is true?”

The man’s face went blank. He frowned and a frantic look stole his expression. “I…I…can’t remember how I got there. It was so deep in the forest, and it is such a big forest…I…” He groaned. “It must be the blow to the head… Every time I try to bring up the memories, it’s like they’re…blurred ’round the edges. It’s as if someone put fog into my mind.”

“Yet, you remember everything else after this ‘fog’ set in.”

The man’s shoulders slumped, his expression defeated. “I know how it sounds. But please…”

The ambassador sighed, shaking his head. He thanked the man for his time and headed towards the door.

“If you would just bring me home I am sure that it would all come back! My head is just a little scrambled right now. I…err, damn, wake up damnit!” He began rocking back and forth in frustration.

The ambassador went outside and made his way back to the entrance to the camp. The piles of corpses were now all smoldering heaps of bone and ash, and the cages now empty of their prisoners. Three men stood waiting for him in the dust. Two guards on either side of a hulking figure of a man, standing at least two heads taller than either. He wore similar, colour-shifting armor, though older somehow. A single cape hung from a pauldron at his shoulder and there was a large military decoration on his left breastplate, marking him a commander in the emperor’s military. His mask too was different from the others; gleaming gold as opposed to the silver of his lessers, and in the form of a sea star grasping his face. The ambassador stopped short of the party. The guards knelt down on one knee and bowed their heads.

“Greetings ambassador.” The man’s voice was low and elegant. He reached out his mammoth hand and shook the ambassador’s, his grasp firm yet subdued; the man was clearly powerful. His skin was as black as the night, blacker than most other Kaineans Vassik had seen.

“I am Xanth Abayu, commander of the Tvet Setar, Voice of the Guard and the Hand of his Holiness, Emperor Jacquel.”

“My time is yours, Commander.”

These were the customs of greeting appropriate for the nation.

“Has our prisoner been of any use in your…investigation?”

Xanth Abayu waved a large hand and the ambassador turned to see the haggard man being lead towards them by two guards, hands bound behind him. The man tried to struggle but his confines made it next to impossible.

“Whether or not this man is a conspirator, I cannot say at this point. It seems to me that he has suffered some injuries to his head while being deported, and that further interrogation is necessary to fully understand the situation.”

Abayu narrowed his eyes at the ambassador. It seemed that when he did that all the eyes on his mask did the same. The ambassador blinked, thinking his eyes must be playing tricks on him in the oppressive heat.

“I will send a relief team to assist your guards in the sterilization and clean up of the colony, and I will escort this man back to the embassy where he will be detained, debriefed, and punished accordingly.”

“We will not be needing your assistance ambassador, and this man stays with us.”

“I cannot allow that, Commander. As ambassador of the…”

“Is this man a citizen of the governance of Atlandia?”

“About that. No, he is not but…”

“Then, being that this man is a trespasser on this soil, a foreign alien on this soil, and a non-representative to the house of the Atlandian government on this soil, all jurisdiction over him will remain ON. THIS. SOIL.”

The ambassador stared at the commander. Abayu’s voice never changed in tone but it was apparent that he was angry. From this, Vassik learned he was not a man who easily lost control. He also learned that the prisoner had been right about at least one thing: the Tvet Setar were not only hiding something, they were ready to fight to keep it a secret. But why all the pageantry? Why lie about the ransacking and drag Atlandia into the middle of it? It was if the emperor wanted them to be there, for some other purpose. It felt like he was caught in a web of lies within lies within lies.

“Release him.” The ambassador said coolly.

Xanth Abayu smiled, his perfect white teeth a stark juxtaposition against his ebony face. “Very well.”

The guards holding the man untied his bindings and stepped back. Xanth Abayu turned to the shaken prisoner who looked at the commander as if he were a ghost.

“You are released.”

In one smooth motion, Xanth Abayu drew a golden sword from his hip and, in an aurous blur, a spray of blood and a gurgling choke. His head and body separated and the corpse fell to the dirt in a decapitated lump. The headless body convulsed as blood poured forth onto the dusty earth in a pool of rusty colored liquid. The ambassador looked down at the head with a look of terror, the eyes rolled back and the mouth contorted into a gasp, frozen in time as it gasped for its last breath that it would never get to take. It would be an image that would haunt the ambassador for the rest of his life.

“I…I said release him, not kill him!”

Xanth Abayu wiped the blood off the end of his blade with the edge of his cape and then sheathed his sword. There was blood splatter across his mask but it didn’t seem to bother him in the least.

“The meanings of words differ between tribes, ambassador. Let this be a lesson in ‘diplomacy’.”

The guards took the ambassador by the wrists and led him to a camel carriage waiting near the camp’s perimeter. Still in shock, he did not resist. In fact, he could not even recall the time from the moment he was apprehended to the point they reached his ride. All he recalled was the sound as the driver cracked a whip and the clippity-clop of the camels’ hooves against the hardpan of the desert road.  The ambassador stared out his window numbly at the scrubland, envisioning blood dripping down from the chaparral and cacti that they passed, though neither blood nor rain had graced that part of the province for weeks.

Even after he was out of the dust hills and back into the lush countryside he could still feel the eyes of Xanth Abayu watching him; the image of the head screaming in silence as the commander stood laughing into the sky.

***

Commander Xanth Abayu.

That was the man before him, once again. Except, this time, no one was laughing. Infiltrating a member state, let alone an official parliamentary establishment, broke several international laws, some of which carried lifetime sentences. Whatever the reason for Mr. Abayu’s abrupt interjection, Vassik knew he had better have a good reason. If security had done its job properly (beyond obviously not doing it and allowing the Kainean contingent in), the authorities were already notified and local enforcement would be on its way. And given the gravity of the situation, local authorities also likely meant The Glaive. That is, The Red Glaive of the King’s Regent–a paramilitary organization that had its founding in the third century BCE, dating back to a time when Atlandia had insufficient defence against the then reigning wizard Mokul and his global conquest. The Glaive was comprised mainly of mercenaries and heavy hands that were highly trained in combat and ballistic skills, as well as Paladins–those who were also gifted in the ways. Battlemages, of a sort. While operating primarily on a contractual basis, the Glaive was essentially in the Prince’s pocket as he had some of the deepest ones, and it was well established that they were on speed dial should the Royal House need them. And the Glaive was not to be messed with; if a situation warranted using their services, anyone who knew their reputation knew that things were going to get ugly, fast.   

Yet there was Xanth Abayu, standing defiantly atop the chancellor’s desk, as if he owned the place. By the look on Algreave’s face, the ambassador thought the chancellor just might agree with that sentiment. It reminded Vassik of his foray abroad and how, upon his return, the chancellery all but dismissed any idea of placing charges of war crimes upon this Xanth Abayu character and his Tvet Setar. According to the powers that be, the events that had taken place were ‘merely their customs; tribunal differences, justice but a word bellowed over seas.’ Whether it was bad poetry or just plain poor democracy, the ambassador could not believe his ears. Yet, it was overruled in the house as, it turned out, no one was willing to take on the headache. ‘Faulty leads, involving misplaced jurisdiction.’ That was the official verdict. And so, the case was written off as a misstep. A big fat oops. Ever since, Vassik was suspicious of many of his colleagues, and he was not alone in his feelings. Many in his cohort suspected foul play on the inside, though Internal Affairs had yet to dredge up any dirt of any significance. What connections the chancellor had with the Tvet Setar and why he defended them the ambassador would likely never know. Yet, with Abayu now staring the man down, with a look that could be called by no right collegial, the ambassador had begun to think that some kind of veil had been lifted.

Time would tell.

In a reversal of roles, Xanth Abayu commanded that the chancellor take his seat once more and, like the good public servant that he was, the chancellor obeyed. He looked around the room nervously at the delegates, stares of silent confusion abound. He averted his attention to the man staring intently at him from across the desk. The fat man leaned forward, speaking in an angry yet abated tone.

“Qas usa fyte m’atenden?”

The ambassador was shocked to hear the chancellor speaking Javengo- a northern dialect spoken mainly by the upper class. Vassik had learned the language fairly well in his frequent travels but he had no idea why and when the old man had picked up the tongue. Chancellors by nature didn’t get out much. Algreaves was a glorified desk jockey, really.

What are you thinking by intruding (on my conference). He had said.

Xanth Abayu smiled, responding in Javengo. “I am afraid that these are pressing matters that could not wait. I am sure your little boy’s club meeting can be put on hold.”

The chancellor grit his teeth. “Give me one reason why I should not arrest you right this moment for trespassing?”

Abayu’s perfect smile faded. “I don’t think that we have gotten off on the right foot, chancellor.” He reverted to speaking in Standard.

“It seems to me that I cannot remember when I became an intruder to the house of Atlandia. As far I can recall, our last meeting had involved good-tidings for each other–mutual benefits of nations, mending of territorial dispute, and so on. Don’t tell me your memory has slipped away in time as your age has.”

Last meeting? The ambassador could not recall to which meeting Abayu referred. All prior contact between nations was done purely through diplomatic channels. Or so he had thought.

“Commander Abayu, you know as well as I that the Imperial house has always sought favour with the nation of Kaine and has done everything it could within its province to heed to your listless emperor’s demands. But when you are in our land you abide by our policies, just as we would in your own.”

“If it is of any consolation to you and your guards, chancellor, I have been requesting correspondence for days. But it seems your secretary is elsewhere. Ultimately, these matters are of the gravity that cannot afford you anymore time to sort out your employees. They will be assessed immediately.”

The chancellor raised his bushy eyebrows. “To which matters do you refer?”

Xanth Abayu’s motioned to the room. “Apparently the coast guard of Atlandia, like its imperial over-watch, does not do its job either.” Xanth Abayu looked
around at the room. “Unbeknownst to you all, an Imperial flagship has been highjacked and commandeered by a group calling themselves the Bannamud. They set sail from a port in Makis two days ago heading towards Yescher. What their motives are we cannot be sure. At first we assumed piracy, until they waged an assault over M’k-Mara. As you know, those waters are international territory, as much yours as ours, hence my visit here today. The emperor has a longstanding relationship with the Poio people and any threat to their safety is seen as a threat to our own. In short, chancellor, I suggest you get your people over there as soon as possible to assuage the situation, if it can be assuaged, before the emperor decides to take measures into his own hands.”

Vassik shared wary glances with his colleagues. People began to shout out in confusion and frustration, some even standing up and leaning over the railings in utter bewilderment.

This stinks. These accusations mean nothing. It’s as if a child crafted a poorly written story and it somehow made it to final edit. 

“Gentlefolk, please!” The chancellor yelled. After a few moments the crowd died down.

“Why has the emperor not contacted anyone?” Someone yelled from the audience.

“How did they get by the coast guard? They have nearly five hundred men stationed in Makis!” Someone else yelled.

Delegates continued to bombard the hall with questions, the media mechs flashing and filming in full three-hundred-and-sixty fervour, until finally the chancellor bolted to a stand.

“That’s enough!” He shouted, his voice echoing off the domed ceiling.

Everyone took their seat begrudgingly.

“Commander,” the chancellor sat down, folding his hands together, trying to remain stately, “there are several points to your story that I must address before considering it without any kind of apprehension. First of all, you must specify what you mean by the Bannamud. The term describes nothing more than people of the land. Do these people have a name? A band to which they belong? In the province of Tyr, where Makis lies, there are over three hundred indigenous groups alone. Calling these…these pirates Bannamud is like trying to find an elf by asking around for one with pointy ears.”

Vassik was pleased to hear that Algreaves had at least enough sense to bring up the point which, Vassik was pretty sure the entire room agreed, was a glaring inconsistency in the commander’s version of events.

“And say we find out which individuals are responsible,” Algreaves continued, “why would the Starborn interfere with an Imperial navy vessel? They get everything they need from nature and are more than proficient technologically speaking, so I cannot possibly see a reason worth commandeering a military machine. At base, these Bannamud you so obscurely refer to are really nothing more than a nomadic bunch of tree lovers; remnants of age old cults that have never done any harm.  And let’s assume, by some great stretch of the imagination that they flipped a switch overnight and decided to play checkers on the world’s political stage. How then, I ask you, would they know how to sail that ship, even if they did somehow manage to get past the two hundred heavily armed guards and board her? Do you know to sail an Imperial flagship? By stones if I do!”

Abayu did not seem impressed. “I am not here to argue semantics, chancellor. I leave the details to those who are concerned with them. How this group managed to orchestrate such a feat and eschew the purview of your higher authorities, I can only begin to surmise. Perhaps, it would behoove you, chancellor, to look within your own wardrobe to see if anyone has stolen clothes. That is exactly what I would do, were I in your position. But, alas, I am not. And whether this mere ‘cult’– as you call them–has managed to accumulate firearms, learn spells to conjure powerful spirits to do their bidding, or even summoned the powers of Aeros himself, I do not care. All I care about is the law, and they have violated about every international one I can think of. As far as the emperor is concerned, the Bannamud are asking for a war, and they are about this close to achieving one.”

Violating international law. Ha! Pot calling the kettle black, Vassik thought.

The chancellor stood up and slammed his hands down on the desk in a fury. “How can you expect the prince to act on such meager evidence? We have nothing to corroborate your claim, and even if we were greenlighted to send a contingency into the waters of M’K-Mara, how can we be sure that your emperor will be able to control the Poio and retain my fleet’s immunity in their water? There are too many wild cards, commander. You are a military strategist yourself. Surely you see the merit in this.”

Xanth Abayu looked off to the side, seeming to stare into nothing, expressionless. With blinding speed he reached down and grabbed the chancellor by the collar and hoisting him into the air with one hand.

“Guards!” The chancellor yelled. The conference hall gasped in unison as if it were a single entity.

“The only thing I see right now is a weak, pathetic man who has lost control of his subordinates.”

Abayu’s eyes glanced down to the chancellor’s trousers, the man shaking violently in his grasp.

“And, apparently, your bladder as well.”

“Guards!” the chancellor squealed, his short legs kicking wildly in the air as the two-and-a-half blade behemoth of a man held him by the throat.

“Do not confuse your prime personality traits with my own, chancellor, as I will take action if needed. As the voice of the emperor, I have said all that is needed to be said. The emperor trusts in you to make the right decision, for the highest interests. Good day chancellor.”

Footsteps sounded outside the hall as Imperial guards rushed in, led by a handful of Glaive Knights, clad in their unmistakable crimson armour, vakta rifles drawn. They formed a firing line concentric with the Tvet Setar, surrounding the podium on all sides. Abayu’s soldiers raised their electrified lances in defensive position, but held their ground. The response team took aim at their dedicated marks, several of the laser sights honing in on Abayu’s form. Before a round could go off, the commander and his guards began to flicker, as a dying lightbulb would, one by one evaporating like ghosts into air. In his final fading moment, Xanth Abayu directed his gaze towards Vassik in a strange kind of private moment. His image flickered and seconds later they were all gone, although Abayu’s gaze lingered in Vassik’s mind.

The chancellor fell to the desk, landing on his plump bottom with a hollow thud, papers shooting out to the ground. The guards lowered their weapons and looked around the room in confusion, along with the rest of the delegates and dejected journalists who clearly had hoped for more than the anticlimactic ending that they had received. Two of the Knights Glaive helped the chancellor off the desk as he dusted his breeches off indignantly. Members slowly began to make their way down to the lower level, peering cautiously around as if Abayu and his contingent might pop back into existence at any moment. The chancellor and his retinue struck up some kind of argument with the local security, likely letting them know that this was to be their last shift, but the ambassador paid them no heed as he stared on blankly from his seat, watching everything unfold as if it were some surreal picture viewed from behind frosted glass.

The ambassador couldn’t get the image of Abayu’s gaze out of his mind. It brought back the memories of the event years before, of piles of corpses on fire, of the bodiless head screaming a sound that refused to be heard… He wasn’t entirely sure why, but his gut told him that, somehow, the events that had just transpired were related to that prison colony years ago. Abayu was up to something, and that meant the emperor was up to something. And, if Vassik’s previous dealings with the emperor were any kind of benchmark for clairvoyance, Jacquell’s involvement in political affairs meant that there would be many, many more heads rolling in the not-so-distant future.

***

Brian awoke to a gentle sway and the creaking of the cabin. He could hear murmurs drifting through the floorboards from above, set against the muted backdrop of waves slapping at the hull. He sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, taking in the room around him. The last thing he could recall was passing out on the abovedeck; everything else after that was dreams. No names, just faces. Whoever had taken him in had taken great care to make up his suite, everything clean, tidy and just so. His was a small quarter, lightly furnished with a cot, bureau and bed stand, dimly lit with a kerosene lantern hanging from a chain above. He guessed from the size of the room that he was in a crew’s quarters but the intricate finishing of the woodwork told a different tale, perhaps that the room was designed for someone more important. He stood up slowly, surprised to find that he felt great. He grasped his throat suddenly as memories of ghastly ghouls hurling fireballs came back to him, but he found no wounds to corroborate the images. He bolted from the bed and ran to the bureau in the corner of the room which had a vanity mirror. He nearly jumped at his reflection as a wholesome, young and vigorous man stared back at him. The gash across his throat had vanished, along with all his other bruises and scrapes. He lifted his shirt, revealing a set of rippling abdominals muscles, but no wounds. He checked his back for marks. Nothing. It was if someone had taken a magical eraser and scrubbed them all away. He frowned at his image, trying to recall the last moments before he lost consciousness. He could remember Sarin and his escape from the city, but everything after that was disjointed and blurry. He flexed his arms in front of the mirror, frowning as the swaying lantern above poured light across the sinews of his forearms, unkindly demonstrating how much muscle mass he had lost over the past weeks. Time had eluded him greatly, he realized, as he stared at the almost unfamiliar figure in the reflection. A stubbly beard had grown in and, combined with his missing body weight, he looked liked an entirely different person than he remembered. Given the amount of boy mass he had lost, he guessed he was in an entirely different weight category for competing. If he ever got out of this whirlwind journey he had thrown himself into, so that he could compete at boxing again, that was. Still, reflecting on all of the crazy things he and Kade had gone through, he had no regrets.

Kade!

Brian had completely forgotten about his bedridden friend. Luckily, whoever had helped him recover didn’t undress him, so finding his clothes was not going to be an issue. He left the room and entered a hallway lined with identical doors on each side. He could hear voices but this hall was empty. He made his way towards the sound, bracing himself against the wall every so often as the ship rocked off kilter. Brian made his way up a flight of stairs and found himself staring down yet another hallway, once again barren of people. The noise seemed to be coming from somewhere far above. How big was this bloody ship? He could hear the rattle and clanging of kitchen utensils, pots and pans and the sort, and the familiar commotion of muffled voices. He wandered around the hall until he found another staircase and proceeded to climb it but he stopped halfway as he heard a door open from above, voices carrying into the stairwell. Shadows appeared in the well and Brian quickly searched for a place to hide. He slid himself between the stringer and the wall, crouched in the recess behind the staircase. He watched as heeled boots thudded down the treads, carrying out their conversation.

“Don’t even think about that. We’ll do what we can but if all else fails we can trust the soothsayer.” said the one man.

Brian watched through the treads as the deckhands made their way out of sight.

“I don’t think anyone should trust that lot. Jones says its bad luck to have ’em aboard….” the other replied, their voices trailing off as they wandered down the hall.

Brian emerged, making sure no one was around before he made his way back up the flight of stairs. He lifted the hatch covering the top and sunlight struck him in the face. He winced as the daylight smiled on him, rejoicing at the feeling of having fresh, ocean air blow into his face. He had come out onto the starboard, underneath the upper framework supporting the top level. He walked out onto deck, his haggard shoes offering little purchase against the dampness of the slippery deck. He leaned against the bulwark and stared out into the open ocean. A low fog had settled on the water’s surface, obscuring any view beyond a full ship length. Still, the sun beamed down in full force, promising better days to come. Brian had no idea where the ship was heading. As he pondered its–and his–bearing, voices jarred him out of his head. Near the bow, Brian could see a group of men running about, carrying about their daily chores. Surely, the crew would have caught on to any gossip and would know if newcomers were brought aboard. Especially, in the manner that they had come; Brian guessed that it wasn’t too often that sailors witnessed flaming witches hunting young boys at the pier. The sea was a large place but voices carried far. If Kade was still aboard, someone had to know something. Maybe they could point him in the right direction.

“Excuse me.” Brian called out, walking up to the lot.

A burly man, perhaps twice as wide as himself, straightened up from his mopping, giving Brian an unfriendly look.

“Whaddya want boy? Can’t you see’s me busy? I have twice the work to be done and half the time to do it in.”

“Right, sorry to bother you. I was just looking for someone but I can’t seem to find him. You see I was asleep and…”

“Asleep?” the man grunted in disapproval. “How could ye be sleepin’ when there’s so much work to be done! Why my crew here’s been mopping and slopping away for weeks now, ever since the captain’s command to make the lady sparkle ‘n shine for the envoy.”

Brian stuttered. “But, uh, I…”

“Look at em!” The man panned a hand across the deck. “We’re running late as it is and you’ve come to tell me you’re sleeping while we bust our hump?”

A sailor tying a knot from higher up on the rigging shot Brian a deprecating look. The burly man looked Brian up and down.

“We could use a strong lad like your self. How about putting those muscles to use and earning your way to Brazen City?”

The man shoved the mop into Brian’s hand and walked back the way Brian had come from. Brian looked down at the mop in his hand.

“Brazen City? We’re heading…to the capitol? That’s not good.” He sneered at the broom in his hand, letting it drop to the deck.

“Hey!” He ran after the man.

The man turned back to him, an annoyed look on his face. He glanced over at the forsaken mop, his eyes glinting with a suggestion of rage.

“I am looking for a boy. He’s about this tall, short brown hair. He’s very sick and he needs my help. Can you help me out or not?”

The man stared at Brian, an inexplicable look on his face. He chewed his lip, nodding his head slowly. He crossed his arms, massive biceps bulging, and nodded at the mop left bereft on the deck behind them.

“That all depends on whether or not you decide to help me, now doesn’t it?”

Brian shot a glance over his shoulder, raising an eyebrow.

“I don’t know where she keeps the boy, but I will let the envoy know that you seek him. But first I want to see my reflection in them boards, you hear?” He pointed a finger in Brian’s face, Brian reared back at the monstrous sausage-like appendage.

“Envoy? You mean Celine? You know where Celine is?”

The man nodded. “’S’right boy. But don’t be thinking you can just barge in on the captain like it’s a serpent call. He would fillet my sorry hide if I was just lettin’ riffraff in and out of his quarters like a privy.”

“The captain?”

The man sighed. “Yes, the captain. They are all in a meeting in the bridge, and there was strict instruction to have no disturbance. So no disturbances
there shall be. Right m’boy?” The man leaned toward him.

Brian shook his head. “Well it doesn’t sound like I have much of a choice.”

The man grumbled in agreement and hunkered away. Brain picked up the mop and began to swab the deck, cursing to himself under his breath.

“Oh and I would get your mind off your little friend there, boy. There are worse things to be worrying about than that.” the man yelled back to Brian.

Brian stood up. “What things are those?” he retorted.

The man pointed off into the distance. Brian followed his finger and squinted, gasping as he saw that the man was indeed right. Very right. A pressure system
had developed several bouts away, a black torrent of cloud and water, unlike anything Brian had ever seen. A cyclone heading straight towards them, and it didn’t look like the Leviathan could bypass it. Brian stepped away from the railing in shock.

“How the hell do you expect to get through something like that?” Brian shouted to the man, but he had already entered the ship.

Brian exchanged glances with another crew member, the crew member shaking his head, scorning the greenhorn. Brian looked back to the roiling mass of black tumult heading their way and took a deep breath.

As he plopped his mop back in the bucket of soapy water, he thought to himself:

One thing is for sure: we’re in for one hell of a storm.

***