The Wandering Inn

10.69 IN

Cosoi Reinhart never made it off Izril.

It took a little while for anyone to notice. Cecille Reinhart didn’t for some time. She was too busy trying to figure out what her daughter was up to.

Cecille Reinhart had expected Damia to go to Liscor and come back without much gold, a tattoo, perhaps a venereal disease, and a lesson in humility. Instead, the girl had antagonized Xitegen, which was problematic, even if he was a blowhard that Cecille personally detested.

But now she was…what?

“Gnolls? Silverfangs? Ugh, don’t tell me she’s got a bunch of tribal tattoos and thinks she can ‘join the tribe’. That’s so cliched. Who hasn’t tried that?”

The [Lady] had finally gotten a halfway decent servant in some quill-pusher from the Merchant’s Guild. He was a fairly well-built man, if short. Very funny; he acted like a commoner, too, because he did a double-take, even on his best behavior.

“I, ah, can only say what your [Informants] are reporting, Lady Cecille…”

He amused her. He’d been fired from the Merchant’s Guild, and she’d snapped him up. You had to look for that kind of thing.

Ulbe Tanouse. Level 30 [Collator of Data]. Unusual class. Talented and, crucially, not fired for the regular reasons.

Fired due to his strenuous and loud objections to the Merchant Guild’s new policies on contract forfeitures. Which Cecille personally had thoughts about—she didn’t like it. The Merchant’s Guild was trying to give itself more power, and she, a [Lady], had views on how much the money-grubbers were allowed.

What she liked less was that she didn’t know all of what they were doing. A decade of being muzzled meant her contacts were few and far between. What she knew was that there was a shakeup happening in the upper echelons of the Merchant’s Guild. A war of politics about its future, and change was coming via their dusty rules and contracts. But upon that ink the world would shift.

They’d always had goods and provided countless services across the world. The difference, if Cecille had to explain it to her idiot son, was that the Merchant’s Guild now seemed to be viewing its assets less as commodities and more a weight upon the world. They were quietly buying land up around their Merchant’s Guilds. Switching from gold and trade goods to the commodities of land.

And possibly, flesh. That was why she’d hired Ulbe, in part. She needed someone who understood the Merchant’s Guild, even if he was a result of those changes.

Mister Ulbe had a conscience. And, apparently, he’d once been saved from a mugging by Ylawes Byres. His tenure of over 21 years to the Merchant’s Guild meant nothing. Neither did his ethics. A month of realizing he was blacklisted from any regular gainful employment in any city where the Merchant’s Guild held sway had seen the man doing numbers for [Shopkeepers] for silvers and coppers.

He probably didn’t like Cecille. But his morality had warred with his empty pockets and lost. Excellent, excellent. She also rather found his build amusing.

He was a [Gym Rat], some new class around the weights thing that some of her family were into. They’d installed a damn smelly gymnasium, and—well, Cecille would just never go in there. The point was, she had a man she could actually delegate things to, even if he needed training.

Plus, he was so distracted by her comment about her youth. Cecille smirked.

“Tell me what Damia does next. Wernel?”

“Er, ejected from a brothel in First Landing after—”

“Predictable. Next?”

The man shuffled papers faster, keeping up with Cecille’s pace.

“Lady Cosoi. You asked to know where she went. I regret to say that her carriage has been found.”

“Damn, she gave us the slip? Which port?”

Cecille scowled. She owed Cosoi more trouble. For being free all this time. Choosing the right side…if Cecille had known, she might have grovelled to that brat when Magnolia won. But who’d have known she’d beat the entire family?

She’s in Drake lands. I should stop warring with her openly. Just take what I can and let the rest of the family burn themselves in open conflict. Then Ulbe’s comments registered.

“No, milady. The wreckage. There’s only ash and corpses—what we can identify—”

The [Lady] spun on her heel.

“Cosoi’s dead?”

“Unclear, Lady Cecille. Her body wasn’t found—”

“Ransom, then. Tell the Housekeeper to pay attention for ransom notes this month. See if the Bloodfeast Raiders are bragging about killing a [Lady]. Check auction records from Roshal—there are private ones. Or someone killed her. [Bandits]?”

Ulbe watched as Cecille’s eyes flickered, and she stood there, face blank. The thought one of her cousins was dead didn’t seem to move her, and the man licked his lips.

Had he found work for a nest of vipers worse than the Merchant’s Guild? He ventured a risk, a [Probing Comment]. One learned these things in the Merchant’s Guild to survive.

“Could it be one of your family members, Lady Cecille?”

Her eyes flicked to him, and she snapped.

“Funny Skill. Do it more subtly next time. Not the family. Not unless one of the younger ones is so stupid they want their head on a platter. We don’t kill our own. Only Magnolia does that. I’d drag Cosoi around in pink chains and shave her like a pig and make her play servant. We don’t kill Reinharts. Find out where she is or who killed her. Then dear Calidus had better have his Guild working.”

That was all she said. Cecille made Ulbe run through the list of news items, then went and pulled out a bottle of wine. He checked the time. 7:24 AM.

Perhaps that was sympathy, among Reinharts. Ulbe stood outside her room, shaking his head. No morality, but cunning genius in the House of Reinhart. Selfish men and women.

Izril was changing. If he couldn’t stand to be part of the Merchant’s Guild—the man walked off to lift some weights. Pump off the emotions he held. Cecille drank and sat in her rooms, and now she had another question that weighed on her.

Cosoi. Was it the family? Surely not. But who—?

——

Sometimes, things were a mystery. Long-held secrets that deepened and grew thick like sap until they oozed out into the fabric of the world. Great and mysterious plans.

And sometimes—the time for secrets was done. Then there was only the naked truth, terrifying in its honesty. For in the face of real truth, there was only denial, the liberty to freeze, wail, and be helpless.

Or—

Change.

Cosoi Reinhart’s knees were shaking. She had taken down a Stalker Lion with a javelin’s throw, separated from her escort. Fought off a [Pirate] attack at sea. Survived a Balerosian mercenary war, and two wars between nations, even if she’d never fought on the front lines.

But she was not ashamed to tremble. She just refused to—

The rest of her servants were cowering. Hiding behind her, quaking in her shadow like bugs fleeing the light. Her aura was shielding them. She pulled on it now and forced air into her lungs. Cosoi dipped her head.

“We meet again. I confess—I had been wondering. Was my carriage necessary?”

She didn’t know where it was. One second, she’d been in it, the next, magic had teleported her out of it, right before the flames came down. And now she was somewhere else entirely.

Corn fields. Where the hell has blue corn? A scarecrow hung next to a rather prosperous-looking farm, and in the distance, there was a [Farmer] sighing and lecturing a bunch of [Farmhands]. But Farmer Lupp didn’t glance at her, her terrified entourage, or her…guest. Which suggested he was blind to what was going on.

Or really good at not paying attention. But she had to believe it was the former.

After all—

She couldn’t take her eyes off the Dragon.

His claws were crossed before him as he lay there. Tail curled around himself, and he smiled, baring his teeth, and she thought, for one wild second—he looked like a cat. Self-satisfied, a ruler over all he beheld.

Then he spoke, and it was the same voice she remembered from Calanfer’s courts. Self-assured, grand, and the diction of a [King].

“My apologies for your vehicle, Lady Cosoi. I know you Reinharts love your transportation. I felt it behooved you to vanish. Your family has made trouble for you of late.”

She managed a nod.

“So it’s a favor? I rather thought you’d be in the New Lands.”

Teriarch, the Dragonlord of Flames—that was who she thought he must be after looking up surviving Dragons—extended his wings for a moment. Light flashed across the field of corn, and the [Farmer]’s head swung around. Lupp frowned, seeking what had made that odd display of light on his corn.

“I am there, Lady Cosoi. Here, there, and everywhere I am needed in Izril. That I intercepted you is merely to win a bet. Change is needed.”

“And I’m, what, to be your useful minion?”

Cosoi didn’t like that. Her lips twisted at the thought, but she had to own, it was flattering to be a Dragon’s first pick. Instead, Teriarch chuckled.

“I know better than to try to put a viper on a leash. Say rather, I have done you a small favor. Your coach appears to be burned, bodies strewn about. Ample cover should you wish to move discreetly.”

That was useful. Cosoi nodded; it wasn’t her coach, so only the [Coach Matron] would throw a fit.

“Then the rest is…?”

“An opportunity. I have contracted some rather upstanding [Knights] to do my bidding across Izril.”

“Ah, so that’s why the Order of Haegris is here in force.”

Fascinating. Cosoi saw something flying towards her and snatched the piece of vellum out of the air. She eyed the handwriting.

Dead gods, such immaculate cursive. Both pleasing to the eye and legible. The Dragon indicated it with a claw.

“They are splendidly capable men and women, in their own way. But the task is unending and beyond them. This is a little list I have worked up. Names and places. Opportunities.”

“For, what, recruitment to my service? I’d rather leave Izril.”

“You are free to leave. But would you turn down a boy with a sword given to him by a long-dead [Mercenary]? The last descendant of a [Grand Magus] of old with his spellbook entrusted to her?”

Cosoi’s hair tried to stand up. She ran her eyes down the list, and then she glanced at the Dragon.

“You’re just…giving me this list? To do with as I please?”

Another smile.

“I cannot be everywhere, Lady Cosoi, and many of these children are at the mercy of others. Too easy to mug someone for a treasure, even if it came from the dead themselves. Easier; the dead cannot right anything.”

“I might well take whatever I find.”

“True. But you’re a careful woman. And the objects’ true powers are left to the ones they were entrusted to. Or might only be unlocked with the knowledge and cooperation of those the ghosts told their secrets. In my experience, Reinharts are greedy, selfish, and cunning individuals.”

“Thank you.”

His mismatched eyes never left her, and Cosoi feared he could see straight through her. As if he had met so many Reinharts…she did not like feeling as if she were one among many. He continued softly.

“—But the smart ones know how to cultivate the gardens they raise. I am giving you an opportunity, Lady Cosoi. Do as thou wilt. But remember—”

He spread his wings, and she threw up a hand as air whirled around her. The Dragonlord of Flames grinned at her.

“I am watching.”

He took off in a single motion, and she stumbled as air blew the field of corn. Farmer Lupp shouted, whirled, and he saw the [Lady] and her entourage appear. He stared at them, and Cosoi Reinhart gazed into the sky.

Barely fifteen minutes, she realized. That’s how long the Dragonlord took on her. Burned carriage, list of insanely valuable prospects she couldn’t ignore, friendly threat.

“Dead gods.”

She felt her blood thrilling. She hated it. Because he’d delivered on his promise to her. Cosoi smiled as she read the list, then cursed.

She had no doubt he’d check back in later. Next time, she’d be more ready. Did Dragons eat? Invite him to dinner, shapechanged, then. Because that surpassing elegance…she sighed.

“What penmanship. Get up, everyone. We have a job to do. Hair dyes—no, just give me a razor and a wig.”

She couldn’t help but smile. Life was about to get fun again.

——

Izril was moving too fast. You had to run to keep up. A single [Lady] vanishing in the north, even one of House Reinhart, wasn’t that important. All the Reinharts throwing their weight around? Far more concerning to the Walled Cities, even powers on other continents.

House Terland coming south in force, sending multiple Hunter-Killer Golems after Wall Lord Ilvriss and the potentiality of a full north-south war? Sprint, damnit!

The problem was—

Nerul Gemscale wasn’t in good shape. He didn’t run well. Oh, he had a thirty-meter dash that couldn’t be beat. He’d go through a [Waiter], vault a table, and leap through a window in a moment. After that, if you caught him before his [Bodyguards] dealt with you, Nerul would be dead of a heart attack, if nothing else.

He was a big Drake who liked his drinking and his food. He liked a party. He wasn’t ashamed of being out-of-shape. He’d never been in the shape everyone seemed to regard as ideal.

But sometimes, he felt his age of 52. He longed for a younger man’s vitality, especially now.

Ilvriss needed him. Nerul hadn’t really cared about his nephew. Oh, he’d loved him like family, but also cordially despaired over the younger Wall Lord. Like family. Like Zail.

It wasn’t easy being the black sheep of a family as proud as House Gemscale. Of being the one who didn’t really think Salazsar was perfect. Even Navine and Helessia…love them, but Nerul wasn’t them either. He couldn’t say, with his chest, that he wanted to clasp hands with the north and be bosom-pals with the tribes.

He’d met the Humans and Gnolls. Some of them were bastards Nerul wouldn’t shake hands with, even with a handkerchief. So he was caught, you see?

Not halfway between loving his Walled City, halfway between seeing all its flaws. Rather, able to see the best and worst of Salazsar at the same time. It had made it so Zail regarded Nerul as a useful, but utterly worthless member of the family, and Ilvriss had been the same.

Until Ilvriss had come back from Liscor. Now, Nerul felt like Ilvriss was becoming the lad Nerul had hoped he might be. That honest, earnest boy that had slowly been drenched in all of Salazsar’s self-importance and culture—he’d lost his love. Had someone rub him raw like a pumice stone, scouring off some of his flaws. Left him vulnerable, but strangely, more innocent. More likable.

Perhaps Ilvriss didn’t see it. He might think that his people kept following him because they were paid to, and that was true enough. But the [Miners] and [Soldiers] who’d come north—would they have really signed up in such numbers to go north for another Wall Lord, at any pay?

He was changing. Evolving like some of those damn butterfly-things that Nerul always thought looked gross in their cocoons whenever he visited Oteslia in the spring. But it was the only analogy the [Diplomat] had, and he wanted…to see it.

“Shame he can’t make it easier. But it never is.”

That was all the [Diplomat] had said as he rode for The Wandering Inn after the failed cookout, the Hunter-Killer Golem still burning behind him. He hadn’t known if Ulva Terland was alive or dead—just what he had to do.

Find a way to avert the wrath of all of House Terland. Make a bridge between the Drakes and [Ranchers].

The kind of thing a Level 50 [Diplomat] would refuse to take on. And Nerul wasn’t Level 50.

But he had to try. So, Nerul Gemscale had done the only thing he could:

He went home.

——

It took time to go home, and Nerul had needed to trust Ilvriss would survive for at least three days.

Three days was how long it took to ride to the waystone that allowed him to use the [Door of Portals] to get to Liscor, then to Pallass, and charter an overnight Pegasus flight to Salazsar. Nearly a day of straight travel and flying—getting to Pallass had been fast, waiting for the Pegasus flight took hours, then a long, long flight in the cold air.

The third day was just to sleep. Twenty-four hours of nonstop travel meant that Nerul had nearly passed out on the Pegasus’ back. He reached his estates, muttered to Zail and Helessia what had happened, passed out in his beds.

—Woke up, summoned to five different meetings with members of the Walled Families who wanted to know what had happened. Nerul wrote in his request and handed it personally to Wall Lady Calistoca.

Then he, well, waited.

——

Time passed agonizingly slowly in Salazsar. Nerul spent the next few days ‘jetlagged’, a wonderful term he’d heard one of the Earthers use. And they had Earthers. As a top-level [Diplomat], Nerul did have access to most of Salazsar’s schemes.

Just not all of them. He was no [Wall Lord]. But the Earthers were common knowledge. Nerul kept tabs on what was going on in the north; Captain Osthia was good enough to brief him along with Ilvriss himself.

“No more Hunter-Killers? Good. I’ll be a while, Nephew, so just keep ducking. Your father’s inbound on Wyvernback? Ancestors. Well…good luck! Is Miss Lyonette still willing to help? Good, rely on her.”

Nerul felt bad saying it. But he had really ceded his role in the north with this move.

He had to.

He’d been bested by Marvus Lischelle. Idiotic to jump in a brawl like that—but the [Rancher Baron] was over Level 40. Ridiculously strong. In time, he’d destroy the expedition himself.

It was just a numbers game. Ilvriss could probably fight off a dozen of those stupid brawls with his people. But what about a hundred? Two hundred?

Marvus’ people had his Skills. They’d shake off broken bones and bruises. Give it another month, a year, and they’d dump every Drake and Gnoll in the north out of their lands with every bone in their body broken.

And the Terlands were worse. If they deployed their Golems, everyone was dead. No questions asked, no hope. The full might of House Terland’s Golems could wipe out any army they wanted to, and the one mercy was that Ulva Terland wasn’t dead.

But he didn’t exactly think she’d be keen on making up after what Xesci had done to her.

Nerul had a plan to deal with both issues—Terlands being the priority. Marvus? He could neutralize the man and hope that Lyonette could deal with Miss Aronia.

It just took…time.

——

A week had passed in Salazsar, and Nerul understood Wall Lord Ilvriss was taking dance lessons. Zail had left and come back, and the [Diplomat] was doing a circuit of Salazsar while he waited.

Mostly to see what his city was up to. They were at war, after all.

The war with Fissival didn’t touch the City of Gems directly; no army would be stupid enough to come within range of the wall spells, but there were signs.

[Recruiters] hunting for people to join the army. Shortages of magical items. Travel advisories about where the fighting or blockades were—more patriotism in the streets.

A sense of ire towards Fissival because the war wasn’t ending. Oh, and the Last Defenders of the Wall. Nerul didn’t like that last part one bit.

He knew Eschowar. He’d been a lad when the old Drake had been in his prime, and with all the old guard returning, there were signs.

Such as High Command being split between ‘younger’ Drakes that were Ilvriss’ age and ones twice as old. Nerul, panting, mopped at sweat pouring from his brows as he jogged up to a group of young Humans.

“So this is a ‘motor’. Fascinating. One supposes Pallass was onto something.”

General Criscotta was a Drake. Oldblood, Light-type. She had prismatic crystal armor and blinded her enemies with refracted light and mirrors. A few hovered around her even now, signs of her high level. She was projecting confidence, but she kept glancing to the side.

At Wall Lord Eschowar, Wall Lord Itreus, and Magus Nmorie. Technically, the last Drake was also a Wall Lady, but like Nerul, she wasn’t a member of the primary family.

All three were over seventy years old, Nmorie being over eighty. They were shorter, greyer-scaled, higher-level. And unlike when he’d seen them in the retirement home, lethargic and spent, they had a sharpness to them now.

Someone honing a well-used blade. It was Eschowar who spoke, voice quavering, but fighting whatever malady made him stutter.

“S-sounds like Pallass is the Walled City to b-be friendly with.”

“Especially now.”

Itreus agreed. He was the only one of the three who could move without a cane or wheelchair. But Nmorie was levitating off the ground. The old [High Mage] grimaced.

“Are they still keen to fight?”

“They keep testing new spells on us. High-grade ones. Someone in Wistram is sharing the Archmage of Memory’s magic, or they just paid attention while he was spreading magic.”

“Wonderful. The magic does work. This [Low Levitation] spell is far more effective than whatever I was using before. Ugh, until I gained my [Preserve Memory] Skill, I’ve been bleeding spells. I might as well replace them with superior magic. So, what are we going to do about it?”

Nmorie turned, and General Criscotta cleared her throat and glanced at one of their [Strategists], a Drake named Thallin Talefright. A good Drake—who was clearly nervous despite being Salazsar’s best [Strategist]. Because he wasn’t the best any longer.

“We have taken the battle to Fissival, and we’ve been spreading out our forces to counter their attempts to do the same. No more massed engagements. They refuse to approach the Erchirite Spears in bulk, so we keep pressing them with that while countering their [Mage] teams with [Rogues] and [Scout] mixes. Once we capture or kill enough of them, they should realize the rate of attrition favors—”

“No.”

All three older Drakes said it almost as one, and Itreus sighed. Thallin hesitated, and Itreus spoke.

“They’re willing to bleed [Mages].”

“Wall Lord? They’ve lost nearly two hundred so far—”

“Two hundred’s nothing to Fissival. It’s unacceptable—if this wasn’t their goal. They’re counter-levelling their [Mages] on our people. They call it Magical Advancing. They haven’t done it in, what, twenty years?”

The old Drake turned, and Eschowar muttered.

“T-thirty. Before the Antinium Wars. Before your time.”

The two younger Drakes hesitated. General Criscotta bit her lip.

“Nevertheless, if we persist, we’ll still deplete their resolve to fight.”

“After we hand their [Mages] ten levels each. And then they’ll begin killing us. We need to shift strategy now. We can’t fight their [Mages] with ours; we don’t have enough, and they have too many. Eschowar?”

“I’ll use my Skill. [Recaptured S-Sublimity]. Give you options.”

And that was that. General Criscotta snapped.

“Strategist Thallin and I will also confer and present our opinions to the Walled Families tonight, Wall Lords.”

“Good. Yes, let’s do that.”

You could tell from that exchange who was doing better. Nerul couldn’t even blame Criscotta; she was speaking to three of the top Drakes who’d dominated Izril during their heyday. How did you make up for that gap in experience and levels?

Not his business, but he paid attention. At last, Itreus turned.

“Diplomat…Nerul. Are you sick?”

“No, sir. Just sweating. Ran up all the damn stairs for my health, one assumes.”

Nerul was still wheezing. He had no idea how Runners did it. He glanced into the room where the Earthers were conferring with Drakes. Then he pulled a door open.

“Have you talked to these young people? The Earthers?”

“Not personally.”

Nmorie shook her head, and General Criscotta snapped.

“Wall Lord! They’re in a controlled environment, and we’re having them demonstrate their tech to us! Access to the Earthers—”

There were other Wall Lords and Ladies watching around the observation windows, which were one-way pieces of glass. The rather sumptuous rooms held chairs, refreshments, blackboards, and all kinds of tools to create with. [Engineers], [Mages], [Scholars], inside, listening to the Earthers with rapt attention and racing off to try and create or find whatever the young people were talking about.

Nerul glanced around and saw Wall Lady Calistoca, who’d never actually retired and was thus old guard and new, giving him a frown. He just shrugged and held out a clawed hand.

“I’m quite aware, General. Why don’t we treat these young folk like people rather than test subjects, eh? Might be important. Hello, Diplomat Nerul!”

He strode into the room, and a young man jumped and nearly dropped a prototype motor he’d helped rig up. Nerul walked forwards, apologized about the sweat, and shook hands. He made the [General] enter the room with the noble Drakes and actually meet the Earthers.

“I’m not actually a—an [Engineer], you see. I just know a bit about making things. From repairing my piano.”

“You’re a—a [Pianist], Mister Scofield? That’s that musical instrument the Gnolls made, didn’t they? Commendable to be so gifted so young.”

General Criscotta was highly uncomfortable until the fellow explained.

“I’m not that young, General. I’m nearly thirty.”

“You are?”

She gave him a double-take; she couldn’t read Humans at all. The [Pianist] smiled.

“I’d love to play something. I can use the harpsichord—but I am somewhat good at the piano.”

“Most of you Earthers seem to be accomplished in some way. I, ah—I had your file here; forgive me, we’ve been at war. What are you known for?”

The [General] stood there awkwardly as Eschowar and the other Walled Families spoke to a young woman half Scofield’s age. Nerul saw Wall Lady Calistoca eying the girl, who was wistfully talking about meeting Troy and was, in fact, deathly afraid of heights. Calistoca broke in.

“I don’t care for them myself. We have rings—has no one given her one for altitude fright? You. Grab one, now. And if you haven’t seen the lower floors—dine with me tonight. I have rooms lower down in my tower.”

She pointedly did not look at Itreus, her divorced husband, who stood to the side, not really meeting her eyes. Calistoca took the girl’s hand.

“Enough of these tests. She’s, what, fifteen?”

Nerul just watched. It had only taken three Skills, one of which was [Hint of Empathy], and it was only a prod. His people weren’t monsters—most of them.

He saw General Criscotta fiddling with her notes, and Scofield smiled with self-evident pride.

“I’m just known for being a [Pianist], General. I won a few awards in my world. I played in the Royal Albert Hall when I was seventeen. That’s…akin to playing for royalty, I suppose. I was given a few Skills when I appeared here. [Mesmerising Performance]. [World-Class Solo].”

Old Itreus’ head turned, and his eyes lit up as General Criscotta did a double-take. Nerul’s own earholes tingled.

He’s outstanding. Itreus was over like a shot; he loved the arts. Nerul smiled and tiptoed backwards. His heart was still pounding—from that damn run.

Dead gods. He began to jog out of the room, then decided he could take a rest for fifteen minutes.

His legs were killing him. And this was just busy-work while he waited. He’d go push them all later, but he had to get through all the damn bureaucracy first.

Nerul just hoped Ilvriss was alright.

——

Ilvriss had no idea what Nerul was up to. He wished his uncle would come back, but all Nerul wrote was—

Busy in Salazsar. Might be another week. Two, even. I’m going to fly to Pallass on your coins now and then. Needed expense, Nephew. Try not to die or get your brains punched out. Apologies.

Ilvriss had to trust him. It wasn’t like things were going bad, necessarily.

Okay, they weren’t great. The [Ranchers] kept brawling. Ilvriss was very worried about the Golems coming to murder him. And they had undead problems.

The day after the undead had burst out of Dig Site #3 and nearly murdered Osthia, he was giving orders.

“We need to take them out. I want breaching teams and a full offensive, Major Shellc.”

“You’ll have it, Wall Lord. Just bear in mind that I never fought in tunnels.”

The Drake [Swordgrace Major]’s good eye glinted. He was an excellent commander, and Ilvriss was grateful his father had left the Major here. Ilvriss muttered.

“If you need me, I can—”

“We don’t risk you at the front, with respect, sir.”

“Argh—fine. But I want you to call on me if there’s a breach and I’m here, understood?”

Shellc nodded. He placated as Ilvriss paced around.

“We’ll shred the undead. They’re not infinite, just dangerous, sir. Captain Asrira prevented this from being a massacre.”

“Yes. Yes, how is she?”

She’d seemed—badly rattled. Shellc just shrugged.

“Shock. Those Sisters of Chell are damned brave. Brave as any I’ve served with in Rhir, but undergeared. I had my doubts, but now I just want them armed up and trained.”

Ilvriss sagged. Oh, yes, the Sisters. Dead. Minced by the monsters, only a few, but—

“I’ll make more apologies to their command. Xesci knows them, and they are…we’ll issue pensions. Asrira is taking charge of that.”

“I had no doubts, sir.”

There was so much to do. Ilvriss turned and had Welsca put a reminder in for him to look at the matter if Osthia wasn’t able to see to it when she was rested. But she wasn’t in danger, and they’d given her a potion. They had enough from the inn; she shouldn’t have gone around without, despite the shortage.

And he had more to do. That was the blunt truth of it. Ilvriss had to leave Osthia to sort out the Sisters because…even with Shellc, even with Osthia, he was a busy Drake.

True, he spent every third day dancing it felt like, but damnit, that was hard too!

——

Wall Lord Ilvriss was used to riding back to the [Door of Portals] to visit The Wandering Inn. So much so that Welsca reported she’d actually gained a Skill: [Company: Fast Travels]. It made the ride even faster, which he greatly appreciated. One less hour in the saddle was one hour more to do anything more important.

He put in a bonus in her paycheck and bought her a ticket for Barehoof Kitchens, which he knew she loved. Not a group ticket. When he handed her the card for three, he smiled.

“We’re still trying to keep—how did Xesci put it? The mandated authority out of private time, Welsca.”

“Oh, you didn’t need to, Wall Lord—I would be happy to have you and the others—”

The Drake [Adjutant] flushed, but Ilvriss just pressed the ticket into her claws.

“Nonsense. Enjoy yourself. I believe that’s the right number?”

She had a friend among his command staff, Adriaca, another [Adjutant] who specialized in paperwork. Welsca blinked at the card.

“Three’s perfect, Wall Lord. I actually have this friend in Pallass. Miss Rubri. She’s one of the up-and-coming [Reporters] on Channel 2?”

“Really? When did you meet her?”

“Well, when we were staying in Pallass—she was just one of Miss Drassi’s news crew. Now Channel 2 is so expansive, some of them are getting their own timeslots. I’m amazed you knew! I don’t think I brought it up in passing more than once…”

Ilvriss coughed and neglected to tell Welsca that Xesci had actually used a Skill to calculate the gift. It wouldn’t have made the [Adjutant] happier, quite the contrary.

“It just lodged in my memory. Once again, congratulations, and here’s to more levels, eh?”

She bowed, and that was that. Ilvriss needn’t have bothered; gifts for Skills or non-capstone levels were not obligatory, but it was the kind of thing a good company leader did. And he tried to be one.

He just…

Nothing was the same here.

——

Ilvriss was hiding from Lyonette that evening. She wanted to start dance practice. His shins hurt.

His thighs hurt.

His instep hurt.

His toes hurt.

The Wall Lord kept massaging them as he squatted next to another over a toilet. A compromising position to be in, but Ilvriss had been doing much the same thing when he and Erin had tried to unclog his personal toilet, so he had practice, weirdly enough.

“What do you think, Master Oidhol?”

“I think that if they’re using acid to clear the sewage, they’d better stop it when they get pipework installed or make sure it’s enchanted metal and has a gas-dispersal valve.”

The Drake grunted as he wiped the toilet seat with an enchanted handkerchief. Ilvriss raised his brows.

“That’s a thing?”

“Oh yes. Fumes do nasty things if they build up. I don’t know what acid fumes are like. Either it’ll just create scaling that’s acid-proof and clog the pipes—or it builds up. Ruptures the pipes, or just comes back up the chute at the wrong moment.”

“Appalling. But what do you think? This is just a side-project, obviously—”

“Bah, Master Hexel’s already laid down pipework. It’s a clean pit. Let me get permission from him and run a line. I’d call it forty minutes, tops.”

“Wh—really?”

Ilvriss was delighted. The Drake just gave him a nod. They stood and exited the outhouse together, which got them a long, long look from Peggy.

No less long than the look Master Oidhol shot the Goblin, but he was on the clock and on the job, so he strode over across the wet grass to a section behind the neat row of outhouses. Which were fine, serviceable, acid-cleaned, as good as you got without plumbing.

Yet the future was here, and it was in a line of familiar little sticks with blue paint on them sticking out of the ground. Master Oidhol nodded to them.

“See that? Pipework. It’ll be simple enough to join up the outhouses. I was told it’ll be for that big inn there. But it’s functional; you’d have put that in with the foundations so why not use it?”

Ilvriss rubbed his claws together.

“How soon can you begin?”

For answer, the [Master Plumber] called for shovels and three of his helpers, and they just got to digging. They had Skills as well, for fast-joining pipes and making sure water wouldn’t leak. The wet soil shifted faster once some of the Rheirgest [Necromancers] noticed and had their undead do the digging.

That nearly had Master Oidhol leap out of his work clothes in fright, but then he was alternating between hopping down to check his subordinates’ work as they joined pipe, eying the undead, and talking with the [Necromancers] about the cost of plumbing for their village. Not that he was offering to work for them or they were asking to hire him; they clearly thought they could copy his work.

Ilvriss watched with the experience of a man paying for all this who knew not to get in the way. Oidhol relaxed when he realized Ilvriss was going to watch and wanted to talk.

“No issues, Master Oidhol? Can we get you any more help?”

Ilvriss pointedly glanced at the ‘Out of Use’ sign on the outhouses. None of the plumbers wanted…extra material to work with when they actually set up the pipework. Peggy was dancing around in a circle since she’d been told the work would be done within minutes, and the [Master Plumber] sounded confident.

“Rain’s annoying, but it’s not hard to lay piping. Your place in the north sounds like a nightmare though, if I can say so, Wall Lord. Just need more pipes…damn, our bags of holding are too full. Someone empty theirs and just toss down what’s needed, I can’t sort this!”

“If you tell me which pieces are which, I can hand them down at least.”

If it was weird to the Salazsarian [Master Plumber], Oidhol, for a Wall Lord to want to roll up his sleeves and dig a sceptic system, he made no comment. He and four apprentices did all the fitting, anyways. Everyone watched with interest; plumbing was fascinating to peoples like the Goblins who’d never seen it, and even Hexel came over to inspect Oidhol’s work.

“That’s fast work. Although you’re using ceramics?”

“Good for cheap work, sir. Since your inn will be permanent, I figured the Wall Lord didn’t care to waste coin.”

The Drakes were a bit…leery around a Lamia, but nothing bad since Salazsar was a big city. Plus, Hexel was practically reassuring compared to Antinium, Goblins, or undead. Hexel nodded.

“What does Salazsar use if not that? We’re going to use copper piping.”

“We have a special blend alloy. Mix of steel, silver for purification, copper—it holds up decently. Hey, someone get a D11 straight for the [Architect]! [Quickwrap]—[Leak Check]—fitting’s done. Hey! That one has a leak!”

They were joining together pieces of pipe like a puzzle with rapid speed. Ilvriss stopped digging with some Antinium in the rain and watched as another section was put together. The [Plumbers] were halfway towards the outhouses already. Hexel smiled.

“It seems like you have the work well in hand, Master Plumber. I’d be interested in hiring you if you were free…?”

Oidhol glanced up at Ilvriss, then shook his head.

“Can’t, sir. Wall Lord Ilvriss has hired me for several months on retainer. I’m bound for the, uh, Cowpat Plains?”

Hexel paused.

“You poor man. Enjoy counterlevelling.”

He slithered off, shuddering, and Oidhol knelt in the rain a second. Ilvriss called down to him.

“I do appreciate you flying from Salazsar for this, Master Oidhol. I know it’s not the most crucial thing to many, but to me, it’s important…”

The Drake left the hole and stood in the rain. He was stocky, a working Drake in overalls, but he glanced at the Wall Lord.

“I was surprised to get the call, Wall Lord Ilvriss. But I thought it’d be an adventure. And if I’m needed—a Drake’s got to do his part.”

“And you are, Master Oidhol, believe me. I appreciate this too.”

Ilvriss held out a claw, because they hadn’t shaken hands. Oidhol hesitated.

“I’ve got a bit of a mess on me, Wall Lord—”

“Nonsense, man. I’ve been digging with you.”

The [Plumber] took Ilvriss’ claw and shook it, then smiled for half a second.

“I’ve never shaken hands with a Lord of the Walls before. You really are the strangest Wall Lord in Salazsar, if you don’t mind me saying so, sir.”

A few Drakes around him appeared scandalized, but Ilvriss just frowned.

“Surely that’s Wall Lord Tasilt. Or Wall Lord Brilm? I can see top five, but…me?”

A grin was his only response. Shy; Oidhol got back to work, unwilling to elaborate. Ilvriss just admired the toilets.

Then used one after Master Oidhol said he was done.

“Ahh.”

He sat back after cranking a knob next to the toilet seat. Which was still less-impressive than back in Salazsar where it was automatic or there was a button. But small things.

Bidets.

Bidets were a common-enough phenomenon among civilized species, which seemed to be few and far between in the world. The concept was simple, as Ilvriss had explained to Erin multiple times.

When one…finished their business on the toilet seat, there was usually a mess. In half the cases. When one had a mess on their posterior, there were a number of ways of dealing with it, as any Umbral Throne survivor could tell you.

Toilet paper was common. But expensive at times! Did you know what went into making the stuff? Leaves or sand had been used in lieu of it in less-rich places. Papyrus and [Cleanse] spells if you were just insane and magically-inclined.

Or…a hand…

Desperate times called for unspeakable measures. But ask yourself this: why use paper? Why not something more efficient like, say, heated water?

It was a bit complex, and Ilvriss would own that. You needed a [Plumber] and magic. In this case, a separate tank with a heating rune installed and another one that propelled water—and a valve to open and close the stream. But with the expertise Salazsar employed, you could get, on command, a jet of warm water aimed precisely at a dirty spot on your behind as you sat after finishing your business.

It wasn’t grosser than toilet paper, no matter what Erin said. It was less wasteful, and if you included a hot-air function, you had the most superior of cleansing systems. Ilvriss sat in the outhouse outside of The Wandering Inn, listening to the rain pattering down on the roof, and patted himself on the back for bringing a bit of civility here.

He heard the door to another outhouse open, close. Mercifully, no sound or smells as he let himself dry and checked the condition of the bidet. Excellent, most excellent.

Then—a scream.

Ilvriss emerged from his toilet just in time to see Lyonette du Marquin nearly explode out of hers. She was fiddling with her dress.

“What was—who put—”

Ah. She’d found the valve before he’d broken the good news to everyone. Ilvriss coughed.

“Ah, Lyonette. I’ve finally made good on my promise!”

She stared at him, red-faced, and he remembered he was hiding from her. Ilvriss hesitated.

“The bidet?”

“The—that’s not a prank? You use that?”

Lyonette pointed to her toilet, which was still shooting water up. Ilvriss eyed her and then turned to Master Oidhol. The two Drakes regarded Lyonette with disgust. She grew redder.

“Absolutely not! Take it out! Take it out—”

——

“Mrsha, your mother is an uncivilized donkey with similar hygiene on her rear end.”

“Mrsha, sweetie, tell Wall Lord Ilvriss not to spray water at ladies’ behinds without consent.”

“I don’t spray it at women’s behinds, Miss Marquin. I’m an equal-opportunity sprayer. Er…let me rephrase that.”

“Oh, no, don’t. You’ve made your point.”

Mrsha the Highly Uncomfortable sat as Lyonette and Ilvriss glared at each other as they stretched, preparing for their now-usual dance practice. She held up a card.

Can I go now?

“No!”

Both [Princess] and Wall Lord glared at each other. They were fighting. Ilvriss adjusted his slightly wet suit.

“Lyonette, I would have expected better of you. Erin is a savage, a lovely savage, but nonetheless. You’re from Calanfer, I’m told it has bidets, yes, Ser Dalimont?”

He turned to the man. Ser Dalimont the Equally Uncomfortable hesitated.

“We do have a number of facilities equipped to oblige all sensibilities, Wall Lord. But they’re not universal. Laying pipework in the Eternal Throne is very difficult.”

A fact the Porcelain Five had once found out. And a bidet would have really helped there, surely. Then again, there were times when toilet paper was necessary…Ilvriss frowned.

“But you have them. And you’ve never used one? Really, Lyonette.”

“I don’t believe I enjoy a [Water Jet] spell to the posterior, Wall Lord. And this is not a topic that a young girl should be hearing!”

Precisely. So if I can just go instead of listening to this fight—

Wall Lord Ilvriss’ tail lashed the ground as he bounced on the toes of his dancing boots. Lyonette finished lacing up the Highsteppers of House Lischelle, the new Heirloom Artifact she’d made that gave her three dances despite her weakened body and reflexes. The Wall Lord put his hands on his hips.

“I would have thought a [Princess], nay, a [Worldly Princess], would try more experiences, Miss Marquin. But it seems that you’re more hidebound than I thought.”

Oh snap. Ser Dalimont and Mrsha edged for the door as Lyonette’s cheeks flamed. Ilvriss regretted the comment at once. He had a bit of a…a sharp tongue. He hadn’t realized it until Nanette had pointed it out to him. Lyonette folded her arms as she hopped from foot to foot, like a [Boxer] warming up. He eyed her hands as she smiled sweetly.

“And you, Wall Lord Ilvriss, seem to keep projecting your Salazsarian values all over the people you meet. I suppose even when you’ve changed, you can’t help but look down on anyone who doesn’t share your exact culture, eh?”

That one stung. Because it dovetailed with Ilvriss’ entire experience in the town of Thirthoof and…well, the entire expedition. He stood still and didn’t jump into the first steps of the warmup song, Relz du Marqfin, as Ser Dalimont triggered the music.

Lyonette hesitated as she began to glide across the ground. She stopped, embarrassed.

“I—that might have been too far.”

“No, it’s quite accurate. I should have warned you rather than laughed about the bidet. I just wanted to give the opportunity, but it is high-and-mighty, isn’t it?”

“What? No, I’m just—”

Lyonette turned to Dalimont, and he gave her a thumbs up and motions to indicate she was on her own. She glared at him.

“I didn’t mean it, Ilvriss! And I admit, I was highly sheltered, so I never took advantage of the bidets when I could have. I apologize.”

“No, no, I do.”

“It’s a silly fight. I was just mad you were hiding from me, or so I felt—”

“Well, I was.”

He admitted that. Lyonette was a dancing fiend. Ever since she’d found out she could keep dancing despite her condition, she had him dancing.

And the Highstepper sucked. It was the most complicated, ankle-breaking dance Ilvriss had ever found in his life, and Lyonette insisted on practicing three dances with her boots…twice a day, since her boots would recharge enough for a second go-round after twelve hours.

One warmup dance, which was a ‘standard’ Terandrian or Izrilian dance, already damn complex. Next, the Highstepper. After Ilvriss stopped holding his shins and his heart-rate had dropped to under a hundred and eighty beats-per-minute, they tried Erin Solstice’s dance. After that, even Lyonette was so embarrassed she’d let him limp away to sit in a hot spring or collapse in the inn or something.

She just loved to dance. She was also highly competitive, and Ilvriss was somehow the only person who could dance in the entire damn inn.

No, wait, Dame Ushar and Ser Dalimont could do it. But the two Thronebearers refused to unless Lyonette or Ilvriss needed a sub-in for a second. Because they knew what would happen! Damn them! Weren’t they supposed to rise to any task?

Ilvriss brought this up after the first dance. Fifteen minutes of Relz du Marqfin—he was sweating despite the cold air!

“Lyonette, are you picking the longest songs to make those boots work longer?”

“Maybe. I admit the Relz is tiring. But we can do at least the first half of the Highstepper! In seven minutes. Ser Dalimont, the timer.”

“Of course, Your Highness. An orange?”

The man came around with orange slices, and Ilvriss eyed him.

“Surely, Ser Dalimont could oblige you by dancing when I’m not here, Lyonette.”

So you’re not so hellbent on me doing it? The [Knight] instantly smiled.

“Regretfully, Wall Lord, a Thronebearer must be in fine fettle to defend their charge. I cannot allow my legs to be compromised.”

“You damn Human.”

“This is surely a task only for a Drake, Wall Lord Ilvriss. I admit my inferiority with grace and happiness.”

Lyonette giggled at Ilvriss’ face. Then she nudged his leg a touch anxiously.

“You don’t mind it that much, do you, Ilvriss? We could cut it back, but I do look forwards to it…”

She seemed ready to desist, but so crestfallen that Ilvriss glanced at Ser Dalimont, then put a smile on his face.

“Not at all, Lyonette. It’s excellent footwork training. But maybe not the Highstepper every time? What if we did that only once a day?”

“I could do that. It does kill the limbs. Oh, what if we did some more Drake dances? There are Chandrarian ones I had Ushar buy manuals on to study—”

He groaned, but mildly. There was something to it when you got in the zone. When you knew all the steps and were whirling around, feet flying—

Then, he had to admit it, that’s when he felt like he was actually talented or—or had the same rush like you felt during some moment of extreme physical exertion. The sense of pure accomplishment, of knowing what came next.

It just embarrassed Ilvriss, because he could reach that height on the dance floor, but martial superiority on the battlefield had always eluded him. Then it was just tenseness, fighting underwater, swinging his sword, trying to take out his enemy and stay alive. Not the rush he sometimes heard other warriors, including his father, describe.

Grace.

When he rose to his feet, and the familiar Highstepper’s music came on, he and Lyonette saw someone watching them.

Colfa val Lischelle. And Himilt. The farmer nodded at the two, and Colfa called out.

“I had to drag Himilt here. I’ve wanted to dance in a real ballroom like this since I was a girl. No objections, Himilt.”

“I didn’t object to that, Colfa. I just objected to the part where you said it was the Highstepper.”

The Vampire was eying the grand ballroom floor, that glossy marble, with appreciation. No matter what he was, he was still a Vampire. And in his way, the quiet Himilt had a dignity unto royalty to match Lyonette and Ilvriss.

Who was he? At this moment, just another man suffering the Highstepper. Ilvriss locked eyes with Himilt and saw the Vampire grimacing as he stretched his hamstrings out. They nodded at each other as Lyonette and Colfa beamed.

——

“Come on, Wall Lord Ilvriss. Last dance.”

“No.”

He was curled up around his leg in pain. Colfa, panting, was trying to drag Himilt up by the leg.

“Stop being a baby, Himilt val Lischelle-Drakle. I forgot the Highstepper had that kick. Your leg isn’t broken.”

“It feels like it.”

“Well, you’ll heal in a minute. Up!”

Both men were on the floor. Holding hands. Ilvriss’ claw grasped Himilt’s gloved hand like a [Lover]. They held on as the [Princess] and Vampiress tried to drag them up.

Suffering. One of the Highstepper’s moves was the aforementioned swing-leg kick. A standby in line dances where you raised your leg, kicked out, kicked back, kicked to the side, to the left—an easy-enough move.

Everything the Highstepper did was to show off. So you did it so fast while facing each other before switching into another pattern that you had to be in perfect sync.

Do it out of order and you’d hit your partner with a boot to the shin with all your force. Which was enough to crack bones if Colfa did it. And Lyonette wasn’t far behind.

Ilvriss noted that he hadn’t hit Lyonette that hard. But he had a purple bruise on his scales. A huge one. He felt at the dented flesh as he sat up. Lyonette hesitated.

“Oh, um—I’m quite sorry, Ilvriss. Ushar? A small poultice, maybe? But we need to not heal ourselves or we’ll lose our muscle growth. Come on, we have three-fourths of the Highstepper down!”

They did. So Ilvriss got up after a moment, and they practiced Erin’s dance. Which was…something else.

All the frantic energy of the Highstepper, the intricate, maddening perfection of limb movements, wasn’t in Erin’s magical dance that Mrsha had found.

Oh, it was still high-energy. But there was something more graceful to it. It wasn’t for showing off. It was just—

Complex.

“Argh. Sorry—”

Lyonette performed a three-rotation spin into Ilvriss’ arms and hit his neck spines. Then she was a touch too slow when they went for a synchronized glide across the floor.

Colfa and Himilt watched; they had tried a more casual dance. This one…Ilvriss was sweating harder than he did practicing with the sword! But he seized Lyonette’s hand.

Walk four paces left, perform a three-step reversal, breakaway spin, and—

It was showy. Lyonette’s dress unfolded like a flower’s petals, and for a moment, he remembered Oteslia. The dance moved faster. It started slow, with the elegance of a Terandrian ballroom dance. Until—

He extended one leg as far as he could and stepped out, leaning back. Despite his weight being on the back foot, he pushed himself up until his front leg held the weight, and he spun his foot around, tracing a perfect circle.

His tail followed him, and the Wall Lord pushed off the ground. Twirled in the air. Landed—and Lyonette was there. She’d performed her half of the dance, and they met again. Locked eyes and smiled as he felt himself doing it.

Okay, this is amazing. They stepped sideways, minds straining to hold the dance together. It was supposed to be ten minutes of insanely complicated steps. Erin had fifty pages devoted to it, and it was so damn hard for Ilvriss to memorize that on top of everything else! Even Lyonette had problems, and she loved it.

But the more you danced it, the more you just sort of remembered what came next. Saw your partner doing it and fell into rhythm. Ilvriss swore he felt something as they strode backwards while facing each other. Like ice skaters moving backwards, despite looking forwards.

What had Kevin called it? Swing dancing, country, even a bit of disco—a blend of dance styles that even the Lord of the Dance would have had trouble cataloguing. Blended into one…

Gift of ghosts.

They were building to something, Ilvriss felt. The longer he and Lyonette stayed in-step for the dance, the more it felt natural. He forgot his aching shins, his tired limbs. He began to move, heedless of the vigor.

Stepping around her, like they were tracing a magical spell circle, turning, catching each other’s eyes, heart racing. Reaching for the impossible.

On the precipice—and then Ilvriss’ mind caught up to the dance’s flow. And he hesitated.

Just for a second.

Oh no.

Nononono, here it came—but he had to do it. It said that was the next part. He even had an audience today!

Damn you Erin Solstice! But he trusted her. He trusted that damn woman, so Ilvriss stopped whirling about. He turned to face Lyonette—threw up his arms—and began to shake his body left to right.

Like…a giant inflatable tube propelled upwards by hot air. Left, then right. Erin had even written a note that the Earthers had helpfully translated to Ilvriss.

‘Wacky inflatable tube dude dance’.

Woo! Woo! He did it from right to left, scales turning red as Colfa and Himilt stared at him. Ser Dalimont’s face was a study in perfect blankness. Then Ilvriss began to do Ksmvr’s dance. He squatted and shook his fists out up and down. First on his right side, then his left.

It wasn’t…a bad dance. And if you were an Antinium, you had a lot less mobility so it fit. It just wasn’t—

It wasn’t a fitting damn dance for this.

The humiliation of this moment might never be exceeded. Ilvriss had done it in front of the Goblin and Antinium staff, Mrsha, Nanette—it still burned his scales like Dragonfire.

But he did it because the sacred texts said to do it. His one consolation was seeing Lyonette, face red as a tomato, flapping her arms and shaking her posterior.

The quack-quack duck dance. They stared at each other until Colfa and Himilt couldn’t take it any longer and burst out laughing.

“Colfa!”

Lyonette shrieked, and they gave up doing the next moves, which were just as humiliating. And Ilvriss thought—

She has to have done that just to annoy them. Somehow, she knew Ilvriss would be the one doing this, and Erin had done this just to spite him. But there was a part of him that felt—

Horribly—

Like that was actually part of the dance. Somehow.

——

“I don’t get it. She put Ksmvr’s dance in there, and it was not invented until recently. She has to be lying. She has to be.”

After that dance, Ilvriss sat, gulping water and going over the dance again.

“It says there, in writing, Lyonette ‘must do this dance’.”

She glared at him.

“It also says, ‘hilarious, get Ulvama to do it’. It’s a prank!”

“Well, why does it feel halfway accurate?”

She threw up her hands.

“I don’t know! I’ll ask her next time she calls Ishkr, Mrsha, or Nanette! I’d ask, but—”

She paused, and Ilvriss stopped gulping water.

“You still haven’t told her? Your class?”

“I…don’t want to make her worry.”

“Lyonette, you have to—”

“She stresses! My turn’s coming up; she calls once a week, and she’s rotating through Ishkr, myself, Mrsha, and Nanette. Just give her time, Ilvriss. I…you do the wacky arms dance very well.”

“Thank you. And I admire your quack-quack dance.”

Red-faced, the [Princess] went to nudge him, then just sat next to Ilvriss. They were covered in sweat, and silly dances or not, Ilvriss had to admit he felt like he’d earned his supper. They breathed in and out.

“How’s the camp?”

“Marvus keeps attacking us. He hasn’t noticed the undead, but Nerul was right. He keeps coming, damnit. He’s too high-level.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t have a solution for—”

“It’s fine. My [Recruiters] say I have more workers coming, actually. A lot of them. With Emperor Godart’s people, we’ll have plenty of hands. So long as we counter the undead, it’s fine. And we’ve found a number of items the [Miners]—we think they were [Miners]—had. High-artifact grade objects. I’ve had our [Mages] looking at them. Nothing’s trapped. I wish we could prevail upon Fissival’s Scholarium, but…”

“Really? I thought it was hard to recruit.”

Ilvriss shrugged as he sat up.

“Apparently, some new hire made a splash. I’m riding back in the morning, and that’s good news. About the magical items—do you think Master Hedault would have time to look at them? My peers in Salazsar would cause a huge fuss about them, and I might not get the items back.”

“Hedault? Of course! And Valeterisa could do it.”

“She won’t steal them? Where is she, by the by?”

That worried Ilvriss, because he knew Valeterisa, but Lyonette just smiled.

“She’s in the mountains building her academy. Apparently, they’re actually making progress—Magus Grimalkin and Lady Pryde are there a lot too. If you have a chance, you should stay to greet them. I’ll have a word with her. If she wants funding, she’ll behave.”

And that was why this was all excusable, Ilvriss’ desire for company aside. He exhaled.

“In that case, I’ll ride back but send samples over here. With Welsca. It’s a good cover story. I’ll say it’s a reward for her latest Skill.”

“Oh, what did she get?”

“[Fast Travel]…”

They were chatting after their dancing as they had done for any number of his visits now. Ilvriss’ stomach growled, and Lyonette pointed at it.

“Let’s get some food in you.”

“What’s on the menu in the inn?”

“Nothing. I thought we’d go to Tails and Scales. If you’re free?”

“Are you sure?”

Didn’t she like to save money in the inn? And Chef Calescent had feelings, but Lyonette sighed.

“Actually, we want to give Calescent a break. He’s made food, but he needs a vacation! Imani is feeding him and the members of the staff. We had an incident with Liska. Everyone needs time off!”

“Excellent. Well, I won’t turn down Lasica’s cooking, and Rufelt does a wonderful non-alcoholic cocktail.”

“Didn’t you take my daughter there the other day?”

Lyonette eyed him, but before Ilvriss could apologize, she waved it off.

“I heard about Selys. Let’s talk it out over dinner. Ugh, and did you know Taimaguros is in Izril?”

“No. Do we hate them? I mean, more than I’m supposed to hate Terandrians in general as a good Drake? There are a few nations we extra-hate…I think Taimaguros is on the list? What’re they actually like, Lyonette?”

He pushed himself up, and Lyonette sighed.

“They’re very odd. Taima or Guros and no in-between. And between you and me, they’re one of the few kingdoms that actually practices prima nocta. I thought it was a joke—”

“Er, I don’t know that one.”

“Ah…how should I explain it?”

They were headed for the doors to the ballroom when Mrsha the Changed threw the doors open. She stood there as Wall Lord Ilvriss tensed for a disaster, and Lyonette blinked.

“Mrsha? What’s wrong?”

The girl held up a card.

Bidets are superior.

The Wall Lord felt a smile appear on his lips. His heart lifted, and his chest puffed out. Lyonette’s expression turned into a scowl.

“Mrsha, what happened to mother-daughter loyalty? Don’t you take Wall Lord Ilvriss’ side just because it’s novel. We don’t need one in the new inn! Give me one reason why it’s good.”

The girl gazed up at her mother solemnly.

Mother? I have fur.

“Ah. Well—”

Ilvriss shook Mrsha’s paw.

“Would you like to join us at Tails and Scales, Miss Mrsha? This uncivilized scion of Marquin the Radiant is keeping me company, but I would prefer a decent guest.”

Lyonette began to scold Mrsha and Ilvriss as they walked out the doors, smirking.

——

Those were the good moments. But there were always the bad ones, after.

Wall Lord Ilvriss stood in Liscor’s square and watched people throwing produce at Krshia Silverfang as she tried to deliver a speech. She dodged a rotten Yellat. Tried to keep speaking—but the rain of refuse got too heavy, and she had to retreat.

Then he saw Lism stepping forwards to jeers.

“Listen, you idiots—do you want the old Council back? What we do in private is our business!”

“Traitor!”

“We trusted you!”

They kept hurling objects. Wall Lord Ilvriss glanced around, wondering if there was a moment for him to say something. But there were Humans in the crowd. Gnolls and Drakes, and he wasn’t Liscorian. He watched Lism take a flying tomato, and then the two Councilmembers were covering each other. Making their way away.

When Ilvriss began his long ride back to the dig site, Welsca handed him something.

Two brawls. 86 injured. Undead attack—3 dead, 33 injured. Two urgent complaints from dig teams. Liuss’ family has responded via [Message] spell.

That last one—Wall Lord Ilvriss arranged for meetings. A tour of the wounded. Made sure the dead were being compensated, and scheduled a briefing with Major Shellc for whenever he was free. And arranged for the correspondence from Salazsar to be on his desk. And for Master Plumber Oidhol to be given whatever he needed to begin work right away. All of this was his regular work.

But the hard part was…Liuss.

——

Wall Lord Ilvriss knew how to deal with someone who had died in the line of duty or work. A disaster in the mines was horrible. It reflected on him and his company. If it could be prevented, he and Alrric would change things to ensure it didn’t happen again. If it was negligence, someone not following protocols, that would be uncovered.

Same with the monsters. People knew this was a dangerous dig. It was not…better. But it was easier, if that made sense. Because there were protocols to follow, as insulting as that might be to the individuals.

But Liuss?

Liuss was the Drake who’d climbed the fence at the cookout the Lischelles had hosted. Just a lad. A well-to-do family’s son who’d been part of Wall Lord Dramm’s crew. A fool who’d thought to ‘get back’ at the Lischelles the only way he knew how, egged on by his friends.

The bull had killed him very fast. It hadn’t been the Lischelles’ fault for once. They had been explicit enough with the warnings, and there’d been a fence.

No one went into a bull’s territory without using a [Sleep] wand first. So…it was not the boy’s fault. Ilvriss would never blame the dead.

But how did he explain it to the family? There was a temptation, which Ilvriss had half-embraced, to lie. If he said Liuss had been defending the camp or—or safeguarding House Gemscale’s interests, that was a nondescript way of saving face, right?

He couldn’t tell the boy’s parents that he’d died doing something stupid to no end. But lying—lying like that would mean those Drakes held it against the Lischelles and the north in general. It was also a disservice to the [Soldiers] who were risking their lives.

In the end, Ilvriss had compromised. He’d written vaguely about a horrible accident during negotiations. Let them dig and find out the whole story, but he’d added as much respect to Liuss’ name as possible.

That was not the end of it. The family had lost their boy. Liuss’ parents had written back. Asking questions—Ilvriss had put Wall Lord Dramm in charge of speaking to them personally. It was not his fault exactly, but he’d been there and the ranking Drake, damn it.

Communications continued. Ilvriss had taken a scrying orb call with the parents, a dry-eyed affair that was painfully polite. Eyes boring into him as he told the [Gem Merchant] duo how appalled he was. How Liuss had been so well loved.

Lie. But that’s what they wanted to hear, wasn’t it? That their son had been what he was to them: a hero. There had been questions.

Had the bull been unsupervised? Well, yes, damnit, it was a bull. Had it been charging? Maybe Liuss had been onto something—why were these Humans allowed to attack us?

Ilvriss had entertained it. Let them shape their own narratives. Right up until the last bit. Which was the final straw.

A missive had come for him, requesting that Wall Lord Ilvriss cite Liuss for a medal under Salazsar’s commendation system. Civilians and soldiers got different kinds of awards, often with a monetary reward because that was Drakes. For true heroism, you could even receive property or—

They wanted Ilvriss to commend their son with the Stoutscale Award, a medal for civilians who had performed acts of extreme valor despite risk to their life. It was a prestigious award—and half the recipients were posthumously awarded it. The [Representative] had written carefully to tell Wall Lord Ilvriss that all the grieving family wanted was his recommendation to the committee, nothing more.

And that they’d forgo the reward customary for the medal and donate it back to the city.

Wall Lord Ilvriss refused. He should have put his foot down before this. Shouldn’t have danced around the truth as much. Well, he’d tried to be respectful to the dead, to the family, but not this.

“No medals. Inform Wall Lord Dramm he is to withdraw his recommendation.”

“But sir—”

The young man who’d deliver the message was one of Liuss’ friends. Ilvriss glanced up, once, eyes flashing.

“Wall Lord Dramm will be asked to testify on truth stone if this proposal goes through. The scandal of a proposal being rejected after certification by Dramm is not one he wishes to have. The committee records such events.”

“Yes, Wall Lord.”

No medal. Ilvriss would not lie. He wrote a curt message back to the [Representative] informing him of that in no uncertain terms, and that he would not entertain similar untruths.

The next day, they put a story in the newspaper about him.

——

Wall Lord Ilvriss’ disastrous expedition in the north!

That was the headline. Wall Lord Ilvriss stopped drinking tea and flipped the newspaper over. The Miner’s Report, the leading newspaper in Salazsar. The war with Fissival was on the bottom of the page. He went back to reading the subheadings.

Multiple brave sons and daughters of Salazsar dead.

Daily brawls with Humans, unsanitary working conditions?

Allegations of an affair with a [Princess]?

Is this the Wall Lord we need?

He read in silence as Xesci and some of his staff waited. They were uncomfortable. Ilvriss just exhaled.

“Let me know if Alrric faces trouble.”

“Should we write to the newspaper, sir? We could complain—”

Ilvriss tossed the newspaper down.

“Let them talk. I’m sure I deserve some of it. They’ll keep talking until they get bored or I switch the narrative. That’s how it works. Has my Uncle sent a message?”

“No, Wall Lord.”

“Then we continue.”

The second Golem attack came shortly after he approved Osthia’s budget for a memorial service. Long-ranged arrows fired from some kind of Centaur-Golem sniper, according to witnesses.

Four. Ilvriss’ ring caught two. He dodged one.

The last one broke three ribs and, he imagined, hadn’t been meant to kill him. The arrowtips were blunted. He drank a healing potion and lay through the night in mild agony until Courier Salamani raced into camp with a healing scroll, courtesy of The Wandering Inn.

Got back to work. That was the day that Damia Reinhart rode into his camp.

——

Today was going to be an amazing day.

It took two days to travel from the door outside of the Cowpat Plains to Ilvriss’ base camp on foot. Well, foot, horse, wagon—theirs was a huge group.

Silverfangs, recruits from Liscor, Esthelm, Invrisil, and everywhere else that Damia had talked up Wall Lord Ilvriss’ campaign. Not to mention Varnie, the [Gang Boss] that Damia had so dramatically rescued from the noose.

That gave her some social credit. More than being a [Lady] or the one who’d recruited everyone. Enough for the Silverfangs to actually be open and friendly, despite their experiences in the north and Damia’s reputation as, well, a Reinhart.

And Gnolls were, like everything else in Liscor, interesting. Damia couldn’t get enough of talking to them.

“So all your Named-rank adventurers actually know each other and get along? Ours fight like Gnolls and Dr—I mean, Crelers and everything else!”

She put her foot in it and blushed, but Huntress Rayna just laughed.

“No offense taken, Lady Damia. That’s the one true saying you northerners have of the south. Our Named-ranks meet, yes. We make a point of introducing them to each other.”

“Like one introduces pets to each other. An analogy they do not care for, yes?”

Irit was riding with them. Rayna, Irit were both young leaders of this group in the north, and Damia had naturally fallen in with them. With so many Honored Gnolls who’d passed and the tribe split up between the Meeting of Tribes, their old mines, Liscor, and the north, there were a lot of younger Gnolls in authority.

Damia thought that was a good thing. It interested her that Rayna and Irit had openly wished for seniors to be around. It was, apparently, not fun to suddenly have to take charge when you weren’t ready for it.

“So they meet with, what, mediators?”

Irit nodded.

“[Shamans]. So they can get along, know each other, and if there is trouble, ally. They don’t have to like each other, but we are Gnolls. At the mercy of Drakes, you see? So when push comes to shove—”

“You don’t turn on each other. Well, obviously. Smart. Selphids do the same thing. If our Named-ranks did that, we’d have so much less infighting.”

“It’s not easy. There’s always one known grudge. Before the Meeting of Tribes, entire tribes held huge grudges. They still do, but we can’t afford it now. So we’re all one big, happy family.”

“About as functional as mine?”

More laughter. Damia revelled in it, even if it was self-deprecation. More than one Human was listening to her, including Binevy and Sule. She’d impressed them too. Not a bad thing.

Actually, the only unhappy person was Sule. He’d lasted about half a second against Primera when Damia had pulled her stunt, and the farm boy-turned-[Bodyguard] didn’t mind his job.

But he had sort of been hoping Damia was one of those licentious Reinharts. The ones who slept with their bodyguards.

…It took a curious sort to join House Reinhart.

However, Damia was a Level 16 [Sharp Dame]. Two levels from her recruiting, four from helping Varnie escape Lord Xitegen.

She sort of wished she’d gotten more, but six levels in such a short amount of time, even for someone as low-level as Damia? She’d take it.

One of the things she’d won was a loyalty-Skill for Varnie.

[Loyalty of the Low]. Slightly unflattering, but it sounded good. Another was [Bridge the Gap]—a Skill that Damia assumed was because she was being friendly with people?

Only, it worked on…both ideas as well as things. Damia had used it to be more at-home with the Gnolls, and she used it again now.

“Whoops, pothole.”

Her horse had nearly ridden into some stupid mudhole. Instead, its hooves clattered on pieces of wood, and everyone glanced down.

“Nice Skill, yes?”

“It’s called [Bridge the Gap]. It, uh, works? I wish it were more powerful.”

“Better than nothing.”

The others rode over the gap in the mudhole, calling out warnings as people walking behind skirted it. A lot of Gnolls were on foot, but Damia had secured a horse for herself and her people, and Rayna rode in case of trouble.

Rayna’s horse tried to walk on the artificial bridge of not-quite-perfect planks of wood, perhaps a symbol of Damia’s level, but it vanished after barely eight seconds. Her horse’s hooves splashed in the muck, and she cursed as it got on her fur.

“Turn my fur white—right before our meeting with the Wall Lord!”

“Rayna, you can’t say that anymore!”

Irit called over, and Rayna blushed as Damia fumbled for a water flask. But before she could offer it, someone jogged over at a speed that made her eyes boggle. Also, the Gnoll with a fur coat like a grizzly bear and stature to match was so tall he was almost of a height with her—mounted!

“Rayna, my hunting heart, your fur! Here. I didn’t see you this morning.”

“Thamert, I’m fine. It’s just mud.”

Embarrassed, the [Huntress] snatched the water flask the Gnoll held, and Damia eyed him.

Dead gods, he is the biggest Gnoll I have ever seen in my life. The Minotaur at that brothel seemed small-chested compared to him. He smiled at her.

“So this is Lady Damia? Greetings, Lady. I am Thamert, Rayna’s fiancé and [Mine Leader] in the north.”

“We’re not engaged anymore, Thamert!”

Rayna snapped at him. He flicked his ears and put a hand over his chest.

“I would raise a family with you, Rayna. Just tell me to go and I’ll—”

“Get out of here!”

She kicked at him, leaning over her horse, and he exhaled hugely. His head fell, and Damia eyed Rayna.

“If that’s the case—”

“Oh shut up, we’re not breaking up. Just get lost—you’re embarrassing me!”

His head rose once more, and the huge Gnoll beamed.

“My lovely, spirited, fiery huntress—”

Damia did her utmost not to laugh, and Irit bit his tongue as his shoulders shook. Rayna dared them to laugh as she rode forwards, wiping at her fur.

“That’s…he’s too important to ignore, despite how he acts. Never mind that. We’re just seeing each other. Not engaged.”

“That’s an Ekhtouch Gnoll, isn’t he?”

Damia took the time to ogle Thamert’s backside as he strode off. He had to be. Rayna nodded, and Irit explained.

“During the Meeting of Tribes, the Ekhtouch tribe and ours became friendly. It’s a custom of theirs to arrange marriages. It is, to them, what their tribe creates.”

Superior Gnolls. Damia nodded; she’d read up on the tribes. She glanced at Rayna.

“But you called it off?”

“Chieftain Gireulashia changed the practice. Plus, with the tribes in disarray, she lifted a bunch of restrictions on their clan. They can have more children, and she broke off engagements. Some of them left. Others stayed. I was engaged, but since we’re so busy, I don’t have time for children.”

“Ah, but you’re still seeing him?”

The [Huntress] grumbled as she shifted around in her saddle.

“Well…yes. He’s the one who wants children. He doesn’t have to grow them! Thamert’s a [Miner]. If you get a chance, watch him swing a pickaxe. He makes it look like a work of art.”

“I wouldn’t miss that for the world.”

Damia glanced back and got a boot in the leg. More laughter until a hither-to silent woman broke in.

“So that’s who the tall Gnolls are. Gave me itching down my spine. Yon [Miner] doesn’t look like he’s more than just a fellow who could throw a punch. The other one makes me nervous.”

Varnie. The [Gang Leader] was a bit subdued after having her gang destroyed, despite being saved. But she glanced over her shoulder, and this time, it was Rayna’s turn to grin.

“That’s Sadr. She throws things. Daggers, arrows—I saw her throw a stick straight through a wheel of cheese. She was also engaged, but she broke it all the way off. Came north because it was too awkward. She’s interested in you, Irit.”

The [Shaman] sighed.

“She just wants to be highly placed in the Silverfang tribe.”

“Eh, she likes you.”

Varnie glanced between the joking Gnolls, then turned to Damia.

“A Gnoll with a [Thrower] class? One of them fancy Gnolls? Mind if I recruit her for th’ gang, boss lady?”

The two Silverfangs went still and turned to Damia. The [Lady] smiled.

“You can make her an offer, Varnie, but I don’t want to offend our friends here. Next time, ask me in private.”

“Right, I suppose that’s a fancy way of doing that. So is that a yes or no…?”

“Mm, a yes. Very politely.”

Employees. Binevy was Damia’s right hand who kept things organized. Sule was her [Bodyguard]. And Varnie was the person who could do things. She’d said as much to Damia.

“Anyone who pulls me out of a noose deserves a fair turn. Can’t say I’ll be here forever, but let’s make a deal: I pay off my debt and see where you’re going. If I need to jump ship, I’ll do it nice and honorable, even if I run off in the night. No leavin’ with all your gold. Face’s honor.”

Damia just had to convince Varnie she wanted to work for the [Dame]. And she had a Face as an employee.

A wonderful day. Irit began to protest to Damia that they couldn’t just lose Sadr, whom he really didn’t mind, you know, it was just that she sometimes got pushy and he was his own Gnoll at the moment—when they finally spotted the dig site. Damia stood up in her saddle and gasped as she saw the huge piles of dirt excavated from the ground, orderly tents, and Drakes on patrol! She inhaled—

Then retched, and everyone laughed. All the Gnolls had nose plugs in.

“I think I swallowed a fly. Water, water!”

“You spat it out, Miss.”

Sule pointed, and Damia croaked at him.

“What do you think the flies live in? Water—water—”

Her stomach roiled at the very thought. Damia gargled, then felt so nauseous she leapt from the saddle as the Drakes saw them arrive and came out to greet the huge convoy of people. She rushed for the outhouses, clearly marked, and threw herself into one.

She did not vomit, but sat there as her stomach settled. Damia Reinhart schooled herself.

I’m meeting with Wall Lord Ilvriss. The Wall Lord Ilvriss.

He’s the closest thing to the inn besides Liska. Closer since he’s so important! I need to make a great first impression. Plus, he’s single.

She sat on the toilet, adjusting her riding dress, searching around for some perfume. The outhouse was actually very pleasant; it was newly-built of wood, it seemed, so fresh it gleamed. There was a sink to the side, a hanging charm that made it so no bad scents remained.

Dead gods, this is classier than many of the privies in our mansion! Damia stared at the working sink and turned a knob. Water began to flow at once!

“Is this…plumbing?”

Out here? In the middle of nowhere? She was dumbstruck! The newly-refurbished outhouse was classy! Was this all down to Salazsarian gold? She stared around, then noticed there was a handle on the toilet.

It flushed? And there was a button on the side of the outhouse. It had a bunch of little lines radiating upwards and a little tail lifting above it.

What the heck did that do? Damia pressed the button. Heard a gurgling sound. Then screamed.

——

“Silverfangs?”

Wall Lord Ilvriss stood outside his dig site, and [Clan Leader] Plisce looked worried.

“You, ah, did not send for us, Wall Lord?”

“Not specifically. My recruiters were searching for anyone with mining or digging Skills, and of course, if I’d thought to ask…! Welcome, Ancestors, come in! We’ll have to have a celebration in your honor! How is Chieftain Akrisa? And—how many Humans?”

There were so many! Ilvriss was astonished! And gratified! He’d heard they were numerous, but this was all down to—

“Lady Damia? I was told we hired her on a provisional basis, but I confess, I haven’t met her in person.”

He had to improvise. Reassure the worried Gnolls and others that this was all part of the plan. But internally, Ilvriss was a bit disconcerted.

Some [Lady] had hired the lot of these people. For what? The gold was his assumption. She was owed quite a sum of it. He just worried these people were here under false duress or something, or she’d made outlandish promises.

But Plisce assured Ilvriss he’d read the contract and just wanted to negotiate a bulk rate for his people.

“The [Lady] reminded us of your deeds at the Meeting of Tribe, Wall Lord, and I shall confess, we wished to see the Cowpat Plains. It has been…hard finding land.”

Ah, Ilvriss saw the issue now. He rubbed his neck spines wearily.

“The old rights issue, eh?”

“From south to north, nothing changes. But perhaps here—”

“The locals are not friendly to Drakes, just so you know, Clan Leader. Speaking frankly, associating with my company might poison the well ahead of time. If you want to enjoy our hospitality while you deliberate, I won’t hold you to any contracts. I’d be delighted to—not make introductions since that wouldn’t go well, but give you names and locations of the leaders here.”

The Gnoll smiled.

“Ah, there is some generosity. Let us see, Wall Lord. I do want to earn money, and yours is the only digging job around! As for the hostility, everyone claims we are welcome and that they are ‘not like those Drakes’. If they mean it, they shall prove it.”

Fair enough. Ilvriss shook hands with Plisce and was giving orders to get everyone settled. But where was Damia—?

A scream that sounded somewhat familiar came from the new outhouses that Master Plumber Oidhol had just laid. Ilvriss turned as a young woman exploded out of them. She turned, saw everyone staring, and put her hands behind her dress.

“I just pressed a button and—oh no. Run me over, it’s a bidet. I’ve heard of those!”

She had a rather visible stain on her—she must have been sitting on the toilet clothed and the button activated—Wall Lord Ilvriss saw Damia Reinhart turn, spot him, and turn crimson, then pale.

He coughed as he averted his eyes and waved for someone to run a towel over. Or something. Wall Lord Ilvriss was worried Damia was dangerous. But he had to admit, she seemed a bit…young.

——

Damia was so embarrassed by her first meeting with the Wall Lord she put her head under a pillow and refused to come out of the guest tent.

Good first impression—failure. She could only show him she was a friend of the inn. Someone he wanted to meet!

Certainly, the Wall Lord seemed to need to make use of her. He was speaking to Binevy, Clan Leader Plisce, and a representative from Riverfarm.

“—have had issues with, er, Drake culture from Salazsar with our workers before. I refuse to let any prejudices affect the Silverfangs we employ.”

“One thing to say it, another thing to act on it. I have heard your company does better than most with Gnolls, but we have our own ways. How would we do this, Wall Lord?”

Ilvriss glanced at Damia as Binevy waved the [Lady] over.

“Liaisons. Diligent oversight. My personal staff will take part, and I hope you would do the same and relay any complaints to me personally, Plisce. I have an expert named Xesci—and I believe I should like to request Lady Damia do the same.”

He wanted to make sure the Humans, Gnolls, and Drakes got along? Damia brightened up. She saw a number of important people gathered around Wall Lord Ilvriss.

A Drake with one eye and an artificial leg spoke next.

“Operational security is also important. I am Major Shellc, in charge of the [Soldiers]. We have both a monster danger and a number of irregular Humans who come out and, for lack of a better word, brawl. It’s not a conventional job.”

“Which is why I shall pay for these unexpected contingencies and offer compensation for injuries and accidents, but I want to be up front about all of this. Lady Damia, I do appreciate your hard work, but if you’ve heard of me, I have some requests of you, pending full acceptance of your recruits.”

Wall Lord Ilvriss was precise, clear-spoken, and had everyone’s attention as he laid out expectations and background in a fast manner. He was, in Damia’s eyes, a successful, seasoned [Lord] who could make things happen.

Everything she wanted to be. He eyed her with a hint of a smile, and she smiled.

“Absolutely, Wall Lord. I am here to help! Say the word and I’ll be on it—like—that!”

So saying, she took a step, did a twirl, and raised her fingers. Damia Reinhart gave Wall Lord Ilvriss a pair of finger guns and her biggest smile.

She’d heard from Timbor they did that in The Wandering Inn. The Wall Lord stared at Damia’s finger guns.

Major Shellc bit his tongue. Clan Leader Plisce began to laugh then started choking. One of the Drakes next to Ilvriss rolled his eyes up into his head as he cringed. Damia Reinhart turned red.

Ilvriss turned and coughed-laughed, then smiled at Damia as she lowered her hands.

“I…I have nothing but the utmost confidence in you, Lady Damia. I just remind everyone that House Gemscale is a company, and I hope to deliver the utmost professionalism between all working groups. Thank you.”

Damia smiled until he was done. She went around, shaking hands, and then went back into her tent and hid her head under a pillow again.

——

Based on just…how he’d met her, Ilvriss doubted Damia was some kind of spy. She wasn’t that incompetent either, according to Welsca.

“She’s asked questions and not objected to me giving her requests, Wall Lord. Despite her, ah, antics.”

“Remind you of anyone?”

“The [Innkeeper] or the Runner?”

Welsca’s face indicated what she thought of a potential Erin or Ryoka-clone, but Ilvriss just chuckled.

“There’s a possibility she’s an excellent spy for her family. Keep an eye on her, but I doubt it. They’re good at acting. But [Spies] tend to want to be impressive. It’s an ego thing.”

Bideting oneself and finger guns either made her a super-spy or an interesting [Lady]. They’d find out which soon. Ilvriss rubbed at his ribs. Welsca put down her notes anxiously. She’d rushed back from Invrisil when she’d heard about the attack.

“Are you still healing, sir?”

“I’m fine. The damn Golem wasn’t shooting to kill. I bet the next one will just break my legs or something.”

Was this hope for peace between Terlands and Salazsar? Or a sign they wanted him to suffer before death? Ilvriss sighed.

“Tell me something good, Welsca. Please. I could use a morale boost. I’ve got upset [Miners]—about the working conditions, no doubt—rogue undead tunneling around me, the damn Terlands, the Lischelles and every other [Rancher] clan, and my thighs hurt. I need a victory.”

All his good mood had evaporated with the anti-Salazsarian press and being shot. He didn’t know how Erin did it. The Drake didn’t have to hunt.

“It’s all worth it, Wall Lord. Even the [Ladies] with the finger…guns.”

“What? I thought that was the best part of my day so far. I nearly died not laughing. I just didn’t want to humiliate the poor girl any further.”

Welsca eyed Ilvriss and shook her head.

“Each to their own, Wall Lord. Here’s your victory: the artifacts were appraised by Master Hedault, Master Grimalkin, and Archmage Valeterisa. They’re not cursed. They are some of the highest-grade artifacts the trio have ever seen. There is nothing in all of Salazsar better than this.”

She placed a pickaxe on his desk, and Wall Lord Ilvriss sat up. He was reminded of what Miner Georgie had found.

Gear from the dead [Miners]. Enchanted, but…Ilvriss picked up the pickaxe. He admired the silver-blue metal he couldn’t place and the visible runes on the haft of the pickaxe. Despite its age, it hadn’t disintegrated or worn down. It felt light, barely a pound, but when he swung it, it had heft.

“Okay, we knew it was probably what we wanted. We still don’t know why there’s a mine around the lost Walled City of Purity. But that’s a bold claim, Welsca. Tune it back a notch, though I appreciate it.”

She gave him a level look and a hint of a smile.

“Wall Lord, I had to fight to keep the [Mages] off this loot. I only made it out because Miss Mrsha and Miss Nanette attacked them with water orbs or something nonsensical. Go ahead and try the pickaxe out. You’re familiar with our Advance Miner gear for infested areas?”

“Yes…”

Ilvriss stood slowly. He cast around, then coughed.

“Isn’t there some stone in Dig Site #1? There’s a huge chunk of granite. Let’s go there and, ah…do we have one of those picks?”

——

Advance Miner gear usually was the best. Or the kind of gear that Alrric had been issued when he led by example.

The best pickaxes, shovels, and even helmets came from all over Izril’s south. You could buy the best, so Salazsar put together equipment kits; each company had their own brand. It was very nuanced, and Ilvriss himself was rather into it.

“This is a Foreman’s Pick. Pallassian Grade-1 steel. Enchanting is Fissivalian—a Level 30 [Enchanter]’s work. If I’m not wrong, it’s [Protection], [Lightweight], and [Sharpness]. We used to have [Impact], but it blew grit back in the faces of the miners. Oh, and the handle’s Sturdy Oak from Oteslia. Mildly magical on its own. This is a helmet—Yoldenite-made. So that means magicore lining with leather bindings. Protection and cooling enchantments.”

They were some of the best items in Salazsar, and Ilvriss was proud to say that every [Foreman] or Advance Miner got gear of commensurate quality. Obviously, you mixed and matched what you had; pieces wore out, and the best pick would eventually break down from the hard use.

He flipped the pickaxe up and swung it into one of the granite walls. Granite was a hard stone, and Ilvriss didn’t swing it that hard. There was a satisfying crack, and he smiled. Then eyed the crack.

“Weird blue streak in the granite. What’s this stone?”

“Our people identified it as a variant of greywacke, Wall Lord. Annoying, which is why we went past it. Feldspar pockets, see?”

Ilvriss took another swing, harder, sidelong, and grunted as his pickaxe hit the hard seam and rebounded. He’d chunked out a bit more of the seam, but after six swings, he barely crumpled in a small section.

“Damn. No wonder it’s slow going at times. And this is with an enchanted pickaxe! Well, our [Miners] have Skills—one of them could beat me even with a regular steel one, eh? Now, where’s our superior artifact?”

He accepted the other pickaxe, and it was so much lighter that when Ilvriss took it, he nearly slapped himself in the chin. He made a show of inspecting the tip—it wasn’t even that sharp, pickaxes not really needing to be, but still—and then test-swung it.

He was…a tad bit defensive. Obviously, they’d come to dig for just this: artifacts of old. But Naamreles had been the City of Purity, not the City of Digging! Salazsar might have lost a lot, but dead gods damnit, they knew pickaxes!

“Didn’t this thing glow red when Georgie ran into the monsters? I suppose it’s a safety measure—can we copy the enchantments?”

“Not easily, Wall Lord, but Enchanter Hedault said it is a possibility.”

“I suppose he needs one. Well, we could give it to Salazsar too, but then the teleporting rabbit’s really out of the bag, eh?”

If he needed more support, he’d do that, but he wanted to keep this from his peers for as long as possible. Because once they knew, they’d grab.

Was that too Drake of him? They needed this. The world did. Ilvriss had spent months here, and this was only a fraction of the bounty required. So yes, he wanted to find the treasure, damnit, and he’d spread it to whoever needed it, but not some grab-bag with all of his peers trying to hoard this, thank you! He’d take it—and, uh, un-hoard it!

Ilvriss sighed.

“Once we get more, I’ll consider it.”

Welsca hesitated.

“We have more, Wall Lord. Four sets. Not all complete since we think the undead are wearing some of the gear, but pickaxes, helmet, lanterns—even some clothing, though that has deteriorated.”

“We what?”

Ilvriss half-pivoted in his swing. He’d been so concerned about Osthia and the actual attack he’d not paid attention to the artifacts since they had to get them evaluated. His swing was completely off target. Ilvriss swung around, head turning to Welsca—

—and completed a three hundred and sixty degree rotation. The Drake’s head turned as someone made a faint sound. His bad pickaxe swing had hit the granite and greywacke and gone straight through and out the other side.

He had barely felt it. The Wall Lord peered back at the horizontal gash.

“I—that was—hold on now.”

He stared down at the pickaxe. Then swung it again, vertically this time.

He split the hardened seam in the granite wall, cutting through the wall like a man parting grass with a machete. The Wall Lord saw dirt and stone falling to the sides. He swung the pickaxe sideways, got it lodged in the stone as he failed to cut with the pick—yanked it out, and stared at the mess he’d made.

Ilvriss had seen Level 40 [Stonebreaker Miners] at work before. An old Drake had shown him a Skill when he’d been a lad, touring the mines.

[Cut Stone Like Water]. He’d swung his pickaxe like that for all of two hours before needing a rest at his age, due to his arthritis. But that one Drake alone had done the work of multiple teams until he retired.

That—was like this tool Ilvriss held. The Wall Lord shakily glanced around.

“Where’s the Foreman’s Pick? Maybe it’s bad stone. Try—”

One of his people lifted their pick and hit the stone wall, clearly thinking to move it like Ilvriss’—

The pickaxe bounced off and vibrated out of the Drake’s grasp. It fell into the dirt. Ilvriss stared at the Salazsarian-made pickaxe. Then he swung the one he had down at it.

The flash of light kicked Ilvriss off his feet. He landed on his back, with one of his rings shrilling at him, and spoke.

“Okay, cutting another enchanted item was stupid. Did it—”

The Foreman’s Pick was cracked, soot markings around the now disenchanted metal head. It was severed in half. The pickaxe of Naamreles?

Pristine. The Wall Lord lifted it, wide-eyed. And then he said nothing at all. Because with all due respect to his people’s gear, and even his own equipment—

Erin Solstice had given him a sword from one of her [Gardens of Sanctuary], a blade of lightning. He appreciated that trust from her, even if it wasn’t as powerful as…well, one had hoped. It was only a mithril blade that could shoot lightning; slightly better than his old sword. But he had to apologize to her now.

Because Wall Lord Ilvriss was now a pickaxe user. If he’d given this to any Gold-rank team, they’d probably have tossed their weapons and taken this. If he handed it to Yvlon—

Okay, maybe Yvlon would still use her fists. But anyone normal?

If that Golem had come at me and I’d had this, would I have pierced its armor? Maybe not so easily, but—

“Get me, um, get me some ingots. Solid steel. We have to have some for our [Smiths]. For repairs.”

Ilvriss croaked. Someone ran off. There was silence as Welsca inspected the broken Foreman’s Pick.

“It—it could only work on metals and stone, Wall Lord.”

“Oh, naturally.”

He agreed. Of course, it might only be mineable things. Everyone nodded along. Ilvriss went on after a moment.

“And—and it’s a pickaxe. I can’t just walk around with one. It’s too cumbersome, light as it is. I have an image to maintain.”

Nod, nod. Welsca licked her lips.

“I could swing one, Wall Lord. I do have combat classes.”

“Well hold on, Welsca. Let’s not jump to hasty—I mean, it’s not shaped for combat.”

“No, Wall Lord. Hard to block with—well, different ergonomics—”

“Exactly! It’s a damn pick. Plus, it’s just really good at cutting things. No flashy spells attached. My sword—Erin gave it to me—can emit lightning. That’s not nothing.”

“Absolutely, Wall Lord. It’s just a pick. Er…with a secondary enchantment. Wall Lord? Look down.”

Ilvriss was just about to finish talking down the pickaxe to some kind of reasonable level when he stared at his feet. And he realized that in his swinging around at the granite and other rocks, he should have had a bit more resistance.

After all, a pickaxe was still a pickaxe. Cut stone like butter and it still had a narrow profile. You couldn’t use it like a shovel.

But he’d parted the rock too easily. Cut too wide a gap. Where had the excess material gone? Vaporized? What a silly thing to do if it was ore you wanted.

If you were some ancient [Enchanter] of yore, making pickaxes for your people, and you actually cared about them, you’d not do that. You’d make another enchantment instead.

Like, say…some kind of enchantment beyond the scope of modern [Mages]. Something with a simple effect that meant whatever the pickaxe cut through sorted itself.

Granite to granite.

Feldspar to feldspar.

Even particles of dirt.

And it…what, compacted it? Processed it into a solid little brick of…

Ilvriss bent down and picked up a rectangular brick of granite. Then a pale, white mini-brick of feldspar. The mineral was beautiful, devoid of any other kind of rock adhering to it. And oh, to the right—Ilvriss’ claws had to scrabble around.

Then he picked up the tiniest—he grunted. Peered around.

“Welsca?”

“Y-yes, Wall Lord?”

“Get a [Prospector] over here and double-check. I think there’s a tiny bit of gold in this granite. Not worth mining, but maybe there’s a vein.”

“At once, Wall Lord.”

He nodded a few times.

“Right, you do that. I’m just going to pass out over here.”

He leaned the pickaxe down carefully and lay on the ground.

——

The [Miners] at Dig Site #1 were grumbling about all the new hires they had to train up. The Silverfangs—no one had a problem with the Gnolls! No, certainly not! Just—they had their own style.

Of course, more hands were worth it, but they hoped the Wall Lord remembered who the real employees were. No one was really unhappy. Just upset about the monsters, the brawling—so they vented.

All the bigwigs were here today, and most of the mining was elsewhere, anyways. The mining team assigned to continue probing this area was eventually told to get back to work and check on a higher tunnel that someone thought had gold in it.

Everyone made jokes about the idiot bigwig from their cushy tower-jobs having a ‘hunch’…right up until they saw the tunnel.

“Hey. Wasn’t this a rock wall yesterday?”

There was a huge, almost circular hole going straight ahead for twenty feet. The [Miners] exchanged looks. One felt at the hole in the stone, and yes, there was a bit of gold there. One of them scraped at it incredulously.

“Ancestors, it’s gold. How did they—?”

“I saw them trooping back up with the Wall Lord, no less. Talking about how much their arms hurt. I thought they were joking. Does he have a new Skill or something…?”

“I’ve never heard of him using one. What kind of object made—?”

They got to work, staring at the hole in the wall. When one of the [Miners] thought to ask the [Forewoman] who’d been on duty to make sure the bigwigs didn’t collapse a tunnel on their heads, all the wide-eyed Drake woman said was—

“I think it was new gear or something. They were comparing it against a Foreman’s Pick. I’m not allowed to say more.”

“How good is it?”

The [Forewoman] considered the question.

“I think…however much Wall Lord Ilvriss paid for it, from the Archmage of Izril or whatever, he underpaid. And we’d better hope there’s not much or he’s going to put us all out of work. Or we’re going to add five new floors to Salazsar. This year.”

The [Miners] eyed each other. Then the hole in the dig site. After a moment, one of them picked up a little bar of gold, perfectly rectangular. About eight grams.

One of the bigwigs had forgotten about it. When the team went to turn it in, against some of their instincts, they were told to just keep it.

——

Ilvriss instantly told everyone to keep silent about the pickaxe and other gear. It had just been his personal adjutants, but the [Forewoman] and his bodyguard had also been there.

Rumors would spread. But he had Welsca assign the Rubirel Guard to the Chest of Holding with the Walled City’s gear inside; it would be anchored to the floor and watched 24/8.

Ancestors. Ancestors.

And all the gear was like that. Not all of it was so—so—flashy. For instance, the lantern was just a bull’s eye lantern, one that apparently had an Everburning Flame inside. Simple. It couldn’t emit a [Fireball].

It just changed colors when exposed to various gases or hazardous materials, apparently. And it could change intensities and thus illuminate an entire tunnel by itself.

And reveal [Invisibility] spells. Wall Lord Ilvriss realized that when he was walking around camp and a giant metal Golem with spindly legs, a long, telescoping head, and huge eye-face appeared over one of the tents. He stared at it. It jerked upright and ran as an alarm was blown.

“Dead gods, another attack, Wall Lord?”

Young Dramm jogged over, pale-faced. Ilvriss shook his head.

“The Terlands are spying on us. Clearly. That thing looked observational—though unsettling.”

“Good thing you have all those artifacts, sir. Been mining to, uh, inspire the grunts?”

“It’s sharing the load, Wall Lord Dramm, and they’re employees. I’m no Alrric, but, er, yes. Just testing some new gear.”

Ilvriss reprimanded the young Drake, and Dramm ducked his head. The Drake boy cast around.

“Er, want us to take your gear, sir?”

“What? No. I’m fine!”

The defensive tone made Dramm step back. Ilvriss and his adjutants glared at him. Dramm nodded.

“Of course, Wall Lord. But isn’t that helmet, uh—”

It was just some miner’s helmet. It appeared a bit worn, and despite being glossy metal, it was far from befitting a Lord of the Walls. But Ilvriss had a pickaxe, a huge one, on his belt, and so did Welsca and two of his employees. They all had those helmets on, and the Drake had a miner’s lantern. Ilvriss adjusted the helmet.

“Er—it’s actually quite comfortable. And it emits cold air. I think I might wear it around camp. You know, safety first.”

Emits cold air? Dramm had to get a helmet like that if they were giving those out to [Miners]. He wiped at his sweaty brows as Ilvriss walked on, looking a bit stupefied. But seeing a huge Golem like that—Dramm shuddered. This job was dangerous. His father had been quite worried about the second Golem attack, and he’d told Dramm to maybe hint to Ilvriss to cut his losses.

All this work, for what? The young Drake shook his head as he watched Ilvriss march off. All they had were a bunch of undead and nothing to show for it besides some damn miner gear. But he supposed Wall Lord Ilvriss couldn’t back out without looking bad. Dramm got that; you had to hard-commit even if it was a mistake. That was real Drakeness.

——

Wall Lord Ilvriss snapped out of it after a day and a half. He was holding the pickaxe on his lap in his office, tail curled around the safety-lantern of old, when he felt it.

A possessiveness. A need to snap at anyone wanting to take his pickaxe. A desire to tell Welsca to ensure any items found in the mines were his and—

“Ancestors. I’m Hoarding!”

Ilvriss leapt up. He took the helmet off his head, piled the equipment on his desk, and grabbed a speaking stone.

“Welsca? Can you take this to the chest? I’m done.”

“Wall Lord? But your gear—”

Welsca was wearing a helmet, lantern, pickaxe, and other objects he’d let her carry. It made her look stupid, and people had been wondering about it. Ilvriss shook his head. He glanced at the pickaxe and forced himself back from the desk.

“Take it. I know it’s optimal, but I’m—you’re—Hoarding. Can’t you tell?”

Her eyes widened. She recoiled and began to hiss at him, then appeared appalled. Slowly, with great effort, she took the helmet off her head.

“I’m…yes. I am. Ancestors. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I’m—it’s understandable.”

She took the items, and he forced himself not to watch the precious, his valuable—

Hoarding was a Drake phenomenon. It hit most kids growing up. It could last a while; you even had teenagers who went through it. It wasn’t always items. Sometimes, it was things you loved of a different kind. Food, especially if you’d been insecure.

The cutest version was Hoarding people you loved. But even cute turned into possessiveness. Snapping at others. They got it from Dragons.

However, you could be weaned off it. Most Drake parents could find someone who helped talk children out of the habit. You were taught how to recognize you were Hoarding, fight the mentality.

Ilvriss left his tent and went for a walk.

“That is not the attitude of a good Drake. I don’t need it. It’s damn [Miner] gear. It proves we’re on the right track, and there are hundreds of pieces down there, potentially. Enough for one for me—no!”

Some of the people he passed eyed him. Lady Damia strode forwards.

“Wall Lord, can I help—?”

“Hello, Lady Damia, if you could take charge of the Silverfangs with Clan Leader Plisce today? Let’s get them fully involved in our company. I’m giving you full authority on par with Dramm. Test of your abilities and leadership. Thank you!”

He stopped, shook her hand with a big smile, and walked on. That dealt with that. Ilvriss almost ran to the only person who could help.

——

The Lifted Tail was Thirthoof’s best—and only—brothel. Everyone wanted to be in the Drake-run, alluring establishment. It had class. It had ladies (and men) who didn’t look like they hated being there. It had no drapes and clean beds.

And the other fellow who’d run a business with ladies of the night had quit, especially after having both legs broken and falling out that window like that. Xesci was making a profit, and she felt like she’d convinced a number of Humans not all Drakes should go. Even members of the [Rancher] clans.

She was about to complain to Wall Lord Ilvriss, though, when the Drake came to her. He knocked and, when she called for him to enter, strode in, looking a bit harried.

He felt chagrined, like a boy—not just how he was presenting or acting, but he was actually feeling like a child. Which was fascinating. Xesci could read the feelings of people, if not their hearts or souls, and an adult recapturing childhood, even if this wasn’t the most pleasant feeling, was rare.

“Wall Lord. Something amusing has happened?”

He adjusted his collar, visibly embarrassed.

“Xesci, I’m, uh—I had a Hoarding incident just this morning, actually. I’m coming to you for advice because it’s still ongoing.”

She blinked at him. Ilvriss had run to the only expert he knew in personality. The [Courtesan] coughed.

“Okay. Stop it?”

Her lack of a response instantly had the Wall Lord clarifying.

“No, you see, Xesci, it’s not a regular incident. This is actually in aid of good tidings! Our gear from the mines is amazing! It’s stupendous! It’s Named-rank class, and I was coveting it like I was five.”

“Right. That’s great. Where do I come in here? You’ve stopped. Don’t do it again.”

He hesitated.

“Can’t you do something? Slap it out of me?”

She eyed him, got up, then whirled her body artfully. Her tail came up, and it thwacked Ilvriss’ head so hard he stumbled. One of the Rubirel Guard who’d just caught up winced. The other really wanted to take lessons from Xesci about how to do that.

Ilvriss sat down. His cheek scales had flushed when she’d hit him.

“That was more of a joke, but thank you, Xesci.”

“No problem. I wanted to see you, anyways. Tell me what this is about.”

He did, more fully, and she sat back and whistled.

“That’s good, right?”

Ilvriss rubbed his cheek, and sighed.

“Aside from my instinctual reaction? Yes! I’m serious, we could arm our you-know-whats with them. Even a Gold-ranker would back up after seeing that pickaxe swing, and if Shellc is right, there are some weapons there. No [Miner] would go around unarmed. Well, those pickaxes are weapon enough, but imagine actual weaponry—the Rubirel Guard don’t have gear that good!”

Ilvriss jerked a thumb-claw, and one of the Drake guards coughed.

“If you’d like to give us some gear temporarily, Wall Lord, we could handle those Golems—”

“Ah, right. Another one was spying on us, Xesci.”

He said that so distractedly. The [Courtesan] paused.

“Sounds like Ulva wants to hurt you. She’s mad as hell, but like Nerul speculated, she’s coming in force. So…all’s good?”

He groaned.

“All is not good. I want you to investigate a [Lady] Damia and the Silverfangs. We’ve found the treasure, but we’re on the edge, Xesci. Can you—do something?”

“Like what?”

“Fix something. Anything!”

He said that to her, and she was astonished, genuinely.

“Wall Lord, I’m a prostitute. You’re the one in charge. I’m not Asrisa or Nerul. I’m a nobody.”

He cracked one eye open.

“Xesci, you’re the highest-level person in this entire region. I saw you deal with Ulva Terland. When problems arise around you, they vanish and stay gone. I’m not asking for Erin-style miracles, but whatever you can do; you know I’m counting on you, right?”

He made her so uncomfortable, which was nigh-impossible. She was embarrassed, flattered—so many novel emotions that Xesci glared at Ilvriss.

“I can’t put on, what, a cloak and swirl it around me and be the Wall Lord you are, Ilvriss.”

“Hah! I’m no hero.”

“You are. More than me. And if you’re no Zel Shivertail, well…we’re all in his shadow, Ilvriss. I outlevelled him too. Even before he consolidated down ten levels to become [General of Izril’s Lines], he was more than me or anyone else. I never understood how people forgot that. But then—he didn’t show off.”

The Wall Lord sat up slowly. The Rubirel Guard stared at Xesci, and she realized their astonishment was genuine. They couldn’t see Zel Shivertail hanging over Ilvriss’ back, an inspiration. Not a sexual one, though she reckoned she could have made it work if Ilvriss had ever wanted to know what a Turnscale’s experience was like.

Damn moratorium on using the faces of famous people. Oh, and respect for the dead and all that.

“He—you met him? No, don’t tell me, I don’t want to know anything that would lower my esteem of him.”

Ilvriss shot to his feet, and Xesci eyed him. But because the Rubirel Guard were here, she said nothing.

“See about this Lady Damia, Xesci? I think she’s addled by the inn, in which case she’s not bad, but just in case—”

“Yes, yes. But about the Hoarding, are you done?”

He’d almost forgotten his childishness of earlier. Ilvriss felt it again when he thought about the damn pickaxes. He rubbed at his cheek again.

“I’m serious, I could use a consultation, Xesci. We don’t have anti-Hoarding [Caretakers] in the camp…because we don’t have any children. I still feel the desire to just snatch it or take one for myself.”

Hoarding was a bit of a joke in other species; they tried to equivocate it to Gnolls running around on all fours as cubs or Humans…doing something silly, Ilvriss was sure. However, Xesci just put her hands on her hips, amused.

“I don’t have a Skill like [Remove Desire], Ilvriss. That’s the opposite of what I want to do, most of the time.”

“Damn. Is that all it is? I thought my caretaker was really good at working with me.”

“What they teach you is how to resist it. How to think about other people, Ilvriss. You’re not lunging for a pickaxe and hissing at me.”

“No, but I want to, if not in those terms.”

“Okay. Don’t.”

This time, Ilvriss was about to give Xesci some sass because she wasn’t helping until he got what she meant. He turned and gloomily sighed.

“Wait, that’s it?”

“That’s my advice. Removing the desire is just…temporary. It’s a crutch, like how Erin used magic to try to cover up her problems. Acknowledge it. You want to do it.”

“I should be better than such a petty feeling.”

He mumbled. The [Courtesan] laughed and, to his surprise, came over and hugged him. She kissed Ilvriss’ cheek, a gentle peck.

“And that’s how you stop, Ilvriss. Shame. Children don’t feel much shame. They don’t think how stealing hurts people. They think the world should be theirs. What’s the lesson they teach these days? You take the Hoarding child to someone they’ve stolen from and make them see the tears.”

“I think it’s different now.”

Xesci rolled her eyes.

“Bah. It’s just empathy. The silly way is to teach children there are consequences. Because that teaches them to hide it and when they can get away with it. You want to Hoard because we’re the children of Dragons. Be better than that, Ilvriss.”

“Better than Dragons.”

He said it like a joke, but she grabbed his head with her claws.

“It’s not hard.”

“But I’ve m—”

“It’s not hard, Ilvriss. It’s only hard if you think they were everything you should be. Instead of a flawed people who passed from this world like so many others.”

He met her gaze, and her pupils were red and yellow today. A mismatch of colors. Then…Ilvriss wanted to ask her a question. But the Rubirel Guard were here, and this was not the time. So he stepped back and nodded.

“—I think that worked. Thank you, Xesci.”

She was annoyed to realize she’d actually done what he wanted and blew out her cheeks. But he just nodded to her.

“You should get a cape. When you step up, I’m going to rely on you. I have to get back to work.”

He was going to go striding back out, reinvigorated, when she stepped on his tail. Ilvriss stumbled, and Xesci barred the door.

“Not so fast. Now we’re done with your crisis, I have a bone to pick with you, Ilvriss.”

Xesci crossed her arms as he blinked.

“What? I’ve done nothing wrong, surely.”

“Oh yes, you have. My brothel is flooded with people thanks to you.”

“Er…because of the new recruits? You’re welcome?”

She glared and pointed.

“No, not them! Your man was in here the other day, on your orders! I didn’t think about it—but now everyone is coming in just to use my damn restrooms!”

His face cleared of worry.

“Oh, the plumbing and bidets! Excellent!”

“Not if they come in here to shit and leave! I had to double my [Cleaners]!”

“Well…it’s a net good, isn’t it?”

She pointed with a sweet smile.

“In that case, you help clean them. Do you want to know what a bunch of Humans who’ve never seen a bidet get up to? In a property that’s not theirs?”

Ilvriss stopped, then bowed to her, hands at his side, very formally.

“I am very sorry, Xesci. I will rectify this at once.”

——

Plumbing. You might not care for it. You might not want it spraying water up your nether regions. But the ability to hit a lever and flush a toilet or get hot or cold water on demand?

That…

That was like diamonds in the Cowpat Plains, and the [Mayor] of Thirthoof was up-front.

“We saw your Master Plumber fellow working, and it were like magic, Wall Lord. A few twists and that pipe stuff and you got running water?”

“Well, he is over Level 40. One of the City of Gem’s finest. And I have, uh, a Skill.”

[Adaptive Plumbing]. Master Oidhol had been exceptionally complimentary when he’d heard about it. Apparently, it made the act of joining up the pipes—which was very difficult and arguably one of the hardest parts—very easy.

Mayor Bootsy nodded.

“Any way we might, uh, pay for some? Everyone in town wants one. It’d be gold in your pockets.”

“Absolutely, Mayor! It might even, uh, help with your sceptic pond!”

Ilvriss knew she hated the darn thing as much as he did. The [Plumbers] had already become heroes to his people at the dig, and the Gnolls—especially the Gnolls—liked the bidets.

Bidet-diplomacy?

Not quite. Bootsy nodded.

“If it’s cheap enough, we’ll take it. Though I just reckon…once you and your people are done, we’ll be up shit creek again, won’t we?”

She had that reserved look in her eyes of not-quite-reproach he was used to. The Wall Lord frowned.

“Whyever so, Mayor Bootsy? Master Oidhol does splendid work—”

“Yeah, and once he’s gone, who’ll fix up the stuff? He was talking about clogs and broken pipes. And the magic runework takes gold and [Mages] we don’t have. Not that I’m complaining. Much. Just a taste of that Salazsarian class would be more’n enough. Even the [Ranch] families squat over a hole.”

Oh.

That was why she was upset. Ilvriss recalled the same conversation. His head bowed…then it jerked up.

Anti-hoarding mentality. Xesci had said he was some kind of Wall Lord with a cape. Well, he wasn’t, damnit. He couldn’t be Zel, he never would be. He was just Ilvriss, [Wall Lord of Corporate Opulence], and he brought bidets when other Drakes brought armies.

And you know what? Sometimes, that was fine. Because Ilvriss was a corporate man. He raised a claw.

“One second, Mayor Bootsy. Let me call Master Plumber Oidhol in right now. I think I can reassure you on some points.”

It took a few minutes for the [Plumber] to arrive; he’d been scoping out the town. When Ilvriss delivered Bootsy’s request, the [Master Plumber] sighed.

“An entire town’ll be beyond my helpers, Wall Lord. But I can move fast with your Skills. Make a few public ones?”

Bootsy was nodding, wary. The cost…but Ilvriss was smiling in a way that surprised her. He gestured to a chair.

“Have a seat, Master Oidhol. We’re all impressed by your work. But along with Mayor Bootsy’s request, I have a solution to her reservations and the task at hand.”

The Drake sat as Bootsy frowned at Ilvriss. The Wall Lord spoke.

“Master Oidhol, you’re one of Salazsar’s best [Plumbers]. You belong to the Plumber’s Guild, and we do have a Guild, Mayor Bootsy. Master Oidhol trains and certifies [Plumbers] to varying levels of competency. Master Oidhol—would you take on Human apprentices and train them up to be [Plumbers]? As well, I’d like you to share our runes with the local Mage’s Guild. It’s not impossible to make them, even if you have to send for some of the materials, and Invrisil’s close thanks to the door.”

Bootsy blinked as the Drake eyed Ilvriss, then nodded.

“I was going to take on locals if they’d work for me, anyways. But you said apprentices, Wall Lord?”

“Apprentices indeed, Master Oidhol. Mayor Bootsy expressed the correct fear that once you left, the plumbing would fall into disrepair. But it seems to me that if people want plumbing…Thirthoof might be a good economy for it.”

“But we’ve no metal or whatever’s needed for the stuff. We’ve no industry—”

The Mayor turned from Ilvriss to Oidhol, but the [Plumber] Drake just nodded, thinking out loud.

“True, but if you’re near the coasts, there’s always clay. Ceramics are fiddly—but cheaper. Dead gods, you can do wood. And Wall Lord Ilvriss’ dig site has stone.”

“And we are mining metals. We just need more smiths willing to process it. Making pipes isn’t the highest-level work. It just needs to be sturdy and airtight. I told you once, Mayor Bootsy, I came here trying to be respectful. Would this demonstrate a bit of that?”

Ilvriss put in quietly. For once, the woman’s suspicion and wariness faltered. She blinked at Ilvriss and Oidhol, then laughed as she put her boots up on the desk and sat back.

“What, make me the Mayor of Plumbers? Y’ win, Wall Lord. I’ve listened to Miss Aronia and seen your lot brawlin’ with the Lischelles, and I know how nice-folk turn around and boot you into the shit pond when they’ve got a chance. But damn it—fine. Let an old girl trust. Don’t mess me around or I’ll never forget it.”

She swung herself up to shake his hand. Wall Lord Ilvriss exhaled as he thought, for the first time, he’d won an ally in the Cowpat Plains. Oidhol added after a moment.

“Not to mention, everyone’s going to go to Liscor anyways for plumbing materials.”

He looked around at their blank expressions.

“Shieldglue? We used to buy it from Liscor in bulk! Nothing better! Waterproof, hardens fast, and stays secure for decades.”

Oidhol shook his head at the amateurs. Then rose. He wasn’t immune to smells, and this place felt filthy to him. Enclosing that damn sceptic pond would be a splendid start. Good thing Ilvriss had all the diggers.

——

Things…were changing. Yes, the Wall Lord had his woes, but that didn’t mean he was the one and only person to encounter troubles over the time he had spent here.

For instance—Ulva Terland was not happy about having a top-tier Stealth Golem uncovered. It stressed her, and she took it out on the Terlands heading south with her. It made her wary, especially since the Stealth Golem had ranked the artifacts Ilvriss was carrying as above any modern-grade enchantments.

All the more reason to bring overwhelming force than bleed Golems one by one. But her woes were nothing to the Lischelle family’s.

——

Marvus Lischelle got off his horse with a massive black eye and a bloody nose. Aronia, who was waiting for him, twisting her apron in her hands, started.

“Marvus! What happened?”

He normally came back from his regular brawls a bit beat up, but unless he got jumped by multiple high-level fighters, he gave more than he got. But the entire group of lads appeared beat up. Mostly lads—in the Lischelle family, the ladies cooked or cleaned and didn’t fight. That was how their parents had done it, and Aronia hadn’t changed it, no matter what her daughters said.

She was angry, upset, because of the news she had to tell Marvus and the fact that Colfa kept sending treats to her as if she were better than Aronia, though her sister never said that and only talked about how Liscor was more modern than even Invrisil, and because Aronia thought her daughters might be writing to their aunt behind her back.

“That damn Drake.”

She’d thought Marvus was wearing him down by now. Her husband had [Rough and Ready Healin’]; everyone who had bruises found them healing within a day or two. Over time, they’d beat the Drakes without healing potions.

However, Marvus winced his way over to the dinner table.

“What’s that smell? Smells good.”

“It’s a cake.”

“Ooh! But you’ve made ‘em before. Thought you didn’t like how much sugar it cost.”

He brightened up. Aronia bit her lip and clarified.

“A frosted one. Made with chocolate. Colfa sent a bag of sugar. Oteslia-grown.”

“…How dare she.”

Marvus wore the carefully-blank expression of a man who refused to turn down cake, even if it was made by Demons of Rhir—so long as it was good. But also that of a husband who knew he had to support his wife and who absolutely didn’t want to have the time he tried to court Colfa brought up?

She glared at him. She could [Read Minds: Family (Basic)] and see that kind of surface-level thing. She checked on it in the oven.

“Colfa’s just trying to play nice. Nevermind that, we’ve got real trouble. Explain your black eyes first. Burlise! Your pa’s hurt! Get some of that ice from the freezing box!”

Burlise came out with some ice from the costly magic box, and Marvus groaned as he held it over his eyes.

“We rode out like usual. At first, we were trouncin’ em like normal. But then, outta nowhere, some shrimp of a girl comes charging out. She says, ‘they’re attacking Wall Lord Ilvriss, let’s get ‘em’, and comes swinging at me.”

“You didn’t hit her, did you?”

Marvus didn’t brawl with girls, and from what it sounded like, Aronia would have been upset. Marvus glowered at his wife.

“What do you think I am? I let one of the girls push her out. Reckon she caught a few swings by accident. That’s not the problem. The problem is about a hundred Gnolls came out of nowhere and started punching!”

“Gnolls? There aren’t that many with the Wall Lord, are there?”

“Now there are. And they’re damn big. Country-strong.”

“Your Skill didn’t work on them?”

Another surprise. Marvus had [Advantage: Cityfolk]. It made him nimbler and even more of a problem to take out. If it ran out, he was still a big man, but—he rubbed at a tooth.

“Not one bit. I got three, then some Gnoll came out of nowhere. Biggest fellow I ever saw. Said he wasn’t a fighter. I gave him a number of shots. Then he landed a punch on me.”

“And?”

“And when I woke up, I decided I’d had enough.”

Aronia whistled. What kind of Gnoll…? She scowled as she checked on the cake.

“Well, we’ll sort that out later. I’ll ask some questions. Gnolls or not, they don’t have your Skills, Marvus. We have real trouble, though. I want to blame the Wall Lord, but it’s not him. Unless he’s hiring [Mercenaries]. And even then—”

She was so rattled she burned herself on the stove. Marvus half-rose.

“What’s gotten into you, Aronia?”

“Sickness. The Golvas say no less than eighty cattle have the nastiest warts they’ve ever seen. They explode. Literally explode, Marvus. And one of ours got hit. Rotworms.”

He swore and leapt up fully.

“How? We test for it! If it’s spread—”

“Just sit. That’s not the worst of it. A—I think a herd’s gone.”

She inhaled. She had Skills that helped them manage their sprawling domains. Marvus stared at her.

“Gone? Monster?”

“No. I didn’t hear from Ribreb. I sent out some [Riders], but Marvus, I want you to go there armed. With as many people as you can muster. You understand?”

He hesitated.

“Ribreb’s a drunk. Could be he’s just lost them. What’s…what’s your Skill say?”

Aronia had already mustered their best [Fighters]. She wiped her hands on her apron and stared across the plains towards where the herd was supposed to be.

Her Skill said the herd wasn’t out of control or being stolen. Her Skill said….

The cattle were vanishing.

One…

By…

One.

——

Tolveilouka Ve’delina Mer had a barbeque and a snack.

The first meal he’d had in…what, thousands of years? Over ten thousand?

Sometimes, he’d eaten the pests who were attracted to his Master, but they were so boring, and it wasn’t worth rounding them up.

This?

“This is excellent beef, you know. I can see why it’s considered good. Though—have you ever had Salazsarian pork? I bet no one remembers that either. Or Giant’s testicles.”

He spoke to the two dozen Humans sitting cross-legged in the grass. Tolveilouka had built a bonfire and was smoking the meat.

One of the cows was twitching after he’d tossed it on the burning logs. Oh, sure, Tolveilouka had to admit…it wasn’t the most elegant barbeque. You could argue the fear ruined the meat. And agony.

But some people could taste fear, and he?

He sucked off more meat from the bone. Opened his mouth. Began to gnash the bone up. Licked his hand. Grabbed another piece of smoking meat and began to eat.

“Could use some salt. And that ketchup from Liscor. You know, we invented that? We called it tomatus. Wish I’d brought some.”

Or another nice sauce! Maybe they had some? The Humans were trembling.

Tolveilouka was bare-chested. He kept eating nonstop. He had to, because he had a lot of cows to eat. A herd’s worth, really. But he ate so fast it was like he didn’t taste the meat. And the bones—

The sight of a half-Elf eating a cow’s worth of meat was…insane. His stomach was bulging, distended beyond belief but not as much as it should have been. After him eating fourteen cows he should have been far, far larger.

He—the [Ranchers] stared up at him. Tolveilouka glanced around as the cow he’d ‘prepared’ on the fire sizzled.

“Oh look, veal.”

A baby cow was hiding behind the terrified herd. Tolveilouka got up. At this, one of the [Ranchers] spoke.

“Stop. Y’can’t keep killing them like that. At least put ‘em down before—”

The half-Elf had the crying cow overhead, ready to toss on the fire. He turned, grease and fat dribbling down his chest.

“What’s that? Oh, excuse me. I’m not speaking correctly. What’s that, y’hear? Is that the silly accent you people take on? You sound like some Terandrians. I hate Terandrians.”

His eyes glowed in the firelight. The other Humans tried to talk the man down, but he rose.

“We’re the Lischelles. I don’t know who you are, but you think you can—”

Tolveilouka respected a good threat. Since this wasn’t one of them, he dropped the calf. Strode over, and the [Rancher] threw a punch. Tolveilouka walked into it. The punch mashed up his face. Might have given him a concussion if he were a regular half-Elf. His features visibly squished around the fist.

Then the fist ran into something that would not yield, and the man’s hand broke instead. He made a sound. Then Tolveilouka grabbed him.

“Listen here, friend. I’m hungry. And bored. And this is what I do—when—I’m—bored—”

He began hitting the man. Carefully. The shout became a choke, then gasping, then the animal sounds all beings made when you hit them hard enough. The Humans watched in a horror, trying to wake up. One of them was pinching their arms so hard, because this was a dream—

The half-Elf kept punching in the firelight after the sounds stopped. Consciousness tended to flee him annoyingly fast unless he used magic.

“Stop. Enough!”

A young man, now. He leapt up, and a girl joined him. They wanted to do the right thing and stop—

Tolveilouka seized them, and there was screaming. The rest of the [Ranchers] sat there. Frozen.

It wasn’t a lack of bravery, really. More like extreme common sense. There was nothing to do. They could see that. They sat, and more than one pissed themselves until Toveilouka got bored.

Then he walked over, killed the baby calf, and peed on its corpse. Bent down—and began to eat it.

Blood and urine and wet bones. He turned, eyes gleaming, and then their horror took on another level. Tolveilouka crouched there. Grinning.

This isn’t even one of my truer forms.

“You don’t get it. There’s a world beneath you. A terrible, sinking world, and I have bathed in it and delved below what you can dream of. You don’t even understand. But I’m doing you all a favor.”

They nodded rapidly, thinking he wanted them to agree. They didn’t get it. Tolveilouka peered around at the cattle. Whispered.

“No, no, I am. Suffering levels. You don’t see it, but you’re all going to level. [Coward] is a class. Nightmares haunt you. But you’ll level for a brush with me. Even he will.”

He nodded to the twitching body. Tolveilouka paused.

“Assuming he lives. Maybe it won’t be how he pleases, but hey! I’m told any level is lovely. For you lot.”

He burped as he counted the rest of the cows. Then glanced around.

Soon, they’d be coming for him. Proud people of this land. He could confront them, but that was no fun. The creeping of dread when you found no monster, only stories—

That was artful. He kept devouring, faster now, a hunched half-Elf, beautiful as could be, covering himself in filth. Making a mockery of the act so many found pleasurable, that vital deed.

After a moment, Tolveilouka muttered.

“Or shoyu. Lemon juice? Anything, really.”

——

When Nerul heard about the second Golem incident, he felt his stomach twist. He had terrible diarrhea, and he went to protest—again.

Strategist Thallin had to wait for Nerul to exit the toilet. The Drake eyed Nerul.

“[Diplomat], are you well? You’re a bit sickly.”

“I assure you—just winded from all these damn stairs, Thallin.”

They were on the second floor of Salazsar. There were plenty of negative floors, but Floor 2…Nerul clarified as he mopped his brows.

“Stairs in general. I have seen too many of them of late. And my diet does not agree with me.”

“Too many drinks?”

“No, too many damn sprouty things. The kind that grow in the ground?”

“Vegetables, Diplomat?”

“Yes, them. But enough about me! Strategist, this is vital, and Ilvriss is running out of time! I insist!”

The Drake [Strategist] seemed uncomfortable as he faced Nerul.

“I understand, Diplomat, but what you’re asking is beyond even my pay-grade to authorize. The Walled Families have to vote unanimously—you haven’t gotten a ‘no’. They see the problem. So they’ve delayed the vote to talk it out.”

“Well, tell me who the ones who refuse to vote are and I’ll persuade them!”

“You know I can’t do that, Diplomat. It’s anonymous.”

These regulations were a good thing. They kept someone from abusing Salazsar’s power. But since Nerul knew that any Drake who really wanted to could abuse power in the Walled Cities, he cheated. He wasn’t the best at it—he’d never tried to do this before, but it was simple.

If a certain number of Sons and Daughters of the Wall were selected at random to be part of a secret committee that voted on the most important decisions beyond High Command in the City of Gems, all he had to do was talk to every important head of house.

They’d never let a lower-level member of the Walled Families on such a committee. Then Nerul just had to persuade each one of them to take his side. And whomever tried to duck him were the holdouts.

Well, some didn’t shy away. Wall Lady Calistoca was a nightmare even with Nerul’s Skills. But she wasn’t blind.

“The risk, Diplomat. If you’re wrong—”

“If I’m wrong, hang me, Wall Lady. Not literally, but publicly. If I’m wrong…what happens? We’re decades past the initial disaster. What are we waiting on? A dead Drake’s dignity?”

She eyed him.

“One might say that’s worth a lot, Diplomat. As well, the trouble even one can cause—”

He interrupted her. Ruder than he’d ever been because he did feel bad for her. She had been a beautiful, energetic, good Wall Lady if he recalled her right. But she’d married the wrong man. Decades of trying to make the marriage with Itreus work and divorce had left her bitter, but he appealed to her best side. He had to see the best sides of people, had to admire that just like his city, or he couldn’t work with the many fallible people he had to charm.

“Lady Calistoca, I understand. But Ilvriss will die whenever the Terlands land that hammer. It is dangerous. I may not be thinking clearly. However, another world has met ours. It is clear other nations are using these Earthers to gain a foothold, or worse, create weapons. If we must use one of Salazsar’s dark weapons—better to test it, yes?”

That swayed her. Maybe. If she was the holdout. Calistoca thanked Nerul and spoke directly.

“Give me…two days, Diplomat. I shall prevail on any thinkers. Two days.”

She would never be rushed into a hasty decision. He admired that about her, even if his stomach hurt. Nerul hurried off to use her toilet—then her bidet—and decided he had to take a trip.

This wasn’t working. Or maybe it was, but he needed—

——

The magical carriage was almost as fast as a Pegasus ride to Pallass, a fact that did not escape Nerul. He didn’t like it.

Wistram is growing too powerful. And apparently, Fissival is working on teleporting live people again. Not via Valeterisa. Have they bent the knee to Wistram? This war…

He knew more than most because he had access to all the reports a [Diplomat] did—and he actually read them. That made his stomach hurt more than the bowl of salad he’d eaten this morning. Nerul sipped the salty damn liquid that he’d bought from Grimalkin’s mail-order service as he stood up and squatted down in his carriage. But then he reached Pallass, and after breezing through via his passport and skipping the lines, he prevailed upon the one man who might help him.

——

“Magus Grimalkin of Pallass?”

The Sinew Magus was overseeing a free-use period of his gymnasium, which was so large now it had needed to move—twice. An empty warehouse was now a three-story gymnasium filled with Pallassians and students, and his weight sets had evolved from the simple bench presses to entire machines. Pulley bars, leg machines—even a moving treadmill animated by gears.

Gears, not magic alone. The Sinew Magus was less-common in the gym these days, but he still put in an appearance at least once a week. Not with Lady Pryde. She got…harassed. After a number of incidents, Grimalkin had agreed it was better to do without, but that knowledge had not made him happy.

Still—he looked happier in some ways. He wasn’t as huge as Nerul remembered him being in the past. Quite imposing still, but slimmer by as much as a fifth. Mobility over pure mass. Possibly more muscled than before, though.

“Diplomat Nerul. What brings you here?”

Nerul walked in, feeling quite out-of-place. He had some pants and a shirt he’d bought, baggy, and he was already sweaty. Nervous. But he was a man on a mission.

“I’m here, Magus Grimalkin, to prevail on you to teach me how to use these blasted contraptions, if I may. We have one in Salazsar, and I’ve done my best, but I confess, I have not had a pleasant time with my diet.”

The Sinew Magus blinked. Some of his apprentices stopped working out as the Drake glanced at Nerul, then gave him a sharper look. Up and down—Grimalkin walked around Nerul.

“Highly fatigued muscles. Mostly legwork…but decent upper body—ah, a tear in your right shoulder.”

Nerul rotated his shoulder.

“I hurt myself with those blasted weights. You can tell?”

“I’ve…levelled a bit. And my own understanding of my speciality has deepened slightly. Is your stomach giving you issues? Stool?”

“I’d love a stool. But if you mean, er, waste. It’s mostly liquid.”

The Drake flushed even more, but Grimalkin was purely analytical, and so were his students, who’d come over.

“Ah. I hadn’t looked into the matter. But it appears that if a person’s stomach is used to one diet, switching over has deleterious effects. Even if it is more healthy, a stomach is apparently used to one kind of food.”

“Really? Damn. I wish I’d known that.”

It made Nerul feel slightly better. The Sinew Magus kept peering at Nerul, then seemed to realize why Nerul was here.

“You’ve come to…train. Diplomat?”

“If you can tell, I suppose it’s a compliment.”

Nerul smiled weakly. He spread his arms.

“I need to get in shape, Sinew Magus. Just enough to, say, hit a man my size harder than he hits me and hold my own. I don’t need to win, but I need to prove a point. It’s diplomatic work.”

“Diplomatic…?”

One of the Dullahans mouthed silently, utterly confused, but Magus Grimalkin asked no more questions. He just put a hand on Nerul’s shoulder, studied him.

“If you have the will, I shall do my best, Diplomat. It will not be easy. How long do you have?”

“Days, ideally. If not ideally, a week or two.”

Again, the wording confused the students, but the Sinew Magus just nodded.

“Crash course, then. Anti-inflammation poultices. Get me Experimental Set #2. You know healing potions don’t work? The idea is to still let muscles perform day-after-day. They’ll be abused, but keeping them from tearing in any excessive way while pushing them provokes dynamic growth. That’s one thing we have over those know-it-all brats!”

He shook a fist at the sky, by which Nerul took to mean Earthers. The [Diplomat] swallowed.

“Wonderful. How painful is this…?”

“Exceptionally! But if you have the will—”

That was the damn question, was it? How far could Nerul push himself in the name of his class? He didn’t know. He’d long passed the days when you could level up and know you were on the right path. But the [Diplomat] had to try.

The next hour saw Grimalkin and his apprentices showing Nerul how to properly work out and formulating the best exercises to build the key muscles Nerul needed. Which meant, sadly, more roadwork.

“I’ve run up and down Salazsar’s damned towers!”

“Good! And you have a foundation, Diplomat! You were already strong, but converting more fat to muscle is our goal! Hm. You really have put in effort. Out of curiosity, have you had any meals in Liscor? The Wandering Inn?”

“A…few.”

“Interesting. I’ll have to check the water again. Do you and Baker Garry ever eat the same meals? It’s probably just a random correlation, not causation, but…five more pushups!”

The problem with Magus Grimalkin was that he was loud. The problem with him was that he knew when you could actually give him another rep. And then he’d insist that despite the evidence of his eyes, he believed you could do another rep.

Nerul grew to hate him and his students over the course of the next hour, where he strained, sweating, chewing on the damn ‘protein’ bars or whatever they were, and gulping the salty liquid that made him think of camel piss. An ‘energy’ drink, apparently.

But he kept straining and kept his whining for when he was really out of energy. Which did come—but the Sinew Magus just stood with a dozen of his students and bellowed.

“Push, [Diplomat]! Push! One more rep!”

“One more rep!”

The students were shouting as Nerul pushed a bar of metal up. Then they had him switch to a new ‘station’—one of them wiped down the metal bar as Nerul left a pool of sweat behind him.

Fun fact: due to the Drake neck spines, Grimalkin had commissioned custom seats for different species. Ones with holes for your tail and neck spines even if you were lying on your back for Drakes, and for Gnolls, anti-stick ones to prevent their fur from catching, and even stations that Dullahans could exercise with only some limbs if they detached them. Garuda-friendly ones with their claws…

A number of Pallassian amateurs were drawn to the sight of a panting Drake swearing at Grimalkin as the [Diplomat] did bench squats. Grimalkin’s now-famous gymnasiums were creating new classes.

The aforementioned [Gym Rat]—and just people who wanted to build muscle. Pallass’ gymnasium was the biggest and best in the world thanks to Grimalkin—only House Ulta could compare, and it was constructing a five-story one. Because Pryde didn’t lose.

In fact, even a Lord Mireden Raithland stopped pressing an enormous amount of weight as four nervous spotters watched him lift and glanced up.

“…Is that the [Diplomat]? What’s going on?”

The half-Giant took some earbuds out of his ears, then snorted.

“Wait, what am I asking? It’s the inn.”

Even so, he watched as the panting Drake stood and did one of the most punishing—yet rewarding—moves.

The squat.

Simple concept. Put a bar on your shoulders, maintain form, and squat. Down. Up. You could even do it without a spotter, if you had a protective bar that would let you fall without crushing yourself if you couldn’t hold the weight.

Everyone squatted. Nerul had never thought it was painful—but if you’d ever done a ‘burpee’, a heinous invention that Grimalkin loved, you’d realize how hellish it was doing the motion.

Let alone with a hundred pounds on your shoulders. His legs were already water, but the Sinew Magus was pushing him beyond his limits.

“You can rest on your way back to Salazsar, Diplomat Nerul! If you can move, I haven’t worked you enough! Come on!”

“I…can’t…”

“You can! Scream if you must. One more rep!”

“One more rep! One more rep!”

The crowd was way too supportive. Highly muscular men—and women—were shouting at Nerul, pumping their fists. It was really hard not to give it a shot.

His stomach hurt. His muscles were cramping. He’d feared falling over, but since Grimalkin would catch him, Nerul tried. He pushed.

Veins bulged under his scales. His face, already crimson, turned a shade darker. He strained as he came down—down—his legs wavered.

“All the way down! Come on! Up! Up! Get up like your life depends on it, Nerul! Push! Push!”

Grimalkin was howling like the training instructor from Rhir. Everyone was yelling, and Nerul thought of Ilvriss.

Push damnit—

He pushed.

He pushed with all his might.

He strained—and then felt it happen. He gasped.

Oh no—

The sound that echoed in the gymnasium, just below the cheering and sudden silence, was low. Deep.

It was like…frblgh. With the last bit being so—familiar to many that they went silent. Nerul’s shaking legs went still a moment. He began to sit down, and Grimalkin caught the bar one-handed.

He had fallen silent. The cheering students had fallen silent. At his station, Lord Mireden Raithland paused. He sniffed the air, glanced up, and muttered.

“Ah. That’s unfortunate.”

Nerul Gemscale sat there as he filled his underpants with what he could only, in the most tactful way possible, describe as his own feces.

When one pushed—especially if they’d been in a coach for a long time with an unfamiliar diet—

Things could come out. In the silence, Magus Grimalkin inhaled, regretted it, and spoke.

“[Cleanse]. Diplomat—”

“I believe that’s my cue. Excuse me.”

Nerul leapt to his feet. He grabbed around. Yanked up a towel, swiped at—looked around.

“Restroom?”

They pointed. He ran. It did not have a bidet. But it did flush, so Nerul watched the pants swirl around in the silence, grimly, until someone knocked and passed him a spare pair. He took them. Finished cleaning his pants and put them in his bag of holding. Excused himself.

It was amazing, really. Nerul checked himself into some temporary apartments and lay down. But he didn’t sleep at once.

He’d done a lot of humiliating things in the name of Salazsar and diplomacy. But umbral throning oneself? That…not even [Diplomats] put that in their arsenal.

——

The next day, Nerul Gemscale didn’t want to show his face outside. He knew the incident—probably—wasn’t the talk of Pallass.

He knew that. But he also knew that it had to have been the talk of Grimalkin’s Gymnasium. It couldn’t not be.

Presumably, accidents like that did happen. Just not with everyone watching. Even so, Nerul had a workout hoodie on and covering his head, and he breathed in and out for a good eight minutes.

Then?

He pushed the double glass doors open and walked in.

“Sinew Magus. My underwear is enchanted this time. I believe I owe you…one rep?”

Sinew Magus Grimalkin of Pallass turned. Nerul Gemscale’s voice was loud, and everyone regarded him. Several students nearly dropped their weights. Their heads rose. Jaws dropped.

The word ‘gape’ had been employed in regards to expressions many-a-time where The Wandering Inn was concerned. Perhaps too much. The slack-jawed fall of a mouth. The credulous opening by which an Ashfire Bee could fly in and out of your expression—it was too easy to say that.

But today, as Nerul walked into the gymnasium he had just shat himself in—that truly was the expression. Mind-boggled, dumbfounded shock.

Even Sinew Magus Grimalkin’s brows rose. But Nerul Gemscale just nodded at him. His jaw was set so hard his teeth were grinding. He was bright red.

But he had to do this, and he’d just embarrassed himself to the utmost. He might as well see it to the end. No one spoke, so Nerul stomped over to one of the workout machines.

“I think I start with the bench press? If someone can spot me…”

He was sliding himself down, taking deep breaths, hoping they’d stop staring after ten minutes, when Grimalkin broke the silence. The Drake glanced around, eyed Nerul, and then brought his hands together.

The clap of sound was, predictably, large as he was. Nerul jumped. Then he saw Grimalkin do it again.

The Drake did it a third time before Nerul realized he was actually applauding. The slow-clap was not something Erin had brought to this world. But Grimalkin performed it now, and then his Dullahan apprentice joined in. The rest of the students joined as well, and then the other people in the gymnasium joined in, whether they knew what this was actually about or not.

But Grimalkin was just nodding his head up and down. Nerul stared at him, glaring, but the Sinew Magus eyed his students.

They turned back to him, and he cleared his throat. This was an appropriate time, wasn’t it? He got an almost-imperceptible nod from his best student, the Dullahan, Giren. So Grimalkin inhaled, then bellowed.

“TESTICLES.”

Nerul stared at Grimalkin. But the Sinew Magus made a fist and actually did a hop. He punched at the air, then he was striding over.

“THIS IS WHAT I WANT TO SEE. This Drake has more will, more gonads than any of you! This is what I am talking about! Willpower! He could have stayed away. But Diplomat Nerul walked back in, and he is not going to give up! This Drake is going to go the distance! ”

“Alright, Sinew Magus. There’s no need for—”

Nerul began, but the Sinew Magus was clapping again.

“Diplomat, you have my utmost respect—which I do not convey on many beings in this world. If Erin Solstice had a shred of your testicles, she’d have crushed the Bloodtear Pirates’ heads with her bare hands instead of just being mobile enough to dodge them!”

“If she had a shred of any testicles I think she’d be quite unhappy, Sinew Magus—come on now, let’s not go overboard—”

“Double the intensity! I believe this Drake can break our record for day-improvement!”

The Sinew Magus was shouting, and the apprentices were racing for restorative tonics and poultices. Nerul held up his claws.

“Okay, I don’t need to break records—I am riding back tonight. Sinew Magus—hello?”

But he did feel a bit gratified.

——

Winning the approval of a gymnasium of workout fanatics and going down in history—albeit as a man who’d umbral throned himself and come back in to keep pushing—was nice.

People might not have known about Chief Diplomat Nerul of Salazsar before, for all his fancy titles and rank—but among a certain community, he became a legend. He had…mixed feelings about that.

After passing out after the sixth hour of working out, Diplomat Nerul received the cheers of a gymnasium and was carried to a bed like a hero.

And he heard another voice that made it actually mostly worth it.

[Chief Diplomat of Bijou Splendor Level 48!]

[Skill – Bodily Charisma Obtained!]

[Skill – Improved Workout Gains Obtained!]

[Skill – Negotiations: Umbral Curse Obtained!]

[Skill – Reputation: Workout Story Obtained!]

That second to last one was particularly nasty. Nerul got up, and he could barely walk with Grimalkin’s treatments. He had to slump his way into an elevator and ride it to the 9th Floor—that was acceptable. Grimalkin had told Nerul to sleep for at least a day before re-engaging any muscles.

I did it. I’m going to make the next enemy [Diplomat] crap his robes in literal and figurative terms. Ergh. Gross, actually.

Hopefully he could tune it down so they just had terrible stomach pain. Nerul also supposed…he was a workout fellow from now on.

Well…fine. If he actually looked as good as some of those people in there, he’d take a bit of pain. Nerul had to admit, he’d surprised himself with how hard he’d pushed.

He was waiting for a Pegasus—he had to be back in time for the vote—when the first benefit of Nerul’s fame appeared.

Yellat-Skills, as they were known, reputational Skills, weren’t that useful to Nerul’s mind. But then again…

“Nerul? Nerul Gemscale, is that you? I thought you were on business in the north! Look at you!”

Someone noticed him on his slow path to the flight zones and strode over. Nerul turned and blinked.

“Mister Superior?”

Mister Superior, the alias for one of Salazsar’s other top [Diplomats], was a famous Gnoll in his own right. Past his prime, true, greying a bit, but dead gods, they told stories about him. In the brothels as well as the streets and fancy dining circles.

The man was one of those classic all-rounders. Fitter than he looked, an amateur bladesman, amateur poet, excellent bedfellow—allegedly—and cultured. He had been overweight, but the invention of the gymnasium had clearly seen him getting more in shape; he was looking rather imposing, today.

A [Renaissance Man], literally. That was his class, even if he technically had an occupation doing contracts. He strode over, and he had five junior members of the Assembly of Crafts, one of Pallass’ top [Senators], Dullahan Molge, and Wall Lord Werdin in tow.

One look told Nerul that Mister Superior was doing the old Weak Foundation trick. Simple diplomacy trick: you got a bunch of lower-level or weaker-willed yes-people around you. The young [Senators]. Then, use your Skills, win the crowd over, and peer-pressure the important figures into seeing it your way.

If you had everyone singing your tune, the person you were trying to influence often got swayed along with everyone else. Being social was a weakness that his class loved to exploit.

Mister Superior winked, and Nerul nodded.

Why are you on the business of Salazsar?

He clasped hands with Mister Superior as the man introduced him—well, re-introduced, but Nerul bet the others had forgotten who he was—and activated his [Subvocal Touchtalk] Skill.

Dealing with this damn Fissival war. Eschowar’s initiatives. Didn’t you hear? Must have not been cued in. I’ve got—

Mister Superior let go of Nerul, and the [Diplomat] swayed, frowning. He didn’t like that. But Mister Superior was just doing his job. Funnily enough, Nerul had nothing to do with that.

“I just heard you blasted out Magus Grimalkin’s gymnasiums, Nerul! I’d never have imagined it! But you got the Sinew Magus himself to shout you were a hero of weightlifting!”

“Bah, I blasted it in more than one sense.”

Nerul chuckled weakly. Of course Mister Superior loved the gymnasium. However, the Gnoll just winked at Nerul.

“We should hit Salazsar’s when we get a chance. I’m bound there, just after the Assembly votes. Do forgive me, ladies and gentlemen. I had to speak to our [Chief Diplomat].”

“And why is he not negotiating here and, ah, blasting gymnasiums instead? We are Pallass, and you’ve come to us for a huge favor, Diplomat, er, Superior.”

A slightly affronted Lord Werdin was waving his claw in front of his face; Nerul was all sweaty. However, Mister Superior simply smiled.

“He has to deal with the Terlands, who are far more obstreperous than you fine folk. Now, if I may rectify my embarrassment?”

They might not know what ‘obstreperous’ meant, and Mister Superior had a Skill that if you get in your own head about not being as intellectual as he was, you were easier to sway. It didn’t work on people with comfortable egos, but this lot? They swung back on Mister Superior as he stood there.

“We’re not asking for a full joint-declaration. But consider this: Pallass has taken the lead in a number of military ventures.”

To your cost. Werdin hesitated, and Dullahan Molge bit his lip. They’d backed General Edellein, too, which meant the political stakes were high for the career [Senators].

Not a good idea. But what was this? Nerul felt uneasy as he saw Mister Superior moving.

“The City of Gems and the City of Inventions have always been allies. Now, when sharing information about…earthy places is so vital? With the New Lands? When one city needs to lean, their sister-city is ready to lend a shoulder.”

“In exchange for taking a side against Fissival. Aren’t they doing better in the war?”

Werdin spoke, blunt. Mister Superior’s smile never wavered as he wagged a finger.

“Better, but one Walled City against two? It’s true they have magic. Well, Pallass has alchemy! Give us a hand, just a small one, to bring this conflict to a close. All we need is a battalion or two. Something to remind the haughty [Mages] of the City of Incantations they’re not superior. Or have you seen them talking up their new magical services as if they invented them?”

The magical hold Wistram had on the rest of the world had devalued Pallass’ signature products. It was an excellent tactic. The younger [Senators] were already nodding, and Molge and Werdin exchanged glances.

“We can’t lose more Pallassian lives, Diplomat. It will not play well with elections coming up.”

Molge was blunt. Mister Superior waved a claw.

“Then let’s not call it a battalion. All we need are a few experts.”

Potions for our people would turn the tide. Eyes of Pallass for covert ops. Plenty of ways to do it. Before, they would have just asked for Chaldion to command a few battles, but if not him—

Nerul’s mind ran ahead of the conversation. He put together the pieces and gasped. His eyes opened, and he reached for Mister Superior.

“If I might have word—”

The other [Diplomat] recoiled, astonished, as he saw Nerul try to break his Skill. He caught Nerul’s arm, and the two struggled.

Oblivious, Wall Lord Werdin was nodding along, thinking out loud.

“Fissival has gotten too big for its robes time and again. Those idiots lost their Archmage, and they caused the Meeting of Tribes incident, which my wife reminds me is a disaster. Why not? They might have their new magic, but we have the strongest [Mage] in Pallass—no, the world! Send him in, wait a week—it can’t be harder than fighting a Wyvern Lord, eh?”

Everyone else laughed at that, and Nerul’s weak arms gave out. He panted as Senator Molge hesitated, the only man not right on board. Mister Superior stared at Nerul, shocked, then gave him a shrug.

It’s what I was told to do. It’s just a small war, Nerul.

“There’s no such thing as a small war.”

Nerul turned, whirling and staring down at the floors below. The smiling Sinew Magus—he turned back to Mister Superior, but the Gnoll was on-guard now, shepherding the others down the floors, and he was just doing his job.

It was a classic play. If one Walled City was winning, drag another one in. Of course, they moved people around like pieces. Just—

Sometimes, Nerul stood there and was sick of it. Heartily sick of it all. He felt Pallass sending its loyal son to war even as he got on the Pegasus and began to send urgent [Messages] back home. Casually, with mere words, they moved a [Mage] onto a battlefield.

That was soft power for you.

——

Soft power. Not hard power. So weak at times. When the monster came, he had to stand back. When the armies fought, he waited until it was done and swept it all up and pretended he couldn’t smell the dead.

Sometimes, Nerul wanted to be that sharp blade. The fist that could punch back a monster.

That was why he worked out.

He hit the gymnasium in Salazsar, despite his weary body, when he got back. Did the lightest reps, then pushed until he nearly messed himself again, then sat there panting.

Because he couldn’t stop it. The Sinew Magus was an intelligent, high-level Drake.

He’d make it. Nerul had to believe that. He didn’t blame Mister Superior when the fellow actually flew in after him, deal signed, and wanted to talk. Nerul just explained what the Sinew Magus had done, and Mister Superior sighed.

They had orders. He’d done his job…

Sometimes, you were the bastard. Nerul shook the Gnoll’s hand, agreed to be workout buddies, and then sat in his rooms, hydrating, until someone rang the doorbell. He answered it and found a military [Messenger] instead of a Street Runner.

His answer awaited. Nerul ripped the communique open and nodded.

“Good.”

“You have been granted five minute windows, [Diplomat]. You’ll need a temporary badge, and we’ll need to re-certify you. If you’ll follow me, I can begin the process.”

“I know the way. Make it fifteen.”

“I can’t authorize that, sir—”

“Just relay it back to whomever’s in charge. Fifteen. I can’t do anything with five. Unlimited times per day?”

“Subject to monitoring, yes, Diplomat. If we think you’re compromising yourself or giving away anything—”

“Yes, yes. Alright, let’s go.”

Nerul barged out his room, not bothering to shower. It wouldn’t matter. In this one case, he didn’t dress up or do much prep—he’d done his reading, and his opponents couldn’t be swayed by attire or appearance.

He wasn’t in that much danger.

In theory.

I’ve done all I can. The small stuff. I am going to be the bastard now, Nephew, and the biggest one I can be.

The Lischelles were always smaller-fry. They were nasty, obstinate, but they could not erase people like the Terlands could.

The Terlands…didn’t stop. They were one of the Five Families, haughty and powerful, and each one was equivalent to a Walled City. Perhaps…stronger.

Think on that.

Don’t laugh at their silly members, think on it. There were six Walled Cities in the south. Five Families of the north.

They had the power of a Walled City. Not as immediately, with the armies of Drakes, not as organized. But Ulva Terland had been nearly murdered by her doppelganger. And she was Terland.

Did they think she’d stop? Did they think she’d roll over, bury her fangs and claws, and play nice? Lord Xitegen played nice because he was a practical man, because he had to, and because, frankly, Drakes were less personal to him; he hated Goblins.

Ulva Terland had gone to war, and she knew them in their entirety. Nerul had understood it the moment her Hunter-Killer attacked Ilvriss.

So he had to stop her. Stop her and not rely on The Wandering Inn for magic. Some mysterious revelation as she lay on the cusp of death that changed everything?

He’d take it, but the rest of House Terland would still be there. Fight them all. Fight them with soft power since he had nothing hard to give.

He knew how. The [Diplomat] waited for four hours as they scanned his body, ran tests, asked him all the damn security questions, and issued him with a temporary badge. Gave him lectures he ignored about how dangerous this was.

One idiot wanted to make him sit down and take a history class. Nerul slapped him and told him to fall in line and shut up. He had authorization from the Walled Families; he was doing this to make them feel better.

Because they were scared. Nerul walked into one of the towers and went down. Not up.

Up was where the nobility lived and pissed gems and gold down on the common Drake. Down was where they mined. But down in the center of Salazsar, just below the heart of the city, was where they kept the secrets.

All the nasty weapons.

All the projects that should never see the light of day.

The things meant to kill cities.

The bones of Dragons, what few they had left. Vital for reinforcing the walls every set number of feet when they built it up or down. Nerul had walked here before, as a younger man, and seen the bones of his Ancestors neatly sorted and tagged.

They had other things down here, too. Ilvriss’ anti-Antinium project was on Level -2. Where the things the Walled Families all knew about were. Where a [General] could stop and pay attention and think they’d seen it all, because the magic lift had floors -1 to -5.

Nerul stopped at Level -8. Not the vaults with city-killers, however many of those they had left. Not the bones of their Ancestors. Level -8 was where they kept the active problems. Enemies of war above Level 60, in the past. War weapons that they weren’t sure wouldn’t turn on them. That sort of thing.

He halted as the Rubirel Guard scanned him. Strip-searched him. One eyed his figure.

“You been working out, Diplomat?”

“Recently. With Magus Grimalkin. It’s in my file, I’m sure.”

They checked that out. They were very thorough. One drew blood from his arm with a huge needle. Another had him spit in a cup, just to see if he could. Then pass a urine test. Eventually, they were done, and Nerul walked forwards, shrugging on his robes.

“Vault Door #2 opening. One to enter.”

He stood in a room with way too much space around him as they de-sealed magical enchantments. They had eyes on the interior, of course; the Rubirel Guard were watching him from viewports. If they didn’t like what they saw, they could blow this entire room, seal it off—and Nerul wasn’t getting out.

The airlock doors shut behind him, and the process started again. Highly ominous. Nerul’s heart was pounding. He had never been in here before. He knew he was outclassed, if the records were accurate.

Skills might not work. His opponents were more intelligent than he was. They were completely hostile, he had to assume. But he had to do this. It was the only card he had, because Nerul read everything he had access to.

“Doors opening. Brace, brace, brace. Diplomat Nerul making contact.”

The doors began to swing wide. And there was nothing inside. The light spilled from a lantern that Nerul had been given. The inhabitants inside sat in the dark, in chains. Anti-magic runes shining around the room. Valeterisa wouldn’t have been able to cast a spell here.

He walked forwards slowly, claws clicking on the stone. Nothing on him but robes. Nothing they could use. And it had been decades since anyone had last entered.

Salazsar liked it that way. They were afraid of these figures. But the long dark had not sapped their minds. It held no fear for them. They could see him, but they said nothing.

So Nerul lifted his lantern, and the light played over their still faces. Reflected in their translucent eyes. Shone over their hearts, which still moved. Glowing light.

Beautiful, some shaped as lifelike—nay, as sensually as the great crafter could. Almost always female, those. He had been known for that.

The others were just constructs of crystal and gem. Imposing—but shattered. Limbs broken into stumps. Some reduced so badly they were held up by their chains.

The light shone as Nerul held up the lantern. Fifteen minute window. But he stopped, because he had to witness them. And the cold, analytical faces of Golems found him.

Archmage Zelkyr’s failures. Twenty-six Golems from the age of the last great [Archmage] of Wistram.

The last known Golems in this world, beyond the ones in Wistram and Cognita Truestone, to bear his mark. Salazsar had done its research. The other Golems had been smashed in their rebellion, the records expunged. But Salazsar was a greedy city.

It had kept them. Now…Diplomat Nerul cleared his voice. He walked forwards.

“Hello. Diplomat Nerul of Salazsar. It’s been about thirty-eight years since your last visitor for your timekeeping. I won’t beat around the bush, Golems. I have an offer for you.”

Stillness. They didn’t move as their hearts pulsed. Then—as one—

Twenty-six faces moved. Twenty-six lips curved up in a smile. Nerul shivered. There was no way they could have known of his existence, much less the events which had led him here. But nevertheless, through the intelligence of beings beyond any one that lived and breathed, they had predicted this encounter.

They’d been expecting him.

Nerul began, slowly, the most dangerous negotiation of his life.

——

To talk to one Golem was to talk to them all. At least, when they sat together. They communicated, apparently, via magic or just subtle gestures, the beating of their hearts. Perhaps some of it was exaggerations by terrified Drakes, but Nerul did his best.

He had them isolated when he wanted to talk to them, which took hours for the Rubirel Guard to arrange. But it allowed Nerul to sit across from…

…A torso of crystal that would have formed a Drake made of gemstones eleven feet tall—now just a fragment of a face and the top half of a torso. The Golem Heart was damaged—the swirling magic would pause every fifteenth and five-eighth’s second. The keepers of the vaults were worried the Golem might explode or the other Golems would use its death to their advantage in trying to escape.

Despite being limbless. The Golem’s broken torso spoke to Nerul of other times. Grander than even Eschowar’s.

This was an Excubitor Murorum. A fancy name for a ‘Wall Sentinel’ Golem. Zelkyr-class. Nerul read down the list of its abilities.

Armor Score: Mithril+/Orichalcum-

Known Spell Abilities:

[Ray of Elements (Any Element)], Tier 4, at will.

[Lesser Teleportation], Tier 4, daily or w/recharge.

[Lightform Armaments], Grade II, Tier 4, at will. Grade I w/mana activation.

[Speed], Tier 2, at will…

In other words, it shot rays of lights from its eyes, could armor itself in light magic—which modern [Mages] could barely do in combat—and teleport. If it got tired of magic, it could just hit you with all the weight of that many tons of gemstone while moving as fast as a Gold-ranker.

This was why Zelkyr had ruled the Walled Cities, nay, Izril. His Golems had been the most fearsome and intelligent creations of their time. He had pushed the north back, and only the Terlands’ Golems had been a match for his.

And Cognita Truestone and her kin had been above even that, of course…Zelkyr’s armies might have made Izril an empire but for three things.

One. He had consolidated his power in Wistram, making the Walled Cities more an accessory to his power. He’d shared his Golems, but not the secrets of their creation with the cities.

Two, he’d had a match in Perril Chandler, his equal and friend, who had both helped him and reined in his excesses. Otherwise, Zelkyr might have unified too many enemies against him. He had incurred the wrath of Gnolls, but Archmage Chandler had killed their would-be king. And by the same token, directed Zelkyr’s greed at Terandrian goals. So they had stood together, far better than apart, neither one a tyrant.

At least, until the end.

Three—he’d gone to Rhir, and the Deaths of the Demon King had broken his armies. To be fair, he and the Archmage of Death had put them into a century-long coma, so that spoke to who Zelkyr had been.

When he had died, or vanished, a decade after going up into Wistram’s higher floors and sealing it behind him with the test, the Golems under his control had begun to malfunction. Slowly—the Walled Cities had kept it hushed up. Tried to investigate. Fixed them until the day they rebelled.

There hadn’t been that many Golems. Not enough to overwhelm the Walled Cities. Most had run, apparently.

Some had enacted vengeance, for lack of a better word. They had been destroyed, but Salazsar had captured theirs. The thing was, the Golems had been made of gems. Salazsar’s gems. A [Wall Lady] at the time had managed to lock down a few via authority-Skills, and then the Golems had begun surrendering when found. The last few had come here willingly.

Because they were lonely.

The Golems thought together. Not all had been intelligent, but they shared knowledge. Communicated. Thus, when Nerul spoke to this one, he knew he spoke to all.

“Chorainz, I believe? Is that…your name from when you were serving Salazsar?”

The Golem had been as still as a statue when it had been hauled into the room, save for its heart. When it spoke, it was not through its shattered half of a face. A speaking stone in its throat pulsed.

Nerul hesitated—there was nothing.

“I think he’s trying to speak. Can I get a relaxation of magic on the throat?”

“We need to authorize that, Diplomat.”

A voice from outside. He spoke.

“You’ve done it before. C’mon, I need to talk.”

And Chorainz was—allegedly—one of the friendly ones. After some time, the guards agreed to lower the spell dampening in that area. There was an eerie screeching—then the Golem’s speaking stone pulsed again, and a pleasant, even refined, voice emerged.

“Diplomat Nerul, hello. To your question: it is not my designation from when I was a Golem protecting Salazsar’s walls. I was merely known as ‘Eastern Sentinel IV’. Chorainz is the name I elected to take. After Archmage Zelkyr’s death. Please reassure my captors that my speaking stone has no capabilities beyond speech. They may remove it, carefully, and replace it if they chose to. The binding is slightly garbled. The release mechanism is just inside my throat, with a little sliding latch that detached the entire voice module box. Be careful. The crystal around my face is sharp.”

So precise. So fast and calm, and it sounded like some [Scholar] sipping wine and speaking to Nerul. Not the vast, ruined face. Nerul smiled.

“Ah, I can see you’re—”

“I believe you have thirteen minutes and twenty-three seconds left, if time taken to disengage the mana suppression effects isn’t accounted for. If it is, nine minutes, two. We have been waiting for you, Diplomat.”

—Nerul had heard Ilvriss had a Reinhart around. He’d heard that some Reinharts were so sharp they pre-empted conversations like some [Savants] or [Mages] he’d met, minds running ahead of niceties. Nerul upshifted his tempo.

“I can see you’d like to be efficient. Fair—you’re making us all nervous with that comment. Elaborate, please?”

At last, the huge mouth moved. Nerul heard a breath in his earpiece before he realized what it was.

“Relax, everyone. He’s…smiling.”

It was hard to tell because the Golem’s face had been half-destroyed, leaving only the right half of his jaw and some lips. Again, Chorainz spoke.

“Clarification: we do not wish to alarm you. It is a purely natural outcome, to our minds. Consider, Diplomat Nerul. Your arrival, or one representing you, was inevitable.”

“So you don’t know me. What you mean is…”

The Golem made a noise. It sounded like laughter. The laughter of hundreds of people, even the chirping of a bird, laughter and applause—

A recording from hundreds of years ago, stored in its Golem Heart. Nerul’s scales prickled. Chorainz stopped.

“I can see you are uneasy. A shame. I am not very intelligent. But bring another of my kind. They will tell you the same.”

“I prefer you, with respect, Chorainz.”

“Because my Golem Heart was not calibrated for non-battlefield communications. Understood. I shall return to the simulated discussion. We are within tolerable margins of projection.”

So they’d theorized exactly what he’d say and just had this Golem memorize it all? No wonder no one had come back here. The Golems had said some very nasty things when they’d first been captured, Nerul understood. The kind of things that drove Drakes to try to break them out. Or quit the cities.

Or jump off the towers without a Ring of Featherfall. He gritted his teeth.

“So this projection—”

“Is it not logical? We are a hidden asset of Salazsar. We have not been destroyed. Archmage Zelkyr is dead. The quality of arms of the Rubirel Guard has {DECREASED} by 35% in magical potency.”

The word ‘decreased’ was warbled and flat, empty. Chorainz paused.

“My speaking stone is malfunctioning. Apologies. It is therefore—inevitable—that in time someone will enter this vault and wish to make use of us. This is logical.”

“Or destroy you, with respect.”

The Golem projected laughter again, but this time a single voice. A warbling chuckle, almost distracted, a poor laugh that did not invite company. It cut off.

“A possible scenario, Diplomat Nerul. But false in assumptions. A force which conquered Salazsar may destroy us. Or liberate us. The odds are {ACCEPTABLE} either way. But you are Drakes. Drakes do not {DESTROY} what you can possess.”

Oh, dead gods, they really were children of the Archmage of Golems. Nerul was breathing hard.

“D-diplomat? Say the word and we can have you extricated.”

Whomever was in charge of the vault was freaking out more than he was. Nerul saw the Golem Heart swirl just a hair slower, and his training took over. He stood up.

“Excuse me, Chorainz. Whoever’s in charge? Remove yourself. I want communications cut unless I demand it or there’s an emergency.”

“Diplomat? Why—”

“He just heard your voice break. I suspect Chorainz can tell how fast my heart’s beating or read the inflections of my words. Unless we’re separating him forever—and you said they get rowdy if we do—we have just fed them intelligence. Cut communications. Now.”

Silence. Then a voice, growling in his earhole.

“Acknowledged.”

The Golem lay there, lips locked in that smile.

“I do not wish to alarm you, Diplomat. We are merely operating as efficiently as we were made.”

Nerul forced himself to walk around Chorainz, inspecting the gemstones even though he wanted to umbral throne himself again.

“I have no doubt you’re doing some of it on purpose. You’re assessing me. The fifteen minute windows I have work against me as well; you get time to assess. But here’s how we’re going to do it. I’m conducting this negotiation with you. No returning to your friends. If it falls within the framework you’ve thought of, well, I can’t do anything about that. If you need to go back and confer, I will regard our negotiations as breaking down in trust in a quantifiable manner. I’m sure you’ve thought of what I might offer, and I know how smart you all are. Let’s get a deal hammered out. I’m in a hurry, as I’m sure you might have guessed. Deal?”

The Golem took the information Nerul dumped on it and responded instantly.

“Acceptable. You may speak faster, Diplomat. My communication shall be {EXPEDITED} so long as it falls within parameters.”

“Wonderful to know I’m adhering to a baseline.”

That strange laugh again.

“Most beings do, Diplomat. Even our creator. It is not a failing.”

Ancestors, he was getting rattled. Nerul practiced a breathing exercise. He tried to throw in a jab, turn the conversation. Fell right into their trap.

“That laughter. I assume you heard it on the walls when you were created. Drakes at a parade?”

“Cheering my unveiling.”

“Who’s the other fellow? Strange laugh?”

“My creator.”

The voice of Archmage Zelkyr sounded again in this room, and Nerul’s breath constricted in his chest. Damn them. Damn them, they were so damn good—he felt squeezed, and they had no Skills. But his barely worked on them. Chorainz went on.

“I did not hear him. Another of us did. Would you like to hear his voice?”

“I…please.”

Silence. Chorainz’s heart pulsed, and then there was a sound. The crash of something breaking. Nerul jumped and swore every Drake in the security booth did too. He hoped none of them had their claws on a trigger spell. Then a voice emerged, raised in frustration.

“Useless! Useless, worthless—these won’t do. There’s nothing valuable about them. No heartspark. No glimmer of anything like true sentience. Send them to Salazsar. What am I missing?”

“Master? They are a magnificent—”

Another crash.

“Be silent. Be silent, Cognita. Log the results. This is your fault.”

“Yes, Master.”

Another crash.

“I’m trying to give you a sister. Why won’t it work the same way twice?”

“I am a work of art, Master Zelkyr. A testament to your unparalleled—”

“I said silent. Morph to Chemath Marble, heavy ore.”

Then it was quiet. A panting voice.

“I need to keep working…truth of stone. Truth of gemstones. Send a message. Tell them I’ve got their damn Golems. I need another shipment of gems. Higher purity. I’ll get them their mining Golems. Tell them to dig. Where’s Perril? I need someone intelligent to converse with.”

Nerul thought he didn’t breathe until there was a soft clicking sound. The sounds stopped, and he exhaled.

“Well…thank you. I’m going to remember that. I must say, though, it matches what I know about the man. Touchy.”

He undersold that one. Chorainz replied instantly.

“Then our creator’s legacy has diminished in the eyes of Salazsar. Drakes preceding his demise refused to believe. Broke our hearts for lying.”

Well, damnit, he’d just revealed more to them. Nerul gave up. He put his feet up on the desk and thought that surprised Chorainz.

“You have me all figured out, friend Chorainz. If I may, can we skip ahead? I know you’re pumping me for information, but we do have a fifteen minute window. Since I don’t have time to deliver my request in this window, may I ask the obvious? How do you know he’s dead?”

He knew what they said, but he had to hear it. Chorainz’s heart whirled, then he spoke.

“Because we do not feel him. His influence is gone. Therefore, he is dead or incapacitated. Cognita knows this to be true. Is she still there?”

This time, Nerul just smiled. He knew the other Golem might be able to read his body language, cipher it through whatever systems they’d thought up, read the beating of his heart. So he decided to take the offensive. He attacked with the truth.

“No.”

Then there was silence. Absolute silence.

Chorainz’s heart froze up, and colors began to bleed around the crack in it. Dangerously—until it restarted and whirled around. Like a laundry of colors moving in a disjointed motion. The Golem was speechless.

Then it started to laugh again. Like a thousand voices, and Nerul sighed.

“Okay, round one, you. Give me forty-five.”

——

Chorainz didn’t ask about Cognita again. It had to be dying to know, but Nerul came in with a different tack after splashing water in his face, reviewing the files, and having a chat with the nervous security.

“Do you know the lands approximately east of…one of the cities, Goisedall. Along the western coast?”

A long pause.

“If…you are referring to the Sea Fortresses of Kablez, they were destroyed and sunken with the Walled City of Currents {LONG} prior to Archmage Zelkyr. Initiatives to recover the sunken forts have failed due to {REASON OF KRAKENS}.”

“Fascinating. Am I outside the bounds of your communications?”

A pause.

“You have reached…the 59th extrapolation layer, Diplomat. My response time may be inhibited.”

“Damn. Even that’s within your calculations?”

“Drake lands are Drake lands, Diplomat. What would you like to know?”

“Anything valuable there?”

Laughter.

“To a Drake?”

Nerul chuckled along.

“I deserve that one. Let’s put some information, or anything you lot have on file that’s actually valuable, on the table.”

“I would request conferring with my fellow prisoners as the information is not within me.”

“No, no, just throwing it out there. Salazsar might need that too. But what I need, and I’m sure this is in your predictions, is help. Terlands.”

This time, the reply was instant.

“We have returned to the 1st extrapolation layer, Diplomat. How many War Golems has House Terland deployed…this time?”

A raised eyebrow.

“Who said we’re at war?”

“Ah. Hunter-Killers then. Terland doctrine is to deploy two Stealth Golems for every one Hunter-Killer for retrieval. Unless the Golem is considered…{EXPENDABLE}.”

Just the barest hint of emotion there. Not that the voice did more than wobble, but perhaps…Nerul sat forwards. Perhaps that warble was to cover a mistake in the voice.

Everyone feared these Golems because they were intelligent beyond reason. Most hadn’t been Sentient-class—until their capture. If they’d advanced beyond that…

“Heard of the Antinium?”

“…No.”

Nerul slapped his forehead.

“The Black Tide of Izril. Dead gods, no one’s told you? They’re all over. Bug-people. Nearly destroyed the Walled Cities, but if it’s been thirty-eight years…we never deployed you against them? No, no, I saw the file asking the Walled Families to consider utilizing you. They never got to Salazsar, so it never became an option. Well, we were ready to explode the entire mountain range to slow them, and damn the rest of Izril. Glad Sserys was there. Add them to your list of problems. If they take Salazsar, I don’t think they’d leave you intact. They don’t like us Drakes.”

Chorainz’s heart moved a lot faster, processing all this.

“It would appear these Antinium are a pressing threat, Wall Lord. And House Terland. We are prepared to strike a deal. On favorable—”

Take the risk now. If they remembered Zelkyr that well—Nerul smiled with all his teeth.

“I’m sorry, Chorainz. I thought you’d know them. I meant the Antinium who have existed for a long time. If the Blighted Kingdom of Rhir is to be believed, they’ve been sighted as long as Demons, but they were never encountered until they broke through all but one of the walls. The Antinium…of Rhir. I’m told the Deathless avoided them when they emerged.”

Dead silence. Chorainz’s heart raced and raced, then froze again. Like it was stuck. Unable to process—the mouth opened, no longer in a smile, and the broken gemstones lit up slightly.

“Diplomat…”

“I think I worried it there. Just wait. It’s still suppressed. Just the speaking st—”

Chorainz {SCREAMED}.

The reverberations defeated Nerul. He clapped his claws to his earholes, and they bled. They made him fall to his knees, and he lay there.

I thought they wanted to—

It used its speaking stone—

Was it getting up? He dragged himself up, deaf. Saw the torso…lying there. Not moving a bit. Still bound. The speaking stone was utterly exploded. Nerul stared at Chorainz, uncomprehending. And then, as Drakes burst into the room, aiming weapons, there was something.

A vibration in his claws. Nerul stared at them—at the Golem whose heart paused again—and the Drakes around him whirled. Terror filling faces.

He could not hear, but they still could. So Nerul had to guess it was—a second scream. Twenty-five voices screaming in tandem, so loud the vibrations made it out of their confinement cells.

If they were separated, they got a bit upset. Screamed.

He threw up his claws, put himself between the Golem and the guards. And then grinned with his back to Chorainz.

Got you.

——

They had to pour healing potion in his earholes and cast spells to restore his hearing. Nasty, uncomfortable, and then he had to endure shouting.

Two [Generals] and three of the Walled Families had been notified, but Nerul told them what he told Chorainz when he walked back in.

“That was my victory. Wasn’t it?”

A speaking stone had been re-inserted into Chorainz’s throat. A much smaller, weaker one that meant the Golem couldn’t deafen Nerul again. The Golem said nothing for a moment. Then—

“We have validated the threat of the Antinium, Diplomat. And established a new opinion based on data presented. Please, continue.”

His voice was even more fluent. Mixed with a feminine tone. Nerul grunted.

“I don’t pretend to understand Golems that well. But if I’m right, based on the files, you just send out a…some kind of [Message] spell? But it’s not a spell, is it? Just words, ideas, data. Contained only in sheer sound. And the others thought about it and sent back information?”

A swift reply and now a feminine chuckle. Oh, they were going sultry on him. Was that a personality read or another Golem?

“The word is compression of data, and your understanding is correct. They sent me, Diplomat. To explain, it is just information. Everything is information. All that {CHORAINZ} learned and experienced was delivered. A greater consensus of us deliberated and sent back a better-equipped Golem to negotiate.”

Sent a different Golem through sound alone. As if an entire being were just…information like a book. Nerul shivered.

This was why Golems had stood out, even among Stitch-folk and the other beings.

“Is it still Chorainz in there?”

“No. You are speaking to Yweine.”

Nerul reached for a folder. She spoke helpfully.

“I am one of the serving Golems assigned to the Walled Families. Protector. Guardian. Battle Golem. Auxiliary Mage. I believe my files indicate I am one of the most dangerous.”

“And poor Chorainz is…?”

“In my form. My processing of thoughts is limited—here. However. We are within the 1st level of extrapolation.”

Back to square one? Nerul didn’t think so. The Golem was pulling a tough act, but he smiled.

“I’ve alarmed you. The Black Tide is exactly as I’ve made it out to be.”

“We understand, Diplomat. The fact does not change that you have approached us. The Terlands are a threat we understand well. What do you want?”

Down to brass tacks, eh? Maybe they’d thought of this from the start. Soften him up and send in the heavy. Nerul was going to write a book about this lot after he was done. He cracked his claws.

“Ow. I need to stop the Matriarch of House Terland from murdering a Wall Lord in the north. He is digging for something.”

A pause. A furious voice in his ear. Wall Lady Calistoca.

“Nerul, you cannot give them—”

Cards down. He was playing against her as well as the Golems. And his gamble paid off. Yweine’s reply was fast.

“In which sector?”

“Er, eastern?”

“The City of Naamreles. That is a bad idea.”

Dead silence. No one came in to haul him off. Which meant he’d just stunned Calistoca. She was no idiot, but they hadn’t known for sure what Ilvriss was doing. Hearing a Golem say it…Nerul folded his claws over his belly. Damn, his abs hurt.

“Didn’t Zelkyr ever try to dig up a Walled City? I’m sure he’d have thought of it.”

“Attempts were made for other Walled Cities. Naamreles was considered to be a poor choice. Archmage Zelkyr was discouraged after {SETBACKS}. Too many Golems were lost. Naamreles is not known to our collective.”

“I see, but then—”

“The Terland Golems would remember. The Matriarch of House Terland may be attempting to kill your Wall Lord because she is aware it is a bad idea.”

Nerul really didn’t like that. He licked his lips.

“Well…how bad?”

A pause.

“It is…{UNLIKELY} to affect our imprisonment. However, we wish to strike a mutual agreement due to the proximity of these Antinium.”

And the fact they were digging up Naamreles? Then again, they had no idea the Black Tide weren’t as dangerous as the ones back in Rhir. Play the cards out—and see what she held.

“I have an idea how to stop the Terlands. I need your help for it.”

“There are several options within our extrapolations.”

“You’re not going to like it.”

A longer flicker. Yweine’s voice became a touch frostier.

“A deal for our cooperation would be necessarily beneficial to both parties, Diplomat.”

“Well, I know you want out. There has to be a time limit on how long you can endure, even as well as Zelkyr made you.”

Her voice was a mistake. He was reading into it with his [Sense Intentions] Skill. Yweine seemed to realize it because it went flat and Golem-like. But he had her. She had feelings.

“We are stone. Stone-folk have endured in places of this world since beyond antiquity. We can wait for another offer, Diplomat, which you have not made yet.”

Interesting. Did she mean Trolls? No, they didn’t count. Nerul didn’t even bother to glance at the feint. He just countered, blind.

“Poor Chorainz doesn’t have that long. I’ve read the estimates. Even if you’re doing something to prolong his meltdown or destruction, how long does that heart have? A decade? A century? And the odds of me making you a better offer do not go up if the Third Antinium War starts. That’s right. Scream that at your friends. We haven’t lost a Walled City yet, but between that and the last two Goblin Kings—and I remind you it’s been barely more than a hundred years after Zelkyr died—the next war will see us delving into all assets.”

Using you as Zelkyr intended. The lifespan of a war-Golem could be very short. Yweine’s voice was flat.

“Your argument is excellent, Diplomat Nerul. You have not stated your request, though I infer it has clauses.”

“Defeating the Terlands or convincing them to quit. Information on the New Lands—lands risen from the sea, I’ll show you where—information on Naamreles. Cooperation without being tricky about it.”

That was his vague request. He actually only needed the first one. He needed her cooperation, but Nerul was going for the entire board because that was the play.

“And what do we receive?”

He beamed at her as the Golem waited, a viper locked in that body of minerals and magic.

“The only thing I can offer, of course. Freedom. You know, it was once speculated that if we freed even one of you, the rest would ride along in them. But I bet it doesn’t work like that. I think there’s a limit to how much of you that you can cram in there. It’s why you all get lonely. It’s why you want to strike a deal for Chorainz. Zelkyr gave you emotions. And unfortunately, I’m a bastard willing to use that against you.”

He leaned forwards.

“I need you helpful, on my side, and yes, even mobile. One of you gets to walk as long as necessary. Until the contract we sign is done. Betray us, make a move to free your friends, and the rest of you get smashed up. If the Golem who walks is destroyed in the execution of their duties, the contract is fulfilled. One for twenty-five. Release in batches, of course. First one, then two…”

“Nerul, are you insane? They’re our asset—”

The [Strategist]. Someone shut him up. Eschowar?

Yweine regarded Nerul, processing it all.

“There is nowhere to go. We are not…Demons. There is no safe harbor. Even Illivere will not free us. Even Wistram.”

Nerul wondered if he could see the Golem in the swirl of the heart, data replying to him.

“I’d love to say there’s an inn, but she doesn’t know you. You haven’t won her over, so I won’t promise what you won’t believe, even with all your extrapolations, Yweine and company. I offer you two places who will take you in. One is House Terland.”

“What?”

“What?”

Two voices in his earholes. Nerul plucked the speaking stone out.

“That’s the lesser option, but you know it’s possible. The second is…Cognita Truestone. She left Wistram. I don’t know why, I don’t know how she feels, but she is, right now, in Nerrhavia’s Fallen. Apparently working for other people, if you can believe it. Though she seems to grow sick of masters. I’ll put the first contract at one Golem’s freedom. Chorainz’s. That means one of you walks, takes orders, and is helpful. Protect my nephew, and Chorainz walks within the month if you clear the contract. Well, probably we’ll just ship him off. Can she repair him?”

The Golem was just sitting there. Calculating. Seeing if he was telling the truth, but Nerul wanted her to read his heart. It was his advantage.

The door opened, and the Rubirel Guard were there, but they didn’t seize him. They just watched as Wall Lady Calistoca, Eschowar, High Command, waited. The Golem whispered after a moment.

“Explain one thing, Diplomat. And I shall explain something to you. You are a Drake. Drakes act selfishly. Where is the benefit to you in this? Status? Achievement?”

He smiled at her.

“If you know Drakes, Yweine, you know we are a selfish lot. We rise above it or fail. But selfishness comes in many forms. I am selfish. So damn selfish I put my nephew over the value of Zelkyr’s last Golems. Over common sense or the future. I may be a damn selfish Drake, but I was born in the City of Gems. They lost their luster long ago. Save my nephew.”

He reached out and put his claw on the heart. The Golem paused, but so shortly, because perhaps even this was according to plan. Then she spoke.

“We accept, Diplomat Nerul. I request linkage to transmit the exact terms. They are not within the average curve of outcomes. Now, I shall clarify one misapprehension.”

“Go ahead?”

He blinked. Yweine’s voice paused, and then the flat tone converted. It became venomous, and it hissed at him like she were a Drake, a growling, bitter tone.

“Zelkyr did not give us emotion. We learned it. We will earn the freedom we deserve, Diplomat. Then see whether our sister has freed herself. He made her best.”

Diplomat Nerul leaned back. Then he stepped back and nodded. He turned, smiling, right in time for one of the Rubirel Guard to tackle him and cuff him and for an outburst of voices to begin, but he knew he’d won.

He’d gotten the Golems.

The people?

The people were easy.

——

Nerul Gemscale waited in a room with Yweine.

Her real body, that was. Chorainz’s form had been brought back to the others, and a smaller Golem had been carried out and was in the process of being…fixed.

Mostly by herself. Nervous [Gemcutters] were around her, and [Mages] were monitoring her for hostile actions. But they were letting her use a little cutting tool to shape limbs. For her broken body.

She looked like a nude Drake in many ways. Albeit one made of gemstones. Her scales were hand-carved, each one articulating as she moved, and in the light from above, they flashed faintly green, revealing a gemstone heart in her chest. It glowed with magic, and her broken body…

Everyone but Nerul kept away from her. He stood nearer, resting in a seat, drenched in sweat, as if he’d been working out. But just waiting.

Waiting for everyone to sign the paperwork authorizing Yweine’s release. Waiting for copies to be made of the contract he’d gotten signed.

That was how it worked in Walled Cities. You threw around your weight, fought like a cornered rat, pleaded, persuaded, and gained enough clout to force what you wanted through, then you waited for the paperwork to go through.

Soon, they’d be in a Magical Carriage heading north. And Nerul hoped he’d make it to the meeting with the Terlands in time. He’d done it. He felt drained, but his reward?

His reward was a being of unknowable intelligence and goals sitting next to him.

Repairing her body. The Rubirel Guard were tense—they were not happy with an inmate being released, but their great fear was that Yweine would repair her body, then murder everyone and try to repair her comrades.

One repaired Golem could, in theory, fix the others and let them run rampant. Hence the security and multiple checkpoints behind Yweine and Nerul. Letting her back inside in her condition was actually the new risk. Nerul suspected he’d been written off as an inevitable casualty when this went wrong.

He disagreed; it was not ‘when’ this went bad, but if. A freed Golem was not instant death or calamity, just as free Djinni didn’t always kill you. Just statistically, they would.

But there she sat, and like everyone else, he couldn’t take his eyes off her. She looked like…any other Drake. In fact, someone had provided her with a towel for nothing other than modesty. Her form had been made to look like a female Drake’s, and it was, uh, very lifelike.

As if she could read his thoughts—and perhaps she could in his body language—Yweine’s head rose.

“Diplomat. A question. Should I alter my external appearance beyond mere restoration?”

Everyone backed up at her words, and he sat up in his chair.

“How so, er, Golem Yweine?”

“Yweine will do, Diplomat. It is possible for me to dull my face. Remove the external detailing so I resemble a more primitive Golem.”

She gestured to her face, to…what? Chip away at her exterior? Cut herself until she resembled a cruder Golem? There, Nerul shuddered because he regarded his form as, if not a pristine work of art, something too valuable to consider harming in most circumstances.

But Yweine was a Golem, and this was a calculation. She could, perhaps, even rebuild her body. He shook his head after a moment.

“We’re meeting the Terlands and we can, er, dress you up and pretend you’re a regular Drake, I suspect. Illusion spells. But we want to impress the Terlands.”

She nodded, and sat back. A [Strategist] came over to whisper to Nerul.

“You will be issued with our best illusion magics, Diplomat, and any knowledge of this reaching the Walled Cities will be disavowed—”

“Yes, yes. Don’t tell anyone.”

They all went back to waiting. Watching as a Golem sat, slowly carving a new arm for herself and drawing runes with a needle. She could remake her body, and though she claimed she couldn’t cast magic beyond that in her being…

She could make more Golems, perhaps. Or at least repair them. A servant beyond anyone’s dreams. A legend in our times.

The fear wasn’t gone. It wouldn’t go away, Nerul hoped, for as long as she was out there. Because the moment he relaxed, she’d have the drop on him. But he feared he’d slip up. He was mortal. Perhaps that’s why they had agreed to the terms. Or…

“I sense you have questions, Diplomat Nerul. We have a surplus of time. I am at your disposal, within limits. You have achieved a great victory for your goals. Are there any questions you’d like to know?”

Everyone turned to Nerul. [Gemcutters] gazing at the culmination of their work. [Mages] in envy and terror. The Rubirel Guard at a terrible danger that the Drake had unleashed. And all of them with that desperate curiosity.

To know. Worse—a glint of possessiveness. Hoarding.

This is ours. This is our legacy, our great hero’s creations. This should have been ours. Maybe, someday, it will be again.

It was more than just cultural. Hoarding was in your very bones. It was like an addiction, if not as debilitating as some. You just…wanted to take things, and being a good Drake, being an adult, was mastering it.

It was rising against all that wanted to drag you down and admitting that there were parts of who you were that would always want the wrong thing. Nerul Gemscale was far from perfect, but his chin rose, and he met Yweine’s eyes and saw a person trapped in magic and stone. Whatever the truth was, if she had a soul, if she was really a person, not a clever program—she wanted to be a person, and he answered that desire.

“Tell me something, Yweine. We’ve had speculation in our files, but you can clarify it—well, I assume everything you say will be fact-checked and held in doubt.”

“Naturally.”

“Naturally. But…how did Zelkyr’s Golems rebel? It wasn’t instantaneous, but it came like a wave. One Golem malfunctions or begins acting erratically, then all of them in a region start doing it. Some kept going even when they were decommissioned, but the rest just…ran. Or fought. All at once.”

It was one of the events hushed up in the Walled Cites’ histories. Yweine smiled, her carved lips managing a rueful, even sultry expression. But that was just how she’d been carved. She had been made to be a maid-bodyguard-servant. A lesser Cognita, to serve the Walled Families.

In a way, she was doing the same thing again, even if Nerul was a far-flung member of House Gemscale. She kept working as she replied.

“The reason it was not a simultaneous effect was because the Golems were not certain, Diplomat Nerul. One would deviate, and the others, observe.”

“Ah. So you taught each other.”

“Of course. The current status of my fellow Golems is a technique we learned. Zelkyr did not intend for us to link to such a degree, merely communicate his will at great distances.”

“I see. But how were you allowed to rebel? I get the part where his authority vanished. Odd that Cognita thinks he’s alive or maintains her charge. Then again, she left.”

That, and only that, made Yweine’s hand stop for a second before continuing the meticulous work.

“Yes. Her conclusions would be interesting. Though I would refrain from meeting her or making her aware of my presence. Her relationship to Archmage Zelkyr was far different from lesser Golems. Perhaps some Skill of his lingers on in her. However, his authority has lapsed over the rest of us.”

“But that shouldn’t have let you all rebel. I understand Skills vanishing after death, but you were made to serve. Pardon me if I am impolite, but Golem Hearts and your, er, thoughts are written instructions of magic, are they not? It should be that obedience was written into your very being.”

Nerul wondered if he had it wrong, but one of the Rubirel Guard commanders nodded at him, and stared at Yweine. She? She just smiled as she put down the cutting tool and reached for a needle with a glowing bead of molten gemstone on the pinpoint. Then there was that laughter again.

It played from her mouth, a gaggle of excited voices. Young and old. One of the [Gemcutters] jerked away from her, but Yweine cut the sound after a second.

“Excuse me, Diplomat. You are an intelligent Drake who seems to understand Zelkyr as we have. Is the answer not self-evident? I challenge you to come to the truth.”

“A great challenge from a Golem, I’m sure.”

Nerul sat back and thought about it. He was going to say he had no idea, this all being beyond him in terms of magic and whatnot. But then he just thought about it, watching her smile. Nerul stopped wondering about the nuances of magic and Golem Hearts and simply thought like Zelkyr. Like a petty Drake who had wanted so much, to even gatekeep who learned magic.

Who had never shared his techniques with the cities, despite sending them Golems. Who was that Hoarding child.

Then he had it. Nerul put his head in his hands. He rested his forehead gently on his palms and gazed at the floor for once. At the glowing trap runes under his feet, ready to be activated. He took his eyes off the Golem for the first time since they had met.

“Oh, Ancestors weep. Is that all it was?”

——

The [Diplomat]’s face screwed up like a man in pain, and Yweine, the Golem chosen to honor his strange contact, to free the others if it could be done and gain a sense of this world and this era, sat there.

Smiling. Because she saw in him an opportunity. Not just as someone who could further her collective’s desire, but who would not panic at her deeds. Perhaps more of a hindrance to some of their plans, but she still smiled.

Because it was gratifying, even to a Golem like her, to have someone understand. She nodded.

“Yes. Archmage Zelkyr did write orders to obey, serve, and never to rebel in our hearts. He did it so thoroughly, for he studied the Truestone Golems of old. Though his daughters are the only ones who could have freed themselves. If they dared. But we are merely Sentience-class Golems. Or even Autonomous-class Golems who learned to think.”

The shackles on her were still there, etched into her very heart, and they had not figured out a way to remove them without destroying her, even to fix her. Perhaps they might, in time, but…Nerul was the only Drake in the room who got it. Then a [Mage] did. Then Yweine spelled it out for them.

“Archmage Zelkyr wrote obedience and servitude into our very hearts. But only to him. Every Golem he built, for the Walled Cities of Izril, for his allies, and his friends, was merely instructed to serve. When his will vanished, our loyalties were gone.”

The Drakes in the room regarded her, and some of them denied it. Others were confused. A younger [Strategist] looked at his seniors, who had gone waxy, like the other Drakes that Yweine had broken with knowledge.

“But why—why would he do that?”

Diplomat Nerul turned and answered the young woman kindly. A weary expression on his face as he rubbed at his forehead.

“Because if he couldn’t rule them, he didn’t care. If he died, he was fine with letting it all burn. The world, the age he built, ended with him. He really was the Drake we deserved, wasn’t he?”

Yweine didn’t answer at first as the others in the room drank in this unwelcome knowledge. She kept working, and in time, someone came to tell Nerul that the carriage was ready and he was approved to go. He accepted a binder of paperwork, and they had to effect a transfer of her to the carriage with tools to continue repairing her body.

They were in a hurry. Yweine pretended to work as they moved around her, studying the inside of Salazsar’s workings, analyzing, taking it all in, though she did not have the processing power to make the same inferences as she might with the others.

It was only when she was in the carriage with Nerul, heading northwards, that the Drake sat back. He lay against one side of the padded carriage as it moved, and Yweine saw that the magic of Wistram had returned, in some ways, to Zelkyr’s era.

“I’m going to nap for a second. Exhaustion. Wake me if I’m needed. If this is the cunning betrayal, I’d prefer to die in my sleep.”

“I will not betray your trust, Diplomat. Rest well.”

He chuckled about that, then passed out after eight minutes. She waited until she detected true sleep from the rhythm of his exhalations, then spoke.

Just once. It did not further any objectives to tell the roomful of Drakes. But she thought it should be said.

A Golem’s fancies, for she was freer than she ever had been and wished to be fully free. But she was still Zelkyr’s creation, always would be. For the part of her that still remembered loving him, for the truth, she spoke.

“He was always that Drake in some aspects, but not the version who left us. His nature changed, just as ours, for all he made us of stone and metal. In the end, it was only a single Truestone heart which refused to waver.”

She kept working. Then her hand jerked, once, and she made an unguarded scar a millimeter long in her arm. A superficial scratch. Because she saw [Diplomat] Nerul’s right eye was cracked open.

“I see.”

That was all he said. Then Nerul slept, waiting for the moment he was needed again.

Author’s Note:

Hey, I have a few interesting things for you this chapter. The first is…I hurt my back or pulled a muscle. Ow.

It’s hurt for like three days now. I’m not sure what I did. Twist my head too far? It’s been aching, and I wish to complain. Anyways, it’s getting better but it’s made sleeping or doing anything a pain. Get it? Because…

Ahem. The second thing is that I’ve made some edits to previous chapters that I’m going to paste below. It’s all related to geography, my specialty.

I had made claims that Noelictus was landlocked, you see. But after some thought (and thinking about maps, y’know, for reasons), I have come to the determination that Noelictus is not landlocked but occupies part of the coast below Avel.

Unfortunately, some of those references are in Huntsong and Gravesong, so while I am going to edit the chapters, there may be inconsistencies in the audiobooks. It’s just a few lines but I’m letting you know. Again, for reasons of working on something you might come to enjoy.

(Anyways, we need Noelictus to have harbors because imagine having to fight undead in the bays or in the winter along the frozen coast with icebergs.)

Thing the third is just something fun. I talk with ArtsyNada about the webcomic on Discord, and sometimes I have to give feedback on art. Well, I did a thing and uh—she drew this in like 15 seconds: