"Aye, it's true, birds are heavier then air…and they're vexingly irrational about it. Heavier-than-air flight is a simple impossibility, we've proved it. The only smart conclusion is that birds must use magic somehow. So unless ye mean to break the Law of Refinement and permanently enchant yer wee flying toy, give it up afore you make the Ardkin e'en more crabbit." —Sidhan Keeghan, in an argument with Jared Mab Keeghan.

In the workshop

Ducal palace, Auldenheigh 09.06.03.16.06

"…You know what? Time for a thinkin' drink."

There were a series of grumbling nods of agreement around the workshop as Derghan backed away from the prototype and ambled over to the "fridge."

They'd built it first. It was so simple, just a couple of good metal crates with insulation sandwiched between them, then some copper tubing, a compressor, a condenser, a valve, and a liquid with the right boiling point. Diluted airship fuel worked perfectly, though Derghan knew it'd be sensible to upgrade to something a bit less flammable, fairly soon. Preferably before a seal leaked, let some air in, and they had a fire on their hands.

Jerl had specifically warned him against using ammonia for some reason, but what other options were there…?

He shook his head to get his mind back on task. It was just like Jerl to come back after a few hours away and bring not one but two civilization-changing innovations with him. And given the choice, Derghan would have preferred to work on the fridge. That right there would change the way people ate and lived across all the worlds, in time.

But the "airplane" had to be first.

Fortunately, Jared Mab Keeghan had already done a lot of the heavy thinking on that project for them. But there were always refinements, and genius though he was, Mab Keeghan hadn't thought of everything. He'd had a few blind spots, and was had been so obsessed with the potential of new metallurgy to give his creation long, efficient wings that he'd overlooked the possibilities of a stacked pair reinforced with pillars and tension lines.

One of the basic rules of engineering work, in Derghan's estimation, was "get it working first, get it safe second, get it pretty last."

So, sure, the wings looked like a carpenter's scaffolding instead of an albatross' sleek sweep. The lashings and bolts were all proud and ugly and could do a fellow an injury if he wasn't cautious. And there were spots marked on the frame in red paint where a man couldn't stand without damaging it…

But by the Crowns it'd fly. The refinements would come later. They always did.

And in the meantime...cold beer. So cold that the glass fogged as soon as he draw it out of the fridge's misty depths. Colder than you'd find in any taphouse or tavern. He passed them around to the lads from the Royal Engineering College and they clinked bottles together to consider their work thus far.

"Well…she looks like she'll fly," he ventured.

"Slidin' rule says she will an' all," one of the College kids agreed. Derghan nodded happily. He was a practical, dirty-hands-and-greased-elbows sort of mechanic. Good enough with the numbers, but some of the College lads could make the sliding rule do circus tricks. Without them, the jumbled confusion of half-understood ideas transferred from Mab Keeghan's thoughts to Mouse's to Jerl's and finally to Derghan's by the power of Mind wouldn't have come this far, nor so quickly. One week on from the skipper's mysterious journey with the King of Crowns himself, and there it sat. Ready for testing.

Still hard to believe Mouse was gone, though. Poor little fucker. It felt…odd…to be mourning for somebody he'd hardly ever remembered on the day-to-day. Mouse had always slipped people's mind, that was his power. And now his absence left his mates with an awkward feeling like they ought to be hurting more when they thought of him. Like a phantom ache in a limb that had never been there.

Weird.

Derghan raised his bottle in a silent toast to the dead, and swigged.

"'Course…we know what she's missin', don't we?" he asked.

"What?"

"Bloody weapons, pal. We're at war, aren't we? Fat lot of good this bird'll do if she can't knock an airship out the sky."

There were nods and musings.

"So what're we thinking?" one of the older engineers asked, quietly. his name was Carson. Good fella, in Derghan's opinion. He'd been in the business of making looms and gins before this project had called him up. He was the sort to ask questions and listen quietly and never say anything until he was ready. Which made his opinions worth diamonds, in Derghan's view.

"My mate Jimmy over at th' armory says they's workin' on a gun can fire eight rounds a second," one of the apprentices piped up.

"Your mate Jimmy needs to learn to shut 'is tooth 'ole," said one of the older men, a military sapper named Haddow. "Talkin' about war work in t'pub is a good way for t'other side to 'ear it."

"Yeah, but it'd be good, wouldn't it? Like havin' a whole platoon o' men on her nose."

"And where would ye put it, lad?" Carson asked. "On t'wings? It'd throw balance off. On t'nose? She'd shred t'propeller and then yon bird'd fly like a brick."

"…We really should've thought of this before we started building her," Derghan noted.

"Aye, but ne'er fear. All we needs is a rack o' firebombs on t'belly," Carson said. "Then all 'yer pilot 'as t'do is, zoom right o'er the airship's bag an'—"

Derghan shuddered, as did every other airshipman in the room. A fire on the bag's top was a death sentence for everyone on board. Carson had just proposed the practical extinction of airships.

That was a thought worth following, he realized. "Yeah, but what about when they get airplanes of their own? Mab Keeghan may be dead, but Civorage'll hand the plans to other engineers on his side."

"If 'e can find any," the apprentice said, stoutly.

"'E will, lad." Haddow swigged his beer, glumly. "Don't forget, outside Enerlend, there's few as know what 'e's really about, or that the dukes're in 'is thrall. Our brother engineers over in Valai, Oderlend, Urstlend, wherever…they'll take the work 'cuz they don't know to say no."

There were grim nods, and another round of silent swigs.

"So…it does need a weapon for fendin' off other planes, then," the apprentice said. "Mebbe…is she strong enough for a gunner, maybe? 'E could squeeze in behind t'pilot wi' the gun on a swivel an' pivot."

There was a thoughtful pause. Several sliding rules were produced, and consulted. There were nods.

"I was gonna use that weight to give the pilots a survival pack for if they're shot down…" Derghan muttered. But… make it work, make it safe, make it pretty. And they were still on step one. "…What's your name, kid?"

"Derik Knit, sir!"

"Well, Derik, you may as well run along to your mate Jimmy and tell him to tell his boss that Derghan Vargursson at the Duchess' special project wants a word."

Derik hastily finished his beer, ripped off an enthusiastically awful salute that would have made an old serjant faint, and hared away out of the room so fast he nearly tripped over a tool box..

"Keen lad," Carson noted, drily.

"Weren't we all?" Haddow chuckled.

There was some good natured laughter, then a tap on Derghan's shoulder.

"Heads up," the shoulder-tapper said. "Your elf's back."

Derghan looked around. Sin was waiting patiently for him by the same door young Knit had just zipped through. She gave him the microscopic up-nod and tiny tightening of her lips that was, on her, a huge beaming smile.

"I gotta ask…what's it like being with an elf?" the shoulder-tapper whispered. "I mean…you hear stories, but…"

"Oh, well," Derghan said levelly. He caught the slight change in the angle of her head as she turned her pointed ear toward them, very slightly. She could hear every word. "Of course, what with one thing and another she's got thousands and thousands of years of practice, in all sorts of things."

"Oh yeah…?"

"Yeah. Like shutting the fuck up about what's none of your business."

"Shit, sorry…" the man backed off, raising his hands peacefully but without real contrition. Derghan scowled at him, then grabbed a beer for Sin and ambled across the workshop to join her. He was getting good at reading her emotions, he realized. Anyone else would have just seen her give him the same cool, green-eyed stare she gave everyone. But the way one corner of her mouth had ticked upwards by maybe a sixteenth of an inch said that she was actually holding back a laugh.

"If he only knew," she said, taking the beer.

"He can find his own elf, then," Derghan replied.

"Never going to happen. He's far too boring." She slapped the top off and swigged down half of it in one long go. "Oh…damn that's good cold."

Derghan smirked at the implicit compliment, and they stepped out of the workshop.

Well…workshop. It was actually part of the ducal palace stables, one of the coach houses. The coaches themselves had all been carefully dismantled and put into storage, to be rebuilt and returned to state functions when the war was over. Similar sacrifices had been made all over the grounds. Lawns that had been exquisitely tended for centuries were now riddled with bunkers and fortifications. Hedges had been uprooted to create clear lanes of fire. The ornamental fountain was gone. Only a few massive and ancient trees remained, though these too were wrapped in sandbags and razor wire.

The palace itself was similarly uglified: its hundreds of windows had all been turned into fighting positions by sealing them with forbidding embrasures of brick and iron. It seemed a wasted effort to Derghan—infantry would take one look at that impossible target and call in an airship or artillery battery to flatten it instead. A lot of sweat had gone into building a defense that would never be tested. He wondered why. Neither the Duchess nor Colonel Mossjoy struck him as women prone to empty gestures.

Sin recaptured his attention by stretching up on tip-toe to kiss him. Just a light peck to remind him she existed. Then a longer and deeper one to make sure he remembered.

Tension he hadn't even known he was carrying flooded out of him. Crowns. And maybe it was ego or imagination, but he hoped he was as much a comfort for her as she was for him.

"…Oh…I needed that."

"Mhm." She nodded faintly. "So did I."

"You been busy?"

"Took the Queen out to resupply the heighlanders up on the Cantre front. It's…" she paused and looked off into the distance. "…this is no way to fight a war."

She caught his own small head-tilt and frown. "Yeah," she said. "Bomirdd of all people is shocked."

"I wasn't thinking that."

She looked up at him with the sharp frown she always wore when she was about to remind him, yet again, that she wasn't a good person. But, they'd had that argument a lot. She bit it back. "…What were you thinking, then?"

Derghan jerked his head back over his shoulder, indicating the workshop's interior. "I was thinking, I just contributed to making it even worse."

"It's ready?"

"We're sending her up on her first test flight this afternoon. It'll go well, though. I'd bet my cock an' balls on it."

"Please don't. I can think of much better uses for them."

He snorted, which turned into a chortle when she actually smiled wide enough for a flash of teeth. His chortle earned one of her rare giggles, which set him off even more, and in seconds they were both laughing openly, a real tension-breaking belly laugh. A few people gave them funny looks as they bustled past, which just added to the humor.

Eventually, they calmed down. His stomach was hurting, and she actually had to wipe her eyes.

"Ahh…fuck," he said.

Quick as a striking snake, she grinned at him. "Yes, exactly."

This time, by the time he recovered, his ribs were in agony too.

"Okay, okay, okay! Enough, woman! You'll kill me before the enemy does at this rate!"

She scrunched her nose playfully at him. "But you'll die happy, at least."

He took her hands and kissed them. "I already am."

She kissed his knuckles in turn. "…Me too. Really. I…this has been a good chal, however this all plays out."

Fuck it, he thought. "Marry me."

The look on her face was priceless. Her eyes, already far larger than the human norm, went even wider, and her ears actually drooped sideways a little as though their upright trimness was a matter of conscious control. "I…I have my oath, though. My oath to Jerl. Chal-an-chal."

"Right. And I'm sayin'…let's make it my oath too." He squeezed her fingers a little tighter. "Do I have to get down on one knee? I don't have a ring, either. But you don't want either of those, do you?"

She looked away for a second. Then seemed to remember something, and looked back. Somehow, the cold green light of her eyes seemed to have changed a little. It was, just a little, a touch softer and paler. "The knee thing, no. But…I'll take the ring, when you can."

"So that's a yes?"

"That's a yes. I'll marry you."

He grinned, and kissed her. "I'll make the ring tonight," he promised.

"No. we'll make rings for each other. I'm a smith too, remember."

"Sounds perfect."

"It does," she agreed, with more warmth than he'd ever seen her express before. Then it was sealed away again, not gone but clamped firmly back behind the Penitent's rigid control. "It's too bad I didn't come down here just to see you."

"Why? Why did you come down?"

"War council. You're wanted."

"When?"

She pulled out her pocket watch, and her eyebrows twitched inwards when she flicked it open. "…We'd better run."

"I need to tell the lads, and you're quicker'n me anyway. I'll catch up."

"Right." She kissed him one last time, then there was a pale blur, a crack of displaced air, and she was gone, with a speed that not even most other elves could match.

Derghan took a second to bask. Life, he reasoned, had turned out pretty good for him now, no matter how the future went. Then he ducked back into the workshop, let Carson know where he'd be, and set off at his own much more ponderous run toward the palace.

And he wondered if Jerl was about to give him another miracle to realize.

"The hardest patients are the ones who have simply given up. I can tolerate a violent patient quite well, and I'll gladly dry any number of tears. And if someone hates himself or herself, I'll show as much love and kindness as you could ask for. But the patient who feels nothing at all…how do you heal someone who can't feel the want to heal?" —Nurse Tavestock, Royal Auldenheigh Sanitorium

A gentle prison

Unknown Earthmote 09.06.03.16.06

The first thing that struck Nimico was the warmth. She'd been expecting somewhere cold and desolate, somehow. Somewhere that reflected the icy opinion the Crowns and Heralds alike all had of her.

But…no. This was somewhere in the summer sphere, high up where she would never be troubled by Eclipse or Shades. And as Queen Talvi pushed aside a leafy hanging branch, she realized it was beautiful too. Sunlight gleamed through a bubbling stream as it leapt over a short drop from pool to pool on its way down to the edge. The glade was fragrant with little blue flowers that clustered in the shadows under trees alive with birds and frogs alike.

"I…"

"Is it not what you were expecting?" Talvi asked.

"I…no. Or…I don't know. Sayf once told me about the gods of the World Before and how they meted out punishment. There was one about a thief. The gods chained him to a rock and his liver was eaten by an eagle, over and over again..."

Talvi's natural expression was cool, but now she looked wounded as well. "Even at your lowest opinion of us, did you ever believe we would go in for that sort of thing?" she asked.

"…No."

"No. Besides, I personally always preferred the story of Sisyphus."

"I never heard that one."

Talvi sighed. "No…I suspect that's another area where we wronged you." She looked away for a second. When she spoke, her voice had regained its harshness. "For the record, your crimes lack Prometheus' selflessness."

Nimico sighed and stepped forward to begin exploring her prison. "I won't argue."

Without turning her head or even hearing anything, she still somehow sensed the self-recrimination that crossed Talvi's face. But what was there to say? She'd chosen to walk away. She'd chosen to be mortal. And then she'd chosen to pursue immortality again, and gaining it had cost her something terrible. Talvi could blame herself all she liked, and Nimico would even agree that her creator should reflect and learn from her example.

But there was some sense in which finally facing the consequences of her decisions was a relief. She would live here where she could do no mischief…and perhaps heal, or perhaps there was no healing.

"I feel…heavy," she noted.

"You never set foot on the Mountain, did you?" Talvi asked.

"No. This place is like that?"

"To a lesser degree. You can live here. Maybe even grow here. But it is a prison for you, dear one. You can't be allowed to leave."

Dear one, Nimico noted. She wondered whether she ought to feel sour or warm about that.

The Crowns had provided for her needs, at least. There was a house of sorts, a circle of pillars supporting a thatch cone and a floor of smooth boards some two feet above the ground, with "walls" that were little more than woven reed mats with more thatch cladding their outer face, all lashed together with cordage. It looked like the first storm to blow by would shred it…and also like she could magic it back into place with a snap of her fingers.

The hearth was outside, consisting of an oblong block topped by a smooth black stone, and a hollow interior. She could light a fire, and the upper surface would soon be hot enough to cook on. And of course there were the pools and waterfalls for both drinking water and for bathing. There was a vegetable and herb bed already sprouting, a fishing pole and net, and the trees all around were heavy with edible fruit.

No prisoner could have asked for a more sumptuous dungeon.

She turned back to Talvi. "You never did tell me how long my sentence is."

Talvi returned her gaze levelly. "That is up to you," she said, coolly. "You have a problem, Nimico, and the Crowns can't fix it for you. But it is within your power to fix yourself."

"So, I'm here indefinitely, until I've 'fixed' myself."

"Or until the world has moved on so you can no longer do any real harm."

Nimico looked down the stream. The edge was perhaps three miles away. If she wanted to, she could just walk down there and fling herself over it. The temptation to do just that stole over her, but she saw that a lot of had gone into this prison. The time it would take her to walk down to the edge was time enough to think and reconsider….and come to her senses.

Dear one. Did she really mean that? Was she still…even after everything, did her maker still love and value her? If so, she had a funny way of showing it.

There ought to have been a war between doubt and hope in her chest, she thought. Or maybe resentment? Maybe gratitude? Ought she feel bitter that she was being imprisoned, or glad she was being given a chance? Was it insulting she was being given a chance? Patronising? An imposition? Or was it gratifying? Encouraging? A gift?

Without actually feeling those things, the best she could summon was academic musing on what she might feel, if only she could.

Perhaps that was for the best. At least she could think clearly, without bias. But it had been more than a week since the Duchess had confronted her and made her heart pound with fear. In all that time, she'd hardly felt anything at all except boredom.

What if I turned around and slapped—?

A cool hand took her own and squeezed it. "Nimico. When has listening to that voice ever made things better for you?"

She looked down. The urge to do something mad twanged for a moment, then faded away. She looked up into Talvi's face, then looked away.

"…Never, I guess."

"No. Now is the time to push past it. You can resist it, I know you can. You can do anything."

"I can't be a Herald again."

Talvi shrugged. "Maybe in time, you could be something even more."

"Or I can be nothing at all."

"As you choose." Talvi squeezed her hand again, and let go. "But I hope…"

She choked up. Creator and Created stared at each other for a long second, then Talvi let go and stepped back and away. Without a further word she turned and strode into the bushes, as though suddenly eager to be as far from Nimico as possible.

The sensation of her presence vanished a few seconds later. Somehow, the earthmote became a little warmer, and a little dryer.

Nimico looked around again. What to do? She wasn't hungry yet. But she'd probably better get the fire lit and start something, because it would take time. Better to do it now so it'd be ready when she needed it. That would be the smart move.

So do the smart thing, you idiot.

The thought surprised her. It seemed to come out of nowhere, but it was in her own mental voice. She'd just never spoken to herself that way before.

You're smart aren't you, though? You're not a slave to your whims, are you? You don't WANT to be a slave to your whims.

"Well…no," she admitted aloud.

Then. Do. The. Smart. Thing.

Nimico paused. The impulse to rebel even against her own common sense came rushing up…and she smashed it down with a sudden and oddly intense feeling of anger. No. For thousands of years she'd rebelled even against the most sensible, self-interested things she could do. And look where it had got her!

She squared her shoulders, exhaled, and went to find the firewood.

Standing still and unseen among the bushes, King Eärrach smiled to himself.

"Every shell casing you cast and every rivet you drive Keeps a husband, a brother or a sweetheart alive!" —Auldenheigh poster encouraging women to take up factory work

The War Room

Ducal Palace, Auldenheigh 09.06.03.16.06

From the day Thaighn Saoirse Crow-Sight had explained it to her, the "demon in a cage" metaphor had stood Ellaenie in good stead for understanding the men around her. It was handy way of focusing a witch's sight, and generally pretty reliable.

And men had so many different demons, in so many different kinds of cages. Lust, wrath, pride, sloth, indolence…some were caged by iron discipline, some by fear of the consequences, some by genuine good nature, some by fragile nets of glass which splintered at the least excuse.

The most common demon by far was a sort of…despair. The sad and fearful suspicion that the world didn't really assign any worth to a man's life, and that the best he could hope for was to earn some small ration of esteem through his deeds, his sacrifices, his accomplishments and his hardness. Too many of the men afflicted with that particular demon were blind to its presence and left it uncaged, so it drove them to work twelve hours in dangerous mills, never dare a kind word to their children, and think of affection purely as a transaction at best…or something to be claimed without reciprocation at worst.

Even when properly caged, it still meant the men who bore that particular demon lived in a cold world. She felt a terrible pity for them.

And demons changed, sometimes. A man whose driving demon all his life had been selfish indulgence could hold his newborn child and suddenly the demon was fear. Or a young man hitherto driven by anger could find a cause greater than himself and suddenly the demon tearing apart its old cage was ambition.

Even her husband, even the crowns had their demons.

But Jerl didn't any longer. It wasn't a pleasant feeling at all; demons were dangerous, but properly shackled they could be the very thing that drove a man to greatness. Jerl's certainly had been. He'd done everything he had so far not by caging his his idle, unambitious streak, but by training it into the active pursuit of live-and-let-live simplicity.

Now, there was a cage in his core, one of the steeliest and strongest she'd ever seen. But inside it was nothing. He was still smiling, still planning, still joking and carrying on with his friends, still living. But the drive wasn't coming from a living thing any longer.

"Ellie?"

She inhaled sharply and looked away, realising that she'd been staring as she thought. Adrey gave her a curious look. "Steel for your thoughts?"

"…Later," Ellaenie said. She shook her head slightly to clear it, then looked around the room. Everyone was present, and waiting for her. She stood, and spoke clearly to cut through the low conversation. "Let's begin."

The men around the room fell silent, perhaps trading one or two last quiet words as they fell in around the table. Her new equerry, captain Mainer, dutifully stepped up beside her with the three letters she'd had drafted tucked neatly under what remained of his left arm.

She nodded at him. "Thank you, Mainer…Gentlemen and ladies, I know we have important matters of strategy to discuss, but as my mother once taught me, 'a state which fails to recognize and respect those who bleed for it does not deserve to be bled for.' I therefore have drafted a few letters of commendation and award to be read out. Mainer?"

The equerry unrolled the first letter, holding it surprisingly deftly for a man who'd only had his hook hand for a week.

"From Her Grace Ellaenie Crownspouse of House Banmor, Duchess of Enerlend and Her other titles, to the gallant and faithful officers and crew of the airship Cavalier Queen, greetings. In recognition of your service to the Duchy We do, by that part of the Royal authority entrusted to Us, by this letter declare you one and all to be Beloved of the Vacant Throne, and grant to you one and all the right to wear the white gold of the Companions of Merit. Signed this sixth day of the thirteenth month of the third year, oh-nine oh-six."

There were murmurs of approval among the listening officers, and a variety of reactions among the Queen's crew: Derghan grinned nervously and shifted his weight, clearly pleased but embarrassed. Jerl nodded thoughtfully but his expression remained unchanged. Sin simply stood and listened.

"Sinikka," Ellaenie added. "I would appreciate your advice on a point of etiquette."

The elf straightened slightly. "Of course, your Grace."

"You probably remember this of course, but I recently learned that when King Garanhir the First united the lesser kingdoms, he did so with the aid of the Cradhcan Set, who had sworn chal-an-chal."

"Yes, your Grace. One of my past selves was sworn to him. I was Anarav Cradhcan Bekhil."

Ellaenie nodded. "From what I know of history, King Garanhir made a compact with the Cradhcan's soothkeeper which empowered him to forgive some of the penitent's life-debt, is that right?"

Sinikka nodded. "You're asking if the Rüwyrdan and Nerissith would accept a similar boon from you, your Grace?"

"I am."

"We would…" Sin said, cautiously.

"But?"

"How many were you thinking of forgiving?"

"I don't know yet. What would be appropriate?"

Sin looked around at the uniformed humans, all of whom were watching her. "Only exactly as many as we can fairly be credited with saving, your Grace. And that count can't be taken until the war is over."

"I see…that answers my question then." Ellaenie looked to Mainer. "The second letter, please."

Mainer nodded stiffly, and turned to face Jerl as he unrolled and read the second paper.

"From Her Grace Ellaenie Crownspouse of House Banmor, Duchess of Enerlend and Her other titles, to Our trusty and beloved friend Jerl Holten esquire, greetings. In recognition of your service and sacrifice in Our cause, we do by these letters hereby award you the Silver Rose of Valor. Furthermore We do, by that part of the Royal authority entrusted to Us, by this letter grant to you the title Baron of Heighford, said title to be accompanied by all property and treasure held in trust by the Crown for the revival of that estate. Finally, We do, by Our aforementioned authority, invite you to be named Knight Companion of the Most Gallant Order of the Thorn."

More murmurs of approval, some of them verging on being outbursts along the lines of 'hear hear' and 'yes, well deserved.' Jerl's expression still hadn't changed, he was still nodding thoughtfully. Ellaenie caught his eye. "Will you accept?" she asked.

"…I will, your Grace."

"Then step forward and kneel."

She drew her sword and held it upright as Jerl paced forward before taking a knee on the cushion Mainer set down for him. Once he was in position with head bowed, she lowered the blade onto his shoulder.

"Repeat after me: 'I, Jerl Holten, do solemnly swear and affirm before the Crowns and the Vacant Throne—'"

It wasn't a long oath. And Jerl, to his credit, spoke it earnestly, committing to every word. But it didn't seep into the void in his heart and fill it, like she'd half hoped it might.

Well…grief needed more than fancy words to heal, she knew that well. But hopefully this was all worth something to him. And perhaps the third and final letter would help most of all.

"'—until the day my hand can no longer bear a sword. So I am bound, before the Crowns and the Promise of what is to come.'"

Ellaenie nodded, and removed the sword to its sheath. "Then rise now, as a Knight of the Thorn."

As was tradition, she extended the ducal signet for him to kiss as he stood. he did so, and a moment of understanding flowed between them as they made eye contact. He was grateful, she could see that and was glad of it.

Too bad the dignity of both the occasion and her rank wouldn't permit a hug. He badly needed one, she thought.

"…Rather than read the final letter, I will summarize it," she declared as Sir Jerl Holten returned to his spot at the far end of the table. "It was in my grandfather's campaign against the Oderan Pretender that he first struck the medal known as the Banmor Knot, to be Enerlend's highest award for valor. Since then it has only been awarded nine times…now, I bestow it for the tenth. Alas, posthumously."

She looked around the war office, taking in each face and reading their reactions, then turned to Adrey. "Colonel Mossjoy. Please summarize for everyone here how this war would have gone, if Jared Mab Keeghan had escaped with his 'aeroplane' prototype."

Adrey nodded grimly. "By the end of this month, Mab Keeghan's prototype flying machines would have completed their early testing, and a final design would enter production. We, meanwhile, would have no reply at all. Our enemy would rule the skies uncontested, free to shoot down our few airships, reconnoitre us unchallenged, and drop fire or bombs on us from the sky with impunity. We would have been left in a futile chase to catch up, and they would have remained forever ahead of us. I doubt we would have held out for more than three or four months, as our supply lines into the city were cut one by one and our armies starved. And with our defeat, Civorage would then have been free to spread his influence across the Nested Worlds, completely unopposed."

There was a shaken silence. Those few who'd already known this were nodding, slowly and grimly. Those who hadn't were restraining their emotions, with some difficulty in many cases.

"Now you know just how close we came to a defeat which might have cost us everything," Ellaenie said. "If not for the actions of one man, who braved enemy territory alone and unasked, today's meeting might well be about how best to mitigate and soften our inevitable defeat. Hope remains alive because of Mouse…though he bought our hope with the ultimate sacrifice. It is for this reason that I bestow on him the highest recognition Enerlend can give, and award him the Banmor Knot. Cold comfort as it is for those who loved him, his name will live on and be honored for as long as Enerlend endures."

She let them nod and mutter for a few seconds, before adding. "…Now let's get down to business and make sure it endures a damned long time. Mister Vargursson, let's begin with a summary of how our own airplane project is progressing, please."

She stepped back as the Queen's engineer launched into a detailed summary of what the airplane could do and how it was coming along. She was all business now, she noticed. Not that she hadn't been before, but now…now, being away from her daughter was more than just a sorrow and a longing, it grated. She still wasn't entirely convinced Saoirse was unharmed by her Word, despite even Sayf seeming reasonably content by now.

So many things to worry about, and she could only be in one place at a time. And whichever place she went, she caught herself worrying that she'd got her priorities backwards. At the Oasis, she worried she should be here in Auldenheigh, being the Duchess. While she was here, she worried she should be back there being a mother.

She was getting quite tired of constant anxiety, dread, guilt and tension. Even Sayf and the harem, as much as she loved them, couldn't quite make her feel better. Palasarli might have, she thought. But Palasarli had vanished on some errand, and was yet to return.

That made Ellaenie worry too.

The meeting progressed. In light of the development of Derghan's airplane, they decided to abort construction of any more airships and keep their reserve of lift gas saved for the Queen and the rest of Enerlend's pathetically small air fleet. Instead, the decision was made to funnel the work and resources into laying rail and building motorized wagons.

There were casualty reports, training reports, a summary of the economic situation…all of it pointed the same way. Enerlend's walls would hold up for a time, then fall suddenly. They could not win this war by remaining on the defensive and allowing Civorage to forge the other duchies into a single unified war engine.

Time and again, they came back around to what airplanes could do. There were a few sceptics who pushed back against relying too heavily on something new and untested, but Jerl shut them down with a single phrase: "King Eärrach himself told me that this is the weapon that will define war for generations to come."

Which was as close as the Crowns ever got to a direct 'do this.' And Adrey was completely committed to them too, which was just as good an endorsement as far as Ellaenie was concerned.

It was, all things considered, a remarkably swift and decisive meeting. Auldenheigh would begin building airplanes and training men to pilot them just as soon as possible. There would be deaths, she knew: the early machines would be dangerous, and the art of piloting them would have to be invented from nothing. But it seemed the best way forward.

When she finally called an end to the meeting and sent the officers on their way, Derghan and Sinikka scurried off to return to the workshop with the news. Jerl and Adrey remained, in a sort of private meeting of Wordspeakers.

Ellaenie briefly considered a sympathetic question like 'how are you bearing up?' but there was no point. She knew. And he had Mind now, so he could probably read her just as well as she could read him.

"What happens to the Cavalier Queen in all this?" she asked instead.

Jerl sighed and sat down. "As soon as the first planes are in the air, she'll be obsolete and vulnerable," he said wearily. "Much as I love the old girl…I think her time's passing."

That admission pained him almost as much as losing Mouse, Ellaenie saw.

"Not necessarily," Adrey said, brightly. "She just needs rearming and refitting."

Jerl looked up at her. "What with?"

"With airplanes." Adrey took up a piece of paper and a pencil, and sketched. "The problem with airplanes is range. Airships can still travel much further, and a ship the size of the Queen could carry six of them, three on each side."

"To launch, maybe. But how would they return? It's not like they can land on the deck."

"Oh, I imagine our engineers could find a way. But even if they can't, you can still recover the pilots by wingsuit and parachute. And losing the six machines themselves might be worth it if they can strike a target deep inside enemy territory."

Jerl gave his beard a thoughtful scratch, before a slow smile cracked through, the first one Ellaenie had seen on him all week.

"If you think it would work?"

"My Word says so."

"Hmm." Jerl nodded. "I'll take the idea to Derghan, then."

"While you're at it, hand him these notes from me." Adrey gave him a folded sheaf of paper. "Just a few ideas the Particulars had for how we can use these things."

"Will do. Thanks."

Adrey and Ellaenie watched him go. Once the door closed, it was just them, alone together for the first time in…when? Years?

No, only a couple of weeks. But it felt like years. When Adrey flopped down in a chair and grinned, Ellaenie almost wondered if Jerl had somehow unwound them back to before the war: the woman in front of her still bore all Adrey's scars and the short haircut she'd chosen to fit under wig and helmet, but just for a moment her old friend—the girl who'd been a big sister to her, even—was back and full of the mischief that had typified her then.

"You seem…upbeat?"

"I am!" Adrey agreed. "This whole time, my Word's been predicting doom and gloom and failure, and I've been fighting just on the hope that something would change. And now it has! Now, we have a real opportunity to reverse the flow. I can feel it, Ellie. This is how we win."

Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

"…What will you do, once we have?"

Adrey shrugged. "I haven't thought that far ahead." She pursed her lips thoughtfully and looked up at the ceiling. "I don't even know how far ahead it'll be. Civorage sunk his claws in deep over the years. We won't destroy him quickly, no matter how the war for Garanhir goes. Maybe I'll be an old lady by then. Maybe I'll have fallen, like Mouse did."

She shrugged, but smiled brightly despite the grim words. "Or maybe not. You're going to think I sound crazy, Ellie, but there's a part of me that almost doesn't want this war to end. I feel…" she sucked thoughtfully on her lip as she gathered her words, looking vaguely toward the blocked-up windows. "…Being your lady-in-waiting was fun, but it was so genteel wasn't it? I briefed you on the etiquette and the who's-who, and Lisze took care of making sure you were always the vanguard of fashion. It was all so…delicate. We used to obsess over making sure you didn't have any puce in your gown because it was the Count of Wend's family colour and you didn't want to be seen as tacitly approving of his guild connections…"

Ellaenie snorted. "I remember the scandal when Lady Falroy came to the King's Eve ball wearing an Urstoin neckline, and loudly told everyone present that I should wear one too rather than dress so prudishly."

"Mm. The most exciting thing to happen in Auldenheigh society for sixty years," Adrey noted, drily. "What we're doing now…means something. I don't know if I could ever go back to such stupid little concerns after all this. I'd feel dead inside if I had to. Right now, I feel alive in a way I never knew was possible."

Ellaenie put on a brave smile, and reached out to draw her oldest friend into a hug. "…Just try not to get yourself killed, please?"

"I'll do my best," Adrey promised. She squeezed tight, then pulled away, gave Ellaenie a cocky grin that said she knew perfectly well that her best was very good, and excused herself.

Well, that was all she could fairly ask for. Ellaenie returned to her own office to continue the business of writing and signing letters. The war needed her signature and seal on so many things, creating departments, assenting to laws, putting her authority on official decrees. And she refused to sign a single a one without reading it thorougly first. For the next four hours or so, the only sounds in her office were the tick and chime of the wall clock, the scratch of her pen, and the quiet comings and goings of clerks.

She was distracted when, outside on the lawn, an engine roared to life and a cheer went up. She paused, then darted over to the tiny firing slit that had replaced her window.

She was just in time to see the first airplane bump and lurch across the lawn then wallow up into the air and soar gracefully away over the rooftops.

The Enerlish mourn three times—First, they take care of business. Then they weep in private. Then they drink. —Valeriae Olon, Buttoned Up Tight.

Guest Wing

Ducal Palace, Auldenheigh 09.06.03.16.06

Jerl had been given indefinite use of one of the palace's guest rooms, and it was hard to think of a reason not to use it. It was…well, palatial. His clothes were whisked away in the night to be laundered, every night there was a hot bath waiting for him, and every morning there was a hot towel shave to get the day started, along with breakfast. The latter may have been made with the same ingredients as everyone else in the rationed city was eating, but it had been made down in the palace kitchens, and it was unbelievable what a sufficiently skilled chef could do with rationed food.

The opulent bed, meanwhile, was easily the most comfortable thing he'd ever slept on. Just the perfect intersection between softness and firmness, with clean sheets every day. Not even the best and most expensive hotel he'd ever stayed at could compare.

He flopped down on it and worked his boots off. A whole day of running around making sure the Queen got her refit and maintenance had added more than a few miles to the leather, and left his feet in dire need of a soak and a rub.

He could have rung the bell and called for such a service. Instead, he scooted up on the bed and massaged his own soles. A little pampering was one thing, but getting some poor fellow to squeeze his toes for him felt both infantilizing, and too much like class treason.

It didn't take long, anyway.

Seven years.

How hadn't he noticed? That was the bit he kept coming back to. He'd spent seven years of personal time climbing the mountain in Eärrach's company. That, and re-integrating during his long stay in the cabin…boy, what a ball of conflicting feelings laid there! The King had been the perfect companion, so much so that Jerl could almost forget he was eating and sleeping in the same space as a god.

A god who snored, loudly. Who was an incredible cook. Who was lousy at poker, at least when they played honestly. Who, yes, was a fiend for exercise, who enjoyed showing off the results…

And who seemed to know, at any moment, precisely what sort of companion Jerl needed as he wrestled…Well. Wrestled with his own nascent and now all-but-inevitable godhood.

…Okay. Yeah. Maybe having a literal god as a guiding friend was exactly the blessing it seemed.

It sure as shit hadn't felt like seven years, but he didn't doubt the Crown's honesty for a second. Besides…Time told him it was true. But from the inside, he'd just…walked, and thought. It had felt like a long time, yes, but seven years?

Mind waited for him to take a closer look at it. At the time little Saoirse had transferred its power from Mouse to him, he'd barely paid attention. The farewell had been all that mattered. And since then he'd let it sit there inside him, like an important letter he was going to get round to reading soon, but not before sorting out some other stuff first.

Now seemed as good a time as any.

Mind. He drew it up and considered it, considered its power and potential. He could immediately see how small and crude Mouse's use of it had been, and cringed at himself. It felt disloyal to think so, but it was true—Mouse had thrown Mind up around himself like a shield, and barely had any control over it thereafter.

And as for Civorage…fuck! It was like watching a man fish with explosives.

What could Mind do in Jerl's hands? What could it be, for someone who was ready for it? What if…instead of turning its power outward to affect other people, what would happen if he turned it inward upon himself?

He considered that thought for a second, then drew his legs up and settled into a comfortable sitting position. He packed a pillow behind his back, wriggled his butt into the soft mattress, and took a deep, slow breath.

Okay. Let the Word take the wheel…

He fidgeted for a minute or two at first, plucking his clothes until they were perfectly comfortable, scratching the odd itch, shifting his sitting position slightly…slowly, such physical concerns faded, and his mind started to do what minds were for: it started to have thoughts. Random thoughts, about random things. Faces, words, ideas, snippets of old happiness and new sadness arose and drifted past like he was an airship flying through a patch of small, fluffy clouds. Each one would appear from seemingly nowhere to envelop him and become his whole world, and then it would pass through and past and fall away behind and the next would come.

One of the thoughts was to briefly become aware of himself, sitting on that opulent bed with his legs crossed, his hands cupped in his lap and his eyes half-lidded, open and seeing. He smiled, and the thought passed on like all the others.

The spaces between such intrusions grew wider, and at first he expected his consciousness might expand outwards, but instead some quiet instinct said, gentler and quieter than any thought he normally had, no: no expectations.

Instead, his awareness tightened and sharpened. He became aware of his breath, not in an unpleasant way as though he had to control it, but with an appreciation for how it happened all by itself. Below that was his pulse, steady and slow and felt not just in his chest, but in his throat, down his arms, even in his fingertips.

Mind and body. He sensed them both, and wondered which one was doing the sensing.

He remembered the mirror of dissolution, up on the mountain, and considered what it told him about his mind, and the power of Mind. What was a mind? Was it a thing that could float free from the head? Could you have a mind without a body? For that matter, what was a body without a mind? What was a human without either?

The stillness was effortless now. Effortless and familiar despite that he'd never experienced anything like it. Mind drew him down, and in, peeling back each layer and saying it's okay. There is nothing to fear beneath.

Gently, patiently and kindly, Mind revealed to him just how much of himself was illusory, and exposed what was real underneath.

There was no thought, now. Nothing arose to trouble or distract him. Without marking the passage of time, he did nothing but sit.

The knock on the door that pulled him out of it wasn't an interruption, nor did it startle him. Thanks to Time, he'd seen it coming. It just dropped into him and through him and the layers of himself all wrapped back into place, like buttoning up his coat because it was time to go outside into the cold air again.

He opened his eyes, and blinked twice at the unfamiliar sumptuous surroundings, lit by the steady cream glow of a magestone lamp in the ceiling, and gently perfumed by fresh linen, beeswax polish, and the little lavender sachet under the pillows. The distant, muffled hum of the palace outside these walls, and the war beyond that.

"Come in."

Amir opened the door. He had a large bottle of something that looked expensive in his hand, glasses in the other, and Sin and Derghan hovering behind his shoulder.

"Thought you might fancy a drink," he said.

Jerl smiled, with a warmth that truly surprised him. "With you three, always."

His three oldest and best friends filed into the room, which Derghan looked around and whistled at.

"Swanky!"

"As befits the Baron of Heighford," Sin agreed, giving Jerl a teasing poke in the ribs. "What is the correct form of address for a baron?"

"Milord," Amir said, working the corkscrew.

"Bollocks to that," Sin said. She flopped comfortably onto the bed in the most insouciant pose Jerl had ever seen her adopt, and grinned at him; he returned it with a chuckle.

"Not from you," he agreed, meaning all of them. "Never from you."

"It's still the sort of thing that deserves a toast," Amir declared. The cork came out with an easy punk! sound, and the scent of rich fortified wine came with it. Derghan handed him four crystal glasses from the palace collection, and Jerl briefly wondered where he'd got them.

"I dunno. I think the test flight deserves it more," he said.

"Now where did I suggest we were only going to drink one toast?" Amir asked. "I can think of at least four."

"…The first three, I can guess. Me, the plane, and Mouse?"

"Yes indeed." Amir handed out the drinks.

"But the fourth?"

Amir raised his glass. "To Derghan and Sin. Congratulations on your engagement."

Jerl nearly spilled wine on the coverlet. "Really?"

"Really."

The couple grinned at him as Derghan settled in alongside Sin and put his arm around her. "Yup."

"Since when?!"

"Oh about…six hours, now?"

"We've asked Amir to be our best man," Sin added.

"And," Derghan said, "as ship's captain, by tradition, you can officiate."

"Name the date!" Jerl said.

Sin shrugged. "Soon as. No sense in wasting time, nay? There's a war on."

"We're gonna make the rings tonight," Derghan said. "After that, there's no reason to delay, is there? Not like it's gonna be a big society event."

"It could be if you wanted," Amir mused.

"Please."

"Yes, I didn't think so. Now come on, we didn't complete the toast!"

He and Jerl chimed their glasses together in tribute to the couple, and drank. The wine was rich, and coated the mouth with a taste that was more scent than flavour. It was one of the best things Jerl had ever sipped.

"It is kind of historic though, isn't it?" he asked, once the taste had been properly appreciated. "When have an elf and a human ever married before?"

"It used to happen all the time, back in the first years," Sin recalled. "During my very first chal, humans and elves didn't really understand the differences between us yet, so we married freely. My first wife—well, we didn't really have marriage in those days, but my first committed romantic partner, the mother of my first children, she was human."

"What was she like?" Derghan asked.

"Her name was Thauwenif…" Sin looked up at the painted and rococo'd ceiling in recollection and thought. "…There's no direct translation in modern Enerlish. 'Joy,' perhaps. Nothing made her happier than helping others laugh, so she named herself for it. We all named ourselves, that first life."

"And you chose Bekhil."

"Mhm. It's a shortened version of Bekhilithral. Which means 'fascinated by storms.'"

She swirled her glass and stared into it. "She and I used to stand side-by-side at the cave mouth and watch the lightning. I never imagined one day I'd fly among storms."

Derghan gave her a squeeze. "Still miss her, huh?"

"You would have loved her," Sin sighed. "We were all…very innocent in the first life. Recalling my past in the next chal came as a nasty shock. I think it traumatized us all, actually. Sometimes, I think the Crowns never thought through the consequences of their whimsy in making us."

Jerl shook his head to disagree. "If there's one thing I've learned about the Crowns, they think in the very long term. I think the best days and the great purpose of the elves are still ahead of you."

Sin considered that thought, slowly. Then she nodded faintly and looked thoughtfully away. "That's…a nice thought," she conceded.

Derghan tilted his head down at her, then raised his glass.

"To Thauwenif. Still remembered and loved after so long. May we all be so lucky."

Jerl and Amir nodded, murmuring agreement, and they drank to the memory of a woman who'd been dead for eleven thousand years.

Sin added a toast of her own. "To Arn Holten," she said, looking at Jerl. "He'd be proud."

More nods. They drank.

"And to Mouse," Amir added softly, "and the future he gave us."

Another round of agreement, and the glasses were down to one last toast.

Jerl raised his own to make it, and paused. They could single out names all night, and once he'd have probably toasted every absent friend and lost love. But in this moment, something in his heart said look forward.

"…To the living we're still fighting for," he said.

"Hear fuckin' hear," Derghan agreed.

They drank, then paused for a refill. No more toasts.

"I didn't know elves and humans could have children together," Amir said.

Sin nodded. "Mhm."

"How does that work? Are they elves? Human? Some blend of both?"

"Depends on the mother. Fey mother, fey children. Human mother, human children."

"Huh. Makes sense, I suppose."

Sin shrugged. She was watching Jerl still, and he could guess the question she was building toward. So were the other two.

He let them ask it.

"…We've got to ask," Derghan said, eventually. "How're you holding up, Jerl?"

Jerl gave him a gentle smile. "I'm alright."

"You sure? I mean…"

"Remember, Derg, I got to say goodbye. And I spent a year with Eärrach afterwards as we came back down the mountain. I've…had the time I needed. I know to you it's only been a week, but for me…" he paused and sighed. A pang had still washed through him even as he spoke. "…For me it's been long enough to carry on. Though, believe me, it took a while now I think back on it."

"You were really up that mountain for seven years?" Amir asked, sounding dubious. "You don't look as though you aged at all."

"I didn't. Time on the mountain isn't like time here in the ordinary world. It passes in the sense that, y'know, things happen one after the other. But it doesn't…it doesn't grind on you. Or maybe that was just Eärrach's protection at work."

"I still barely believe it," Sin mused. "You climbed the Mountain. THE Mountain, the one we have songs about."

"You do?"

"You've heard me sing about it before, surely?"

"…Remind me."

Sin shrugged, and fished down beside the bed for her guitar. The chords she struck were immediately familiar and Jerl nodded: he did know this song. Well enough to join in, even.

A few hours passed in happy togetherness, drinking and singing, interrupted only when they rang the bell and a palace footman brought more wine and snacks. The poor young fellow looked increasingly scandalized by the lyrics to "The Well-Travelled Airman," which at first seemed a jaunty tune about sampling exotic cuisines in faraway ports…until he caught on to why the menu emphasized peaches, clams and warm honey. He became downright indignant when Jerl tried to tip him.

They had a good laugh about that once he was gone, and pretty soon after they treated the entire guest wing of the palace to a rousing four-part rendition of "Fiddle in the Haystacks" that had footmen politely knocking on the door to suggest they should stop.

They gave up when Derghan explained they were holding a wake, and dutifully brought more booze and snacks instead. Presumably in the hopes that the four of them would quieten down when drunk enough.

It worked. The last song of the night came about an hour later, when Amir had fallen asleep and Derghan had wandered off to figure out where one was supposed to piss in a palace. Sin withdrew into a corner and spent some time composing something quieter in Feydh, playing it with all the soft delicacy of a lullaby except where, here and there, her fingers struck a high, mournful harmonic off the strings.

It occurred to Jerl that a human's composition in the same moment would have been raw and unpolished but heartfelt. But Sin had been a musician for eleven thousand years, across many lives. Her scarred and serious exterior belied a clear, captivating voice, and she wasn't squeamish about unleashing it when the occasion warranted.

♪"Ayé, tao wanen ayé. Chal menhodh advatemara. Uka suul, mell, canaret, Tyulko dhru tao, ach hod ka.

Mé ki mus wanara. Mé ki chal wanara. Mé rücaern, rücaern rücaerna. Ayé…tao wanen, ayé.

Ayé, aken mellir ayé. Akun tredi mendliret. Uka mendrétra valket, Tao hen gif sooth dhru temen.

Mé ki mus wanara. Mé ki chal wanara. Mé rücaern, rücaern, rücaerna. Ayé…aken mellir, ayé."♪ ¹

Jerl watched his oldest friend as she let the last note fade, and reflected how much he'd learned about her in the last few months, and how much she'd changed in that time, too. Usually she was loath to be too "elfy," but tonight…

Tonight, though her tears refused to leave her eyes, they rained out of her fingers as she drifted them slowly across the strings. She wasn't only singing about Mouse, he sensed. It was a song for Thauwenif too, and maybe even Derghan as well. All the lives that an elf's long existence would leave behind.

Sometimes, it seemed like there was nothing left of the Laughing Death in the woman he knew. In moments like this, it was difficult to imagine how there ever could have been. Even though he'd seen visions of her past, part of him still refused to connect his melancholy, warm-hearted friend with the bloodthirsty maniac who'd slaughtered slaves for the adulation of a frenzied crowd.

But it was there. Mind let him see Bomirdd quite clearly, in fact. But it was nothing alien, or unusual; it was something he had in himself, the bit of him that always felt alive and exultant and powerful after a fight. The Ordfey had simply embraced it and let it bloom unchecked.

And then Eärrach had healed her, not by removing that feeling, but by reminding Bekhil of what their victory meant for the other guys. All of the other guys. Direct, first-hand experience of what it was like to face the Laughing Death and die. It was exactly his sort of move, straight from his usual template: painful, but purifying. Having endured the King's gentle tutelage himself, Jerl now felt far more able to put himself in Sin's place, and smiled at a pang of sympathy for her.

She caught him watching, gave him a small but complicated shrug, and set the guitar down.

"I'd better go make sure Derghan's not thrown up in the Duchess' bed or something…" she murmured. They traded a brief hug, and she slipped through the door.

Now alone, save for Amir gently snoring on the couch, Jerl raised his glass one last time, drained it, set it aside, lay back, and closed his eyes.

Sleep came easily, and gently.

We fiddled in the haystacks and bowed in the straw, And she played me a tune that I'd never heard before! Come rosin up my bow and we'll let the music soar, As we fiddle, fiddle, fiddle in the haystacks!

—Fiddle in the Haystacks, Enerlend traditional.

Strategy Meeting

Ducal Palace, Auldenheigh 09.06.03.18.12

Two and a half months ground past.

Civorage launched three major assaults in that time, only to be driven back on all fronts, with a scale of bloodshed that sickened Ellaenie to her core. All pretense at civility was gone, now, all the gentle and subtle intrigues were discarded. He had the power to wage war on a scale never before seen, and he was using it.

Men died by the thousand in those attacks. Artillery turned miles of farmland into a rippled lake of mud, strewn with the sad remnants of trees, jagged tangles of barbed wire, and the splinters of fences and scattered loose-stone walls mingled with human remains. A man crawling on his belly through that mess (and there was no better way to move around, as anyone who stood tall was just begging to be gunned down) was liable to find a tooth or some other unidentifiable fragment of bone in his pocket if he made it back to his trench.

Three hammer blows had robbed Enerlend of men they couldn't replace. The next, they knew, was going to be the biggest yet, and it would make a crack. The only question was where it would fall.

It was a question that led to some…tension…in the war office.

"With all due respect, Colonel Mossjoy—"

"General Molton, when a man begins a sentence that way he is, in my experience, invariably about to be anything but respectful. Don't waste words, please."

"…As you wish, milady. You have been conducting warfare for something less than a quarter of a year. I have been a military man since I was half your present age. I put my faith in experience rather more than I do in whatever magical powers you claim to have."

"When it comes to this war, general, you and I are equally inexperienced," Adrey retorted, icily.

"The point, milady countess, is that I cannot divert men from one front to another based on your whim, hunch and intuition. And if you cannot articulate why you are so certain the next attack will come from Cantre, then I must treat your say-so as nothing more than intuition!"

"If I were to try and enumerate all the reasons why, I'd be ten feet deep in paperwork and still writing when the attack started! It's not one thing!" Adrey snapped. "It's a million little things! It's the pattern! And I have been accurate in every previous case!"

"I am not disputing the quality of your intellect, milady, I am disputing the quality of your intelligence. The information you have is incomplete! Far too little to draw any sound conclusions!"

"For you, I'm sure that's true! But I have abilities you lack, sir!"

"Magical abilities! And it is a long-standing truism of the Enerlish military that magic is a fine and useful thing but one must not and cannot depend upon it. We build our foundation on strength under arms, good supply lines, good industry, iron discipline and clear knowledge, milady, not—not finger-waggling and mumbling!"

Ellaenie decided she'd listened quite long enough. "General," she said quietly, but the word slipped into the argument like a knife between the ribs and silenced it instantly. "You forget yourself."

Molton stiffened. "Your Grace, I—"

"You will address your fellow officers by their military rank, Sir Trefor. I have reminded you of this before. And I will remind you that Colonel Mossjoy's counsel and ability has given us a number of crucial victories without which this war would already be lost. I will not have her insights dismissed as 'finger-waggling.'"

"Your Grace." Molton took a deep breath and some of the colour that had risen behind his sideburns cooled away. "I…apologize, Colonel. My disrespect shames me."

"And my impatience shames me, sir," Adrey replied, losing an inch or two of height as she deflated. "I am…used to being listened to."

"As am I." Molton took a deep breath. "But your Grace, we are…pressured…for men, ammunition and food. Pulling a division off the—"

"Two divisions from the Frudlend line," Adrey said.

"—It will take time, and likely cost lives. Logistical confusion kills just as insidiously as trench foot and the flu, what? Often, that's how it kills. Not to mention the knock to morale, which is battered enough as it is. I would therefore much prefer a more solid basis to do so than the colonel has yet provided. However accurate she has been in the past, 'you just have to trust me on this' is…"

"It is sufficient for me," Lord General Liung commented.

"Forgive me, sir, but I remind you that your men have suffered the brunt of the losses on the Urstoin front. Were I in your position, I should be therefore be even more sure of my footing before acting."

"Yes," Liung agreed, coolly. "On which note, I was promised these new 'air planes' would stem the bleeding. Are the artisans still making excuses?"

"They're building one every day now, and should be up to two a day by the twentieth," Jerl said evenly, from his spot to Ellaenie's right. As the only really seasoned airship captain they had, Ellaenie had commissioned him to the rank of Commodore, and he'd accessorized his new uniform with a long, warm scarf in the sapphire blue of his new Barony of Heighford. He'd kept the house's traditional colour, but replaced the old white swan emblem with a red rosehip. "But training the pilots takes time. They're already flying out to the front with half the experience I'd like."

"We're going to need them in Cantre," Adrey said.

Jerl nodded at her. "You'll have the Queen if you want."

Molton's mustache and mutton chops did a respectable job of disguising the disgruntled look that briefly invaded his face before he got it under control. "Very well. Two divisions to the Cantre front."

"Thank you, general," Adrey said.

"You'd just bloody well better be right," Molton grumbled. "Or we'll have a massacre on our hands."

"What happens if Civorage notices our movement and changes his mind?" Jerl asked.

"Military buildup has too much momentum," Adrey told him. "He doesn't have the agility to redeploy and hit us from a different angle, not quickly enough."

"Quite so," Molton agreed. "If he tried, it would be quite a welcome reprieve."

Ellaenie nodded. Even if Civorage hadn't been too smart for such a blunder, he was also more stubborn than a whole cavalcade of Dame Adrey Mossjoys and Sir Trefor Moltons. Once he committed to a course of action, he committed completely.

There was still the possibility of a ruse, of course…but she had faith that Adrey would see through such a thing. By such several-moves-ahead thinking had the war been kept going through two vicious months of hard fighting.

Adrey turned to Liung. "Lord General. May I request the use of some of your Shin Yi?"

Liung seemed taken aback. He wasn't a big man, but he did have big arms, so that when he folded them in front of his chest it was like watching two walls go up. "May I ask what you need them for?"

"For what they do best," Adrey said. "There will be Encircled managing the attack and breathing down the officers' necks. We can cut some puppet strings."

Liung considered this. "I can spare a single shu."

"I'd prefer two."

"You're already getting almost everything you asked for, Colonel," Ellaenie pointed out. Much as she wanted to stick up for her friend, she had a responsibility to everyone else in the room as well.

Liung gave her a tiny, subtle look conveying his gratitude, then bowed to Adrey. "You will have the Zo-Yabai Shu. I trust you are familiar with their reputation?"

"…Oh. Yes, thank you. That will be—thank you." Adrey agreed hastily.

"Good. Any other business?" Ellaenie stood up. There was a unanimous murmur in the negative. "In that case, I will be volunteering in the Royal Infirmary for the rest of the afternoon if I am needed. Dismissed."

Her bodyguard was waiting for her in the long gallery. So was a shadow, which detached itself from its lurking spot in the door to the billiards room and fell in beside her, ignored by the guard as it handed her a tiny scrap of paper.

Ellaenie didn't break stride as she took it. "Good morning, Mister Skinner."

Skinner tugged his nonexistent forelock. "Mornin' y'Grace."

"What am I reading?"

"Albatross from a friend in Crae Vhannog. Whole fleet o' airships made port 'fer refuel an' resupply. Headed our way, 'e reckons."

"Damn." Ellaenie scanned the note. Being small enough to slip into the tube on a bird's leg, it was short on specifics. "Any ideas who they are? Civorage's?"

"More likely'n not, I think. Crae Vhannog's neutral ground. An' that's only 'cuz the Craenen are a bunch o' argumentative fuckers, beg pardon 'fer t'language ma'am."

Ellaenie chuckled. "Oh, believe me, I know. Any other city with that many Encircled applying pressure would be firmly in the enemy's pocket…What's this other one?" There was a second note behind the first.

"That's from Crae Laugharne. Maeve Keeghan found out about Jared. She's spittin' venom an' fire, they say. Against you specifically. Sayin' 'e was killed on your orders, ma'am."

"Well, I can hardly claim otherwise considering I posthumously decorated the man who did it…" Ellaenie sighed. "…I thought she hated Jared? She's the one who exiled him after a blazing row, isn't she?"

"A Mab Keeghan's still a Keeghan." Skinner shrugged. "Exiled clan's still closer to the Ardkin's heart than a foreign duchess."

"And no doubt she has Civorage pouring some more venom in her ear."

"Yes ma'am. I think whatever lift gas we have left in t'city is the last we'll ever get, now."

"How much does it amount to?"

Skinner shrugged. "We'll 'ave to switch to hydrogen in t'barrage balloons, y'Grace. We do that, an' what's left should keep t' Cavalier Queen in t'air for a year or two."

"No terrible loss, then. Especially seeing as airplanes will put the Keeghans out of business quite quickly, I expect."

"Well, I know Vargursson wanted Keeghan engines 'fer t'airplanes…"

"He'll just have to make do with Enerlend's own."

"Yes ma'am."

"…I want an eye on that fleet, if you can."

"I can't, y'Grace, but I know who can."

Ellaenie smiled, sensing the intent he didn't speak aloud. It was a good idea. "Good. Thank you, Skinner."

"Y'Grace." He fingered the air where his forelock should have been again, and vanished.

Really, it was amazing how a wiry little man covered in gang tattoos and wearing a patched flat cap and grubby shirt could blend in among a palace full of polished staff and uniformed officers, yet nobody batted an eye. Of course, everyone knew who he was, but Ellaenie suspected that even if they hadn't, Skinner could have just strolled through with a purpose as though he belonged there, and nobody would notice him. He was very nearly a witch himself.

She wondered, fleetingly, if he'd ever nicked anything during his visits, and swiftly rebuked herself. The thought was unworthy and untrusting. Besides, if he had, he was welcome to it. The man who'd kept her intelligence network and the resistance movement running after Gilber Drevin's retirement had more than earned the right to lift a few cigars and brandy bottles if he pleased.

Crowns knew, he'd gratefully but firmly declined the knighthood and title he deserved. What else could Ellaenie do?

She trotted out of the palace doors and stood a moment to look at her city. Auldenheigh was…at war. There was no denying it. There was a haze of smoke over everything, not from fires but from industry. The front line needed sawn planks, weapons, uniforms, bandages, ammunition and wire. The city's young men were all signing up to fight, and there had been groups of women going around handing out feathers to try and shame young men who were out of uniform, regardless of reason.

Ellaenie had intervened, there. She'd ordered red ribbons be given to men who were excused service due to their valuable skills, such as the machinists at the airplane factory, and lo and behold the shrews had suddenly found nobody to shame.

The Royal Infirmary loomed on one of the three points of the high city rock, directly in front of her. She accepted her horse, her guards fell in around her, and she prompted into a trot down the Artsway toward it.

It was time to get her own hands dirty.

Yunei Style Victory Barley Bowl A taste of home for our allies! Boil 2 cups barley till tender. Fry finely shredded onion, carrot and cabbage in a dab of drippings, and stir quick till bright and tender. Mix in barley. Mix 1tsp vinegar, 1tsp mushroom ketchup, and a pinch sugar for sauce. Pour over and stir through. Top with a bit of salted fish. Optional: If your ration allows, stir in a beaten egg when you add the barley, and continue to fry until cooked.

—Printed in ration booklets by the Ministry of Supply.

Home

Ducal yacht Thronewarden, approaching The Gate, Yonguitang Earthmote 09.06.03.18.12

Compared to the Cavalier Queen, the ducal yacht Thronewarden was luxury itself. Too much so, really: Deng-Nah had grown used to the Queen's crowded decks and the noise of her crew. Fifty men and elves living so closely together had been a chore at first, and for the first few days he'd thought the constant background noise (and smell) would drive him mad.

Now, he was finding he missed them. Thronewarden had a crew of only ten, and it was astonishing to him that this was sufficient to keep a ship happy. On the Queen, the men had always been busy, busy, busy. There had always been gas bladders to pull out of the bag, drain, mend, refill and return. There had always been ropes to maintain, meals to cook, cargo to balance, or even just songs to sing.

The yacht's seven ratings seemed to keep the whole thing running without effort. But then again, Thronewarden had languished in a hangar these last several years. There was nothing to do because she'd been kept in perfect condition rather than worn down by daily use.

It all made for a boring flight. Not that any sensible man would want an interesting flight. Especially not Deng-Nah. Especially not now.

He was home.

They came up on the Gate from below, cresting above the edge cliffs perhaps a mile or so out, and there it was in all its huge, imposing, ridiculous glory. Home. The wall he'd been born to watch over and garrison in the Emperor's name and which, in the end, he'd ignored and violated himself. The place he'd never expected he'd get to go back to without being arrested and executed, or at least branded.

The place where his wife waited, with the son he'd never met.

And he was going back, not as some kind of prisoner or an example, but as a welcome returning hero who had—according to Lord General Liung—apparently reminded the Imperial Court that the right thing was always more important than the Proper thing.

He certainly didn't feel like that. What he mostly felt like was…

…Well, he wasn't entirely sure. Not a failure, even though he hadn't actually accomplished any of the things he'd originally set out to do. His family's Word Vault was gone, Mouse was dead, the Word had apparently been imposed on a little girl rather than a willing man…

But he had learned a lot about the world, about the people who lived in it, and formed some thoughts about the Yunei position within it. And now he was coming home as an envoy of sorts, alongside the Duchess of Enerlend's official ambassador to the empire.

His Excellency Sir Jed Bothroyd plucked at his uniform and pinched his mustache between thumb and forefinger to roll it into a more perfect handlebar as he considered the town below them. Deng-Nah had at first been uncertain about the man's appointment, seeing at first glance just a…well, a puffing old fat serjant who should have been put out to pasture years ago.

But Bothroyd had been the Blackdrake Network's inside man in the constabulary for eight years, quietly and dutifully fighting for the Duchess' cause while remaining undetected even in the face of Civorage's collaborators and agents. His inauspicious origins and seemingly mediocre career had been masks for a guileful mind. And now the time for subterfuge was behind him.

The Duchess had rewarded him by making him a gentleman and a knight. And then, at his own request, she'd appointed Bothroyd to establish her embassy to the Yunei. It was both a bold move on her part, and a shrewd one on the old man's—he had a large and sprawling family, and as ambassador he could remove them from Enerlend to the safety of the embassy. They were coming more slowly, on a chartered ship.

Meanwhile, the Duchess had a man she knew she could trust in the position, without playing favorites among all the other gentry who'd turned up to offer their services. And Deng-Nah had seen enough of the Duchess of Enerlend to respect her judgement of people, and her good sense. She was a Crownspouse, of course, but she was also a witch, and he had learned enough by now to know what that really meant. She had a vision that pierced men's hearts and saw their true selves. If she was satisfied Bothroyd would represent her well, then the Students of Yunei were in for an interesting time.

"Of all the places I never thought I'd end up…" Bothroyd murmured, for Deng-Nah's ears only.

"Of all the places I never imagined I would see again," Deng-Nah agreed, softly.

"…You're nervous."

"Should I not be?"

"Oh, no. You've been away…'ow long?"

Deng-Nah wrapped his robe around him for comfort. "When I left, I thought it would be forever. Instead, my son will never know his father was absent for a time…"

The ambassador watched him for a second, then grunted and nodded. "'E's what, 'alf a year old? Trust me, Lord On, you've done the lad no 'arm. At that age…aye, there'll be a few days there where 'e'll cry an' want nowt t'do wi' you. Then 'ell warm at ye. Then 'ell love ye an' think you're the best thing in't world."

"Isn't it strange, though? I'm more terrified of a baby than I am of…anything else down there."

Bothroyd chuckled. "Good man."

"You're saying I should be?"

"I'm sayin' you've got 'yer priorities right way round." Bothroyd gave him an avuncular little smile. "'Tek it from me as an ol' family man, though: t'fact ye're nervous proves you want t'do right by 'im. An' that's all that really matters. You'll be fine."

Deng-Nah looked back out at the Gate. He could see the glint of steel on its towers now, the spears of men standing guard. For hundreds of years, those imposing soldiers had been the only glimpse the outside world ever got of his people.

"…Mists lift on familiar fields. In pausing to look, I see them for the first time."

Bothroyd gave him a sidelong look. "'Ow d'you come up wi' that stuff off top o' 'yer 'ead?"

"Practice." Deng-Nah shrugged.

"Hmm. Aye, that's the trick to most everythin'."

"I won't get to practice being a father just yet," Deng-Nah mused, thinking of the official scroll from Lord General Liung to the Imperial Court, detailing how his troops were faring and petitioning the court for reinforcements. "Official duties await before I can return home."

"Meanwhile, I get to 'it th' ground runnin' on this whole ambassador thing."

"I have considerable faith in your Duchess, Sir Jed. And she has considerable faith in you."

"Oh, I know she does. That's the bleedin' problem!"

Deng-Nah put a hand up to cover his mouth as he laughed.

There was even an official entourage waiting to greet them as the ship was pulled down into its docking cradle. This in itself an unheard-of event that had drawn quite a crowd, and Deng-Nah took a second to compose himself as he assessed the group in front of him.

His father was absent. But the palanquin at the back, with the delicate pink blossoms painted on its roof…that was Di-Ha's.

He could hardly bear to take his eyes off it as he disembarked.

She had come to him.

Sure enough, the curtain drew aside as he approached and a delicate foot emerged, in the Proper green silks for welcoming a returning lord after long absence. Di-Ha emerged from her palanquin with a delicate snap of her fan, while a maidservant stepped up to open her sunshade.

Deng-Nah swallowed to moisten a dry mouth, trying to still his heart. It was her, it was definitely her. But the strange thing was…whenever he'd thought of her these last several months, he'd envisioned her in the bath, with her face bare and glowing from the steam. The white painted mask she now wore struck him as cold and disapproving. He'd have rather seen her skin, and her joy. Not this Proper portrait of a noblewoman.

But this was home, wasn't it? The Proper Way was everything. His urge to rush her and hug her tight must be quashed, and instead…

Loath as he was to take his eyes off her for a second, he bowed as low as he was physically able. She did likewise, clasping her hands demurely in her lap and bending so far forward her head came nearly down to knee level.

Only then could he Properly approach and say anything.

How did that poem he'd so carefully crafted for this moment go, again…? Fuck it.

Even behind the thick white makeup, he saw how Di-Ha blushed. She understood him perfectly.

Even through her makeup, he could see how she blushed. She understood him perfectly. She dipped another bow, then replied in kind.

"A descending swan alights On waiting water, And the ripples wash the shore."

Deng-Nah bowed low again, conceding her superiority. She always had been the better poet.

He straightened up, aware of the fluttering fans and quiet whisperings among their audience, stepped forward, and clasped her hands, lifting them to his lips to kiss her fingers.

"Sooner than I feared, but later than I wished," he whispered.

She smiled sadly at him. "Then attend to your duty."

He smiled, kissed her hands again, then turned to the patiently waiting official in the robes which marked him as a clerk of the Imperial Court.

"Your pardon," he said, bowing to the man.

"The esteemed lord Deng-Nah On has caused no injury which might be pardoned," the clerk replied, bowing more deeply. "Will he please permit this, the Enlightened Emperor's faithful servant, to read His Majesty's will and proclamation?"

"No loyal subject of His Majesty would do otherwise."

The clerk, nodded, bowed again, the untied the ribbon around the scroll he bore and unrolled it.

Deng-Nah stood, still holding Di-Ha's hands, and listened politely to the message, which consisted almost in its entirety of the Emperor's full honors and titles, plus Deng-Nah's own and that of the clerk.

The thrust of it, in courtly language was this: "Lord Deng-Nah On is, by my authority, pardoned for his transgression in departing the Empire without permission. He is beloved of the Court, is to be afforded all Proper courtesy and respect, and honored as one who placed the good of the Empire ahead of all other concerns. I name him my friend, and reaffirm his honour and titles."

Deng-Nah exhaled softly as the accolade unfolded. Being assured of this outcome by the Duchess had been one thing, but to hear it actually spoken aloud by a Clerk of the Court was something else.

He turned to look Di-Ha in the eye as Clerk opened the next scroll and began the long ceremony of welcoming and recognizing the Enerlish ambassador.

"Would it be Improper for us to slip away, now?" he asked, quietly.

Di-Ha suppressed a small giggle. "Don't you know? Has your time in foreign lands eroded your sensibilities so badly?" she teased.

"Maybe. All I can think of is our son."

"It is not Improper," she confirmed. "Come…"

They boarded her palanquin together, with all the stately propriety necessary for such a public occasion: her first, then him opposite her.

The instant the curtains were closed and they had privacy, they were devouring each other, as though they could make up for months and months of missed time through sheer ferocity. And if the palanquin was shaking enough to tell any attentive watcher what was happening…well, Propriety be damned.

Their bearers were well on the way home by the time they cooled off enough to talk. Di-Ha smirked at him, then took up a cloth and began to clean off her ruined makeup.

"If foreign lands put this much passion in a man, perhaps every wife should send her husband away…" she quipped, and dapped some of her makeup off his face too.

"It's not foreign lands that did that to me," he retorted, reclining to watch her adoringly.

She blushed at the compliment. "Still…you have changed."

"You can tell?"

"I've changed too." She finished cleaning herself, and smirked at him. "I have been studying."

"Studying what?"

"The same craft as the Duchess of Enerlend!" She giggled at his expression. "It's quite Proper, actually. The Empress herself is my coven-sister, and the Veiled Lady is our teacher."

"Have things become so different here so quickly? Even in Enerlend, the Duchess' open practice of witchcraft is…cause for conversation."

"The Crowns themselves appeared at court and gave their blessing, and the Emperor has accepted it. Controversy flees like shadows from such bright approval." She made a little half-shrug. "We are…delicate about it, however. And have made a commitment to never abuse the Craft. But…what about you? Did you ever open the word vault?"

Nah sighed and relaxed into his cushions. "No. I didn't. Actually, it was stolen from me, and ultimately opened by another. I have…let it go."

She tilted her head and studied him. "Nah, beloved…why do you speak as though you failed?"

"What have I achieved?" he asked. "I left home, despite promising my father I would not. I left you, and our child. I defied Imperial law. And though my reasons for doing all of these were good and I stand by them…and I would even do the same again, I think…" he shrugged. "It was not my voice which convinced the Students of Yunei to look outwards and fight for our future."

"But it was!" she leaned forward and took his hands. "Do you think the Crowns came and spoke to the Emperor for no reason? Do you think the Duchess could have come to appeal for our aid without them? You woke us up, Nah! You proved to the whole Empire there is a difference between what is Proper and what is right!"

He looked down and squeezed her fingertips, unable to reply. She squeezed back, then stretched forward and kissed him again.

"I only wish you could stay longer," she whispered.

"You think I will leave again? So soon after I came back to you?"

"Haven't you dreamt of it?"

"…Those were nightmares."

"Your nightmares come true, husband."

"But—"

"Am I wrong?"

He gave her a forlorn look. "I had hoped I was. I…I have seen this war. It's terrible, Di. Men cower in muddy holes while the earth around them detonates. And this is just the beginning. I have dreamed of horrors. Choking gas, and engulfing fire, and hopeless bodies driven madly into the teeth of gnawing machines. I fear if I go to that war, I won't ever see you or our boy again."

She reached out and touched his cheek, and he realized she'd just wiped away a tear.

"You have done enough," she whispered. "You have woken the Yunei. You could retire and live here with me in peace, and it would be no dishonour and I would love you for choosing it. I do not want to lose you."

She dried his other cheek and cupped his chin. "But you would not love yourself, would you?"

Deng-Nah couldn't look her in the eye, now. By the Master himself, she'd always been able to see through him, but now…

Slowly, he shook his head.

She let out a long, sad sigh. "Then your dreams will come true," she predicted. "But…they don't have to come true yet. Come home. Meet your son. Lie with me again…and be at peace for a little time."

She opened her arms to him.

Without knowing what he ever did to deserve her, and with no idea how to say as much, Deng-Nah gave himself to her embrace.

And for a little time at least, forgot everything else.

"Ghastly fellows. Drunks and womanizers and criminals to a man. Not proper soldiers at all." "Maybe, old thing, but by the Hounds can they fight." —Overheard in Army HQ, Auldenheigh

Train to the Front

Sewin Bridge, Enerlend 09.06.03.18.14

"As it turned out, a train full of troops was far more comfortable than I would have guessed. We spent most of the trip singing, playing cards and napping in whatever corners we could find among the uniformed bodies and their kit bags."

The rocking motion of the train and the occasional jostling elbow had done little to help Wullem de Tredleck's handwriting. And nor, when he paused to consider the paragraph he'd just jotted down, did the commentary from over his shoulder:

"Too prosy, I say."

Wullem scoffed. "Remind me, lieutenant, which one of us is the bestselling author of popular fiction and which is the Cuffings oik who can barely spell his own name?"

Lieutenant Allon Fairstreet took the jibe with his usual cheery poise. "Nevertheless, it is too prosy."

"If this is prosy, I dread to think what sort of thing you like to read," Wullem snorted, and slapped his journal shut. "Do you have a reason for bothering me besides silly comments on my rough first draft?"

"Word just came down from the driver that we're about to arrive, sir."

Ah. Well, that was a good reason. Wullem nodded and stuffed the journal into his bag. "Wake them up, then."

"Sir."

The Particulars had grown over the last couple of weeks. The Colonel had personally taken on the task of recruitment, conducting quick sit-down interviews with each regiment, and having explained to the bewildered officers that she wanted some of their best but most difficult men. Ideally, the ones so keen on fighting that they were routinely getting into trouble over it.

Some of the regiment were genuine terrors, and more than a few of them had spent time in Brackishmarsh under the Encircled regime. Adrey Mossjoy had promised them three things—a loose rein, plenty of action, and wrath like that of the Crowns themselves if they got on her bad side. Though, she'd had to confiscate a few teeth before that last promise was taken seriously. Now, it was a point of pride among the Particulars that their beautiful young colonel could kick the arse of any man in the army.

It had all worked perfectly. There wasn't a man anywhere in the Particulars' goods wagon that Wullem would have trusted in a game of cards, but there wasn't a man on any of the other wagons he'd have preferred to have at his side in a real fight. And though the officers of the other regiments might sneer at the "Problematics," they were always secretly eager to send their rowdiest men to the Particulars, believing it improved discipline in their own ranks.

Finding officers and sergeants to lead such men had been an especial challenge, but Allon Fairstreet fit the bill perfectly—he was the sort of gentleman's son who'd been shipped off to an austere boarding school when young, only to thrive on a life of hard discipline, hard beds and hard contact sports. Not a big man, and possessed of all the dapper poise of a gentleman…and also possessed of long, rock-crushing arms and a broad, brutish face on which his moustache and slicked hair sat quite strangely.

Now he wandered off down the carriage, bellowing with a pair of lungs honed on the football field. "Alright chaps, off your arses! Serjant Goode! Fall them in if you please! Come on, come on! We're not at the bloody park here!"

Wullem grinned and gathered his own kit. Men stood aside and saluted for him who would, at any other time and in any other context, have sooner picked a fight with a gentleman than show deference.

There was no need for another briefing. Colonel Mossjoy had already told them why they were there and what for: Civorage was about to launch an assault on the Cantre front, leadward of Auldenheigh. The poor bloody regulars were going to take the brunt of it, while the Particulars, the elves and a few of those Yunei death merchants slipped around the action to wreak havoc on the enemy's lines of supply and communication and, if possible, eliminate some leadership.

Dangerous though it was, the men were looking forward to it.

He heaved the wagon's door open to look out and frowned. They…weren't at the frontline arriving yard. This was a village rail station, and the sign now slowly rolling past him read 'Sewin Bridge.' Sure enough, when he leaned out to look forward he could see the cast iron hump-back of the bridge in question. It was the major road and railway crossing over the river Gwidno, some distance back from the front.

Adrey was standing on the platform with her aide, waiting for him, so he dropped down jogging before the train had come to a stop. Behind him, the men began offloading as well.

"Colonel."

"Major." She gave him a businesslike but heartfelt smile. They'd never repeated that night at Banmor Manor, though Wullem wouldn't have objected one bit if they had, and was fairly sure she wouldn't either. But that would have damaged their leadership.

Maybe after the war…though he'd never envisioned pressing his suit on any woman. After a lifetime in which he'd only slightly exaggerated his dalliances with exceptional beauties in exotic locales, it was strange to meet a woman who made him think of settling down. And if he understood how her power worked, then she guessed his thought and hadn't quietly discouraged him, either.

But for now, they were comrades and colleagues with a good friendship, nothing more.

"Change of plans?" he asked, gesturing around.

She nodded, and tipped a head up toward something in the distance above the trees and foothills—an observation balloon, moored in the lowlands of the Cantre mountains to watch King's Pass. A signal light winked on its side, flash-flash-flash-flash—flash-flash-flash—flash-flash-flash-flash.

Code. He looked back down at Adrey.

"Civorage saw us mobilizing," she explained. "He's launching his attack early."

Wullem didn't question that she was right, but he did lift an ear to the wind and close his eyes. "…I don't hear anything yet."

"Any minute now. The front won't hold, not against what he's throwing at it. He—"

There was a distant flash, miles away beyond the bridge, then several more. Wullem held his breath and counted, while Adrey pulled out a pocket watch.

Half a minute later, they finally heard it echoing off the hills. Crump. Crumpa-crumpa-thump-crump. Followed, a second later, by another set of flashes.

Adrey snapped her watch shut. "Nine miles. General de Brunlay's section."

Wullem tutted. "He's as green as a mown lawn," he said. "Won't hold long."

"Mm. In about two hours, men are going to start streaming across that bridge," Adrey said, and pointed with her head. "Shortly behind them will be the enemy."

Wullem frowned and looked back down the train to trailwards. The railway line they'd just ridden here on reached all the way to Auldenheigh itself. "If they take this station, they'll have a clean line of communication all the way down into the heartlands, and then we'll really be in the shit."

"Oh, so you do pay attention in strategy meetings," she noted, and smiled. "But you're quite right. And that's why we're going to blow the bridge."

"…You know, I think I'd be remiss if I didn't point out you don't exactly have the authority to order that," Wullem noted, archly.

"Then I'll secure the permission of someone who does."

"Of course," he chuckled. "And if you can't, far easier to ask forgiveness than permission, eh?"

She gave him a dry look. "I'd certainly rather be alive to face an inquiry than dead but completely above-board," she agreed, "but don't say that too loud or else it might be thought we planned insubordination from the very start. We wouldn't want the Particulars to gain reputation for being naughty, would we?"

Ah yes. That was the reason he fancied her. Wullem grinned his understanding. "Do I get to be the one to blow it to shit, at least? You know I love my theatrics."

"No. You're going to lead your company over the bridge and dig in."

"Rearguard, eh?" Wullem whistled appreciatively. "Sounds bloody heroic. Should be a bestseller, if I live to write it…" He tapped his thumb against his jaw, contemplating titles for a second. Bridge over the Gwidno? Rather staid. Overreach Bridge? promising, but…

He set that line of thinking aside as quickly as it had come. He'd never get to write the damn novel, whatever its title, if he didn't take this seriously.

"You will," Adrey predicted. "And if you don't, I'll be very cross with you."

"Of course, I would take it as a kindness if you'd let us be on this side of the bridge before you make it go away..."

Adrey snorted. "Wullem, when did you acquire such a taste for luxuries?"

"Oh, yes, what am I saying? I must be getting soft on all this good eating and peace we've been having lately."

She huffed out another little laugh through her nose. "Major."

"Yes, ma'am?"

"I believe I've told you what to do. Go do it, please."

He ripped off a salute of almost parodical perfection and respect. "Aye aye."

As soon as she returned it, he effected a perfect about-face and strode away, bellowing for his officers and serjants. Two hours, the Colonel had said. And with her unique magic, that was likely to be a very accurate estimate. He had two hours to get his men set up to stand against an assault that was already probably sweeping away the entrenched forces on the front.

A hot tingle he knew of old ran up his back and made him grin as his thumb stroked the pearl grip of his pistol. This promised to be a caper. One for the story books. The sort of thing he lived for, in fact. The sort of thing that made a chap really alive, and forced him to prove he was alive.

A thrumming, buzzing noise overhead caught his attention. He'd heard airship engines before of course, but there was something different about this. A sort of…swarming quality. He turned and looked up, just in time to see six winged shapes parade by overhead. A man in a sturdy, windproof leather jacket with matching hat and goggles saw him looking up, and waved. Then the machines were gone, hurtling away toward the distant action.

"Well now…" Serjant Goode commented, watching them go. "There's summat new."

"Mind on the ground, Goode," Wullem told him.

"Aye. What's the job, sir?"

Wullem told him.

Minutes later, laughing and joking and fizzing with the same hot energy Wullem himself felt, the Particulars marched to war.

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