ã€ŠCzar Donik&#x27;s Seven Sonsã€‹


 One

    It is a foggy afternoon at Myriad Palace, a hallmark of Raskidon¡¯s architecture. Brick curtain walls surround a mostly rectangular building. Its shape is rendered somewhat irregular by the need to incorporate towers for defense and to maximize the use of even building space. The fog may take away from the exquisiteness of the ocean view such a high promontory would normally provide. But the palace stands where it does in preparation for an arduous last stand. A well-read strategist would see the need to siege the capital city, march uphill towards the palace, and siege that as well. Having an entire army attempt to scale other faces of the cliff was unthinkable. It would mean bypassing the artificial defenses by overcoming the sturdier natural defenses. Choosing a location where fog was both ubiquitous and constant brought additional reassurance to the first Czars that had been faced with their empire¡¯s downfall.

    Such drastic measures were taken for a simple reason. Raskidon¡¯s Czars have shaped their outlook on the life of their domain around one looming disaster: it will one day outlive its usefulness in the eyes of its overlord. As the tributes that Raskidon¡¯s larger neighbour, Poqdovia, increase, so too have the forceful seizures of produce. Czars pilfered from their peasants first, then stole more as time went on. This was far from enough, and they seized land from feudal lords as well, a path they had avoided in fear of them raising armies against Raskidon. And should the current or future Czar be forced to amplify this course of action; his greatest enemies would be within his borders.

    In the palace lives Donik, along with his sons, concubines, security, and servants. The Czar is now fifty-six years old. His hair retains shoulder length despite pattern baldness just above his temples and grey streaks showing his age. A prominent mole on his lower right eyelid is the first feature to stand out when people meet him. Donik has now spent five years with gout and two with tuberculosis. He is well aware of how close the end of his reign is. It brings him some degree of relief. The languishing czardom will no longer be his problem. His sole concern lies with the gavelkind system. Having a new Czar accede to the Raskidon throne usually entails a few years of civil war. Donik himself waged one for ten before securing his position. Poqdovian rulers were always eager to capitalize off of their neighbour¡¯s assailable state and offered to intervene on behalf of the claimant who promised the most concessions. The civil wars became bidding wars and played a major role in why paying tribute became an overwhelming expense for the nation.

    Czar Donik believes he finally has a plan to break the cycle. At the very least, he feels he has nothing to lose by implementing it, despite the great peril it will bring his children. Donik instructs his guards to assemble them all at the throne room. He contemplates how they will all react to his unprecedented idea. The bond the Czar has with most of his children is fairly limited, a choice too deliberate for him to describe as neglect. As is typical of Raskidon Czars, Donik was quick to betroth any daughters he had to important figures in other countries. He only bothered naming them because at least that much was expected, much less raising them himself before offering them to these new families. They are likely happier and safer than his sons, though. They spend their whole lives learning how to be diplomats, military strategists, statesmen, and political theorists. Their schooling is special compared to what the peasants have access to. But since it conditions these apparent heirs to pursue power for themselves and then strengthen the realm, other ambitions and passions they may have are overlooked. Donik himself minimized his own involvement in the instruction of his sons; there were plenty of generals, advisors, and other people willing to offer guidance in his stead. As for his wife, she was captured and killed by his brother, Caleb, during the succession war.

    And so, the Czar¡¯s seven sons arrive within two minutes of each other through one of eight doors. Through the two doors on each side, people in the palace can walk vast corridors to reach most important locations inside. As is customary of all potential heirs, they all wear topknots, never to let out their hair until becoming the new Czar. The throne room is decorated with white marble floors, Corinthian columns, and kempt flowers hanging from the six-cubit ceiling (a Raskidon cubit is about 2.7 feet).

    The eldest of the princes is Perun, aged thirty-one. He is the only one with clear memories of the civil war between his father and his uncles, which leaves him the most desensitized to violence. Whle he is respected for his military acumen, having been the brains behind Raskidon¡¯s defense since he was seventeen, there are rumors afloat that he works with a network of criminals to ensure he benefits from both successes and shortcomings of Raskidon. Perun stands tall, almost as much as his spear is long. His chainmail keeps a snug fit around his muscular build. His left eye socket has been covered with a patch ever since an attempt on his life by bandits; this does not, however, fully conceal the scar running from just above his eyebrow to the ala of his nose. He is not known to smile, but when he does, his expression appears ¡°disturbingly devious¡±, as one chronicler remarked when writing about his combat training.

    Ryler was Donik¡¯s first son after the war, now twenty-five years old. He is pudgy from the lack of activity and hefty meals aboard merchant ships. His facial hair is also disorderly, and anything that can puff out does. Ryler tries to compensate for his unsavory physique with his attire, including a flat cap with the feather of a phoenix sticking out from the back (in truth, he dyed one from a heron orange), a blue and white striped tunic, and shiny black boots. As the only prince with green eyes, Donik was always paranoid that someone else had been courting his concubines. Ryler gained a business sense early on by finding apprenticeships under merchants and bankers. While his father resented the idea of a prince accepting a subordinate position, he could not argue with the amount of money Ryler brought home. He is credited with delaying the seizures of land and allowing Raskidon to afford mercenaries.

    Cyrus is regarded as Raskidon¡¯s best diplomat. He embraces the major risk of visiting Poqdovia quarterly, but he stops by a handful of other neighbours to make his homeland sympathetic to them. He made viridian robes a tradition for those in his line of work. There are those who respect Cyrus for his work in making peace and establishing friendships. But many cynics question his loyalty to the land he represents, fearing his exposure to foreign ideas may entice him to subvert Raskidon¡¯s values.

    Edwin has had the hardest time finding his place in the royal family. He shares a mother with Cyrus, making them the only two of Donik¡¯s sons to do so. So, he received the least attention from her when compared to all his half-brothers. Edwin grew up receiving instruction for a church position. But the clergy have been seeing their positions undermined by foreign missionaries. It is believed that a variety of foreign pantheons are overtaking it. Donik does not care, since most of the church backed his brother, Astaroth.

    Luther, fifteen, is learning the ropes in terms of public relations and administration. He is just old enough to assist in managing imperial policy and just young enough to be perceived as harmless by otherwise outraged strata he must address every time he passes a reform. Luther¡¯s physique is close to Edwin¡¯s, despite being four years younger. His lighter hair and paler skin are what make their appearances distinguishable. But most of all, blistered skin makes reminds everyone what the worst part of their teen years was: constant fear of whether blemishes were the result of acne or infection.

    Miccolo is the apprentice of Spymaster Corvus. He coaxed many important targets to take him in by presenting himself as an orphan. Nobody ever recognized the apparent orphan as a Raskidon prince, having received advice from Corvus to avoid a life in public. As Miccolo stayed in the homes of various foreign figures, he acquired blackmail material, which compels them to act in the interests of Raskidon. If anyone ever lacked useful information, running away from home after an argument was the go-to cover for an extraction. Many fathers across the world are still wondering what ever happened to their son. Instead of building up a reputation now, the boy journals, hoping to preserve his story for posterity and cement himself as a national hero.

    Morton is three and has only basic literacy under his belt. He is resting in the arms of Count Aster. Aster¡¯s short, orange hair is combed towards the front. His bright blue eyes are reflective of his ancestry in Hoytland, a land annexed by Raskidon a few centuries ago. His attire consists of a two-tone, brown doublet, light brown trousers, and leather boots. Aster was granted guardianship over Morton and marriage of one of his many sisters as a reward for his role in quelling a rebellion by other members of the nobility. Some of Donik¡¯s daughters had to remarry after their husbands died trying to revolt, so it was of no inconvenience to him. Since then, Aster has been close friends with the Czar, who waited for a day the count was visiting to announce the new succession plan.

    The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

    ¡°My solution is simple. Cull the least fit among you now and spare your homeland of the bloodshed that would come later. From this day onward, none of your deaths shall be investigated. If you fear this process is not in your best interest, depart from these lands now. I shall disinherit anyone who disappears, so feel free to make it subtle.¡±

    Most of them are speechless; some are stuck in shock, but others are scheming straight away. Edwin, wide-eyed and sweating, pleads with his father to reconsider. ¡°What if we agreed on a division now, so nobody can complain later?¡±

    Donik cackles at this perceived naivete. ¡°Why? In order that all of you may place a horde of peasants in harm¡¯s way for each other¡¯s holdings instead of yourselves? Please, I lived through that era twenty-five years ago, as have all my forefathers.¡± Cyrus taps Edwin¡¯s shoulder. He whispers a request to convene in private on how to protect each other. Edwin nods in agreement. It is at this point that Miccolo sneaks away to relay this information to Corvus. He requires a head start and he knows it. A life in the shadows may backfire unless its two prot¨¦g¨¦s draw from its strength now. Bickering among the royal family becomes fainter as the spy enters the west-southwest corridor and turns to his right toward a stone spiral staircase. He halts halfway down and pushes in loose bricks one by one. Behind them is a rusty iron door. He delivers two thuds to the door one second apart. After waiting thirteen seconds, he rings a bell that he keeps concealed in his sleeve.

    This unique auditory signal enables the sentinel on the other side of the threshold to identify Miccolo as the person outside. Everyone with access is diligent in creating the correct cue. They all know that an improper execution results in the sentinel flinging the door open and firing an arrow at the presumed intruder. Dozens of mysterious disappearances can be attributed to protecting the secrecy of this room. The sentinel nudges the door open and comes out to assist Miccolo in setting the secret wall back up. It feels like a jigsaw puzzle, except there is no image for reference. Bricks towards the top were made to be looser. Pushing at the bottom would make the entire structure crash, and any noises would be audible from both floors. Once the wall is reconstructed, Miccolo heads inside a moldy, dimly torchlit room to meet with fellow members of the Czar¡¯s Friendly Shadows.

    The group was ostensibly established to protect Donik and expand his influence abroad in a covert manner. However, its loyalty to Miccolo and Corvus has been taking precedence ever since the Czar fell ill. The men are in navy blue cloaks to distinguish themselves from the common thug wearing black yet still have something dark and unadorned. A few of them sit around a dusty, oval table with a few papers scattered about. Miccolo shifts his gaze between the seated men, trying to make out who is who. There is always the possibility of an infiltrator, even within a group and hideout this secretive. This causes enough paranoia to have someone stand in each corner, watching those at the table and each other.

    When Miccolo hears the feint tapping of one of those people creeping behind, he considers this a bad sign and draws a dagger from a sheath strapped to his arm, concealed under his sleeve. He turns around as he does this before a familiar voice inquires, ¡°what did the old man have to say?¡± Corvus takes off his hood and switches places with someone next to Miccolo. Corvus makes an immense effort to look nondescript to passersby. He dyes his hair to appear a light brown instead of blond and keeps it messy to look like an overworked peasant. When taking his cloak off, Corvus is quick to don a plain wool beret. He keeps his face covered in dirt so any unusual features such as skin tags blend in, but it also sells the illusion of Palazo¡¯s typical impoverished lifestyle.

    ¡°Can you,¡± Miccolo puts his dagger away, ¡°not scare me like that, sir?¡± For all the merits his occupation has, he resents the constant vigilance required to perdure daily hazards. As a new guard takes over Corvus¡¯ corner, the young agent proceeds to share everything he knows. ¡°I have to get rid of all my brothers to become the new Czar.¡±

    Corvus smirks with a great malice. He can live vicariously through his disciple if he crafts a solid plan for disposing of all of Miccolo¡¯s dynastic rivals. Lavish parties, countless concubines, incalculable wealth all to himself, but only if he stays on Miccolo¡¯s good side after he takes power. As Corvus places a hand on Miccolo¡¯s shoulder, he adhorts him to be cautious and use cunning. ¡°You were always meant for this role,¡± Corvus brags on the kid¡¯s behalf. He flings out his arm, gesturing to others at the table. ¡°Isn¡¯t that right, everyone?¡± Everyone applauds in silence but with enthusiasm, apprehensive about making too much noise while in the secret meeting room. Miccolo is flattered to have this much support. It reminds him that he is not just the Spymaster¡¯s sidekick. The Czar¡¯s Friendly Shadows acknowledge him as a prodigy in his line of work, vital to Raskidon¡¯s security and leaving no one more suited for a position of power than him. ¡°You know what else, Miccolo? Everything else you ever wanted comes with this job.¡±

    A few hours pass, and Edwin, as promised, enters Cyrus¡¯ chamber. With purple carpet, bedding, and walls, the room appears beyond fit for a man of his status. Cyrus sits at a small, ornate table with a candelabra and three glasses of wine. Immediately noticing Edwin¡¯s arrival, he puts aside a letter he was drafting and pulls a chair out for his brother. Once they are both seated, Cyrus offers Edwin two of the wine glasses, a common gesture for a guest. The young cleric accepts this with sincere appreciation, and they begin a somber interlocution.

    ¡°Edwin, my dear brother,¡± Cyrus implores, ¡°we must abandon Raskidon. Father has lost his mind.¡± Edwin trembles for a second, taken aback by this suggestion. He considers his brother vital to the czardom¡¯s survival compared to himself; nevertheless, Edwin allows the diplomat to make his case. ¡°One thing is for sure: I refuse to do anything as horrendous as what he proposed to you. Also, I am deathly afraid of what our elder brothers could do to us.¡±

    Edwin is still agitated. Someone well known for understanding the needs and desire of people and nations now comes off as tone deaf. He jerks back in his chair and tries to justify his desire to stay. ¡°But for once, I believe I have a chance to become Czar. I was never considered for any important roles in the czardom compared to you. I was taught to recite scriptures fewer and fewer people follow, while I myself take interest in what missionaries from Zhugo have to say.¡± The younger brother takes a few sips of his wine to calm himself down. This works for the time being.

    Cyrus, however, is losing his appetite. He clenches his fists and lectures Edwin. ¡°Is that your greatest concern? Unbelievable! You are precisely the ¡®least fit¡¯ he was alluding to. What makes you think you would survive all the chicanery?¡±

    Edwin too becomes more animated. Beneath the table, his feet are shuffling around. ¡°I knew it! This has nothing to do with my safety. You have no faith in me and none in yourself!¡± He exclaims.

    ¡°Listen to me!¡± The diplomat surges from his seat. ¡°Father is pitting us against each other, and I am attempting to prevent that! Why is this so difficult for you to process?¡± His hands cling to the edge of the table. He stares insistently into his brother¡¯s eyes. ¡°What does father have planned if we murder everyone but each other? He made it abundantly clear he would not allow gavelkind to remain.¡± Edwin glares back with resolve. He is ready to become Czar or nothing at all. After a moment of eye contact and each allowed to process his own thoughts, Cyrus lets out a defeated sigh. He recognizes his lack of control in this situation. ¡°I suppose I shall leave it to you, then. Perhaps once you are in power, I may call Raskidon home once more.¡± With this admission, he begins cleaning up and preparing for bed. There is a chance for Cyrus to facilitate Edwin¡¯s seizure of control. But he first cycles through some options for how to leave.

    ¡°Maybe.¡± Edwin finds comfort in hearing that Cyrus does believe in him after all. For years, he was unsure if anyone did. The peasantry may look up to him for his ability to preach hope to them. But there was no sign that they would prefer him over the young reformer, Luther. Edwin bids his brother good night and leaves him to work on the letter.

    Edwin proceeds down the corridor. Bare stone bricks make up the floor, creating a sepulchral tapping noise with every step he takes. Someone else¡¯s are in the distance. Maid staff dim the lighting around this hour. So, even as he gets closer to the other source of noise, Edwin sees but a silhouette. It takes a moment for him to deduce who it is, just knowing that this person towers over his small frame. ¡°Edwin! Cyrus!¡± A hoarse voice bellows. It was Perun. He is not prepared to pick any physical fights with his rivals just yet, as agitated as he may be.

    ¡°Yes, Perun?¡± Chimes Edwin. He is hoping that Cyrus, while possibly asleep now, deters any aggressive action by proximity alone.

    ¡°What are you runts screaming about?¡± He demands, scowling down at the tiny Edwin.

    The priest notices his brother is standing without his spear, as good of a sign as it is unusual. Nevertheless, he is keeping is guard up. ¡°Well,¡± he looks back at the way he came, prepared to bolt back to Cyrus¡¯ chamber, ¡°Cyrus was arguing why we should leave.¡±

    Perun scoffs at that answer and gibes, ¡°he¡¯s right, you know.¡± The commander would prefer to save effort by persuading his brothers to depart, but he is already crafting plans to snuff everyone who stands in his way.

    ¡°Agreed. Would you like to join us?¡± He quips back with a smug grin.

    Perun guffaws raucously, bends down, and flicks Edwin¡¯s forehead. ¡°No. Now, scram!¡± Edwin winces at the pain since the flick was stronger than he had though possible. But he maintains his composure and points back with both thumbs. This creates a firm reminder for who else can hear the conversation. The elder brother knows better than to make himself a threat now. He stomps off, feeling he has greater issues to focus on. Edwin lets out a sigh of relief. He begins coming to terms with the horrific deeds that may be required of him to survive, to lead Raskidon into a new era.

 Two

    The next morning, Donik is idling in his bed, imagining the future of his domain without him. He just received word from one of his courtiers that Cyrus would be disappearing without incident. This is not very reassuring. He would like his children to succumb to greed before they become useful to another ruler, especially Czar Jace of Poqdovia. Interrupting this train of thought is Ryler. He has plans to travel around the maritime centers and have his brothers locked out of many ports as possible. ¡°I think I want to land in Zhugo first,¡± he informs his father. ¡°Maybe I can catch the Fairy Fish along the way!¡±

    According to popular legends, the Fairy Fish is a magical fish with a body shaped like a wrasse, vertical stripes of every colour, and the wings of a dove. It is reborn every century, and whoever eats it lives an extra fifty years. Powers from around the world search the Naxna Sea to find and claim this precious prize. One rumor suggests that the previous Czar of Poqdovia, Jirc, had a crew find it. However, when it was handed to the chef to be prepared, he ate it himself. This outraged Jirc, who ordered for the chef to be beheaded under the charge of treason. To the shock of everyone, the chef¡¯s mouth moved with the intent to speak, and his eyes continued to blink. The royal family held onto this oddity for the next fifty years before burying it with the rest of the chef¡¯s body.

    ¡°Why yes,¡± Donik nods. ¡°You said you had started the search as soon this sickness appeared.¡±

    ¡°I still have people looking for it. But in the meantime, I love carving and painting wooden statues of all the world¡¯s mystical creatures,¡± he chimes. Ryler pulls out a small Fairy Fish statue from his sack places it on one of his father¡¯s night tables. His craftsmanship has made for a decent side hustle, with him selling three of these statues a day.

    ¡°If only I could just eat that,¡± the Czar proposes half-jokingly, wishing it could be that simple. He wonders if the fish was already found and kept a secret. In fact, he is finding most of these superstitions to be unproductive. Not once has Ryler found any of the ensorcelled items or mystical creatures he had learned about. Yet there was not much other hope to cling onto. Donik¡¯s doctors have made it clear that their medicines have been experimental. Everything he is prescribed is presented as a miracle waiting to happen. He looks down upon most of the physicians he has seen, presupposing that they are desperate for recognition instead of invested in the wellbeing of their ruler.

    <hr>

    Luther is taking a carriage down the hill. He would like to improve the lives of as many citizens as possible in case he loses his life during the power struggle. For security purposes, he rented a wagon made of oak planks with a white hood concealing him and some local garrisons. The unit is even transported by Luther¡¯s own coachwoman, ensuring there is no room to corrupt the driver into sabotaging the ride. He scribbles notes about what he would like to tell the people living outside the city walls. The words are spread into small sections around the page as he bounces between thoughts, and this creates very few coherent sentences. All Luther knows so far is that nobody should learn about the level of danger he is in. The garrisons are all wearing iron plated armour, complete with a helmet covering their faces. The prince becomes familiar with their voices, though, as they all have questions for him.

    ¡°So,¡± one voice pipes up, quite brittle for a seasoned professional, ¡°how d¡¯you plan to come out on top of all this?¡± The sound is muffled by the helmet. But Luther is sitting directly to his left.

    ¡°Simple. If the peasantry gets rowdy enough, that ruins everyone else¡¯s plans. We call that popular revolt,¡± Luther elucidates. There are many more steps involved, which he maintains the privity of.

    ¡°Aah!¡± the garrisons chorus, catching on. One man¡¯s leg jerks, causing his pike to tumble off of his lap. It bounces with each rotation of the wagon¡¯s wheels. The man who dropped it, too tall to stand in the cart, slides off the bench seat. Crouched, he takes his pike off of the floor and returns to his spot.

    ¡°Sorry about that.¡± Everyone laughs along. ¡°You know, one thing I hate about these closed tops is not being able to see outside. You ever look at the city much, Luther?¡±

    Luther returns to writing notes as they chat. The ride has become less rickety now that it has reached the bottom of the hill. ¡°Sometimes. My window faces out to sea, though. I¡¯m usually looking at ships passing by instead.¡± His tone flattens as his focus shifts away from the conversation. While beginning to work on a proper speech, Luther realizes that if he kills the Czar after riling up the common folk, he has no need to play by any rules. Rules that he feels take away his natural advantage. The oligarchs love Perun and the others, but the people love me, he believes. In fact, he could exterminate all of his brothers in a properly planned uprising. He dares not say this aloud, since a preponderant majority of the military is loyal to Perun, Donik, or Raskidon as a whole.

    Everyone feels the cart coast to a stop. After having but a gravel road, the cart in from of them, and each other to look at, the passengers notice what appears to be a military checkpoint. This is a peculiar occurrence for the middle of the city.

    ¡°I can take care of this,¡± a croaky voice volunteers. The leader of this escort unit, Preston, lifts himself off the bench seat and steps down from the rear of the cart. He has a considerable amount of experience talking his way out of predicaments, since his job consists of assuaging the rowdy citizens in many cases. A quick look around confirms they are in a major shopping district. Wooden stands with fresh produce run by enthusiastic hunters, farmers, and fishermen are compressed outside the shops of more refined goods. Tailors, potters, masons, and tanners are set up in orange brick buildings. Some had two floors and could devote an entire first floor to business, while others had to make do with the foyer so there was still space to live.

    ¡°May I ask why you fellows are set up here today?¡± Preston inquires.

    Someone approaches him with caution to discuss the situation, wondering who else could be in the wagon. He is an older man with bushy eyebrows and a sizeable belly. ¡°We have to watch the area around the Moxi Church. Edwin¡¯s orders. You¡¯ll find my guys on every street that leads to it, so just tell me what you¡¯re up to, and I can let you go no problem.¡±

    ¡°We just want to visit a few villages outside the city walls. I can¡¯t give too many details. That defeats the purpose of this escort. But you can put my name, Preston, on whatever record you want.¡±

    Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.

    The men running the checkpoint evaluate the risk of letting this wagon through. All of them have noticed a growing amount of secrecy on the part of the military. Soldiers have been expressing reluctance to discuss their days. Yet at the same time, all of them are suddenly watching each other. While heightened alertness has been an important part of any state security service for generations, those in such services cannot help but notice a rapid shift in extent. It is as if an invading force is on the way, but none of the nobles have levies raised. Regardless, they have no valid reason to keep Preston waiting any longer.

    After whispering amongst themselves, the patrolmen break from their group huddle to move themselves and the roadblocks out of the way. ¡°You folks are good to go,¡± confirms one of them. Preston clears his forehead of sweat and climbs back into the wagon.

    ¡°Great!¡± Luther cheers, pen and paper set aside. ¡°We can get moving again, Calice.¡±

    The coachwoman, wrapped in a red, crocheted cape takes the hint to start back up again. She enjoys how cheery the young prince gets during long travels. At first a slave to Luther¡¯s mother, Rina, the two have been friends working together as coachwomen for years. Knowing the dangers of travelling with her son, Rina asked Calice to manage his transportation. Since then, she has been eager to get close with him in more ways than one.

    Starting up the carriage once more, Calice replies, ¡°Of course, my dear. Let¡¯s keep going!¡±

    <hr>

    On the east end of Myriad Palace, troops train and officers plan in the place of arms. This section of the castle is at the very front and overlooks the city of Palazo from the second floor. Protruding farthest out are the sentry towers, where archers can fire from the murder holes and firepots men could dump boiling oil from the rooftops. The towers are safe from mining, as they do not touch the ground. Their width covers a few important offices, such as the command center, where Perun is meeting with the rest of the high command.

    The room has eight desks pushed together in the center for all the officers to speak with each other as they work. There are various maps posted on the walls showing locations of fortifications, camps, trade routes, battlegrounds, and other information they high command likes to have for its planning. Bookshelves around the room are stocked with the top officers¡¯ favorite memoirs, journals, and chronicles. Raskidon¡¯s coat of arms is painted in the center of the ceiling, so that it overlooks the generals. A gaming table by the barred windows has nine men¡¯s morris, draughts, and some dominoes imported from the far north, all of which they enjoy gambling on; so much so that a handful of the meeting¡¯s attendants are doing so right now.

    Perun, howbeit frustrated with his compatriots¡¯ inattentiveness, has just recounted the details of the Czar¡¯s announcement and wants to prepare with them. In response, Jarylo, one of the few leaders not to have gone senile, spits out a small key from under his tongue into the palm of his hand. He squats down and inserts the key into a chest underneath his desk, which has a few cobwebs around the edges. Jarylo picks up a peculiar pole weapon. It has a tube hollow on one end and a string attached to the other. Once he stands up, he finds his shiny, silver bangs messy and begins franticly fixing them with his fingertips.

    ¡°I saw a regiment utilizing these while working as an attach¨¦ for the Kingdom of Bellic. I wish I knew how, but this thing was expelling bits of gravel and glass. If we could reverse engineer this part,¡± he runs the back of his hand along the tube, ¡°and design some booby traps based on the mechanism I saw, we could kill everyone with almost no risk!¡± To his dismay, none of the generals were paying attention. Jarylo assumes they understood none his findings. ¡°S-Sorry, that was the best I could explain it.¡±

    ¡°Hey, you dolts!¡± All of the games pause, and all of the eyes dart to the side. ¡°You probably don¡¯t have a clue why, but this is the best news we¡¯ve gotten in ages. So, if you could just listen for once in your overlived lives, that¡¯d be great!¡± The Czar never made clear if Perun had the prerogative to bark such orders. It is assumed that the one prince involved in the military is in charge. Thus, their heads turn as far as their stiff necks would allow. ¡°Thanks.¡± He spits out the word. It pains him to. ¡°Jarylo, continue.¡±

    ¡°Yes. Of course.¡± Jarylo passes around the pole and tries to pick up where he left off. ¡°I was considering some visits to weaponsmiths and engineers. But we have to ensure this stays a secret.¡± The old men inquisitively inspect the gadget one by one, trying to determine how it could fire such small projectiles with efficiency anywhere near that of an arrow. How it would even hurt or shoot straight is a mystery to them. ¡°Perun could probably find someone and get the help covertly. He seems to be friends with quite a few unusual folks.¡± One of the generals drops some marbles in the tube and thrusts the pole forward. They come out as expected, dropping to the ground after not even a second of flights and getting little momentum. Jarylo watches marbles roll towards him, catching them with the outsoles of his boots. ¡°Let me clarify. There was a substance in there that helped launch the pellets.¡±

    Without warning, a cloaked individual peers inside the room and asks, ¡°may I borrow your boss for a minute?¡± Perun makes his way outside while the others watch, clueless as to who this is. He shoos their eyes away with a few flicks of his wrist. Nobody dares to pry into this situation, lest they incite his anger.

    Perun closes the door behind him, fully apprehensive of who this is: one of many members of his crime network. She has been tasked infiltrating the Czar¡¯s Friendly Shadows for five years, having earned enough trust to be a part of Perun¡¯s obsession with counter-intelligence. Ludmila was an unlikely pick for such a job, as only men were allowed to work for Corvus; she, however, proved her worthiness by creating an elaborate disguise. Her hair is cut short and compressed with a pin. Her feminine figure is already concealed with great efficiency by the outfit worn by the agency, though she appeared in baggy jackets and pants when first working in the Spymaster¡¯s office.

    The two walk over to the training ground. It is a sand pit in between the defense towers. New recruits are training by flailing at each other with sticks, showing little to no technical skill as they spar. Yet they all appear to be having the time of their lives. So young. So full of hope, Perun observes. Trainees are off to the side practicing their axe throws. Perun gawks at one who lands four in a row on a dummy¡¯s head. ¡°Sheesh. I need to keep an eye on that one. That¡¯s something I would never try in a battle.¡± He clears his throat. ¡°So, did you find out where Miccolo was going?¡±

    Ludmila would like to give a more reassuring answer. She is just as afraid as him of what someone working in intelligence could to a thug like her. Nervously, cautiously, she raises her shoulders. ¡°Sorry, Perun. They never said. Miccolo pulled the Spymaster aside to talk about the specifics in secret.¡± The mole expects the new to bring disappointment or perhaps more frustration an already irate man.

    At worst, however, Perun has to worry if the Czar¡¯s Friendly Shadows already suspect the presence of plants in their ranks. ¡°Don¡¯t worry about it. Just keep following their meetings, and be ready to get them on my side when he dies.¡±

    Perun may look down upon his siblings, but he is always keen on maintaining good relations with his underlings. In Raskidon, mutinies and fragging are generally seen as the result of poor leadership. Officers are replaced before their bodies make it back home during these incidents, which are known by soldiers to go unreported. Many commanders look back to past conflicts and wonder how different their circumstances would be if army discipline were not such an afterthought. But others contend that this is the cost of being freer and more powerful than the common soldiery. As Donik always likes to say, ¡°with ownness comes onus.¡±

 Three

    There is a long line waiting to board a crusty old cog. Cyrus is at the front of it after waiting three days in an inn and standing on splintery docks for four hours. To him ship looks like a capsize waiting to happen. Mold and moss create apparent weaknesses in the hulls and ugly green streaks. Even so, it appears more comfortable than anywhere else one could stay on the docks. They are narrow and have caused more splinters than a sea urchin. If there is one thing Cyrus now regrets, it would be losing access to the navy. That is firmly in the hands of the other princes. Hitching a ride from them now would be a death sentence, he fears. Others standing in the line create a foul odor. The weather tonight gives him the chills. Now that the last few people in front of him are gone, the diplomat divulges to the woman outside why his transportation is important.

    ¡°Listen, my sister is married to King Ronald III.¡± This was something he learned after a few visits to Carev. It took months for him to successfully get a letter to her and months more to receive one back. Cyrus never did have the chance to meet her or the King. He supposes this was a deliberate choice by Ronald to prevent Raskidon people from sparking dual loyalty in her. Something changed between those two for her to be able to invite family.

    The woman checking in passengers tips up her flashy purple hat with an elliptic brim and bow tied. Waves are crashing up against the dock, splashing small drops on her ankles. Moonlight casts a feint shadow of her as she stands with her wrists overlapping at her belly, long fingers with scratched up nails dangling without a care in the world. She is further from impressed than the distance of this return voyage. ¡°Why do you want to board this boat then? You¡¯ve got to have something fancier on standby.¡± She knows she is not supposed to even entertain people who try getting onto boats paid for by other people. The particular story she is hearing is too fascinating to pass up.

    Cyrus¡¯ eyes dart behind him to glance at the people murmuring behind him before staring dejectedly at the dock floor. The land breeze is picking up. It is bothering him and the others in line. He tucks his hands in the long sleeves of his robe to cope with the chill. ¡°My father, Czar Donik of Raskidon, has effectively forsaken me,¡± Cyrus divulges. ¡°After five years of entrusting me with the role of peacemaker, he has chosen a path of great violence.¡± No matter how much anger and despair infiltrate the diplomat¡¯s mind, nothing can erase the sincerity from his cadence. The cold breeze is flustering his face and compel his eyes to water. Having struggled between showing vulnerability and resolve, nature pushes him towards the former.

    The dockworker senses desperation in him. She would be happy to take a bribe if there were nobody else behind Cyrus. At least the next four people in line heard everything, and they are growing impatient. Before she could ask him to come back later, someone shoves Cyrus aside. Cyrus¡¯ decision to huddle his arms prevents their use in balancing himself. He rolls his right ankle and tumbles off the side of the dock. He plunges into the sea hip first. The splash creates ripples dissipated by the intense waves in about a second. While screaming in agony, Cyrus forces himself afloat with two arms and his one good leg.

    As for the woman that pushed him, the people behind are far too intimidated to get involved. The challenge stems from her social status and physical capabilities as world a renowned boxer patronized by Ronald himself. Not that this prevents the dockworker from giving the attacker a piece of her mind. ¡°Lucille, you idiot! Now we have to take him,¡± she roars. For free, adds the self-serving section of her mind. The last thing she wants is a Raskidon prince going back home to complain about how he was treated. As far as the dockworker knows, he could have everyone here arrested. A brave bunch not so afraid of Lucille throw in a rope tied to one of the posts. Cyrus gets ahold of it, and the rescuers pull his weight up to bring him to safety. They stand awkwardly shoulder to shoulder, having had so little room to work in unison. Upon a closer look, Cyrus surmises that this is a family. The parents close to Ryler¡¯s age and their daughter no older than seven.

    ¡°Is anything broken?¡± the mother asks.

    Cyrus tries to stand up. He comes to regret it. ¡°Something in my ankle perhaps. But I must continue this visit. This is for the good of the one brother I know I truly have.¡± Cyrus thinks back to how he left Edwin to his own devices. He wishes he had the courage to stick with him through the upcoming conflict. Or better yet, tried making a case for himself as the ruler and Edwin venturing off elsewhere with what little prestige his church role still gave him. But Cyrus realizes how true it was that he had insufficient faith in himself. Without a word, the kind strangers hoist him up to bring him on board.

    Seeking to get the attention of the group, the child circles around them flings out her arms. ¡°You could beat her up once you get better!¡±, the child boasts of his behalf. She pumps her fists, then shadowboxes to demonstrate the unusual techniques that she believes could defeat Lucille.

    This amuses him, lightens the mood. Never the type to look for a fight, he gets her hopes down by stating, ¡°that was never something I was known for.¡± He also acknowledges that his physical feats are lacking compared to any boxer. Cyrus receives assistance up the gangplank. His new friends on either side fulfill the role of crutches as he ambles with difficulty on one foot.

    <hr>

    Aster is allowed to stay in Raskidon Palace for as long as he would like, given his close friendship with Donik. Lodging for the guests is luxurious. Morton is sleeping in a separate bed separated by linen curtains with the Dragon of Hoytland. This privacy allows Aster¡¯s wife to treat him from under the blankets (and sometimes, the other way around). Each bedroom comes with its own garderobe, preventing guests from having to sleep with the smell of their own feces. The room stands on the floor third from the ground, overlooking the beloved Berugi Ocean, a vast expanse of mystery whose exploration is this count¡¯s pastime.

    While Ryler is quick to tell him of the various cryptids of open ocean, the Count has more realistic expectations of what to find there. He dreams of figuring out a reliable method to retrieve lost artifacts of his people¡¯s past. Unlike Raskidon, which found itself at the mercy of Poqdovia over a period of a hundred and fifty years, Hoytland was absorbed in a rapid invasion by Czar Gre. Several treasured pieces of its history were thrown into the ocean to protect it from plunderers. The people believed their patron deity, Phoci the Ray Goddess, would defend all cherished goods that make their way to the sea floor. Still coloured a monster by the people of Hoytland, the rest of Gre¡¯s bloodline had to be presented in the most favorable way possible over the course of generations.

    You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

    Aster is shuffling through a sketchbook full of ways he believes could retrieve relics of his ancestors. There are dozens of ideas, yet the hundreds of pages still left in this once blank book gives the Count a subconscious push to conjure more. In one, he figures out a way to make bamboo more malleable, or discover a naturally suitable substitute, and create a tube to breathe through while he swims. In another, an empty barrel is weighted and has a small glass hole to see through. One thing is clear to him: lowering nets and dragging them with boats has yielded unsatisfactory results. So, anything is on the table.

    His wife, Beryl, wriggles her way out of the sheets, revealing her top-heavy figure and black, wavy hair. She could tell from a lack of noise that Aster had his focus elsewhere and wanted to see what. ¡°You really need to give yourself a break,¡± she scolds, albeit gently. Unlike Donik¡¯s late wife and myriad of concubines, Beryl is native to the same realm as her husband and wishes for the same discovery of her people¡¯s past. This passion brought them together, kept them together, and create tension between them all at once.

    Aster brushes the hair around her ears with his fingertips. It offers some comfort. He explains his situation while he adores her pouty face and caresses its smooth skin. ¡°It involves this again.¡± Aster flips the book around vertically, then makes a quick correction when he realizes she would be viewing the illustration upside down.

    She flips through some of the newer pages to have an idea of what possibilities he considered so far. This pushes her to ponder possibilities of her own. Some time passes in silence, with Aster anxiously awaiting approval. ¡°Why not get some pearl hunters to help?¡±

    The count groans at the thought of it and reminds her, ¡°those men are scoundrels. How can I ever trust them?¡± His arms become dead weight. Beryl clamps his right hand as it drops on her shoulder and scratches between his fingers with her jagged, lengthy nails.

    She implores him, ¡°could you relax for a few seconds?¡± The hostile response is reasonable. She knows the pearl hunters have taken advantage of desperate archaeologists before. The optimal strategy is to trust but verify. ¡°I know we have to be careful. So, why not ask Ryler?¡± She receives a cut-eye but elaborates without hesitation. ¡°Ask one of his merchant fleets to watch them. Surround them, even. You two have always been good friends¡­¡± Through the tsk-tsks and tut-tuts, the countess continues making her case. ¡°Er, sometimes. Look, I know we have to protect our s¡ªMorton.¡± As much as she wishes the child were hers, the she cannot forget the distinction for the sake of their bloodline. ¡°But we have some time before anyone even thinks of hurting us.¡±

    Aster turns onto his other side. He needs his own time to think about this idea. He is still disappointed that after years of arguing the importance of his work to the Czar and nobility, he has no support in his endeavors. It gives him this notion that Hoytlanders are the only people to care about their ancestors. Many other nobles seem to forget who they were before Raskidon began its expansion. Most of them preferred Moxi over the patron deities that guided their families for millennia, at least until Moxi too was abandoned by many of them for a pantheon of plant deities instead. All in all, it is up. Aster tunes out the precious voice calling his name to reflect on these circumstances. The only thing that can bring him back is when Morton walks up to his bedside with the perfect question.

    ¡°Uncle, can we go fishing?¡±

    <hr>

    Luther¡¯s cart has been trekking the trampled trails for three days, three nights. Prolonged sitting gave him enough pain for him to resort to resting on Preston¡¯s lap. He recalls the unusual crush he had on Edwin some four years ago. On the off occasion they travelled long distances together, the young bureaucrat asked to rest his head on Edwin¡¯s lap. What he is doing now was the closest he could get to his half-brother. Having known even then what Donik did to his brothers, Luther knew that if he ever desired a male concubine, it would have to be someone with significantly less power and outside his family. Thus, he repudiated those peculiar feelings soon enough after they began. Luther drifts off into a nap. Preston allows it for the silent final stretch of the ride, then slides out from under him once they reach their first stop. Everyone in the escort unit knows what to do from here. Rudimentary dwellings made of log are gathered in a circle. It was some luck that the guards found the correct location; these homes are moved seasonally. These ranchers have very little going on while their lord is away. Only a handful bother to present themselves as busy in their fenced off pastures. One throws feed to his cattle. They drop the act once a third one points out the luxurious carriage. That is when people start piling out in the center of the hamlet.

    Preston trots back to Luther¡¯s coach. Calice is hoisting up a couple of chipped water buckets to satiate the thirst of the horses. Her arms tremble while they work to keep the buckets steady with no energy. Her whole face bears a downward slant akin to the sides of the mountain behind her. She has been looking forward to a break. Coachmen are generally not expected to sleep before reaching a destination. In practice, horses getting tired creates the perfect excuse for everyone to stop, so long as the destination is far enough from any stables that can change the horses. If Preston and Calice were better able to see eye to eye, perhaps he would be willing to aid her instead of going straight to Luther. He nudges the sleeping prince a few times.

    Luther rattles his throat, shifts his upper body upright, and wipes the rheum from his eyes. It takes no elucidation for him to discern what time it is. Speech time, he figures. He hops down onto the dew grass. The two enjoy the sounds of animal wild and domestic while they make their way to the hamlet. Perfect attendance, though he assumes that was enforced. Having spent the last night memorizing what he had written, he recites his address in a way that seems heartfelt.

    ¡°I came here to tell everyone something important. The Czar is dying. You might not know this, but that¡¯s going to bring us into an age of disunity. I came here not just to get people on my side when that time comes. I actually need some help now. You see, I don¡¯t want a situation where we become vulnerable to that meddling bastard, Jace. He can be just as much of a conniver as past Poqdovian Czars if we give him the chance. He could decide the next time we divide should be the time to invade us. No one would be able to protect you. And honestly, no one would want to. You have to count on each other. You have to count on me. But the only way I can save Raskidon is to keep it together. I know that means becoming a usurper. I know that means becoming a kinslayer. Those are the sacrifices I¡¯m willing to make, the burden I¡¯m willing to bear, for you people. Eventually, I will meet with your baron and tell him exactly how you all feel: scared, mad, and ready to fight if it means we have stability for much. I just have one question for you: is this the truth?¡±

 Four

    The slums of the capital are unwelcoming as ever. Towers are optimized to fit about twenty apartments on each floor, part of a project to keep artisans reliant on each other. From the windows of these crammed apartments, there are residents emptying their chamber pots out onto the street. Innumerable swarms of bugs make routine stops at all components of their infrastructure. Rainwater leaks from barrels meant to fulfill basic needs. Bridges are devoured from underneath. Those who fail to heed the thinning wood risk death by blunt landing or drowning. No one brings livestock across through these parts, even when the avenues are wide. When they are not getting sick, the animals that do accompany travelers break bridges even more so than hapless people, along with polluting the middle of the roads with their manure and sending crackling sounds through the air with every step in the gravel.

    There is a wide range of illict activity that is conducted in these run-down areas. Extortion rackets are the most common. Thanks to Luther, makers of lacquerware are caught in an unfortunate medium. They have lucrative businesses, which receive special grants to collect rent for the buildings in lieu of the Czar. But they lack the means to raise levies, enact laws, or live with the same luxuries as true nobility. Some of the people they house mysteriously disappear when buying lacquerware from other lacquerlords, as they are called. Sometimes, the lacquerlords pick on each other as well. Selling for a lower price than someone with more grunts is a surefire way to end up in a ditch. People who wish to stay safe work with wood and bronze, which is all they can afford. On the bright side, street robberies are rare. People are able to do their work from home, and they only have to leave for food. Most other goods can be purchased from neighbours. With so little reason to go outside, Morton and Corvus have the street to themselves. They must find the location of one specific lacquerlord. She must have a unit on the first floor of one of these buildings, most the largest on that floor and towards the back. These are all ugly stacks of timber to them, though. None of them stand out.

    They notice emblems on the doors, some more numerous than others. This gives Morton an idea. ¡°You said she was the second biggest lacquerlord here. Right?¡±

    Corvus has a hunch for what his apprentice¡¯s idea is. ¡°Yes.¡±

    ¡°We should count the number of each emblem on this strip.¡± He pivots towards the way they came and begins his tabulation straight away.

    The spymaster scrunches his face. The idea works. It is a small-scale census. ¡°Alright,¡± he obliges, ¡°I suppose we have a plan.¡± Corvus would have preferred something more efficient and realizes he should be more capable of coming up with ideas on the spot. He strolls down the street.

    A tapping noise behind the two of them alerts Miccolo, who cups his right hand and shouts back, ¡°lizards running around¡±. In the Raskidon language, this phrase sounds similar to ¡°loose string¡±. By using an inflection and peaking intonation that make the words sound as if they were said in the middle of a sentence, nobody could know he was referring to garrote wire. Indeed, he is pointing out one of the handles was dangling from the rear of his waistband. It was a crucial thing to look out for. They are not wearing their robes here, where criminal operations are so prevalent. They agreed looking normal was integral to their safety. Corvus slips between two towers. He yanks the garrote by the loose brass handle and coils the iron wire back up. He takes one more peek out the short alley to ensure no one is watching him before tucking the weapon back in his waistband. With that his task continues.

    While enumerating the distinct icons representing each lacquerlord, he elects to reflect further on the improvements of his apprentice. As a teacher, there is a bittersweetness when a student learns everything the teacher knows. The sweetness disappears once the student starts outperforming those who trained him. For Corvus specifically, the fear of being replaced is also a factor. Each time he counts a rose, a beetle, on the doors, he must then look up and down, side to side, front to back, and inward to ensure there are no threats to his life and position of his doing or someone else¡¯s. Rats and vultures scatter once he steps over a corpse too old to bother reporting. Nothing for him to fear. This is what the slum folk do to one another. Corvus regrets not having a way to write. His memory could fail him during the count, a bigger concern given the sheer size of the slum. The section he finds himself in becomes crowded. To complicate his job further, he has reached crossroads. Four streets converge into a small square where open secrets are kept. Precious metals are being dealt in flagrant violation of imperial monopolies over their trade in the city. Marriage brokerage, while not illegal, is not meant to be done by quasi-nobility such as the lacquerlords. Nevertheless, this is what he sees. Many people here are evidently nudists, meditating in a circle with a miniature ceramic statue of Rat God N||awr. This tradition would have been a death sentence before Donik¡¯s falling out with the Moxi Church. Now, it would provoke violence from passersby. Why offering tribute to one ruler of pests instead of another is so offensive is something Corvus never grasped.

    He supposes there are denizens of this seedy square who would be conducive to the plot against Perun. As leader of the Czar¡¯s Friendly Shadows, he makes a mental note to return with Miccolo and a solid plan. The two reconvene where they started. Miccolo takes notice of his partner¡¯s delayed return. ¡°Sir, what happened to you?¡± he checks, waving a hand in front of the spymaster¡¯s eyes.

    The dazed Corvus grabs his underling by the fingers and lowers his arm. ¡°Oh, I should be alright,¡± he confirms. ¡°I just need a moment to¡­process everything that I saw.¡±

    The two go over their counts together. It would appear that the mysterious blue dove is the emblem of the person they seek, Shveek. It will still take a great deal of digging to determine her precise whereabouts. Unlike proper nobility, staying put in some castle is not a viable way for lacquerlords to stay safe. Even if they were given the chance to build some, mobility protects them with more efficacy. Miccolo displays more of his independence as he dredges for hints of secret passages. He is the most acquainted with stealth architecture because of extensive infiltration missions. Corvus watches as the slim boy place his foot on a window sill and digs his nails in to the lintel above. By repeating this process, with some floral casualties along the way, he is on the roof. Outdone by his apprentice yet again, the spymaster walks parallel to him. Instinct has taken over the role of teacher, and that is not conducive to his own goals.

    <hr>

    After fifteen or so weeks since the last one, the Double Full Moon has finally arrived. It is able to provide triumph and turmoil. A past court astrologer by the name of Merkid once wrote, ¡°The Moons swing the tide in favour of the righteous. Our fleets are the best suited to trek through the waters during the times.¡± This advice was crucial for a past naval battle against Poqdovia. Tonight, it is the optimal time for Ryler, Morton, and Aster to strike a deal over a shared passion: fishing. They are enjoying access to imperial shipyards, found on either side of the hill¡¯s foot when leaving the palace. The docks are inundated, preventing the three from sitting down with their rods. They stand at the edge, where the tide reaches their feet. Morton drops his hook in the water first. There are a couple of weights attached to prevent it from floating back to his feet.

    Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

    ¡°This is good bamboo,¡± he articulates.

    Aster elaborates that point for him. ¡°Some high-quality bamboo indeed.¡± He grabs the string and tosses out the hook. ¡°Wish I could grow it. It helps having you go all these places on Raskidon¡¯s behalf.¡±

    Ryler strokes his moustache with his first two knuckles, appreciating the flattery. ¡°Hm, well, I definitely try to find the best version of every good.¡± His guard is down in the presence of a dynastic rival. He assumes there will be some deal where Morton and his guardian offer their assistance. It would bewilder him to see Aster push for such a young child to take charge of a domain in this degree of chaos. With at least ten years of regency on the table, the worst of it would be on Aster. The little fellow would never even get to rule, he predicts. But he also won¡¯t be killed.

    Aster allows for the fishing session to set the tone for the conversation that is to come. Dozens of canoes appear in distant view of the group. Word of the frenzy for fish reaches the shorebirds. They involve themselves in the tradition by hovering over the boats, awaiting the inattentiveness of either the fish or fishermen. A drizzle raises the water level at a pace imperceptible to the trio, who brought matching indigo boots. The substance is unknown, smuggled out in the form of finished products by corrupt mayors across the southern sea lane. They appear massive on the feet of a toddler, so Ryler assists him with emptying them out once in a while. Their buckets rest on pillars. Each one has a rock to weigh it down. A handful of meteorologists attribute stronger winds to either the moons themselves or the resulting tides.

    The Count opts to make his proposition while everyone is in a decent mood. ¡°Ryler, I wanted to request your help with a personal ambition of mine.¡± By now, there is a mutual understanding between the two of them what their respective goals in life are. He captures the attention of his friend. ¡°First of all, you have my full support in this struggle for power.¡± The words are those of a brain on autopilot; sincerity will be a retroactive decision shaped by future circumstances.

    ¡°Oh! That¡¯s good,¡± Ryler responds. The concept of skepticism continues to elude him.

    ¡°I need your guild to watch the pearl hunters.¡±

    The merchant nods along to this request. ¡°Yes, yes! It would be bad to leave them alone.¡±

    ¡°I was not sure what you would ask in return, but I looked into marriages, new ships, and an excursion into Phut to secure that rare substance.¡± Aster is sure at least one of those options would appeal to his friend.

    Ryler is scratching his chin in contemplation. Dandruff floats down from his beard into the flooded dock. Forcing his way into the new trade would bring the most prosperity to his guild. The additional ships reduces the risk of conflict getting in the way of his business. Marriage is the least tempting, which he expresses without any tact, ¡°well, tell me, are you glad to be married at a time like this?¡±

    Aster finds it within himself to laugh the comment off. Even Morton thought it was a tad funny and giggles in tandem. ¡°Auntie would just be big sister. I have to listen to sisters too.¡± The boy has a surface-level comprehension of the family arrangement. He does not remember who his mother is but figures his guardians must be close enough to her to be considered aunt and uncle.

    The ¡°uncle¡± takes a moment to admire the beauty of the two full moons. The rare phenomenon trigger daydreams of his countess¡¯ bosom. A tap on the shoulder from Ryler gets sets him straight. ¡°O-Oh! Of course, I am. As we speak, Beryl is speaking with pearl hunters to start our search,¡° he answers. ¡°I could never be this successful without her,¡± adds Aster. ¡°Not now.¡± This question became deeper for him than he would have liked. There were times before the instability of the Czar¡¯s realm had the scope to reach distant fiefdoms such as his own. Times that the nobles seemed insane for rebelling. He forces his head up so he can continue with fishing.

    Within the next hour, Aster has the fullest bucket. The rain has amplified. Those in the canoes are finding their way home. Ryler has now had ample time to consider the deal. Between Cyrus and Morton, it appears that his competition will only shrink from here. ¡°Aster? I¡¯ll do it,¡± he announces. ¡°I want help paying. Can we halfsy it?¡±

    ¡°Halfsies!¡± shouts Morton. He pulls a fish out of the bucket and finds the tail too stiff to fold over its head. Aster snags that out of his hands before Morton can create a bloody mess on himself. He drops the fish in his own bucket and scours a satchel strapped to his waist. His transactions are on such a large scale, there are more rings than bullions and more bullions than coins. Ryler heaves himself up, showing a few stretch marks too many as his shirt rolls up. Morton thinks to voice contempt, Aster to voice concern. They stare at each other and agree to show neither. Ryler hobbles up some steps for his trusty potato sack, which still holds wooden sculptures. He returns with it held open. Aster counts out twenty-seven gold rings, each embroidered with two rows of about fifteen emeralds. Small-time traders would be picking off gems from one ring or store them loose in their purses. As both of them know, this is a big deal.

    Later that night, the tide reaches its greatest extent. The docks were built to prevent this from allowing ships to drift on top. But engineers lacked the supply of sand needed to reinforce the shores. Some ropes loosen and slip away from their moorings. The drenched sands invite the boats inland. Some extra encouragement comes from the currents. Precious few of the wild vessels make straight landings. The rest are victims of gravity, the disappearance of buoyancy, and inconvenient weight distributions. Victuals and arms stored on deck spill on the shore. Sails and oars snap. Hulls splinter. Some live animals escape, especially poultry. Many of the larger ones are no longer live.

    Garrisons along the city walls of Palazo observe this disaster. They recognize that it is too late for them to save any ships from toppling. Assembling sailors would only be to retrieve supplies. Yet at least that much is imperative to have the fleet ready to sail off. When the Raskidon Naval Force is at port, sailors are housed in bunkers beneath the walls. This allows for an efficient reactivation during times of emergency. Bronze bells along the coastal side of the walls sound from above the huts.

    Low tones hum with no more synchronization than lightning and thunder. The seamen, having their ears clogged with the tolls of bells rise from their piles of straw. Heavy sleepers are yanked up by their crewmates. Congestion forms at the bottom of the dirt ramps as people slip or otherwise struggle to gain footing. Some ten people make it out of each tunnel at a time and gather at the same gate. This bunch is quick to realize how little they can ameliorate the situation. One man who forgot a shirt runs after escaped junglefowl. His captain, though irked by his orderly¡¯s impulses, needs more manpower to stand any ships back up. The captain sends some men to go with the rogue bird pursuer. The slower members of his crew pick up fruit and place it back into the barrels.

    Overtime, the rest of the sailors pour in to assist with the redocking, just to discover it will be more of a cleanup.

 Five

    The night continues at the top level of Shveek¡¯s largest suite.  She has all her trusted subordinates over to celebrate the double full moon.  Built like a hippo and wearing dreads made from yarn, she is not the type to encourage with her own charm.  So, she rented out good looks from the shady side of town.  A string quartet is playing upbeat, boisterous cluster of melodies.  They were told to drown out everyone else¡¯s noise with their own.  This command has been impelling improvisation and long tones for when they need time to think.  They call this style, ¡°free sling¡±, and the fact the musicians came all the way from Bellic to share it gives the music far more mystique than Shveek was expecting.  Ale is served at a round counter.  Across from that, a wrestling match is about to begin to attract bettors.  This will be the fourth of the night, and Shveek is hopeful that the alcohol has set in for most of the gambling types.  The floor is already splintering away from the last few matches.  Competitors from earlier are tasked with sanding off the spalls of wood.  Some of the slave girls rented for this party, out of genuine interest or seeking a path to freedom, strike up conversations with them.

    Shveek excuses herself to her room during these preparations.  She feels the need to smoke, so she opens a drawer beside her bed with a shiny wood frame and decorative roof.  The drawer is laden with an assortment of tobacco products, her pipes forming a strange collection.  She despises tobacco rolled up in any single-use products.  It produces an unnecessary amount of waste in her opinion.  She despises how messy the streets are from all the other junk people throw out their windows without hesitation, beyond the bodily wastes that everyone produces.  As a lacquerlord, Shveek has apt access to the finest material for coating wood.  Her favorite pipe shines from this coveted sap.  The tobacco leaves go in the mouth of an ogre, which ancient myths claim formed vast wastelands with their fiery breath.  Wherever this was, scholars know it as the Charredlands and see it as the catalyst for their ancestors forming a civilization.  Shveek is privy to the dangers of giving away her location, which is why she only smokes within the nine hours before sunrise.  Not many people are out and nearby this late at night.  It just happens that an open window, the smell of smoke, and loud music all draw enough attention when there is an active search.  She is too busy daydreaming to consider these now.  There are plenty of goons guarding the building anyhow.

    While she is zoned out, she fails to notice the clopping of shoes from above.  Miccolo has done this procedure at a few wrong places by now.  Corvus has suppressed the urge to tell him not to disturb random residents.  He has been following from below and dreading every time someone shoos them away.  Miccolo is staying optimistic as he works his way down from the roof and notices a window on the top floor open.  There are two reasons someone would be on the top floor: being too poor and thus willing to use stairs, and being too important to stay somewhere within easy reach.  Shveek fits in the latter category by involving herself in the underground economy.  Miccolo guesses as much once he gets a glimpse of her pipe.  Rich and part of some weird counterculture.  Now that he hears the party happening inside, it looks like the best way to get in is to wait for her to go back.  After a few minutes of the lady still smoking, this gets tiring, and he regrets not going back on the roof to wait.  The skulker slides over to his right.  He needs room to avoid stepping on the pipe or setting fire to his robe.

    Within a few minutes, the coast is clear.  He drops down, maintaining a grip on the lintel he was standing on.  Feet first, he swings into the room and aims to land on the bed.  This fails, but what little noise his light weight creates on impact, the party masks.  Not many guests notice the kid slip inside.  The few who do are indifferent what they see.  The rest are gathered in a semi-circle around two wrestlers.  Shveek must be somewhere in this crowd.  While he waits for it to clear up, he decides he has time to watch as well.  The competitors are burly men with olive skin.  The only parts of their body they appeared to shave were their armpits.  Neither athlete has a clear advantage at the start.  Both reach an arm under the other¡¯s armpit early on, looking to tilt their opponent off balance.  The shorter of the two, with coarse black hair seeming to avoid only his head, wraps a leg around the back of the taller one¡¯s knee.  Spectators are silent during every reversal of fortune, intending respect for the athletes.  This is unusual back at their homes in Cortigo and Phut.  They cheer with indefatigable energy for their favorite fighters.

    The second wrestler, sporting dark dreads, uses the shift in their weights and tips his opponent to the side.  He stomps his feet to loosen the grip now around both knees.  Per the rules, he would just need to get his opponent¡¯s arms off and let him fall to the floor.  But he faces obdurate resistance.  As he pulls one limb off, another clings back to his body.  The large man twists his waist and stomps to the side.  His opponent¡¯s arms lose their grip.  The bald contender bridges with his palms on the floor.  He commits both legs to the other person¡¯s right knee.  A move this desperate and improvised is met with brute force.  He is shaken off.  His feet fall to the floor.  The match is called in favour of,

    ¡°Tyre Lionsoul!¡±

    The crowd is pleased with his performance.  Tyre ambles about, offering hugs and handshakes to his fans.  Bettors line up at the counter across the room to collect what little winnings this match was worth.  Once a sufficient number of people have moved out of the way, Miccolo feels two knives pressed against his back.  It is a threat.  A threat not to make a scene and, judging by the free hands pushing him, to move forward.  They take him back to Shveek¡¯s bedroom and stand at the door to ensure he stays in place.  Miccolo makes himself comfortable by taking a seat on her bed.  Neither of her goons stop him.  More murders beget more investigations.

    If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

    ¡°Who brought you here?¡± she demands.

    ¡°You should be asking who sent me here.¡±

    This sets her off.  The crime boss takes in a quick whiff of air through her nose as she bites her bottom lip.  The back of her throat growls with irritation.  ¡°You know, I would rather you live.  Some naughty kid¡¯s head doesn¡¯t belong in my trophy room.  Honour among thieves is still alive¡­barely¡­¡±  She paces between the door and window.

    ¡°Okay, my bad.  I came here on behalf of the Czar¡¯s Friendly Shadows.¡±  Miccolo is deliberate about omitting the finer details.  His rank, his identity, all of that can wait.  He must gauge the reaction of the potential recruit, see if she has any impression of the group already.

    ¡°Oo!  He¡¯s jealous, isn¡¯t he?  The Czar¡¯s domain keeps shrinking, while mine couldn¡¯t be better.  He has to beg for my help, and probably a few others too.  Does he think the underground economy needs Raskidon¡¯s rulership anymore?  If Jace takes over, he would realize these parts are ungovernable now.¡±

    ¡°This really has nothing to do with him.  The organization fell into the hands of one of his sons.  He wants your help.  You have an enemy in common.¡±

    Her face droops down.  Her lower lip swivels from side to side.  ¡°Wh-What do you mean?¡± she hisses.  Shveek has one true enemy: her mysterious larger competitor known as Fjelr.  They have both been scrambling to terrorize smaller estates in and around the city of Palazo.  If one of the princes, and presumably the whole royal family, considers Fjelr an enemy; if an agent is coming to tell her they have him in common, she must be implicated in a crime as well.  She can never show her face in public again.  All of these thoughts zip through her mind.  They overload it.  I¡¯m overthinking this, aren¡¯t I?  Damn it damn it damn it!

    Without realizing it, without even trying, Miccolo has struck some sort of nerve.  He continues his mental script, which is more or less a complex flowchart for every possible reaction the crime boss could give. ¡°Fjelr represents everything wrong with the pseudo nobility Luther created.  No offense to you, I guess.¡±  Shveek voices her opinion on his remark with an irate glare.  Nevertheless, she allows him to continue out of nerves.  ¡°He never attends the Imperial Diet.  No one has ever seen him in person as far as my superiors know.  He has overstepped his bounds, operating protection rackets outside of this city under the guise of ¡®competing¡¯ with actual nobles.  Th¡ª¡±

    ¡°You keep talking like the lacquerlords aren¡¯t¡­¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m still talking now, gold-plated commoner.¡±

    She winds back her hand, ready to slap this petulant child.  Lacquerlords manage the spaces no one else deigns to touch.  And calling her the ¡°commoner¡±?  What even is this stranger anyway?  Deep inside is a voice of reason that tells her to stop, stow away these feelings, and keep listening.  It reminds her of an old friend.  One that could be here to guide her through this confrontation now if not for Fjelr.  She whimpers, defeated, and saves herself any further trouble.

    ¡°As I was saying, Fjelr works behind everyone¡¯s backs.  He managed to create   Even the Czar is afraid of him, assuming the two have even met.¡±  Miccolo raises a curled index finger.  ¡°Or should I say, ¡®assuming the Czar knows the two have met¡¯?  Yes, it could be that Fjelr is someone very close to him.  In this case, Fjelr could vet himself, build a reputation for himself.¡±  He figures from the blank stare that Shveek is completely lost in the reasoning.  ¡°We think it¡¯s Perun.¡±

    ¡°What?¡± She screeches with a lengthy drawl.

    ¡°Right.  So, the other princes don¡¯t like that.  I represent them as much as I do the Czar.  That¡¯s why we want your help.  Okay?¡±

    Shveek deems this an offer she cannot refuse.  Fjelr is her biggest rival.  If it had been anyone less cunning in his place, she would have been running all the estates by now.  She presupposes there must be individuals watching her every move, not recognizing how difficult it was for Miccolo to find this lair.  This tough crime boss for once fears that she is in a moment of weakness.  Not only must she agree to.  She has to tone down some of her own illicit activities, unless the powers that be know enough about her as is.  ¡°Yeah, sure,¡± she relents at last, pulling Miccolo off the bed before collapsing on it herself.  ¡°Just get out of here.¡±

    Miccolo prepares to take his leave through the same window he entered through.  By the time he gets his foot outside, a couple of the lacquerlord¡¯s goons drag him the other way.  They insist he has drawn enough attention towards this place and show him out the normal way.  After six flights of creaky, squeaky steps, they nudge the boy out the door and slam it shut.  He is pretty sure he can overhear a discussion about how to prevent such an intrusion from happening again.  Corvus is standing on his heels, resting his tailbone against an abandoned wagon.  He has been getting some stretches in with the expectation of feeling a little bit younger.  Seeing the young infiltrator get out unharmed was a good sign.

    ¡°Is it safe to assume we can cooperate with Shveek?¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t know how, but I think we have her,¡± Miccolo confirms.

    Corvus, on the other hand, does know how.  He worked in the massive world of crime before the Czar¡¯s Friendly Shadows.  Chances are, most of the activities of major lacquerlords would go unnoticed otherwise.  He knows what suspicious activities to watch for because he did them.  The only differences are in scope and scale.  Not even Miccolo can know this side of him.  He never can.

 Six

    The deck above the rowers is where most people on this cog to Cortigo are stuck.  It makes sleep difficult, having the creaky oars rowing all day and night.  The livestock brought back and forth never stop bleating, never stop smelling.  Cyrus is stuck with this, lying on a hammock that failed to support his weight.  He waits for his rescuers to come back and assist him.  As physicians, they are some of the busiest people on the boat.  Tiffany and Wade, as Cyrus recently learned they were called, left him with a cast crafted from wood and linen.  Their child is dozing off and would be unable to help anyhow.  Cyrus uses this time to familiarize himself with his quarters.  A row of hammocks just like his line up the wall in front and behind him.  Down a short ladder is a pile of straw for people to relieve themselves.  It will be another week before someone comes to change that out.  He swears there must be at least a score of insect species slipping in and out the floorboard, looking to take a bite out of any leftover food or.  A few periodically fly by his face and require a solid swat.

    Between the boredom and the frustration, an otherwise patient man decides he has had enough.  He shrimps off of the collapsed hammock with help from one good leg.  He approaches the sleeping child, hoping she would at least get her parents.  Cyrus reconsiders that neither Wade nor Tiffany would want their daughter roaming around the ship for any reason.  He changes course towards the door with the goal of finding them himself.  The air quality gets much worse when the manure, having been piling up with nowhere to plan it gets closer.  He is not aware of the mold that has been building up, but he can sure feel the effects on his sinuses.  It is a great deal of torture, all for nothing.  Tiffany approaches their room from the opposite direction.  She is holding blankets, which she tosses aside to help Cyrus from the floor.

    ¡°You¡¯re really not that smart, are you?¡± she jokes.  Tiffany¡¯s blue gown swivels with each step towards Cyrus.  Her sandals, fashioned from a dried grass, make soft crunches.  She stops and looks down at the prince.  Tiffany tries not to show any frustration with him.  Once she tries picking him up, though, her face wrinkles.  She grits her teeth.  Lifting people without help is just not within, nor does she have to, she feels.  Cyrus gets the message and tries scooting himself back.  ¡°No no no no!¡± she shouts.  Tiffany drags him by the foot.  Cyrus holds his head to prevent hitting his head.  Once they get back, Cyrus is laid down on another hammock.

    ¡°I wish we had more time for you,¡± laments Tiffany.  ¡°I heard your story.  You¡¯re very important.¡±

    He is ready to smile.  His job has been thankless for quite some time.  Cyrus himself forgets to celebrate his own accomplishments, with the next job always coming right up and demanding attention.  Then again, he makes a simple observation. ¡°Not quite.  That was why I could leave.¡±

    ¡°We had to leave home for a while too, Cyrus.  That doesn¡¯t mean we didn¡¯t matter.  My husband and I started as field surgeons.  Most of our battles were outside of Cortigo.  Ronald was obsessed with making an empire.  Anyway, we met each other in fights with neighbours that went more or less nowhere.  We married and went back home as soon as we could.  People in our villages got very sick smelting iron.  Then we eventually we started getting noticed by merchant and royal vessels, so we started practicing medicine all over the place.  I forgot where exactly I was going with this.  But just know we found our purpose no matter where we went, and we did come back to Cortigo.  You can too.¡±If you come across this story on Amazon, it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it.

    That meant a lot more to him than it should have.  Cyrus is supposed to be the one who has a way with words.  Something inside him is missing that prevented inspiration.  Perhaps he was unable to think about his own life too much, since it was always other people he talked through trouble.  He sits up and coughs a little bit from the mold but still gets out a ¡°thank you.¡±  Cyrus gets back in a resting position and throws a wet rag over his head.  He holds out a hand before remembering that Tiffany is married and he is getting sick.  She notices the gesture and hands him some quail eggs from a crate next to her hammock.

    ¡°Yes.  I¡¯m sure you need some food to get back into shape.  These are pretty good.¡±  She winks at him.  Tiffany is accustomed to patients getting extra friendly.  She knows to limit the reciprocation.  Lucille peers in through the threshold of their quarters.  She is no longer looking for trouble.  After receiving a mild reprimand from one of Ronald¡¯s viceroys, she is looking to make amends with the prince.  Face paint forms small, rudimentary pictures of animals over bruises on her cheekbone and jaw from her recent bout.  An orange silk scarf with black arrows pointing in fits around her like a bib.  Lucille¡¯s face lolls as she takes a nervous breath.

    ¡°I came here to apologize.  Could I come in?¡±

    Tiffany leaves Cyrus to answer that one.  He is afraid he could make things worse no matter what he says.  This could be the most irritable person he has ever talked to.  He never did find out what she pushed him for.  Cyrus realizes this could still be a matter of diplomacy.  He assumes Lucille is important since the dockworker knew her by name, recognizing her by sight in the dimly lit night.  He groans as the pressure to make a choice builds up and beckons the fighter inside.  She staggers her way inside and sits at their feet.

    ¡°What made you so angry?¡± asks Cyrus.

    ¡°I hate the cold.  And I wasn¡¯t expecting it.¡±

    ¡°That is bizarre.  And you rampaged through the whole line over it?¡±

    ¡°They don¡¯t care.  Or the viceroy doesn¡¯t.¡±

    As Cyrus expected, Lucille is here for damage control.  No one else is receiving an apology, he notes.  Since he is going there to see Ronald and his wife off schedule and unannounced, anything to make them available is paramount.  That includes guilt and the fear of retaliation.  ¡°Well, I am willing to overlook this blunder in exchange for one simple task.  Help me see the King and Queen.¡±

    The request does not register with Lucille at first.  ¡°That¡¯s easy.  I get to meet important people all around the world.¡±  She grabs some quail eggs for herself.  It is pretty normal for people to help themselves to their hosts¡¯ food in Cortigo.  ¡°If you want to see them,¡± she begins while chowing down on eggs, ¡°uh¡­¡± Lucille struggles to find the right time and place for that.  She did not hear the story Cyrus told the dockworker, which could expedite the process.  She chews on an egg.  A plume of yolk and saliva gathers at the corner of her mouth.  ¡°You could stay with me while I figure it out,¡± she offers.

    Cyrus feels slighted by her apparent lack of manners.  His nose twitches.  Tiffany is not so perturbed.  He turns his head to keep the results of Lucille¡¯s messy eating out of his line of sight.  The prince¡¯s appetite endures the gross feelings.  He wants some of the eggs too once he gets this conversation over with.  Cyrus gestures in approval to Tiffany and with her help gets seated to Lucille¡¯s level.  Water under the bridge, it is time to prepare the rest of his accommodations.