The Apprentice Mistress
	
(Schooled in Magic XXVI)
	
Christopher G. Nuttall

	

	

	

The Apprentice Mistress

This is a work of fiction. All concepts, characters and events portrayed in this book are used fictitiously and any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental.

Copyright © 2024 Christopher G. Nuttall

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, except brief extracts for the purpose of review, without the permission of the publisher and copyright owner.

First Edition, May 2024

Cover art by Brad Fraunfelter

Contents
Preface
Prologue: Marah (Three Days from Now)
Chapter One: Emily (Three Days Ago)
Chapter Two: Emily
Chapter Three: Emily
Chapter Four: Emily
Chapter Five: Marah (One Day from Now)
Chapter Six: Emily
Chapter Seven: Emily
Chapter Eight: Emily
Chapter Nine: Marah
Chapter Ten: Emily
Chapter Eleven: Marah
Chapter Twelve: Emily
Chapter Thirteen: Marah
Chapter Fourteen: Emily
Chapter Fifteen: Marah
Chapter Sixteen: Emily
Chapter Seventeen: Marah
Chapter Eighteen: Emily
Chapter Nineteen: Marah
Chapter Twenty: Emily
Chapter Twenty-One: Marah
Chapter Twenty-Two: Emily
Chapter Twenty-Three: Marah
Chapter Twenty-Four: Emily
Chapter Twenty-Five: Marah
Chapter Twenty-Six: Emily
Chapter Twenty-Seven: Marah
Chapter Twenty-Eight: Emily
Chapter Twenty-Nine: Marah
Chapter Thirty: Emily
Chapter Thirty-One: Marah
Chapter Thirty-Two: Emily
Chapter Thirty-Three: Marah
Chapter Thirty-Four: Emily
Chapter Thirty-Five: Marah
Chapter Thirty-Six: Emily
Chapter Thirty-Seven: Marah
Chapter Thirty-Eight: Emily
Chapter Thirty-Nine: Marah
Chapter Forty: Emily
Afterword
About the author

Preface

As you know, I have tried my best to keep each volume of this series as stand-alone as possible… with varying levels of success. Given that, as of writing, there are twenty-six mainstream novels, eight novellas (two not published yet; follow me online for updates), three short stories and a collection of background notes, there are obvious limits to how stand-alone any later book can be.  
Marah, who meets Emily in this volume, made her first appearance in Marah’s Tale, published in Tales of the Nameless World Volume One. Adam and Lilith made their first appearance in The Cunning Man and developed elements of magitech, some of which are referred to in this volume, in The Infused Man and The Conjuring Man.
Please feel free to check them out for a whole new look at the Nameless World.

CGN.

Prologue: Marah (Three Days from Now)

The trick to remaining unnoticed, through an obscurification spell was to do nothing that might draw attention to you.
Marah wrapped her magic around her and walked through the crowd of angry citizens, watched warily by armed soldiers and mercenaries, their foreheads shiny with sweat as they eyed the crowd and wondered, no doubt, if it was time to turn and flee before the crowd grew violent. Citizens weren’t permitted to bear arms, not legally, but there were dozens of men carrying muskets, pistols and swords in plain view, daring the Royal Guard to do something about it. Marah was mildly surprised King Frederick III of Valadon hadn’t already ordered them to try, although his orders might have gone missing somewhere in transit. Half the royal messengers had vanished and half of the remainder were working for the dissidents, factions that wanted change in the kingdom and were no longer prepared to wait. Or perhaps the king was just biding his time. If the rumors were accurate, the mercenaries already on the streets were just the first of many.
The crowd looked ready for them. The armed men were covering others, carrying placards with demands and threats written in blocky writing. Others were carrying portraits of famous rebels – Althorn and Jair of Alluvia, Lady Emily of Herself Alone – and marching up and down, chanting their names in a manner normally reserved for the monarch. Still others were openly threatening, listing names of aristos renowned for greed and cruelty and reminding them, coldly, their days were numbered. The smart ones would already have fled. The remainder would die when the revolution came.
She grimaced, schooling her face into a calm mask as she walked past the guards. She’d donned a male outfit, hiding her red hair under a workman’s cap and adjusting her shirt to hide the curve of her breasts, but the guise wouldn’t last long – if at all – if they saw through the spell. The air was heavy with protection wards, preventing scrying and teleporting and many other spells. Virgil Quintus Fabius – her master – had assured her that the obscurification charm should be fine, that it was too minor to be disrupted by the wards, yet she knew better than to take it for granted. She had no fear of the guards – she’d outrun guardsmen before or used her magic to take them down – but using her magic openly would blow her cover. She would have to run, leaving her mission undone. That would disappoint her master.
And she couldn’t bear the thought of disappointing him.
A pair of guards swaggered past, their pretense undermined by the way they kept their hands close to their swords. The Royal Guard was supposed to keep the city calm, but they’d lost control of many districts, and a number of others were teetering on the brink of anarchy. Even the safe districts were nothing of the sort, not for guardsmen. Quite a few had gone out on patrol and simply never come home, their bodies left to the rats. Marah’s hand twitched, the urge to draw her wand and turn them both into frogs threatening to overwhelm her. It would be a vast improvement, but… she shook her head curtly. The spell might be noticed. And that would draw attention, enough to tear away her protective charm and leave her exposed.
The Royal Road lay in front of her, disturbingly – almost eerily – empty. The fancy homes and shops lining the road were closed and shuttered, occupants hiding inside if they hadn’t already fled. Marah felt a twinge of dark amusement as her eyes alighted on a particular building, a weird cross between a mansion and an apartment block, that belonged to a merchant-turned-aristo she knew by reputation. Lord Coalsack had built his fortune on the bodies of her family and countless others, then married into the aristocracy; she wondered, idly, if he cared one whit about the men and women left choking in the mines, their health irreversibly destroyed by the dust and fumes. She doubted it. She eyed the building for a long moment, noting the sheer volume of protective wards woven into the stone, and smiled. The man knew he was hated and had taken precautions. They wouldn’t be enough to save him when the revolution came. Marah silently promised herself she’d be there to watch the newborn aristo swing.
A shame I can’t use his home for a firing point, she thought. But trying to get across the road now would be dangerous.
Her lips twitched as she inched through the alleyway, then scrambled up the nearest wall. The apartment block was carefully designed to make the walls difficult to climb, but the architect clearly hadn’t been a climber. Marah had spent the last few months in the city practicing, joining the rooftop crews and learning their ways. She wasn’t as skilled as some of the street kids – she’d seen a young boy go up a wall she’d thought too smooth to climb – but she was good enough to get to the roof. The secret, she’d been told, was to be careful not to look down. If you froze halfway up, the Royal Guard was more likely to use you for target practice than try to help you.
She scowled as she reached the rooftop, looking around warily. The architect hadn’t realized he’d put his luxury apartments and shops too close together either, allowing the rooftop gangs to move from building to building without ever touching the ground. It was quite possible she wasn’t alone on the roof, although it would be a brave kid who stayed permanently. The guardsmen might also have set up observation posts on the rooftops, if the residents let them. Marah couldn’t help smiling at the thought. The aristos and wealthy merchants would sooner have their throats cut than be protected by their social inferiors. She could imagine a wealthy matron telling the guardsmen they had to stay out of her home or wipe their feet – at least – before they entered. It was astonishing what you could do if you had the money and connections to get away with it.
Not today, she told herself.
She perched on the edge of the roof and peered down at the road. The street was still empty. Good. There would be no confusion about which coach was her target. She couldn’t help feeling a thrill as she unslung her knapsack and removed the special wand, battery and valve, then plugged the latter two into the wand. Her master had promised her a proper mission, when she’d recovered from her visit to Lord Allenstown’s mansion, yet all he’d had her doing was distributing leaflets and practicing her magic. Some distribution had been challenging – she’d had to find ways to put the leaflets in homes and businesses without being caught – but the remainder had been boring. Very boring. She had begged and pleaded for something to do. If he’d told her to sneak into the castle and assassinate the king himself, she would have done it. 
The wand hummed in her hand, ready to go. Marah leaned back and forced herself to wait. It was important, very important, that she made sure of her target before she fired. The Allied Lands – or what was left of them – had dispatched a diplomat to patch the kingdom back together before it exploded into civil war… or, as she preferred to think of it, to give the moderates a chance to sell out the revolution before it had even taken place. They would, she knew, if they thought they could get away with it. They didn’t want to upend the system. They wanted to carve out a better place for themselves in the system they already knew. Marah had no illusions about what it would mean for the poor, like her family. They would be slaves still, just to different masters. It could not be borne.
It felt like hours before she spotted the first sign of movement. A lone gilded carriage, pulled by a pair of black horses and escorted by a handful of cavalry troopers, heading towards the gate. She glanced at the sun, noting to her surprise that the carriage was early; she'd been cautioned it might be hours, perhaps near sunset, before the diplomat left the castle and headed home. By tradition, he couldn’t stay in the city itself – or so she’d been told – but that wouldn’t stop the king doing everything in his power to turn him into an ally. He’d be flattered and feasted and given whatever he wanted – wine, women, song – in a desperate bid to convince him to side with the king. Marah’s lips twitched in disgust. The moderates were fools if they thought the neutral diplomat was anything of the sort. They were merchants, weren’t they? They should know the danger of letting the king flatter and feast anyone. But then, if they wanted to come to terms that didn’t include outright revolution…
Her hand dropped to her wand, raising it to point at the carriage. Her master had been very clear, when he’d given her the instructions. She would only get one chance once she triggered the spell. The protections around the royal carriage – another sign of kingly favor – were tough. Her magic, no matter how hard she tried, wouldn’t be enough to break them. But the magic stored in the battery would crack the wards like an eggshell… probably. The magic would flood into the carriage and snuff out all life inside, so quickly the occupant should have no time to react.
She took a breath, bracing herself, and prepped the spell. The guards would be shocked when they saw the blast, giving her time to escape. She hoped… 
The wand twitched in her hand, the sudden surge of magic making her flinch even as she fought to keep the wand pointed at the carriage. The world seemed to explode with blindingly bright light, rapidly streaming into a ray of raw power that burned through the carriage’s wards and into the wood itself. The horses caught fire, breaking free of their harnesses as they panicked; the coachman threw himself off the vehicle, barely getting clear before the carriage went up in flames. Marah was almost relieved. The man had worked for the king, was probably as corrupt as the rest of his court, but he didn’t deserve to die. She hoped he’d have the sense to vanish, rather than face the blame for the disaster. The king would be looking for a scapegoat.
She gritted her teeth as the wand grew warm in her hand, almost burning her… an instant before the carriage exploded. Marah whooped, throwing caution to the winds even as she covered her eyes to protect them. The carriage had become a towering pillar of smoke, a grim reminder of the fate of those who served tyrants…
Something moved within the smoke. Marah stumbled to her feet, one hand grabbing for the wand at her belt, as she saw a figure flying up. Impossible. She’d unleashed enough power to shatter the wards and vaporize the carriage… for a moment, she thought she was seeing things. The figure came into view… she stared in disbelief as she drew her wand. She’d expected an elderly aristocrat, or a courtier completely dependent on his master, but the diplomat was a young woman only a few years older than Marah. She flew under her own power, brown hair fanning out around her… Marah felt a moment of absolute horror as she recognized who it must be. 
Emily. Lady Emily. Who else could it be?
Emily pointed a finger at her. Marah raised her wand… slowly. Too slowly. Emily’s hand moved…
And Marah plunged into darkness.

Chapter One: Emily (Three Days Ago)

Emily was done.
She stared at the aristocratic family – minor nobility, of little interest to anyone if they hadn’t held lands along the Zangarian border – and felt a headache starting to pound behind her eyes. A father, who had failed to raise his sons; an elder son, who had been nearly murdered by his younger brother and retaliated by framing the younger man for an entire string of crimes; a younger son, so lost in his own grievance that he refused to own his share of the blame; a fiancée, engaged to the younger, who had cuckolded him with the elder and was now carrying his child… a mishmash of hatreds and resentments and sheer bloody foolishness that would give the Lannisters a run for their money. She would almost have preferred to deal with the latter, as short-sighted and obnoxious as they were. At least the three hadn’t been trying to smear and then kill each other.
And Alassa sent you out here to find out what really happened and deal with it, Emily reminded herself, tiredly. She understood her friend’s logic – Emily was the second or third-ranked noble in the kingdom, as well as a powerful magician; there were very few, even amongst the entitled aristocracy who would gainsay her – but it was hard not to think that the queen should have handled the matter herself. No one would have blamed her for stripping the entire family of their titles and sending them all into exile.
She sighed inwardly, allowing the silence to grow until the air was uncomfortably tense. That wasn’t true. The aristocracy might not like Earl Wilfred and his family, but they would resist any attempt to strip them of their lands and titles. It would set a terrible precedent, one Alassa could turn against any other nobleman who displeased her. She might get away with disinheriting a lone nobleman, if he committed treason, but an entire family? It would cause too many problems, further down the line. Alassa had sent Emily because there weren’t many others who could make a ruling and then make it stick.
I never wanted to be an aristocrat, she thought, crossly. She almost wished she’d refused King Randor’s offer of lands and titles, even though she knew she’d done a lot of good… ironically, by doing as little direct ruling as possible. And these… people… don’t even have the decency to try to be good rulers.
She allowed her eyes to linger on the four. Harry and his brother younger Edmund, looking like cheap knockoffs of Thor and Loki respectively, faces shifting between sullen defiance, self-righteousness and, hidden beneath the self-righteousness, soul-destroying fear. Emily couldn’t help thinking of them as children, young boys who hadn’t quite realized their games had very real consequences. Lady Lindsay stood beside them, eyes downcast and her hands clasped behind her back, doing her best to portray the very image of an innocent young woman caught up in a terrible plot. She was dressed for the part, Emily reflected; she’d donned a demure dress, then allowed her hair to hang freely down her back. Earl Wilfred and his wife, Lady Livia, stood on the other side, the earl looking like a broken man and his wife fearful of losing both of her sons in a single day. Emily wondered, sourly, if the older woman had realized something was wrong before it exploded in her husband’s face. She had the eyes of someone regretting her life choices.
“Let me see if I understand everything correctly,” Emily said, keeping her voice under tight control. It hadn’t taken long with liberal use of truth spells and charms to uncover the entire story. They’d tried to claim the aristocracy was exempt from truth spells, when she’d told them she was going to ensure they were telling the truth, and only the threat of summary judgement against them had quelled their objections. “You” – she pointed to Edmund – “attempted to kill your brother. Twice. He, instead of taking the case to the queen, retaliated by sleeping with your fiancée, framing you for a set of serious crimes and siring a child on her. You discovered this adultery and tried to kill him, which led to your arrest and me being sent out here. Have I missed anything?”
Her lips twitched. Trying to murder your older sibling was flatly illegal – obviously - and, if Harry had gone straight to Alassa, she would have beheaded Edmund or expelled him from the kingdom. Harry could have saved himself a great deal of trouble if he had; he certainly hadn’t needed to frame his brother if his brother was already guilty of attempted murder. But he’d wanted to deal with it himself.
“Harry slept with my wife,” Edmund protested. “He framed me…”
“I’m not your wife,” Lindsey insisted. “You…”
Emily cut her off. “And why didn’t you go to the queen?”
Lindsey looked down. “My father would have disowned me.”
“Really?” Emily cocked her head. “I think the queen would have had something to say about it.”
She sighed, inwardly. On paper, it was legal to arrange a match for your children but illegal to actually force them into marriage. The arrangement had been made when both Edmund and Lindsey were preteens, and they could have said no when they reached marriageable age, yet… Emily understood, better than she cared to admit. Lindsey’s father would have pulled out all the stops to make her consent, from reasoned arguments to threats, beatings and other punishments. Too much rested on the marriage arrangement for him to do anything else; it was possible, all too possible, that he’d sent her to the earl’s castle in hopes she’d be caught in bed with her fiancé. Or that he’d make her…
And Alassa might have helped her, or she might not, Emily thought, coldly. The union would strengthen the border defenses, always important in an age of change. Alassa wasn’t a bad person, but it would’ve been easy for her to sacrifice Lindsey’s happiness on the altar of protecting her country. There was no way Lindsey could have counted on her for anything.
Her thoughts hardened. But that doesn’t justify what they did.
“Tell me something,” she said. “How were you planning to fool the paternity test?”
Harry smirked, just for a second. “Edmund was bragging about his stamina in bed.”
Emily rolled her eyes, feeling the last glimmer of sympathy she might have felt for the young man flicker and die. She wouldn’t have blamed him for going to the queen and demanding justice, or drawing his sword and trying to settle the matter in an honorable duel, but framing his own brother for rape, convincing him he was the father of his brother’s child, was going too far. Way too far. The paternity spell might have been fooled – Harry and Edmund were brothers – but Emily wouldn’t have cared to count on it. And an innocent babe would be caught in the storm if – when – the truth came out. It was insane to assume Edmund would be so proud of himself, for sleeping with his own fiancée, that he’d refuse the test. They were carried out as a matter of course.
“My Lady,” Earl Wilfred said. “My boys have been very foolish, but…”
Harry and Edmund started arguing, loudly. Emily was silently relieved she was, as far as she knew, an only child. She’d wanted siblings, at least at first, but if a sibling relationship could turn so sour… she’d interrogated Edmund thoroughly, time and time again, to determine just how the things had gone so terribly wrong. She could understand him being jealous of his elder brother, who stood to inherit everything, but… that didn’t justify murder. Or anything else. It wasn’t as if he couldn’t have gone south to build a new life for himself, far from his elder brother. He was just a petty and spiteful kid who had never had to worry about retaliation, until it was far too late. 
And Alassa sent me to sort out the mess, Emily reminded herself. She wasn’t blind to the political realities underlying the crisis, as minor as it seemed. For trying to murder his brother, Edmund should die; for sleeping with his brother’s fiancée and impregnating her, thus messing up the bloodlines, Harry should die; for willingly cheating on her husband-to-be, Lindsay should die too. Alassa needs a solution that won’t be questioned.
She sighed, inwardly. That was going to be a tall order. Legally, she should kill all three of them. Practically, she needed a better solution. Each brother’s supporters would insist he was the victim and the other the victimizer, particularly given just how far matters had gone before it came into the light. She wondered, idly, just what they’d planned to do about paternity spells. If the unborn child looked suspiciously like Harry, Edmund would have to be a total dimwit not to be suspicious. And his rage was entirely understandable. He had been made to wear horns in front of the entire earldom. The rest of the kingdom would know, and start laughing at him, soon enough.
But he did try to kill his brother, she thought. He deserves it and worse.
She shook her head as the argument grew louder, both brothers reaching for their swords… thankfully, Emily had insisted they be disarmed before entering the hall. She doubted they were completely weaponless – their fancy outfits provided plenty of space to hide a blade – but she should have time to intervene before they could draw a concealed weapon. Lady Lindsey, too, might have a blade hidden up her sleeve. It was traditional for young women of a certain background. 
“Enough.” Emily spoke quietly, but she infused the word with enough magic to make it echo around the hall. “It is time for judgement.”
Her lips quirked. Alassa had told her, more than once, that there was no such thing as too much drama when passing judgement. Emily was starting to see the wisdom of it.
She looked at Harry first. “You are the victim, but you are also the victimizer. Your revenge scheme could have had horrific consequences, for your family and the entire earldom as well as yourself. You could have been brought up to account for cuckolding your brother, if the deception was discovered, and if you yourself married beforehand, it would have thrown your marriage arrangement into disarray. Your unborn child” – she nodded at Lindsey – “would have become a legal bastard, stripped even of the protection of being Edmund’s child. It might even have led to war.
“And you didn’t have to do any of this.”
Her eyes moved to Edmund. “You are the victim, but you are also the victimizer. You attempted to murder your brother, which is unforgiveable. You also were framed for rape, and punished accordingly, and to add insult to injury, you were tricked into believing your fiancée’s child was yours. Your reaction was extreme. You could have gone to the queen and demanded justice.”
Although any investigation would probably reveal the murder attempts, her thoughts added, silently. There had been other options. Edmund could have gone to his father instead. It would have been messy, a political nightmare, but it could have been resolved relatively quietly. The earl would have bought you off just to keep you quiet.
She looked at Lindsey. “I understand that you did not want to marry Edmund. I also understand that you were under terrible pressure to get married as quickly as possible – and that such pressure can be difficult to resist. That does not excuse sleeping with your future brother-in-law, conceiving his child, framing your fiancé for rape in a bid to explain your pregnancy and effectively cuckolding him. The consequences for your actions would have been disastrous when the truth finally came out. They would not just have fallen on you, but on an innocent child.”
Emily shook her head. “Did any of you even bother to think past the next few months?”
She didn’t wait for an answer. “Edmund, for your crimes, you will go into exile on the far side of the Craggy Mountains. Your marital contract is dissolved and the dowry and virginity compensation you were forced to pay will be repaid, with interest. In addition, the earldom will pay you a reasonable stipend for the rest of your life, regardless of who eventually inherits. You may take with you whichever of your retainers and servants wish to go, but they must make that choice themselves. Once you go into exile, you may not return without the queen’s permission.”
Edmund opened his mouth to argue. His father snapped at him to close it before he could get out a single word. Emily smiled, inwardly. Earl Wilfred had a working brain, which was more than could be said of either of his sons. They could be executed for their crimes, no matter the justification, and the family’s reputation dragged through the mud. Exile was the best Edmund could hope for, and his father knew it.
“Harry, for your crimes, you are banished from the kingdom until the queen sees fit to permit your return,” Emily continued. “Again, you will be paid a reasonable stipend from the earldom, and may take retainers and servants if they choose to accompany you.”
Earl Wilfred visibly gulped. “My Lady, one of my boys must inherit.”
“Alassa does not want or need aristocrats who step so far over the line,” Emily said. A gasp ran through the room at her casual use of the queen’s first name – a mistake, but not one that could be taken back. “They deserve each other.”
“Then let us fight a duel of honor,” Harry said.
“Honorable duels are for honorable men,” Emily said. Harry was a renowned swords master. She had no doubt he would kill his brother and use his victory to claim he was cleared of all charges. “There are no honorable men here.”
She looked from face to face. “None of you have acted well,” she said. “And fortunately, there is a way to deal with the issue without fatally undermining the earldom.”
Emily moved her gaze to Lindsay. She could have felt sorry for the girl – she had been engaged to a man she didn’t know, threatened with marriage without her consent – but there was no way Emily could condone Lindsay’s actions. They had been short-sighted and dangerously foolish, and she and Harry would have been left high and dry if Edmund had had the wit to demand the court magician cast truth spells on everyone involved. He had been so drunk, he had to have been, that it was unlikely he could have had sex with anyone. If he had questioned the narrative, it would have come apart in short order. And then Lindsay would have been in very deep shit.
“Lindsay,” Emily said. “I understand your motivations. I cannot condone your actions. Regardless of whether or not Edmund deserved his treatment, you have made life much harder for other young women in your position, all of whom will be put under much tighter supervision and none of whom will be believed if they report mistreatment. Your actions had consequences that will fall on people who have nothing to do with you or your decisions.
“You will go to court, where you will be under supervision until you give birth. The child will be raised by Earl Wilfred and his wife and, as the child will be a blood heir, designated Heir Primus and the inheritor of the earldom when Earl Wilfred passes away. Afterwards, you will be sent into exile yourself. Your father may assign you a stipend, if he pleases, but you may not return to the kingdom without permission from Her Majesty. As harsh as it seems, this is a mercy.”
Lindsey’s face was expressionless. But Emily thought she saw a glimmer of relief. It was a mercy. Despite Alassa’s best efforts, there was still a nasty streak of misogyny running through the aristocracy. Lindsay was lucky that she wouldn’t be blamed for everything –- given how public the scandal had become, it was impossible for the young men to escape at least some of the blame – but she would get more than her fair share. She was lucky, too, that Edmund had attacked his brother rather than going straight to their father. Lindsay would have been sent home in disgrace and her prospects, such as they were, ruined beyond repair.
She ignored the grumbling from the young men and the broken look on their father’s face.
“I hope the three of you will make something of yourselves, in exile,” she said. If nothing else, they would be out of Alassa’s hair… which was what her friend had wanted all along. “I have given you each a second chance. I suggest you take advantage of the opportunity before it is too late.”
She turned and left the hall, trying to keep her face under tight control. God, what a tawdry mess! And so unnecessary too. It would have been easy for Harry to go to the queen, instead of embarking on a demented scheme that had ruined his prospects as well as his murderous brother. Or Lindsey… she could have tried, at least, to go to the queen. Even Edmund could have headed south, with his father’s blessing, and tried to carve out a kingdom for himself in the Blighted Lands. It would have been so much better. In time, perhaps the two brothers would have repaired their relationship, once there were hundreds of miles between them.
They made their choices, she told herself, sharply. It was… irritating. For every aristocrat she’d met who was noble in behavior as well as blood, there were a dozen entitled brats who thought their birth allowed them to do whatever the hell they liked. And the world is changing, like it or not.
She kept walking, ignoring the handful of petitioners outside the hall. The aristocratic world was shifting, like it or not, and those who didn’t evolve would die. The revolutions in Alluvia and Tarsier, the ongoing civil war in Kerajaan, the unrest everywhere else, with peasants fleeing repressive lords for more congenial masters or taking up arms when their lords tried to keep them from leaving. The railroads were expanding rapidly, the broadsheets were bringing the truth to the people, the airships were taking to the skies… the world was going to change, no matter what the aristocracy tried. There was no putting the demon back in the bottle now…
A shiver ran down her spine, a grim reminder the demonic books were still out there. And the enigmatic Hierarchy, biding its time. She had no idea what it wanted – most people thought it simply didn’t exist – but she doubted she’d be pleased when she found out.
And there are many other problems we’ll have to deal with, in time, Emily thought. But right now, I have to report back to Alassa.

Chapter Two: Emily

“You picked a bad time to return,” Imaiqah said. “I know this isn’t where you want to be.”
Emily scowled, feeling the headache threatening to grow worse. She should have walked the earldom for a few hours, or even returned briefly to her tower, before teleporting back to Alassa’s castle. She would have arrived too late for the party, late enough that no one would think anything of it if the servants showed her to her chambers and ran her a bath. Instead, she’d arrived as the dinner was just beginning, ensuring Alassa had to invite her and she’d had to accept, for fear of being seen to give insult and be insulted. It was hard not to feel bad about the hasty reorganization – her sudden arrival had set off a series of dominoes, as her arrival displaced guests who in turn displaced lower-ranking guests – and she wished she could use it as an excuse not to attend, but that wasn’t an option. It would be seen as a slight to her host.
“I’ll cope,” she said. Alassa might be the host, but Imaiqah would have done most of the legwork. “How are you coping, out here?”
“Everyone’s concerned with the Alluvian situation,” Imaiqah told her. “Alassa wants to talk to you about that, afterwards.”
Emily sighed, inwardly. Alassa seemed to have limitless energy when it came to ruling – Emily had never seen her give up, even during her darkest hours – and it was all too possible she’d want to talk before they went to bed. There’d been no time to give her even a very brief outline of everything that had happened in the earldom, which probably meant rumors would be flying like mad. But the news out of Alluvia was growing increasingly worrying…
“I’ll try,” she said. “But I’ll need to sleep soon or I’ll collapse.”
“Lord Garth has already gone to sleep,” Imaiqah pointed out. “You could join him.”
Emily followed her gaze, then smiled tiredly. Lord Garth – a man old enough to be her grandfather – was asleep at his seat, not even bothering to try to hide it. His tablemates looked as if they were pretending not to notice. Lord Garth was such an insignificant figure, despite his noble title, that there was little point in trying to use it against him. Besides, Alassa would have noticed and let it go. Falling asleep in the middle of a feast was probably some form of lèse-majesté, but Lord Garth was so unimportant that making an issue of it would rebound badly on her. The same couldn’t be said for Emily herself.
“You know better,” she said. Perhaps she could sneak away and leave an illusion in her place… no, that wouldn’t work. Even the most complex illusions were no brighter than a primitive computer program, unable to respond with anything other than the most simplistic answers. There was no way she could program the illusion to respond to the unexpected… and, of course, if anyone tried to touch the image, their hand would pass right through. “What else can we do?”
She leaned back and allowed her eyes to wander the hall. The endless rows of tables, groaning under the weight of platter after platter of food, were crammed with the great and the good, the wealthy and – or – the powerful and entitled, in every sense of the word. Everyone who was anyone, or thought they were, had been invited… she tried not to roll her eyes in irritation. The pomp and circumstance might be alarmingly tasteless – if somewhat less terrible than it had been during King Randor’s reign – but, at base, the nobility were just like high school kids, displaying the pecking order in a manner that could not be denied. She suspected it showcased a certain basic insecurity, both amongst the nouveau riche and the old and yet increasingly impoverished families. Who ate with whom, who was talking to whom… the patterns of power within the kingdom were laid bare for those with eyes to see. She sighed inwardly. She’d never had any time for such nonsense, even when she’d reached a point where she was welcome at any table… where not inviting her would have been a social faux pas beyond any hope of redemption. She was lucky, she reflected tiredly, that she was ranked highly enough to politely turn down most of the invitations she received. If she didn’t, she’d spend her entire life moving from party to party.
Her eyes narrowed, just slightly, as she noted a handful of newcomers, all merchants and their families who’d been ennobled in the wake of the civil war. They looked as if they were trying too hard, the men decked out in expensive suits and the women wearing elegant dresses dripping with gold and jewels. Alassa had changed the dress code, to Emily’s relief – her father had preferred tight outfits that left little to the imagination, and dresses so low-cut that the only thing keeping them in place were simple spells – but Emily couldn’t help thinking the guests still looked faintly ridiculous. The two who were making a show of not being impressed by the outfits and décor – they wore simple designs, if ones made from expensive materials – seemed to stand out from the others. Emily wondered, idly, if they were making a statement of their own. The world was no longer what it had been, a decade ago. Old blood and magic were no longer the only determinants of wealth.
The servants moved between the tables, bringing plates of food and keeping the glasses full. Emily suspected they were also quietly keeping an eye on the guests, listening to unguarded chatter so they could report back to their mistresses afterwards. The aristocracy rarely paid any real attention to the servants, certainly not enough to realize the servants had minds – and eyes and ears – of their own, but Alassa knew better. She paid her servants very well, and ensured they were treated well, to keep them loyal. A servant who became a spy – often out of resentment – would be very well placed indeed to gather information, their presence completely ignored even in the most secure of meeting rooms.
Emily’s lips twitched. Harry’s plot might not have come apart so quickly if Lady Lindsey hadn’t been such a bitch to her maids.
She nibbled her food gingerly, tasting flavors from right across the Allied Lands. King Randor had insisted on serving roast meat and potatoes, but Alassa had studied at Whitehall and developed more cosmopolitan tastes. The meats were delicately spiced, the vegetables cooked lightly – or sometimes not at all… her lips twitched, again, as the servants placed flat breads and meats on the tables, then a set of pizzas lightly covered with sliced sausage. Her efforts to introduce foods she missed from her old world had taken off better than she’d dared hope, to the point the aristocracy were eating burgers and chips and pronouncing them delicacies too good for the common folk. It wasn’t funny, she supposed. Local burgers were flavorful beyond words, unlike the fast food back home. She’d never tasted anything so good, not until she’d introduced the concept here.
“I hope things are getting back to normal at Whitehall,” Imaiqah said. “Is it true Professor Lombardi is going to be the new Grandmaster?”
“He certainly thinks so,” Emily said. She wasn’t sure – these days – who was supervising the school. The White Council was gone, and so were the necromancers. The kingdoms had only been held together by the threat of invasion, and now… she had a nasty feeling the Allied Lands were allied in name only. The combination of rebellions and border disputes that had been left to fester, during the war, guaranteed it. “He might just get the position by default.”
“The magical community is trying to get organized, but I don’t think they’re having much success,” Imaiqah said. “They’re already talking about setting up new schools.”
Emily grimaced. There were four major schools of magic – five, if one counted the university at Heart’s Eye – and they’d all been controlled, to a greater or lesser extent, by the White Council. It had been a compromise that pleased no one, but it had allowed the schools to position themselves as international institutes, keeping nationalism – such as it was – out of the educational system. Now… she wasn’t sure what would happen, if the various kingdoms and magical communities started establishing their own schools, but she doubted it would be pleasant. The magicians had always had a superiority complex and now, without the threat of necromantic attack, it would be given free reign. She’d seen the glimmerings of something nasty in Celeste. If it was allowed to run free…
Something for another day, she told herself. The problem might sort itself out without her intervention. The development of magical technology – magitech – had already changed the balance of power – and would continue to do so – and the days in which magicians could impose their will by force were over. Right now, I have too many other problems.
“You should probably give Lombardi your stamp of approval,” Imaiqah said. “It would be helpful.”
Emily nodded, although she knew her endorsement would hinder as much as help the older magician. She had too many enemies who hated her for the changes she’d brought to their world or for what her – supposed – father had done to them. Void had left a lot of dead men in his wake, many who’d had children who wanted revenge. It might be better for Lombardi if she kept her mouth firmly closed, rather than saying anything that might galvanize opposition. Besides, it would be easy for doubters to dismiss her. She was too young, they’d say, to know what was best for the school.
Good thing I didn’t take the post myself, she thought. That would have really set the cat amongst the pigeons.
The dinner wore on, chatter rising and swelling as more and more courses were brought into the hall. Emily tried not to think about how much food was going to be wasted, although she knew the servants and guards would eat the leftovers – Alassa knew better than to risk alienating her defenders, too – and what little remained would be offered to the poor and starving. She couldn’t help glancing at Alassa herself, sitting at the center of the table and staring down at the crowd, her face a pleasant mask that hid a razor-sharp mind. Alassa was seated above everyone, even Jade. It crossed Emily’s mind to wonder if Alassa found the feasts as tiresome as she did, although they were a vital part of her monarchical duties. It allowed her to keep her finger on the pulse of public – or at least aristocratic opinion – and show favor to her lords, without giving them anything concrete. It really was just like high school.
She allowed herself a moment of relief when, after the pudding had been and gone, Alassa stood and withdrew from the hall. It was a sign the formal part of the dinner was over, Emily knew; a signal the guests could leave, if they wished, or chat more informally until tiredness finally drove them back to their rooms. A handful of guests stood and moved around the chamber, exchanging words with people they would normally pretend didn’t exist if they happened to meet in public. Another function of the gatherings, Emily noted tiredly. The monarch’s invitations provided an excuse for people to meet in a manner that couldn’t be seen as one party backing down. She noted an elderly aristocrat meeting an up-and-coming merchant-turned-nobleman and guessed they were discussing a loan, perhaps even a family alliance. The nobility might be horrified at the thought of marrying their daughters to jumped-up commoners, but when they needed money…
“Lord Colicos is heading towards you,” Imaiqah whispered. “Check your money pouch.”
Emily blinked in surprise. She knew Lord Colicos, vaguely, but they hadn’t interacted since her investiture as Baroness of Cockatrice. It had been a very brief meeting, an exchange of polite words… she didn’t recall much about him, save for the fact he had neither openly hated and resented her nor kissed her feet in a desperate, and futile, bid to win her favor. She appreciated that, if nothing else. She would sooner deal with a person who hated her openly than someone who – hopefully metaphorically – kissed her butt. 
Her eyes tightened, just for a moment. Lord Colicos was inching towards them, moving in a complex pattern that reminded her of a ritual dance. She puzzled over it for a moment, then realized Lord Colicos was trying to maintain a degree of plausible deniability. If she left before he reached her table, he could pretend he hadn’t been trying to approach her at all. She wondered, idly, how many people would be fooled. Probably not many. Imaiqah was light-years ahead of her, when it came to reading the crowds, but there were guests who made Imaiqah look as socially awkward as Emily. There didn’t seem to be any eyes watching the lord’s approach, yet she would be astonished if there weren’t…
She resisted the urge to turn and leave the chamber, now that it was socially acceptable, and forced herself to wait. Lord Colicos kept walking, moving more openly now. Emily studied him thoughtfully. He looked to be in his forties, with brown hair shading to grey and a face that showed the signs of too much good living combined with a lack of exercise. His robes were carefully tailored to hide his paunch as much as possible, although it was just a matter of time before he’d be forced to give up or turn to glamours to hide his girth. 
“Lady Emily,” Lord Colicos said. He sketched a brief bow. “Please, can I have a word?”
“There are private chambers around the hall,” Imaiqah said. “You can use one of them.”
Emily sighed inwardly – she’d intended to use a privacy ward, although holding any sort of public yet private conversation would start tongues wagging – and stood, brushing down her dress as she headed to the nearest chamber. A number were already in use, the doors locked and walls warded so heavily that Emily felt the charms pressing against her own magic as she made her way down the corridor. Her earlier thoughts echoed through her head. The chambers were as secure as wardmasters and charmsmiths could make them, but if the aristocrats had kept their servants with them…
She led the way into an open chamber and closed the door behind them. “I don’t have much time,” she said, as she took a seat. The chamber was surprisingly simplistic – comfortable chairs, a wooden folding table – somewhat to her surprise. “Can we get right to the point?”
Lord Colicos shifted uncomfortably as he sat facing her. Emily managed – somehow – to keep from groaning out loud. It probably wasn’t good news. She hoped to hell he wasn’t going to ask for her hand in marriage, either for himself – she tried not to show her disgust at the thought – or his son. If he had a son… she didn’t know. His lands might border hers, but she’d never taken any real interest in him. The only thing he’d done of any real note was supporting Alassa, during the civil war, and that had only happened because her army had been taking shape right next door.
“Two months ago, a sizable number of my… farmhands up and left, taking their families with them, and headed for Cockatrice,” Lord Colicos said. “They walked off the fields and vanished.”
“Farmhands?” Emily suspected the word he’d wanted to use was serf, a word that was practically identical – as far as the locals were concerned – to slave. Serfdom had been abolished after the civil war, at least on paper, but it hadn’t been easy to convince the aristocrats to let their people go. Alassa had chosen to play a waiting game, convinced the problem would resolve itself in time. “They are free men, are they not?”
Lord Colicos’s face hardened, just for a second. “They are indentured to their farms – my farms,” he said. “The seven hundred workers…”
Emily blinked in surprise. Seven hundred? Serfs ran away to the towns and cities all the time – an escape valve smart aristos knew better than to close – but they were often individuals. Seven hundred… that was the population of a small town. It had to have been planned in advance, which meant…
It doesn’t matter, she told herself, firmly. They had every right to leave.
She looked at him. “And what do you want me to do about it?”
“I want them back,” Lord Colicos said. “They’re indentured to me…”
“They have every right to walk away if you’re not giving them their legal rights,” Emily said, bluntly. The Great Charter made that clear. “And if they have left your lands completely, I am not going to help you hunt them down.”
Lord Colicos scowled. “My Lady…”
Emily stood. “They have every right to leave,” she said. She could understand his frustration – in the old days, the aristocracy would help hunt down runaway serfs – but she had no intention of helping him. “Perhaps you could try being nicer to the ones who remain.”
She opened the door and stepped through, half-expecting him to do something stupid. No one would object if she turned him into a toad for grabbing her, or taking a swing at her, or… he had enough sense to remain where he was, letting her leave in peace. Emily sighed, not bothering to conceal her black mood as she made her way back to her quarters. She wouldn’t force anyone to return to serfdom. Lord Colicos could stew in his own juices, if he wasn’t willing to make reforms. He’d be losing the rest of his serfs soon enough. 
The times are changing, she thought, as she entered her suite and checked the wards before heading to bed. And those who cannot adapt will die.

Chapter Three: Emily

Emily awoke, what felt like moments later.
The wards were jangling, an alert that yanked her out of her slumber and sent one hand into a casting pose while the other reached for the nearest weapon. Her mind caught up with her a moment later, realizing the wards were signaling the presence of a maid outside her suite. She rubbed her forehead and released the charms, allowing the young woman into the suite to light the fire. The poor girl couldn’t go back to her supervisor and report that she hadn’t been able to enter the rooms, forcing her to leave the fire unlit. She’d probably be whipped even though it hadn’t been her fault.
She forced herself to sit upright, stand and step into the antechamber. The maid was already piling up the wood and coal, preparing to light the fire. She started, the moment she heard Emily, and spun around, nearly tripping over herself as she stood, dropped a hasty curtsey and then seemed to move in two directions at once as she realized she wasn’t sure what she was meant to be doing. Emily felt a pang of guilt. The poor girl was too young… she didn’t know if she should return to the fireplace, even though it meant turning her back on Emily, or if she should stay where she was until the aristocrat was gone. There was no easy answer. She could get in trouble for doing either.
“Don’t worry about it,” Emily said. Alassa recruited her servants from the lower orders, on the grounds they tended to have fewer outside loyalties, but they also tended to be far more vulnerable than highborn girls. “Light the fire now, if you like.”
She took a coin from her pocket and held it out. The girl took the money warily, bit the coin to check it was real, then hid it in her dress. Emily hoped she’d have the sense not to mention the tip to her supervisor, or the other servants. She was too young to keep it, if they realized it was there. Emily turned away, feeling her heart twist as she made her way into the bathroom and warded the door. There were millions of young girls like her, living in grinding poverty, and there was no way she could help them all. She knew she’d done well, but it wasn’t enough. It would never be.
The poor you always have with you, she reminded herself. It was ironic. She’d been poor, when she’d been in her old world, but compared to the poor here, she’d been rich beyond the dreams of avarice. Hot and cold running water, medical treatment… technology had made the world better for everyone, from the rich to the poor. But they don’t have to spend the rest of their lives groveling in the dirt, or begging for change…
She checked the time, then undressed and showered quickly before changing into clean clothes and heading back into the antechamber. Alassa ate breakfast at eight bells, every morning, and Emily had a standing invitation to join her, an honor extended to very few beyond the queen’s own family. It was lucky, Emily supposed, that Alassa’s mother and uncle rarely chose to appear at court, or they would have to be invited too. The little maid was gone, after leaving a fire burning merrily in the grate. Emily sighed inwardly. She had never been comfortable with servants, and she’d resisted all suggestions she should hire a maid for herself… particularly after Silent had turned out to be Nanette. The older girl could have put a knife in her at any moment, if she’d wished. They might now be allies, of a sort, but they were very far from friends.
The wards hummed around her as she left the chamber and made her way down to the regal quarters, passing a handful of early-morning petitioners. The guards steered them into the royal antechamber, where they would wait until Alassa was ready to see them, but let Emily enter without comment. Emily felt the wards opening up around her as she stepped through the door and into the small – relatively small – royal dining chamber. Alassa and Jade were already there, the latter balancing Princess Emily – Millie – on his knee. Emily felt her heart twist as she saw her namesake. She’d never been particularly maternal, but she was honest enough to admit she wouldn’t mind a child of her own.
“I’m sorry about yesterday,” Alassa said, waving to a chair. “It was too late to warn you off.”
“I survived,” Emily said. A good night’s sleep had done wonders for her mood. “What does it say about me that I’d rather walk into a necromancer’s lair than attend a feast?”
“That you have a working brain?” Jade made a show of wincing as Alassa elbowed him. “Can I join you, next time?”
Alassa giggled. “If they’re attending my dinner parties, they are not plotting,” she pointed out. “And discontent is already on the rise.”
“Lord Colicos was complaining about his farmhands fleeing his lands,” Emily said. “You probably need to inspect his estates for compliance with the Great Charter.”
“I wish.” Alassa looked as if she’d bitten into something sour. “Right now, he’s one of my biggest backers. Switched sides quickly enough, during the war, to secure his position…”
“You mean he took one look at our army and decided it would be better to join us,” Jade corrected. “He would have switched sides again if your father won.”
“Yeah,” Alassa said. “But it still makes it very hard to do something about him.”
She met Emily’s eyes. “The council isn’t too pleased with your treatment of Earl Wilfred’s brats, but I am. It’s a neat little solution.”
“They’re going to cause problems in the future,” Emily predicted. “It never crossed their mind that they might be interrogated under truth spells. If Edmund had managed to actually kill his brother…”
“It would have had to look very convincing,” Jade agreed. Accidents happened… particularly when they were made to happen. If Harry had died, his brother – the one who stood to gain – would be interrogated, just in case. The truth would come out, and he would be executed… probably. He certainly couldn’t count on being allowed to live, let alone inherit. His whole plan had been fatally flawed, right from the start. “I don’t think he could have gotten away with it.”
“I’m glad I don’t have a sibling,” Emily said.
Alassa’s lips tightened, just for a second. She had a half-sibling, her father’s illegitimate son. The poor kid would be safer never knowing who’d fathered him. His bloodline would make him a natural focus for opposition, once he was old enough to be manipulated. Alassa tolerated his existence, for the moment, but that might change…
“Be that as it may, the matter has been resolved successfully,” Alassa said. “Harry can flit from country to country, while Edmund can go take his frustrations out on the Blighted Lands. That said, I need to ask you another favor.”
Emily felt her heart sink. She’d intended to return to Void’s Tower, after passing through Cockatrice and Heart’s Eye, and search Void’s personal files for anything regarding the Hierarchy. She hadn’t been able to glean very much when she’d been at Whitehall, beyond a number of contradictory rumors and a firm insistence – on the part of many older magicians – that the Hierarchy simply didn’t exist. Emily might have taken their word for it, if the myth hadn’t been surprisingly prevalent. She didn’t recall anyone ever telling her about it, but nearly all the older magicians – particularly those from a magical background – knew the name. After everything that had happened, she was convinced there was a kernel of truth buried under all the rumors.
“It depends,” Emily said, carefully. “What do you want?”
Alassa took Millie from Jade and balanced the child on her lap. “Have you ever been to Valetta?” 
Emily shook her head. Valetta was a city in Valadon, a small kingdom – more like a princedom – to the west of Alluvia, protected more by rough terrain and international agreements than force of arms. She vaguely recalled hearing that the New Learning had taken off there, leading to the rapid development of an industrial center to rival Heart’s Eye or Cockatrice, but she hadn’t paid much attention. In hindsight, perhaps that had been a mistake.
“The kingdom is in an increasingly perilous position,” Alassa said, bluntly. Jade left the table and returned with a map, which he unfurled in front of her. “Unrest is spreading rapidly, aided and abetted – we think – by the revolutionaries in Alluvia. The king is attempting to keep control of his kingdom by hiring mercenaries and preparing for war, but I don’t believe he can fight and win if his whole kingdom rises against him…”
She paused, significantly. “Or if the revolutionaries invade from the east.”
Emily studied the map for a long moment. Alassa had a point. The border between Alluvia and Red Rose was being heavily fortified, but if Valetta fell to the revolutionaries, they’d be able to outflank the defenses and advance north… or, for that matter, keep heading west. The kingdoms wouldn’t be able to defend themselves without embracing the modern world, and that was the one thing they didn’t want to do. And that meant they were going to be at a serious disadvantage.
“The good news, such as it is, is that we have been able to convince the king to hold talks with the… ah, dissidents,” Alassa said. “He wasn’t too keen on the idea of conceding some power to his people, but the risk of ending up like King Jorlem – his head mounted on a spike, his family scattered or dead – has concentrated his mind. If he can strike a deal with the moderates amongst the dissidents, he might be able to prevent a full-scale uprising and invasion.”
“Might,” Jade added.
“I see your point,” Emily mused. The bigger kingdoms didn’t have much in the way of nationalism. The smaller ones did. It was possible Valetta would fight if their kingdom was invaded by Alluvia… if they saw it as an invasion, not a liberation. The torrent of revolutionary propaganda might convince the locals it really was a liberation, particularly if the revolutionaries behaved themselves. She feared they wouldn’t. “And what does this have to do with me?”
“There are two separate issues,” Alassa said. “We have been asked to appoint a mediator, someone who can sit at the table and help the two sides work through their differences; I would like you to be that mediator.”
Emily’s eyes narrowed. “Me?”
“You are one of the very few people everyone respects, even if they don’t like you,” Jade pointed out. “You have lands and titles, making you an aristocrat; you have considerable power and one hell of a reputation, ensuring few will trifle with you; you started the New Learning, which has changed the world and – hopefully – will convince the dissidents to listen to you.”
“That didn’t work out too well in Alluvia,” Emily pointed out.
“No,” Alassa agreed. “But – so far – there’s been no revolution in Valetta. There’s room for a compromise, if both sides feel they can afford to back down – a little – before it explodes and all hell breaks loose. The king is hiring every mercenary he can get his hands on, while the rebels are importing arms from Alluvia and steadily pushing the king’s authority back… sooner or later, probably sooner, there is going to be an explosion. And that will undermine all our attempts to contain Alluvia.”
“I see your point,” Emily said. She doubted any compromise was possible, even after King Jorlem had lost his head. The least the dissidents could accept was far more than the most the king could reasonably give them. “I can try, but…”
“The second problem is potentially just as serious,” Alassa said. “There have been odd reports of children going missing in Valetta, children from magical bloodlines or known to have magical potential. At least nineteen, from what we’ve heard; the figure could actually be considerably higher. If they’re being kidnapped… why?”
Emily shuddered. The simplest explanation was a newborn necromancer, but necromancers tended to be very noticeable. It was rare for one to remain undiscovered long enough to gain some control over his powers, although control was relative when necromancers were involved. Even the ones who could speak and put together long-term plans tended to be insane, prone to lashing out or throwing away their plans at the drop of a hat. If there was a necromancer in the city, one who had drained the life of nineteen children, he’d be impossible to miss.
And yet, kidnapping magical children is asking for trouble, she thought. The magical community protected its children. Their parents would use their shared blood to find and free them… then do something unspeakably horrid to the kidnappers. The only people who would dare are powerful magicians, strong enough to hide the children or defeat their parents when they come calling.
“In the old days, the White Council would send Mediators to investigate,” Alassa said. “These days… the Mediators are mostly gone, and the kingdoms have been reluctant to allow the few that remain to enter their territories. Father” – her lips thinned, just for a moment – “was never keen on allowing anyone to overshadow him, certainly not outsiders who thought they didn’t have to respect his authority. King Frederick apparently feels the same way. We suggested he allow an investigator to enter his country – I even offered to send Jade – but he refused. His Royal Guard are apparently carrying out the investigation themselves.”
Emily grimaced. Guardsmen tended to be careful around magicians, with reason. She had no idea how capable King Frederick’s men were, but they wouldn’t want to go looking for a possible necromancer for fear they might find him. A normal magician was quite bad enough – a guardsman who was insufficiently respectful might be turned into a toad, hopefully only for a few short hours – yet a necromancer… no, they couldn’t handle one of those. If they stumbled across his lair, they wouldn’t have time to run before it was too late.
“It may be nothing,” Alassa said, “but history suggests that’s unlikely.”
“And you want me to figure out what’s really happening?” Emily had beaten necromancers, but only through a combination of luck and careful preparation. And cheating. “That may not be easy…”
“Particularly as you have to be covert about it,” Alassa said. “You’re going as a diplomat. You cannot afford to be seen to take a side, or openly defy the king’s wishes, or…”
Emily frowned. The king might not give a damn about his common-born subjects – Emily hadn’t met many aristos who did – but ignoring a possible necromancer was asking for disaster. Was he the one behind the missing children? Or did he know who was taking them? King Randor had embraced necromancy, at the end, and it was quite possible King Frederick might be foolish enough to follow in his footsteps. It was easy, she’d been told, to convince yourself that you, and you alone, were strong enough to resist the madness… and discover, too late, that you were wrong. The king might already be wavering, if he’d taken the risk. If.
“So I have to carry out a secret investigation while trying to convince the king that he needs to make concessions now, before he gets overthrown,” Emily said. “And this king might be a necromancer himself.”
“The thought has crossed our minds,” Alassa admitted. “If he really is a necromancer, you should be able to sense it and deal with him.”
Emily nodded, sourly. She’d been accused of being a necromancer herself, after she’d killed Shadye, although the Grandmaster had felt otherwise and – over time – the suspicions had faded away. It was ironic, she felt, that being a good and kind person – and giving away many of her innovations – had been seen as a sign of madness, albeit a more productive kind than the terrifying rages that overwhelmed necromancers. Alassa was right, she supposed. If King Frederick was a necromancer, Emily was the only person who could take him down without devastating the entire area and killing hundreds – perhaps thousands – of people.
If, she thought again.
Alassa met her eyes. “Will you go?”
Emily said nothing for a long moment, although – in truth – her mind was already made up. If she could convince King Frederick to make some concessions, and convince the dissidents to accept what they got, she might be able to prevent a broader conflict. She had few illusions about the regime in Alluvia, or how it would either collapse into civil war or seek to expand the revolution across the northern continent. There was just too much hatred and resentment for the regime to evolve into something more sensible, let alone a modern democratic state. 
And there may be a necromancer involved, she thought, tiredly. I thought I was done with them.
“Yeah,” she said, finally. “I’ll go. And I’ll see what I can do.”
“Splendid.” Alassa clapped her hands. “I’ll see about arranging an escort…”
“No need.” Emily shook her head. Void had never needed an escort, as he would just use a display of his personal power that had put vast armies and colorful courtiers in the shade to get them to back off. She could do it too. “I’ll teleport to the kingdom, after I collect some supplies from Heart’s Eye.”
“And see Caleb,” Alassa teased. “What sort of supplies do you want, I wonder?”
“That too.” Emily felt her cheeks heat and sighed. Her relationship with Caleb was… complicated. “I’ll leave after breakfast.”
“Thank you,” Alassa said, serious again. “There are already far too many flashpoints in the Allied Lands, or what’s left of them. If we can quell this one…”
Emily nodded. “If.”

Chapter Four: Emily

“It’s good to see you again, Emily,” Caleb said. They lay together in his bed, wrapped in the afterglow. “I’m glad you’re here.”
“Me too,” Emily said. She genuinely had missed him. Sleeping together and bouncing ideas off him… and having ideas bounced off her in return, was priceless. Caleb was a genius, in her opinion, and they’d spent many happy hours improving each other’s ideas. Emily missed the days when that had been all they’d needed to do, before the end of one war and the start of another… before Caleb had become one of the leaders of Heart’s Eye. “I wish I’d been able to come sooner.”
Caleb poked her chest, very lightly. “In what sense?”
Emily blushed. “Well… I did miss the chance to listen to lectures, and experiment in the labs,” she said, deadpan. “I can’t imagine why I’d come here otherwise.”
“Ouch,” Caleb teased. “Right in the feels.”
“Hah.” Emily felt a twinge of regret. She could discuss magical theory for hours, but feelings? It was a lot harder to talk about those. She was happy with their relationship and yet… was it what he wanted? She wasn’t even sure what she wanted. A husband? A child? “I did miss you, really I did.”
Caleb sat up, crossing his legs. Emily pulled the blanket around her. She’d always been self-conscious about her appearance, even after growing into adulthood. Alassa could walk around stark naked, utterly unconcerned about watching eyes, but Emily could never do that… not ever. Caleb had known her for years, and yet she had trouble being naked in front of him. Or anyone else.
“I heard about the White City,” Caleb said, changing the subject. “Do you own the nexus point there now?”
“I don’t think so,” Emily said. “It wasn’t really me who tamed it.”
She considered the problem for a long moment. No one knew what had happened to snuff out the nexus point, nor why her ignition of a particular nexus point in the Blighted Lands had reignited the rest of them. No one knew, either, just how the ancient magicians had tamed the nexus point in a manner that had somehow endured – partly – over the years since the nexus point had been drained. And no one was quite sure why reigniting the nexus point had caused raw magic – wild magic – to spill out, forcing the evacuation of the city and sparking off a crisis that had threatened to destroy the Allied Lands. It was something, she suspected, she’d have to look into, sooner or later. If it happened again…
Caleb swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood, heading for the shower. Emily was tempted to join him, but a look at the clock – adjusted to show several different time zones – told her they didn’t have time. Alassa had promised she’d clear the way, first by informing the remainder of the council that Emily had agreed to mediate the talks and then by warning King Frederick to prepare a proper welcome. Emily had told Alassa she didn’t want any pomp and circumstance, and her friend had agreed, but there was no way to be sure her host wouldn’t greet her in style. Emily hoped not. It would damage her claim to neutrality before the negotiations even began. 
If there’s any hope at all, she told herself, as Caleb emerged from the shower and dressed with a complete lack of self-consciousness. The meeting may be nothing more than a final rejection of demands before the fighting begins.
The thought tormented her as she stepped into the shower, washed quickly and changed into a fresh outfit. She’d been lucky she’d thought to leave a handful of clothes in her university suite, although none were quite suitable for a diplomatic mission. She suspected it probably wouldn’t matter. She didn’t have to dress well to make her mark, after everything she’d done. Who knew? Perhaps it would work in her favor. If she wore a dress that looked expensive, the dissidents might think of her as an aristocrat who couldn’t possibly be trusted.
Caleb grinned at her. “Do you want to eat breakfast in the main hall, or have it brought to us?”
“The hall,” Emily said, reluctantly. She wasn’t too keen on professors and their guests eating privately. She’d written most of the university bylaws, and one of them insisted the professors had to eat with their students at least twice a week to keep them from losing touch with the outside world. In hindsight, perhaps that had been a mistake. She wasn’t that keen on public dining herself. “How busy will it be, now?”
“Not too bad,” Caleb said. “But you’ll probably be mobbed the moment they realize who you are.”
Emily wrapped a glamour around herself as he opened the door and led her through a maze of passageways to the dining hall. The spell was subtle enough to keep her from being recognized, with an added twist that would make it difficult for anyone who did recognize her to spill the beans. The last time she’d visited the university, just after the end of the war, the students really had mobbed her, all eager to shake her hand or pledge their undying gratitude and loyalty for what she’d done for them. Emily had never wanted to be a star, let alone be surrounded by groupies, and she didn’t understand why anyone did. The sheer adoration had been creepy, at least to her. She just wanted the students to take the opportunities she’d given them and make something of themselves.
She smiled, slightly, as Caleb escorted her into the dining hall. It was teeming with students and teachers, a surprisingly diverse population ranging from eight to eighty. Craftsmen rubbed shoulders with alchemists, blacksmiths worked closely with charmsmiths… she felt a thrill, despite herself, at just how many wonders had already come out of the university and how many more, she was sure, would be coming in the next few years. A flying saucer flew overhead and crashed into the wall, pieces of spell tiles falling to the floor. The students who’d put the magical device together giggled, then hurried to clean up the mess before the staff stopped pretending not to notice. Emily hoped they’d work the kinks out of the system. The zeppelin-like airships were remarkable, and they were already a game-changer, but real aircraft would be awesome.
They picked up plates and walked along the buffet, taking what they wanted, and then headed for a small table. Caleb pulled out a chair for her, then sat himself. Emily grinned and tucked into the food, enjoying the simple taste. The university had nearly starved during the war, but now – thanks to the makeshift portal network – the staff could bring in food from right across the continent. Given time, the university’s farms would be rebuilt to the point they could start supplying the students too. Emily hoped they’d have to do a little work on the farms, as part of their community service. Too many universities back home had gone bad when the staff and students lost track of where the basic necessities actually came from…
She allowed her eyes to wander the room, noting the increased number of teenage students who hadn’t – she assumed – gone to one of the proper magic schools. She wasn’t sure if that was a good thing, if only because the university wasn’t set up for basic magical education, but Heart’s Eye was the only educational establishment that had escaped being conquered and subverted by Void. Their parents presumably thought they’d be safer at the university, now that the war with Tarsier was over. Others looked surprisingly aristocratic, with airs and graces that would probably get them hurt if they didn’t drop them very quickly. Emily guessed their parents wanted them to understand the changing world. The days in which it was rare, almost unknown, for someone to rise in society were gone. It wasn’t so easy to keep the commoners under control when the commoners had guns and the will to use them.
“This way,” Caleb said, when they’d finished. “They’re waiting for you.”
Emily stood, brushed down her dress, and followed him out of the chamber, all too aware of eyes following her. The students would be wondering who she was… a prospective teacher, or funder, or… who knew? She put the thought out of her head as they made their way down to the workshop, passing a handful of wards designed to deter unwanted guests without hurting them. A couple felt weirdly dysfunctional, as if they were impossibly crude. It took her a moment to realize they were made with magitech, rather than proper magic. She couldn’t help wondering what that meant for the future, when everyone had access to magic.
The workshop looked like a steampunk wonderland, devices that were recognizable clashing with complicated – and sparking – machines that looked as if could have been invented by Rube Goldberg. She could sense magic flowing through the devices, an ebb and flow that felt almost wrong; she could pick out flickers of light that came and went, pulsing through spell circuits that crafted spells. The sheer complexity of the device defeated her; the magical haze was so strong, it was impossible to pick out the individual pieces of spellwork and figure out how they went together. She hadn’t felt so awed since the day she’d seen magic for the very first time.
“Lady Emily,” Adam said. He sounded like a young boy trying to sound normal when he spoke to his crush, and failing miserably. Emily wasn’t sure why she found his hero-worship more embarrassing than Frieda’s, but she did. “Welcome back.”
“I greet you,” his girlfriend Lilith added. She looked significantly less impressed as she dropped a perfect curtsey. Adam hastily bowed too. He might lack magic, but his girlfriend had it in spades. “We understand you want some devices to aid your mission?”
“Just a few,” Emily said. She’d sent them a note asking for their help when she’d arrived, before spending the night with Caleb. She hadn’t been very specific. She’d been curious to see what they devised without being prompted. “What do you have in mind?”
Adam hesitated, choosing his words carefully. Emily sighed inwardly. She wasn’t the kind of person who’d have a messenger flogged for bringing bad news, or a craftsman booted from his workshop for refusing to do the impossible. If Adam couldn’t help, she’d accept it. If he could…
“We can craft preconfigured spells for you,” Adam said, “but most would be inferior to your own powers. They’d lack the flexibility of spells you cast yourself…”
And it would be horribly insulting to suggest a magician couldn’t cast spells to protect himself, Emily thought. A magic tutor could get away with it, if only because the average tutor had enough power to make lashing out at him a very bad move. Saying that here could land someone in very real trouble.
“They’d also be a reminder of the potential of magitech,” Emily said. The magiwriter was the reminder, but she wanted that to stay a secret as long as possible. “And they’d free me up for other tasks.”
Adam nodded, clearly relieved, then led the way to a workbench on the far side of the chamber. “This is a simple anti-surveillance charm,” he explained, holding up a device that looked like an uncovered pocket watch. “When activated, it produces a spell that makes it impossible for someone to scry from a distance, although results have been mixed when the spy uses other methods to peek. A slightly modified version lets you know if you’re being spied on, although we haven’t worked out the bugs yet.”
“It can’t tell the difference between someone looking at you, someone you know is there, and someone spying from a safe distance,” Lilith put in. “If you’re alone, it works perfectly.”
Emily nodded, thoughtfully. “It might be useful,” she said. She made a mental note to study the documentation later, to try to determine why it didn’t work properly. “What else?”
“This is a protective necklace,” Adam said. “It gives you a certain degree of protection from magic, although it is very easy for a magician to either wear it out or simply find a way to get around it. A fireball may come apart when it touches the protective charm, but it can still be hot enough to hurt the wearer regardless.”
Caleb smiled. “We’ve actually sold quite a few to shopkeepers in town,” he said. “The demand is very high.”
“I’m not surprised,” Emily said.
Adam picked up a small ring. “This grows warm in the presence of magic,” he said. “If you wear it, you can tune the spells to ensure it doesn’t react to your magic. We have been working on ways to use the detection charm to actually drain the magic, but it doesn’t work very well. The drain is always too rapid for the charm, which means the ring could get hot enough to set fire to your skin.”
“We had an accident when someone tossed a spell tile into a ward,” Caleb put in. “He was killed instantly, his body so badly fried that we have no idea who he was or what he was thinking.”
Emily grimaced. It reminded her of necromancers, and why they went mad. The sudden surge of power was simply too great for anyone to handle, even a powerful magician. A basic hex used much less power than a necromancer, but the surge would still be enough to do real harm. And dropping a spell tile into a nexus-powered ward would be like sticking a fork in an electric socket.
“We do have a wand and spell tiles designed to take down embedded spells, and drain their magic safely,” Adam explained. “But again, compared to what you could do yourself, it is very crude.”
“It doesn’t mean it can’t be useful,” Emily said. “Anything else?”
“Just one,” Adam said. He picked up a small crystal ball resting on a plinth and held it out. “We took the basic lie detector spell and modified it. When activated, the orb glows white; it turns green or red when someone speaks, depending on if they’re telling the truth or not. It does have the same limits as normal truth spells – if someone tells a lie they believe to be true, the orb will read it as true – but it’s less intrusive than casting an open truth spell. It might be very useful.”
“In the right circumstances,” Emily agreed. It would probably be a bad idea to put the orb on the meeting table. The aristocrats believed they were entitled to rule. That self-belief would make their words seem true, even though they were objectively nothing of the sort. “I’ll take it with me, see how it goes.”
Adam nodded, quickly. “Do we have time to show you the rest of our work?”
“I can stay for a little longer,” Emily said. She was mildly surprised Alassa’s messenger hadn’t already arrived. She could only leave once King Frederick knew she was coming. “What do you have since we last met?”
She felt a twinge of regret as Adam escorted her from table to table, showing off their inventions and admitting – reluctantly, as if he felt it was a deeply personal failure – that some had never quite gotten off the ground. Emily studied the model airship – it looked more like a cross between a zeppelin and a primitive biplane – and frowned as she read the notes stating the airship simply hadn’t enough lift to get into the air. Adam had been trying to use magic to compensate, but… there wasn’t enough of that either.
“We had better luck with the modified broomsticks,” Lilith put in. “The two-spell device allows us to fly, without the threat of being swatted out of the sky.”
Emily glanced at her. “Anyone can use them?”
“As long as the power holds out,” Adam said. “The principal problem is that power usage is dangerously unpredictable. We nearly lost our first broomstick rider when the spell simply stopped working… luckily, he was caught before he hit the ground. We’re still trying to make it work properly.”
“That would change the world,” Emily said. If everyone could ride a broomstick… her lips twisted. “If you manage to get it to work, let me know.”
“I will.” Adam looked down. “We’re actually racing several other teams to get the bugs out.”
“They’ll have learnt from you,” Caleb said. “And you’ll learn from them in turn.”
Emily smiled, then allowed Adam to show her what he’d done. She’d liked the idea of flying on broomsticks, when she’d discovered magic existed, but it was rare for anyone to take the risk when a simple spell could send them plunging to their death. Laughter Academy was the only school that taught flying, and the students knew better than to fly too close to enemy sorcerers. It was impossible to both fly and defend yourself. Adam seemed to have worked out a way to do it simultaneously…
“We have had a lot of interest in these spells,” Caleb said, quietly. “They’ve already seeped out of the university.”
“They’re building airships everywhere now,” Adam agreed, rather sullenly. “No one wants to be left behind.”
“No,” Emily agreed. “But it’s all to the good.”
Caleb looked up. “The messenger has just arrived,” he said. The wards had notified him. “Are you ready to go?”
Emily nodded, reluctantly. She would have preferred to stay in the workshop and study their innovations, or visit her other friends in the university, but duty called. Alassa was right. If they could keep the small kingdom from exploding into civil war…
“Yeah,” she said. She’d already gotten the coordinates for the teleport spell. “Let’s go.”
“I’ll have your bag ready in a moment,” Adam promised. “And good luck.”
“Thanks,” Emily said, and pretended she didn’t see his blush. “I’ll need it.”

Chapter Five: Marah (One Day from Now)

Marah took a breath, balancing on the rooftop, and then swung herself down and through the open window.
She landed neatly on the floor, drawing her wand from her sleeve as she looked around for signs of trouble. The merchant who owned the house – it looked like a tiny mansion – had warded all the lower doors and windows, but he’d clearly thought it impossible for someone to get onto the roof. Marah couldn’t help being amused at his folly. For someone who had worked his way up from nothing – or next to nothing, according to the official story – he’d clearly lost touch with his roots. She was hardly the only person who used the rooftops to get around…
Her wand twitched in her hand as she cast a detection spell, checking for traps. Her master, Virgil, had told her, more than once, that merchants were paranoid… and had enough money to buy some of the best magical traps in the known world. She was almost disappointed as she straightened up. There was a charm on the door designed to make it impossible to enter without permission, and another set of nasty-looking spells on the desk drawers, but the room was otherwise defenseless. She guessed the important documents were locked in the drawers, if they weren’t kept solely in the merchant’s head. Nearly everyone could read and write these days, thanks to the New Learning, but not everyone trusted to the written word. What you didn’t write down couldn’t be used against you.
Marah smiled, then kept her eyes open as she made her way around the desk. The office was strikingly tasteless, although she had to admit she’d seen worse. The merchant had made it – and wanted to make it clear, to anyone who entered his office, that he’d made it. The walls were lined with books – fancy bound manuscripts, not books from a cheap printing press – and expensive portraits of his family. Marah made a private bet with herself that the man and his family had never looked so good in their entire lives, although they probably did dress themselves in finery. The merchant was rich enough to ignore the sumptuary laws. 
She glanced down at the desk, noting the lack of anything she could pick up and examine, then took the pamphlet from her cloak and laid it on the table. It was hard not to feel a flicker of irritation at the task, a mission that could be given to any rooftop kid willing to risk life and limb for a single coin. Marah wanted – needed – something more to do, after her last adventure, but her master had kept her doing mundane tasks instead. She ground her teeth in irritation. Sure, reminding a wealthy merchant of his roots – and that he had to choose between the old order and the new – was important, yet…she was wasted on a mission of intimidation. Compared to her last job, this was almost painfully easy.
The window gaped open, invitingly. Marah knew she should make her exit as quietly as she’d come, leaving no one aware she’d been and gone until the merchant found the leaflet on his desk – inside his wards and locked doors – but she had no intention of doing anything of the sort. She checked the doorknob, just in case the magician who’d done the wards had tried to be clever, and then opened the door. The corridor outside was just as tasteless as the office… she grinned and hurried down the stairs, keeping her ears open. It wasn’t long until she heard the screech.
“Sandra, girl, what are you doing?”
Marah felt her grin grow wider as the lady of the house made her appearance. She was a sour-faced biddy who’d married well, the type of person who spent all her time denying she’d ever spent a moment in the slums. Marah doubted the silly woman had spent a moment with her parents and siblings after her husband had struck it rich, not when she could lord it over her servants and try to cozy up to her social superiors instead. She knew the type. They thought they were better than they were…
The woman gaped at Marah, suddenly aware she wasn’t the mysterious Sandra. Marah could guess how she treated her maid; like so many other insecure people, she abused the people below her to make herself feel like a big man. Or woman, in this case. Marah felt a hot flash of anger. She could admire someone who had genuinely worked their way up from nothing, but not someone who’d made it and then pulled the ladder up behind him. A wealthy merchant could have done so much good for the poor and hopeless, but instead he’d betrayed them. Marah had never met the man, yet she already hated him.
“Who are…?”
Marah waved her wand. The woman froze and toppled over, her body hitting the ground with an audible thump. Marah allowed herself a second to enjoy it – one day, she promised herself, she was going to go back to her stepfather and make the man suffer – and then stepped over the frozen woman, leaving her behind. The spell wouldn’t do any permanent damage – and it would wear off, if another magician didn’t break it first – but it would teach her a lesson. Probably. If nothing else, it would stop her from screaming at her maid for a few hours.
She reached the bottom of the stairs and peered into the living room. Two kids were sitting at the table, eating dinner… Marah looked past them and saw a thin girl, with sad eyes, staring at her. Sandra, she guessed. There was a defeated look in her eyes that tore at Marah’s heartstrings. The kids started screaming, the moment they realized Marah was there; she froze them both, winked at Sandra, then turned and hurried through the door. Behind her, she heard a scream. The maid was either terrified of Marah, or all too aware her mistress would blame her if she didn’t do anything to alert the authorities. Marah understood, all too well. The poor girl had nowhere to go, if she left…
The revolution is coming, she promised herself. And everything will change.
She stepped onto the street and saw a watchman hurrying towards her, pushing his whistle into his mouth. He blew, an instant before Marah threw a spell at him. She had to admire the man’s reflexes as he jumped aside, narrowly dodging the spell. He rolled behind cover, still blowing his whistle. Marah had no idea if help was on the way– she had been told most of the guardsmen were protecting the main roads, while the private guards wouldn’t lift a finger to assist the king’s men – but there was no point in taking chances. Her master would be annoyed enough at how she’d danced through her target’s house; he’d be a great deal more annoyed if she got herself arrested or killed. Marah owed him too much to let herself fail, no matter how much she’d resented being sidelined over the last two weeks. She wanted –needed – to play a greater role in events.
A squad of guardsmen appeared at the far end of the street. Marah turned and ran, sprinting as fast as she could. The guards shouted and gave chase, scattering the handful of people on the road. Marah wasn’t too surprised the people didn’t try to grab her. The local residents were either rich – if not always ennobled – or their servants. The former didn’t want to get their hands dirty and the latter weren’t inclined to do much for their oppressors. Marah darted past a pair of carts – she briefly noted how the vehicles were crammed with personal possessions, a sign of yet another family leaving the city ahead of the revolution everyone knew was coming – and into a dirty alleyway, one of the handful used to allow the help to come and go without being seen by their betters. The guards kept up the pursuit as she picked her way through the passageways, then started to fall behind as she led them into the Coalsack. The guards had always been reluctant to risk entering the darkest part of the city, at least when they didn’t have enough men to deter the locals, and now they knew better than to try. Marah allowed herself to slow down, gasping for breath. The guards didn’t catch up with her. She wondered, idly, what they’d tell their superiors.
Probably that they beat me to death, Marah thought, amused. The Royal Guard was prone to exaggeration. A small argument between two coalwives became a riot involving hundreds of people, a lone murderer became a serial killer… her master had been reported dead so many times, he’d told her, that it was a wonder anyone believed it until they saw the body. They’ll claim they killed me, then left the body behind as a warning.
She smirked as she forced herself to walk deeper into the Coalsack. It hadn’t changed much in the last two weeks – the shops still sold illegal goods, the loan sharks offered loans at very unreasonable interest rates, the whores still offered their charms – but there was a nasty edge in the air that worried her, even though she had been assured it was a good sign. Men marched up and down, carrying weapons that were technically illegal; women made bandages, practiced basic medical skills and whatever else they needed to do to support the men. A large sign hung outside the magical district, warning that anyone who entered without permission would be transfigured. Marah parsed out the words carefully – she still found it hard to read and write – and then stepped over the line. She was a magician. She could enter safely.
A shame the guards didn’t follow me here, she thought. The magical community was pulling up the drawbridge, preparing to isolate themselves from the coming chaos. They were too scared, although they’d never admit it, not to respond harshly to intruders. A few weeks as toads would teach them a lesson.
She kept walking, passing the alchemist and charmshop. Two more were boarded up and heavily warded, their owners choosing to leave Valetta rather than risk being swept up in the coming chaos. Marah was sure they could have stayed to fight, or at least hunker down and wait for the revolution to sweep away the old order, but it was better to be rid of such people than risk having them put a knife in their backs. Far too many magicians didn’t care about the common people, losing touch with their roots… just like the merchants she so hated. It was a marvel her master cared, and he’d taught her to care.
The thought warmed her as she reached their base of operations, a nondescript house at the rear of the magical quarter. The door seemed harmless, as she pushed it open, but she felt defensive charms poking and prying at her the moment she stepped across the threshold. Her master liked his home to remain unobtrusive, odd given how flamboyant he could be. But then, everyone had to sleep somewhere. The fewer people who connected the home with Virgil Quintus Fabius, otherwise known as the Wild Fox, the better.
She stepped through the inner door and into the living room. Her master was standing on the far side of the chamber, studying his appearance in the mirror. His outfit was astonishingly flamboyant – he looked like a cross between a dandy and a peacock – and his hair and beard had been neatly trimmed, ensuring that he couldn’t possibly be missed. Marah had no idea how he managed to walk through the streets without being recognized, although she supposed magic had something to do with it. She was nowhere near his equal, when it came to magic, and she knew how to avoid unwanted attention.
“Marah,” Virgil Quintus Fabius said. He didn’t look around. “I take it the mission was successful?”
“You know it,” Marah said. She took a seat and forced herself to relax as the excitement started to wear off. She’d have to rest tonight, after taking a bath. “When are we going to do something fun?”
Her master turned, slightly. “Leaving a note behind wasn’t fun?”
“You know what I mean,” Marah said. She knew she sounded like a petulant child, but she didn’t care. She hated the system; the monarch and his aristocrats, the jumped-up commoners who grew rich on the backs of their former peers, the enforcers who kept the workers in line… she would do anything, anything at all, to bring it down. She wanted to be on the streets, hurling rocks with the street children or surrounding homes and factories in a bid to intimidate their owners… not dropping leaflets in delicate places. “I want to do something more important.”
Virgil looked back at his reflection. “And reminding a man with much to lose that we can find him isn’t important?”
Marah snorted. She wanted to see the system burn. She wanted to go back to her hometown and teach her stepfather a bloody lesson. She wanted to study magic freely… she hadn’t done enough of that in the last two weeks, after she’d escaped Lord Allenstown’s mansion. Her master had been too busy to give her more lessons…
“You know what I mean,” she said, again. “I want…”
“To do something more active,” her master said. He turned and met her eyes. “There is something you can do, if you are willing to take a considerable risk.”
Marah nodded, impatiently. She owed him everything. She would do anything to repay her debt.
Virgil walked into the next room, motioning her to come with him. Marah followed, feeling more wards – powerful protective charms – hovering around the chamber, keeping out prying eyes. A handful of devices lay on the table, linked to yet more charms… some very nasty, from what she could sense from a distance. There was no point in trying to pretend there was anything innocent about the devices, or that their mere existence wouldn’t land them both in hot water if they were caught. The monarchy didn’t want anyone to own anything that threatened its monopoly on power.
“There have been some interesting developments,” Virgil told her. “Our dear monarch is feeling the rope around his neck” – he mimed hanging with his fingertips – “and has finally decided to hold a peace conference, to which he has invited many moderates to discuss possible concessions he can make, in exchange for calling off the revolution.”
Marah blinked, feeling as if she’d been punched in the stomach. “Those… those traitors!”
“Quite,” her master agreed. His voice was cold, hard. “There is no one so willing to discuss concessions than someone with very little, someone who fears to lose what little he has.”
“I…” Marah muttered a word that would have earned her a beating from her stepfather – not that the man had ever needed an excuse to beat his children and stepchildren – and got a smile from her master. “They think the king will keep his word?”
Virgil shrugged. “They are afraid of losing what little they have,” he reminded her. “If the king makes them sweet promises, and offers them a handful of concessions, they may be very tempted. And if they accept…”
Marah’s imagination filled in the rest. The underground had been growing in power for years, ever since the New Learning had swept across the world, but not everyone wanted the same things. The moderates wanted some degree of reform, like Zangaria, while the hardliners – like her – believed the system could not be reformed and wanted to burn it to the ground. She had no faith the moderates would remain loyal to the cause, once they got what they wanted, and suspected they’d sell out their fellows in a heartbeat. It was no consolation that they’d probably be sold out too, in their turn, when the king was powerful enough to do it; by then, there’d be no one left to exact revenge. It would be the end of all dreams of freedom and equality and everything else she’d devoted her life to, since her master had saved her from a lifetime of slavery. It would be the end of a great many things.
“We need to kill them,” she said. Traitors deserved nothing but death. “Quickly.”
“We need to kill the envoy,” Virgil told her. His lips twisted in disdain. “The Allied Lands has insisted on sending a negotiator from Zangaria, a young aristocrat who was deeply involved in the aftermath of their civil war. We believe this envoy intends to convince the king to make concessions now, in a bid to forestall a revolution, and then claw them back once things calm down here.”
“Just as King Randor did,” Marah said.
“Just so.” Virgil looked amused, just for a second. Marah didn’t understand the joke. “The envoy will be heavily protected. Getting close will be impossible, not without making it obvious. But we can use these devices to strike him from a distance, if you are prepared to take the risk. You could get caught – or killed – very easily. It might not be possible to get you out in time, if they take you to jail.”
Marah shivered. She’d heard stories about dissidents who went into the cells under the castle. They rarely came out again – and, when they did, they were broken men. She wanted to believe the stories had grown in the telling, but she feared otherwise. If she were caught… she’d be lucky if she were merely killed. If the horror stories were true…
… But she owed her master too much to say no.
“I’ll do it,” she said. “Please.”
Virgil smiled. “Very good,” he said, lifting up the first device. “Now, listen carefully…”

Chapter Six: Emily

We have got to do something about the teleport spells, Emily thought, as the magic field snapped out of existence. She felt as if she’d been punched in the gut, her stomach churning violently as she fought to gather herself. They’re just too uncomfortable.
She straightened up and looked around. The tiny castle – more of a watchtower, really – sat outside the walls, providing a place for meetings that were not supposed to take place in public. The towering building peered east, towards distant Alluvia; the wind shifted, blowing the scent of coal dust and burning fumes into Emily’s face. She tried not to grimace as she spotted a lone nobleman walking towards her, his uniform marking him as a royal messenger. His eyes lingered on her for a long moment, as if he couldn’t quite believe what he saw. Emily supposed it made a certain kind of sense. She was unique, as far as she knew, in travelling without an entourage.
“My Lady?”
Emily studied the man thoughtfully. He looked understandably nervous, as if he didn’t know quite what to make of her or what level of respect he should offer. She was a noblewoman, true, but she wasn’t surrounded by flunkies and cronies like so many others. It was true that insecure noblemen had vast armies of supporters, to make it clear they were a power to be respected, yet… she shook her head. It didn’t matter. Not to her.
“Yes,” she said, simply. Her lips quirked in sudden amusement. “Take me to your leader.”
The messenger bowed deeply, so low his nose almost brushed the ground. “If you’ll come with me, the carriage is waiting,” he said. “I’ll escort you to His Highness.”
Emily sighed inwardly – it seemed she wasn't going to escape pomp and circumstance – and allowed him to lead her to the carriage, a golden eyesore pulled by two massive black horses. She clambered into the box, trying not to roll her eyes at the strange combination of utter luxury and security. The carriage was so heavily warded she doubted anything short of a necromancer could make an impact, at least with brute force. Given time, she could unravel the spells or use a chat parchment to undermine them from within, but if the king’s defenders were on the alert, they could probably catch her in the act and stop her before it was too late. She settled on a sinfully comfortable cushion as the coach rattled to life – she was oddly amused to note that the spells didn’t ensure a smooth ride – and stared out the window. It was heavily warded too, so heavily no one could peek into the coach without permission. The king evidently didn’t want to show himself to his subjects.
Or he wants to pretend I’m not here, Emily thought, wryly. The king would happily claim the credit if the current crisis was resolved without bloodshed. It was important to let him save face, Alassa had said, if only to keep resentment from poisoning the air for the next decade or two. He would prefer to have everyone believe Valadon solved its problems alone.
She sat back and watched as the coach passed through the gates and entered the city. Valetta reminded her of the videos she’d seen featuring New York, a strange combination of towering apartment blocks and mansions that felt both immense and weirdly cramped, as if the city was expanding and yet had no room to do so. She spotted the remains of inner walls, left behind as remnants of the city’s former size as the buildings expanded outwards; she winced, grimly, as she spotted a handful of rickety-looking apartment blocks that were probably even less stable than they looked. A number of similar buildings had collapsed, in Cockatrice, and it hadn’t been easy to ensure that the remainder didn’t fall down too. There was no such thing as health and safety rules… she’d done what she could, making the builders liable for blood money and compensation if the blocks fell down too quickly, but it wasn’t enough. She felt her heart sink as she studied one particular building. It looked as if it were already tilting over.
Her mood darkened as the carriage kept moving, heading up the royal road. It was completely empty, the pavements lined with armed soldiers and mercenaries… very obvious mercenaries. Emily couldn’t tell if the king was trying to deter an uprising or provoke one, in hopes it could be crushed quickly when his people finally rose against him. Either was possible. Mercenaries were incredibly unpopular, to the point a lone mercenary who wandered out of camp in search of a good time was unlikely to return. The king might be counting on their reputation for ruthlessness to save his kingdom, she supposed. No one doubted the hired guns would put the kingdom to the sword if their paymaster commanded it. 
She kept her eyes open, but there was little else to see. The homes and businesses were largely shut, with armed men standing outside the open shops. There were few men on the streets and no women or children, always a bad sign. She cursed the king under her breath. It would have been easy to walk to the castle, without shutting down the entire road and alienating even his loyal supporters. Her earlier thoughts came back to haunt her. Perhaps the king really was trying to spark an uprising. If he thought he could win…
I’m going to have to find a way to take a look around, Emily thought, darkly. She vaguely recalled someone complaining that diplomats spent all their time in embassies and kept company with the host country’s government, which meant they had no idea what was really going on and got caught by surprise when something went wrong. And I’m going to need a local guide.
She put the thought out of her mind as the coach turned towards the castle and drove through the gatehouse. The keep was fully manned, she noted; the king, unlike many others, had invested in cannons as well as more traditional weapons to protect his fortress. Guardsmen swanned about, wearing uniforms that made them stand out. Emily couldn’t tell if they knew what they were doing, although in her experience the more attention someone paid to appearance, the less they paid to effectiveness. But then, a king had to show his strength to deter enemies. It was better to prevent a revolution than crush it – or lose to it.
The coach rattled to a stop. The door opened a moment later. Emily stood, brushing down her dress as she stepped through the hatch. A young man – roughly the same age as she was – held out a hand to help her down the steps, his bright blue eyes studying her intently. Emily studied him back, her skin crawling. The prince – there was no one else who would wear a simple golden coronet – was a little too handsome for her peace of mind, his bearing bothering her at a primal level. His blond hair was cut too neatly, his eyes too bright and piercing… there was something about him that was subtly wrong. A flicker of alarm ran down her spine as she took his hand – she couldn’t politely decline – and allowed him to help her down. He didn’t seem to have any magic, but he could be masking very well.
“Lady Emily,” the prince said. “I am Prince Jeremy of Valadon. I welcome you to my father’s castle.”
Emily kept her face blank. Prince Jeremy reminded her, all too much, of the actor who’d played Prince Joffrey. His voice was warm and welcoming, yet there was something in his tone that made her wary. The prince was someone who would be as sweet and kind as anyone could want, as long as he got his way. She knew the type. Prince Jeremy would be married soon, if he wasn’t already, and his poor wife would find herself in hell. His eyes flickered over her, dropping to her chest and rising so quickly she wouldn’t have noticed if she hadn’t been watching for it. He was already standing far too close for comfort…
“I thank you,” she said, curtly.
“My father is looking forward to meeting you,” Prince Jeremy continued. If he noticed her discomfort, he reveled in it. “If you’ll come with me.”
Emily couldn’t help noticing how the servants backed away as their prince led her through the doors and down a long corridor towards the throne room. She doubted any of them wanted to spend any time in the prince’s company, not when they lacked any sort of protection from his whims. The prince smiled too much, chatting about nothing in particular as they passed a handful of guards. He was still too close to her, brushing against her personal space without intruding so blatantly she could make an issue of it. Her magic twisted, shimmering at her fingertips. The prince’s armor was enchanted, but she had more than enough power and skill to cut through the protections as if they weren’t there.
“I understand you fought in several wars,” Prince Jeremy said, conversationally. “It would please my father if you were to share your expertise…”
Emily gave him a sharp look. It was hard to be sure, but Prince Jeremy didn’t have the manner of Jade or Cat or Sergeant Miles or someone – anyone – who’d seen actual combat. Valadon was a small kingdom. She didn’t recall seeing any of their troops joining the army that had invaded the Blighted Lands, let alone their Crown Prince. Prince Jeremy would have been honored if he’d joined the fight, even if he brought no one other than himself. She would have seen him at the endless banquets. He certainly wasn’t the kind of person to sit in a tent, sharpening his sword, when there was drinking and bragging to be done.
He wants a fight, she thought, suddenly. Traditionally, a Crown Prince would lead his father’s troops in the field. Prince Jeremy wanted a revolution, so he could earn his spurs by crushing it. Shit.
“I am here as a neutral arbiter, nothing else,” she said, finally. “It would be a breach of my neutrality to advise either side.”
The prince’s expression darkened, just for a second. Emily tensed, bracing herself to duck a blow. She knew his type too well. The moment they were crossed, they lashed out. No one would fault her if she turned the prince into a toad after he took a swing at her. His father would be too busy making groveling apologies for his son to be more than a little annoyed with her, although that would change if she refused to undo the spell. The moment passed, just as quickly as it had come. The prince had more self-control than she’d thought.
She kept a spell at the ready as they passed through a large pair of doors, a herald standing to attention and loudly announcing the prince, listing his titles before adding Emily at the end almost as an afterthought. Emily couldn’t tell if it was a deliberate insult, an honest mistake, or an attempt to flatter the prince by giving him more titles than she had. Alassa would be fuming at the lack of titles, Emily knew, but she didn’t care. Her position wouldn’t be weakened by a herald listing only her name.
She couldn’t help thinking, as she dropped a brief nod to the king, that he looked a little like a jumped-up merchant. King Randor had been a jovial beefy man, his muscles slowly turning to fat, but King Fredrick was tall, thin, and dyspeptic. His eyes were sharp, yet darker – much darker – than his son’s, although she couldn’t help noticing they shared a cheek structure that made him look gaunt, almost skeletal. His robes were dark – King Randor had worn golden armor – and he carried no visible weapons, but that didn’t mean they weren’t there. She reached out, gingerly, with her senses, but picked up nothing beyond protective charms. The king was not, as far as she could tell, a magician.
“We welcome you to our kingdom,” King Frederick said. His voice was cold and hard. “It is our fondest hope that you will assist us in bringing our children back into our fold.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Emily said, keeping her face under tight control. The king didn’t seem to have anything personal against her, which was a pleasant change, but he was clearly preoccupied with something else. The threatened revolution? Or what? “It is good to be here.”
“We have prepared a feast in your honor, where you will meet all the court,” Prince Jeremy said, a hint of eagerness in his voice. “It will be my pleasure to escort you tonight…”
“No, thank you,” Emily said. She didn’t want to attend a feast if it could be avoided, certainly not one where she would be the center of attention. “I am required to remain neutral, Your Highness, and I cannot allow myself to be put in a potentially compromising situation.”
Like being escorted to a feast by the Crown Prince, she added, silently. The escort and seating arrangements would be determined by the court, which would give the crown a chance to influence her… or, even if the crown didn’t, allow others to accuse her of being influenced. The prince could clearly be charming, if he wanted to be, and it would be very easy for someone to insist she’d been seduced. Luckily, I have an ironclad excuse not to attend.
“We quite understand,” the king said. If he was disappointed, he didn’t show it. “My son will show you to your suite. My servants will be at your disposal. They will bring you an evening snack and breakfast, before the conference begins tomorrow.”
Emily nodded, politely. Technically, the king should have invited her to join him for breakfast… she wondered, idly, if it was a subtle insult or a genuine attempt to smooth the way for the conference. She could be influenced over breakfast as easily as dinner… her lips quirked, recalling Alassa explaining how the right choice of food, drink, and conversation could put a guest in the right frame of mind for agreeing to almost anything, without methods that would come back to haunt the host later. It didn’t matter, though. She had no doubt the king would insist he was trying to be helpful, if she asked. It could easily be both.
She nodded again, then allowed the prince to lead her through a network of corridors to the guest suites. The chamber was large, but primitive. The air was cold, despite a fire burning in the grate, and the washroom lacked running water. Emily sighed, feeling a bit guilty. If this castle was anything like any of the others, the servants would have to carry the bathwater up several flights of stairs. She could use magic to heat it, and she would, but they’d still have a difficult job.
Remember to tip, she thought.
“I trust you will find these rooms comfortable,” Prince Jeremy said. He was standing too close to her again, just enough to be worrying without allowing her to push him away. Her magic twitched, yearning to be free. “If you require anything” – the word was so stressed it sent a shiver down her spine – “just ask. It will be brought to you.”
Emily nodded curtly, dismissing him. He turned and left the chamber, closing the door behind him. Emily took a breath, then closed her eyes and reached out with her mind. The room was heavily warded, the charms so intermingled it was difficult to tell if they had a hidden purpose. They were designed to keep unfriendly eyes from watching her, but whoever had cast them might have hidden a spying spell of their own within the mix. She cast a privacy ward of her own, just to make life difficult for anyone who was spying on her, then searched the room with practiced ease. The first two peepholes were surprisingly easy to find. She gritted her teeth and kept looking, finally locating the third and fourth where they were hidden. Whoever had designed the room had done a very good job, she conceded sourly. They’d certainly thought she’d locate the first set of peepholes and stop looking for more.
Nice try, she thought, as she cast a pair of spells over the peepholes. She suspected the first two weren’t real, not in the sense anyone could peep through them, but it was better to be safe than sorry. She added a handful of other spells as she walked into the bedroom, making sure no one could come into the chamber without her permission. And if you spy on your guests…
She sighed inwardly as she checked her knapsack – the messenger hadn’t tried to open it, luckily for him – and then lay down on the bed. It was still early afternoon, but the teleport lag would catch up with her sooner rather than later. She’d be better off sleeping now and waking early the following morning, encouraging her body clock to adjust to the new environment. God alone knew how long she’d be here. She’d barely arrived and it was growing alarmingly clear the prince – if not his father – wanted a war. If they thought they could win, and they had enough mercenaries on the streets to make an uprising very bloody, they might decide to get it over with as quickly as possible.
They probably want a short victorious war to stem the tide of revolution, she thought, as she closed her eyes. But that didn’t work out too well for Nicolas II, did it?