Four wooden pilrs held up a white canvas, a single support beam raising its center to a mountainous peak. Lacquered cotton wicked away the water which drizzled from above, forming rivers and waterfalls in the subtle valleys of sagging cloth. Beneath it sat, stood, and paced a dozen individuals, all ensconced within an assortment of elegant armor sets. Their heights varied, some lucky few inching towards Sara's own five foot ten, but none quite reached it. The cmshelled nobles were all, as a rule, considerably taller than their House Guard escorts, whose commoner upbringings had afforded little of the diet taken for granted by their aristocratic charges. Accordingly, they were also not afforded the shelter of the tent, standing watch beneath the rain some few dozen feet away, rivulets of water running from their helms and soaking uncomfortably into the padding of their armor. At a gnce, Sara pitied them, but the sentiment was limited. There was only so much sympathy she could summon for those who worked to empower their oppressors.

  The King was identifiable at a distance, even when dressed in full pte. His weight, while not obscene, necessitated an armor which bulged before his stomach. As she approached Sara could also recognize his face, which was, though she would only admit it in the privacy of her own mind, the very picture of regality. His high cheekbones were framed by a neatly trimmed beard and modest mustache, shot through with white as was his head of neatly styled hair. It fell in gentle waves to cover his ears, perfectly complimenting the crown on his head, an ironically modest affair. A relic of the humbler origins of the Sporaton bloodline, it was a simple golden circlet with only a few precious gems embedded. The effect was ruined, of course, by the hideously jeweled pommel and crossguard of the King's longsword, which quite literally glowed even in the dreary weather– it was enchanted to ensure the crystalline arrangement always sparkled. Simir jewels crawled like barnacles along his gauntlets and sabatons, an oceanic infestation, and though Sara didn't know much about artificery, she instinctively intuited that they were purely decorative. The real enchantments would be powered by gems hidden beneath the steel.

  Though none of the other dignitaries present quite matched the King's obscenity, the entire parley tent was an idiosyncratic dispy of wealth. Sara's personal command tent had three wooden folding chairs and a canvas cot, with a folding table brought in for meetings. The Sporaton parley tent featured such noble necessities as embroidered tapestries on its dozen plush lounge chairs.

  There was one gring exception to the ostentatiousness, however. A single man at the rear of the gaggle of golden sin, standing at parade rest, forearms interlocked behind the small of his back. His wispy hair was pale as a ghost, and nearly as ephemeral, enough left that one wouldn't be seen as incorrect for calling him bald. The deep furrows and worn wrinkles of his face belied to Sara's earthly sensibilities considerable frailty, his skin thin as paper maché, but she had lived nine months in this new world. She knew better. His armor was dented and scratched, and opposite the dented scabbard of his sidesword hung a bcksteel warhammer, its end wickedly curved to an armor-piercing tip. He also wore a poleaxe on his back, and unlike any other weapon Sara had seen, the entire six foot length was made of pure bcksteel, an expense she couldn't fathom. Only the grip was made of leather, and it was well-worn, discolored by sweat stains.

  Graf Urs. The Commander of the Knight's Eye. As Evie and Sara approached the tent, his eyes first went to Sara, flicking from her boots to her head in an instant, and then to Evie, doing much the same. Only the slightest twitch danced across his features as he appraised his former apprentice, something Sara was certain none but she would notice, and even she couldn't tell what it represented. Only that the mercenary's impcable facade had, for the briefest of moments, slipped out of pce.

  As Sara strode across the final ten or so feet before the parley, the two guards that had been pced on the Tulian side of the tent abruptly straightened, smming the hafts of their spears into the mud with two sharp smacks.

  "Announcing the arrival of Sara Brown!" They called, their voices eerily synchronous. The nobles gathered in the tent turned at the sound, pretending to notice her arrival as if she'd just walked through the doors of a grand ga, not having quite visibly spent the st few minutes trudging through a quarter mile of muddy terrain to reach them.

  Sara, of course, stopped. She remained in pce, suffering the slight drizzle without compint, and turned a censorious eye to the closest guard. The woman was a consummate professional, and did not so much as flinch under her gaze, staring resolutely into the distance as she held her pose. Unfortunately for her, Sara was equally stubborn, and well aware both that the guardswoman could feel her eyes on her and knew exactly what she was waiting for.

  A dozen seconds or so passed in silence, an eternity in the world of social niceties, before both guards opened their mouths and bellowed out again.

  "Announcing Sve Evie Brown, Property of the House of Brown!"

  Sara acknowledged this with the slightest tilt of her head, as if the manner of address was an unexpected curiosity, but no great insult.

  The manner of address was clearly pre-pnned, all the way down to the timing. They knew I would not enter without Evie being acknowledged, but refuse to recognize the legality of my overwriting her sve's status.

  Effectively in line with what she'd anticipated, even if she'd been hazy on the particurs. She did think it was a neat lick to refer to her as "Property of House Brown," an eponym which cleanly advanced several aims of theirs. It implied Sara was still beholden to her Knighting by the King following the failed rebellion, simultaneously undermining any legitimacy Evie would have gained from her former title as the heir to House Eliah. It was a more clever move than she'd expected from the King; though Evie had warned her to the contrary, she'd half expected him to be as arrogant and out of touch as anyone born rich.

  Though the manner of address in which they were greeted was an intentional slight, it was one to which the best response was feigned ignorance. She simply tilted her head and turned her lips up, as if finding it faintly humorous that the King's announcement had been so ignorant. Regardless, she considered forcing royalty formally acknowledge a "sve" a victory in its own right, and so she advanced beneath the shelter of the tent, satisfied.

  "Lady Brown," the King said, beginning the conversation with a nod.

  "King Sporatos," Sara replied, nodding her own head slightly further, as was appropriate for a greeting between two rulers, rather than a King and subject.

  Taking a breath, the King gnced pointedly about the tent, beginning to say "As you can see, I–" before he was cut off by Evie stepping elegantly forward, the very picture of noble decorum.

  "Fedarin," she interrupted, using the King's first name. Her curtsy was textbook, her head bowed, the very image of deference, save for the fur which raised in a wave along her tail. Even if most didn't know how to read the body nguage of a feline's anatomy, anyone who had seen a hissing alleycat could recognize such bristling anger. "It has been quite a while since we st dined, hasn't it? I do hope you've brought refreshments. You always knew how fond I am of your chef's wonderful fruit tarts."

  The fsh of irritation that crossed the King's face was once more too quick for anyone but Sara to catch, but catch it she did, and she smiled inwardly. Interrupting the king was a considerable faux-pas, unless one was suitably drunk te into an extended ga, but excusable in certain other situations. By not acknowledging Evie's presence upon the opening of discussion, it was within her social right to force the topic, a supposedly polite move in the event that the King had somehow overlooked her presence. He hadn't, of course; he'd deliberately excluded her as a result of her svery, but by exercising both the social ritual and her knowledge of it, Evie affirmed her status as noble-born, even if her title had been revoked. She also funted the fact that she was once on a first-name basis with the King, and that she dined with him often enough that he was familiar with her favorite sweet from his personal chefs.

  "Evie," he replied evenly, without even the nod he offered Sara. "Refreshments may of course be brought out if the negotiations should run overlong, but this is not something I anticipate."

  "Truly?" She asked, stepping slightly ahead of Sara. "That surprises me to hear. Military negotiations are usually such lengthy affairs, are they not?"

  "Traditionally. But the leveling of surrender terms can be completed in much shorter order."

  Though she let nothing show, Sara's internal self leaned forward. Why, exactly, the King had called this parley was the most gring fw in her knowledge base. His posturing that he was here to dictate Tulian's surrender was an obvious falsehood, the auction's starting price. With his Knight's assaults having been so soundly repulsed, his true aims had to be considerably lesser. But what, exactly were they?

  Evie smiled politely, producing a folding fan from her sleeve to demurely cool herself. "Oh, interesting! I did not expect you to be so reasonable."

  Bait set.

  "Then you do not know me as well as you think you do, child. We are both aware of the realities of this situation."

  Bait taken. Evie's smile grew.

  "Will you need any assistance with your withdrawal, then? Owing to several innovative battlefield triage practices we have implemented, our healers are more than ready to ensure your troops will be ready to march north in short order."

  A cheapt shot, but one that struck home all the same. The reaction of the various onlooking nobles was effectively nothing, at least when compared to the hoots and howls that would accompany a solid insult thrown during raucous tavern argument, but their muted reaction was directly comparable. Smiles briefly sprouted before being smoothed away, blinks occurred more rapidly as eyes darted between combatants, and the more mirthful reactions were hidden in overlong sips from winegsses. The trap had been fairly obvious, and it amused the nobility to see King Sporatos fall into it. Further, the fact that the nobility clearly considered the trap obvious reaffirmed for Sara that the purpose of this meeting was not her surrender.

  Also, Sara could tell King Sporatos was getting increasingly pissed off at having to talk to a sve, which was chicken soup for her soul. She had to put actual effort into keeping her expression politely bnk as King Sporatos' smile smile turned patronizing.

  "You are even more naive than I expected, child. Your teacher was of too great a caliber for you to not recognize the impossibility of the defense that has been so unwisely constructed here. Even if the walls had not been breached, which they have, the fortress is easily bypassed, the Tulian capital easily taken. Should your owner and her forces advance unto the open field, they will be run down before the day is out."

  "I fail to see the relevance of the wall's breaching," Evie hummed, sparing a brief gnce for the forty-foot gap that yawned in Fort Midwich. "It's not as if your vaunted cavalry were capable of exploiting the weakness, much less your own far more ill-fated assault." She folded her for a moment, pointing it at the King's armor. "A shame about your suit, as an aside. The loss of such artful craftmanship is regrettable, even in times of war."

  The King's jaw twitched, and Sara's eyes sparkled with Evie's. The King's wounding was not public knowledge even among his own camp. The fact that Evie was aware of it, courtesy of Ketch's reconnaissance, was a major blow. If he publicly refuted the cim now, the truth's inevitable emergence would be all the more damaging.

  The King, naturally, chose the coward's way out, and didn't acknowledge the jab. He instead feigned arrogance, smirking. "The spellweaving of a Champion did provoke some unfortunate reaction among the cavalry's steeds, but it was just that. An unfortunate reaction to a Champion's spells, which of course cannot be predicted." The King's eyes brightened, clearly realizing he could use this to segue out of being forced to acknowledge a sve as anything human. He turned to Sara, happily waving one of the entourage behind him forward. "As a matter of fact, the workings of such a spell are of considerable interest to many of the mages that have joined me on this expedition. Lady Brown, before we move onto less pleasurable topics, may introduce you to Sir Ildo?" A man wearing the enchanted robes of a mage moved forward. "Sir Ildo was quite taken by the artifacts you have equipped your peasantry with, and personally entreated me for the opportunity to attend this parley."

  Bulllshit, Sara immediately thought. The mage was sporting a politician's lizard grin. He may have been a spellcaster, but that was clearly a distant second reason for his attendance.

  "A pleasure, Sir Ildo," Sara graciously replied, physically forcing herself to not refer to him as Sir Dildo.

  "The pleasure is all mine, Lady Brown," he replied, proffering one dainty hand from within his robes for a handshake.

  Sara roughly csped his forearm, giving it a firm pump before he could react. It was a martial handshake, not a political leader's, and it told all watching what capacity she considered herself to be acting in. The King proverbially stepped back as they made their introductions, watching politely as the mage began to ask after the supposed enchantments she'd used to create what he called "smoke throwers."

  Upon first impression, it seemed immediately clear that Sir Dildo was not a conversationalist. His voice was high and reedy, and he spoke with far more sylbles than was strictly necessary, his winding sentences meandering from topic to topic and jargon to jargon without end. Though she'd been mildly surprised by the King stepping back to allow the conversation to occur, the sheer dullness of the man's diatribes revealed the pn to her.

  Sir Dildo– Ildo, she forcefully reminded herself– was a sacrificial mb. The King had been trapped in conversation with a sve, and so he'd unleashed the most boring conceivable man upon Sara, and not just in recompense. Any sane person would flee this agonizing conversation as rapidly as possible, even if it meant willingly broaching a more serious and unwanted conversation with the King, which was clearly what Sara was expected to do. The King would be rid of Evie, transition from air-wasting political niceties to proper negotiation, and it would all seem the result of his own good graces. He obliged a personal friend their request, then saved Sara from the results of said request. Another neat little trick, one that had Sara's professional respect for the King ticking up another notch.

  Unfortunately, it did nothing to soothe the absolute raging contempt she held for the King, and certainly did nothing for her lifelong stubbornness. Sara brought her shoulders together and leaned forward in a way that exposed just a bit more cleavage to the balding Sir Ildo and said, without a trace of irony in her voice,

  "You've truly tried magnifying your compression runes on a base of wrought iron? That doesn't strike me as the most obvious way to attack the problem, especially owing to your aforementioned difficulties with the constraints of insetting crystals and their effects upon artifact stability."

  "Ah- well," the mage stumbled over his words for a moment, clearly taken aback by the passion in her voice. He cleared his throat, trying to maintain the irritating reediness that his speech had affected. "It was a rather unorthodox approach, I must admit, but it seemed worthwhile considering the ck of boratory."

  "Ah, you wound me!" Sara practically crowed, leaning further forward. Nearly everyone present shot confused looks her way, but she ignored them all. "Virtually all my work these st few months has been undertaken in what you must surely consider field conditions, Sir Ildo. Nothing of Old Tulian's artificery efforts remained, and I have been woefully underprepared to recreate such an industry on my own, no matter what trade deals I have managed." She put a hand on his shoulder, steering him towards a chair. "Please, you must tell me, what have you been missing most from your boratory while you work on this project? I have read all the texts I have avaible on the subject, but there is so much conflicting information, and I wish to begin my collection right, as I'm sure you understand."

  Sara sat down, waving for Sir Ildo to sit across from her, which he did, though not without considerable hesitation. This was not how the conversation was supposed to go. Her eyes were supposed to gze over as he wheedled his way through an incomprehensible narration, forcing her to flee to King Sporatos as her only patable conversation partner.

  But Sara knew something about mages that the King did not: they were mages for a reason. Every one of them, no matter how acidic their political motivations may be, had a genuine passion for their craft. A passion that Sara was now happily exploiting, steadily drawing the mage out of his faux-timidity.

  "You wish to create a boratory of your own, then?" He asked, his voice unconsciously dropping towards a more normal pitch. "It is not often that the ruler of a nation takes an interest in spellweaving and artificery."

  Sara waved the notion away with an indelicate sniff, as if so wrapped up in her love for artificery she forgot her formal decorum. "Those leaders don't come from a magicless world, Sir Ildo, and I do. That so many fail to take an interest in so beautiful a craft is an insult to the very world I have found myself in! Now please, tell me again of your efforts to recreate my spells, with particur attention to the tools you wished you had. As I've said, the texts I've read are so conflicting–"

  "Don't tell me you've been reading Vocalt," he said, the disdain in his tone dragging his voice back to a far more comfortable honey richness.

  Sara hadn't the faintest clue who that was, but she put a concerned hand to her colrbone and nodded hesitantly. "I have. It was among the texts I had avaible–"

  "Oh, please, Lady Brown, you must throw your copies out!" Ildo all but cried. "That fool has nothing in his mind but profit, and would sell you a gss bauble ciming it an artemonisometer!" Sir Ildo leaned forward in his chair, matching Sara's posture as he grew more animated. "It's a wonder Tavan even gifted that fool with magic; perhaps the only mistake I can rightly accuse my God of making, as a matter of fact. He did not deserve such a thing." Sara blinked her surprise, genuinely this time. That cim was high-tier bsphemy, and she tucked the contentious rivalry between Ildo and this 'Vocalt' away for ter use. "You must first begin with collecting the basics, of course. I presume you have a supply of quartz, jade, sapphire, emerald, and the like?"

  "Not as much as I'd like," she replied, sighing. "But some, yes."

  "Excellent. From these most base components even the most impoverished of nations can establish an effective artificery base..."

  Sara physically felt the attention of the nobility around her wilting, the topic too hideously dry for them to stomach, even with a touch of heresy stirred in. More than anybody else, King Sporatos was clearly frustrated by the events. Having cimed he was doing Ildo a personal favor, he couldn't rightly interrupt, and neither could he join the conversation as an equal in the incomprehensible swirl of alien terminology. The fact that Sara herself hadn't a damn clue what the mage was talking about wasn't apparent; of all her talents before receiving Amarat's Blessings, bullshitting her way through conversations above her paygrade had been among her greatest.

  Like a tiger watching its prey's eyes flutter closed, Evie pounced.

  "As we were discussing, Your Majesty, our fortification's position is far from untenable."

  The King grit his teeth, eyes fshing, but was forced to turn away from Sara to address Evie once more. She continued on, acting as oblivious to Sara's conversation as she was pretending to be of theirs. "Even if you were to circumvent the fort we all know that you would be unwilling to allow a force of such size to freely menace your supply lines, as it will take time for Tulian to fall, even without our full complement of defenders. And now with the blockading of Port Agrith and your navy still nowhere in sight? You will be forced to engage us here."

  "Just because my navy has not yet batted your pirate horde aside does not mean it is incapable of doing so, child," the King replied, his royal diction growing as close to a snarl as it ever could. "Your ambition mirrors your mother, clearly. Suicidal."

  A suppressed gasp ran through the noble audience, but Evie only smiled.

  "Ah, how I wish she'd committed suicide," she wistfully replied, the sheer longing for such a horrific thing sending a flinch through everyone present save Graf. "That she was beheaded was a close second, but perhaps too dignified for such a monster. Had I been in your position, I would have ordered a hanging. Much more humiliating, to be executed like a commoner. Regardless, we are here to discuss military matters, not happier days. I presume you are interested in asking after the safety of our captured notables?"

  His face remained impcable, but even as she outwardly paid attention to Sir Ildo's ranting, Sara caught the vein bulging from the King's forehead. Another win scored, then. Prisoner exchange was one of the actual bullet points on his agenda for the day, and now that the topic had been broached, he was obligated to pursue it, even with Evie.

  "You have treated them well?" He asked.

  "They're alive," Evie replied vaguely. "And no more injured than they were when captured. Our healers must of course prioritize who they dedicate their energies to."

  "You cimed but a moment ago that your healers have treated all your wounded," he noted, a touch of gravel entering his voice.

  "Mm," Evie said, a hum that meant nothing. She put her hands behind her back, gncing past the King. "For all the effort you put into pretending this is a social occasion, Fedarin, you seem to be intent on monopolizing the conversation. Will you not allow your entourage the opportunity to socialize?"

  "They would," he ground out, "if there were others equal to their station for them to hold a discussion. Unfortunately, your owner arrived alone."

  Evie cocked an eyebrow. "I feel rather present."

  King Sporatos' face began to redden. He leaned down, towering over Evie, his voice dropping to a whisper that should have been impossible for Sara to hear.

  "Were that woman not a Champion, I'd have struck you down where you stand, you insipid sve. That your head didn't roll with your mother's is my dearest regret."

  "You would have tried," Evie replied, speaking in a perfectly normal tone, which seemed deafening next to the King's clenched hiss. She once more leaned to the side, addressing the audience. "In case any of you were wondering, he threatened my life, expining that he holds his sword only because my Master is present. I suppose he truly is afraid of her, is he not?"

  The King's eyes bulged, pupils vibrating with apoplectic fury. He looked close to raising a fist, his right hand clenching spastically.

  Before things could get out of hand, Sara stood, cutting Sir Ildo off in the middle of some particurly tedious expnation.

  "Now, now, Evie," she said with a click of her tongue, "it's rude to antagonize our hosts." Her eyes slid to the King. "And seeing as he saw fit to outfit this tent like a brothel's lounge, I can only assume this is a social outing, no?"

  King Sporatos took a calming breath, turning to face Sara once more. "While it is understandable considering your upbringing, most would know that the presence of such finery is merely a matter of course for those of our status. Please, Lady Brown, let us move onto topics more at hand."

  "Like what? Your aforementioned surrender?"

  In a stunning contrast to when Evie had leveled the same insult, the King merely smiled tightly. "An amusing quip, of course, but not one that's accurate. I had hoped to return your good graces to a location more appropriate to your station, Lady Brown. If your Quest ys in the bounds of Tulian, I would even be willing to ensure that the Duke of Tulian will defer to you in all relevant matters."

  "The Duke of Tulian?" Sara gnced at the gathered representatives. "And who might that be?"

  "Why, Princess Tulian herself," the King replied, waving a stately woman forth. She was among the number that Sara hadn't recognized from Evie's description, and the fact that she was perhaps only in her mid-teens filled in several critical details regarding King Sporatos' ambition in the fallen kingdom.

  "Greetings, Champion of Amarat–"

  "Where's your dad?" Sara snapped. "The st ruler of Tulian was a King, I know that much."

  Her smile grew brittle. "Unfortunately, he passed away but a few short–"

  "Puppet ruler, got it," Sara interrupted, eyes flicking back to the King. "I'm not interested into talking to some brat you're putting in charge because of a bloodline fetish. She grew up in your borders anyway, so everyone knows she'll be dancing to your tune, even if you grant her nominal independence when she comes of age." She snapped her fingers a few times. "Come on, big boy, I'm getting impatient. Spit up your real goals here."

  "Your decorum is as reported, it would seem," the King replied, forcing a chuckle.

  "Don't want to py ball? Alright then."

  Sara's gaze swung towards the crowd of nobles, ignoring the so-called Tulian Princess. "If you're wondering, the real reason he called this conference is simple. I was supposed to be a pushover Champion, useless at anything but talking, and now I've bloodied his army's nose. He's pying it close to the chest, but that smarted enough that he's interested in feeling me out, seeing if he can drag me out of here without it costing him too much."

  She ran her eyes along the King's face appraisingly. "It seems like he's still confident he can win, but he's worried about it weakening him too much. Not physically, of course, he's got peasants and Knights to spare, but politically. Too many factions vying for his blood, after all, especially with the cult he's got himself wrapped up in."

  The King stiffened. "You dare to accuse me of–"

  "I do, and if you don't want me to spill the rest of the beans, you'll shut up." She paused for just a moment, not enough for him to come up with a clever retort, but long enough to prove that he had no immediate response on hand, then bowled onward. "In short, he's scared, which I take as a big win for me, seeing as conquering coastal city states is how he cemented his early rule in the first pce. Not as fun when the chew toys can bite back, is it?"

  "As for the rest of you, I don't know at a gnce what factions you belong to, or what your motivations are for being here. You're not the most loyal subjects, I can tell that already, but in that respect, I'll defer to the expert."

  Evie stepped forward, pulling out the first of many sheafs of parchment. Clearing her throat theatrically, she began addressing the right side of the crowd.

  "Sir Bancia. Your support to my mother's rebellion came in the form of sixteen warhorses donated monthly, undered through the Garin estate. Your recorded motivation was the King's economic mishandling of the coastal territories." Evie set the paper face-down on a short end table, then moved to a Knight standing beside the first. "Ser Tehtan. Eliah agents recorded your regur visits to various male paramours following the miraculous birth of your first son. Further investigation revealed these escapades were due to your husband's infertility, which your House's healers have repeatedly failed to resolve. Though you've had three children by your own body, they are bastards, and not eligible to inherit your husband's estate." She set that paper down. "Lord Karas. The agents of your political rivals have been repeatedly interrogated and subsequently disposed of via your connection to the Vomuns, who ritualistically consumed them as their hidden vampiric nature demanded. In recompense, you have extensively sabotaged the investigations of Daygon's Faithful Hunters in regards to–"

  "An absurdity!" Lord Karas cried out, breaking the audience from their stupor. "What evidence do you cim for these outndish accusations, sve?"

  Evie smirked.

  "For you, Lord Karas? The personal testimony of the vampire in question, including her enchanted signature. A personal interview with her is also avaible, if necessary. As for the rest, these papers provide instructions on where to locate relevant proof, and you will be free to peruse them at your leisure. Now, Lady Chacel–"

  "What is the meaning of this?" King Sporatos hissed out, still addressing Sara over Evie's head. "You said you wished to negotiate, Champion."

  Calling me a Champion now, huh?

  "Of course," she graciously replied. "But when it comes to motivating you, I'm afraid I'm all out of carrots. I've just got the stick left." She nodded to Evie. "Feel free to continue."

  "Lady Chacel–"

  "Enough!" The King sliced his hand through the air, physically shoving Evie to the floor so he could stalk towards Sara. The feline watched from where she y with a savage grin.

  "I call a parley, give you a chance to end this war early, and extend a hand of forgiveness– of forgiveness!– and this is how you repay me? Crude insults and baseless accusations?"

  "I think you'll find the accusations incredibly based," Sara said, enjoying a pun only she appreciated, "and I think you still don't understand what I'm after here." She cocked her hip out to rest a hand on it, staring down at the King. "Come on, give it a shot. Offer me what you think I want for the noble prisoners. What's their ransom?"

  The King's eyes fshed, but he growled out his words. "It is a complex figure, dependent upon their–"

  "I don't give a shit," Sara snapped, leaning forward until she was at eye level with the man. "Offer me anything. Offer me everything. Your whole kingdom." She leaned closer. "I won't give it to you. I won't give you a single one of those rotten bastards back."

  For all his faults, the King was not a coward. He spoke with an even tone, letting her tower over him without so much as a flinch.

  "No matter how you extort me, I will not be forced to give up my Kingdom's treasures in the interest of mere expediency. We will have them back at the war's conclusion, regardless."

  Sara barked out an ugly ugh. "The fuck you will! You really think this is a money problem? That I'm trying to fleece you for more cash? Hell, even if you managed to conjure up something that really would convince me to hand over those little pricks, I couldn't! They're already on the way to the capital, with a hangman's noose waiting for them." Her eyes flicked over the audience. "Hope none of you were reted to them, because you're not ever going to see them again. We're burning the bodies and dumping the ashes in the sea."

  "You're a beast," the King spat. "As mad as any have cimed you to be."

  "Maybe!" Sara admitted. "Maybe I am. No way for me to know myself, I guess, but honestly? I wouldn't bet on it." Sara straightened, turning her gre from noble to noble. They winced as her gaze passed over them. "Because to me, everything I'm doing is perfectly rational."

  "Ha!" The King scoffed. "You deny ransom, you shelter behind a fort in the middle of the wilderness, you let your navy be suborned by some insane entity, and you call yourself rational?"

  "Yes! Yes, I do, and you will, too, once you understand what I'm here for." She spread her arms wide, until the whole of Fort Midwich rested on her shoulders. "This? All of this? This army, these weapons, the blood, sweat and tears I've spilled to raise them? Do you know what they're for? Do you really think you know?"

  "To ensure yourself a–"

  "Wrong!" Sara smmed a finger into the King's breastpte. "They're to kill you." Her eyes grew wider by degrees. "They're to kill you, people like you, and every other fat motherfucker that rips the meat off the bones of innocents, every inbred little cousin fucker with more goddamn titles than brain cells that you can bring against me, and when I'm done killing all of them, I'm going to start working on the rest of them. And you know how I'm going to do it?"

  Evie appeared at Sara's side, proffering their enchanted bag. Sara reached in, drew out a half-completed gun, and dropped it at the King's feet. Its stock bounced off his sabatons with a wooden thunk.

  "That. That right there is going to be the death of you, King Sporatos. And it's my gift to you." Sara pulled out two more objects, a bag of lead balls, then a bag of bck powder. "It's called a firearm, or a gun, or, if you want to get specific about this one, a matchlock. You put this," she dropped the bag of gunpowder, "down the barrel, then you shove these," she dropped the lead bullets, "in after them, light the fuse, and pull the trigger to set the whole thing off."

  The King's eyes flicked to the pile, then back to her, nonplussed. "And you cim this implement will do what, exactly?"

  "Fuck your entire world. If you don't end up dead by one of them before you live to see it, let me tell you what's going to happen. You're going to make these guns, because you'll have to. They're better than any weapon that exists in this world by a ughable margin. You're going to build so, so many of them, because they're cheap, they're easy, and they'll win your wars. You're going to spread them far and wide, and save for when you try to use them against Tulian, because ours will be better by far, it will be a glorious time for you. Nobody will be able to stop you! Until your enemies can build them, you'll have such a dominance that even the thought of their resistance would be ughable. I'm giving that to you, King Sporatos."

  Sara drew herself up, straightening her shoulders, and let her illusion fall. The image of noble dress and eborate heels fell away, the hulking bck mass of her armor swimming up from beneath the fading chips of light. The mages started, hands readying to cast spells. For the most powerful of them, it had been a very, very long time since someone had cast an illusion they could not detect, and their shock was evident. Sara ignored them, too, her voice now warped and changed from within the visor of her helmet.

  "And the reason why I'm giving it to you is simple, your royal highness. Because as you march at the heads of your armies, as you march over the festering corpses of empires id low in your name, at your back will be the peasants, carrying guns. There will be far, far more of them in your force than there has ever been. And someday, no matter how distant, you will take a step too far. You will lead them into a battle they cannot win, and they will suffer for it. You will grow too greedy, tax them too harshly, and they will begin to starve. You will lord above them with all the power their lives have bought you, and from that height, they will have such a wonderful view of your spine. And they will think back to their battles, to the mages their bullets have struck down, to the Knights whose armor they have ripped apart, and they will see on you nothing more."

  Sara's chest was heaving now. She could feel her skin afire with runes, smoke leaking from the gaps of her armor, floating up to pool in little eddies at the tent above. She grinned wildly, glowing eyes glinting through the slits of her visor.

  "And they will shoot you, King Sporatos. The st thing that passes through your mind will be lead. And then they will turn their guns on your Dukes, and your Knights, and your nobility, and for the first time in all of their noble, putrid lives, they will know the fear of the mob. And then they will die."

  "So take this gun, King Sporatos. Tease apart its secrets. Smith more, enchant it, build it and grow it until you are satisfied. It will give you all the power in the world. But when you are standing oh-so-tall? I want one image floating through your skull. Your daughter, dead, face down in the mud. And a peasant standing above her."

  Sara finally fell silent, the echo of her speech, which had grown to a shout, echoing out over the pins. She didn't know if the Sporaton army had heard it, but her own forces certainly had. She hadn't meant to spread it so far, but she wasn't upset with the result.

  The King looked down at the matchlock, which y across his foot, then looked at his mages. They still stood ready, arms half-raised, and Sara betedly realized that most everyone had their hands on their weapons, swords frozen halfway through slipping from their scabbards. As she caught her breath, chest rising and falling, her panting was the only thing filling the air.

  "...there will be no peace," the King whispered.

  "I'm shocked."

  "You will be hanged as a common criminal."

  "I doubt it."

  "There will be no end to this war, not until you are dead."

  "I'm sure you'll try."

  The King blew out a long breath, slowly walking away from Sara. "Hostilities will resume at dawn, as is custom."

  "I look forward to it."

  The King paused in mid step. Still not turning around, he slowly shook his head. "Madness."

  Sara watched him go, leaving the matchlock lying on the floor. The other nobles began to file in after him, entering the safe embrace of their guards. Only one man remained behind, looking at the matchlock the King had left behind.

  "Master Graf," Evie said.

  "Lady Eliah," he replied with a nod.

  "My name is Evie, now. As the King so kindly reminded us all, I am no longer nobility."

  "Evie, then." Graf approached the matchlock, standing over it with a somber expression. He turned to Sara. "You meant what you said? That this weapon will change the world?"

  "In time, yes," Sara said. "It may not happen right away, but eventually? It's a certainty."

  With an old man's grunt, Graf bent down, picking up the matchlock. Still crouching, he turned it over, running his palms along the stock.

  "I take it you did not provide an example equal to your own weapons, then?"

  "Of course not."

  "Hm." He picked up the two bags, straightening with a click of withered bones. "You are profecient with this weapon, Evie?"

  "As I can be, given the retive ck of time to practice."

  "That still pces you among the foremost experts in this world." He shouldered the matchlock, pocketing the bags. "When the war is over, I hope that you will be avaible as a consultant for the Night's Eye. I am sure we will be capable of meeting your price."

  Evie raised an eyebrow. "You openly admit that you believe our nation will survive the war?"

  "I find it unlikely, speaking truthfully, but if you should lose the conflict, the offer is moot regardless. Bringing the opportunity to the fore costs nothing, after all."

  "Ever the pragmatist, Master Graf."

  "As are you." The aged mercenary looked to Sara. "And I presume this is the Serpent you spoke of?"

  "Of course," Evie replied, motioning to the matchlock. "And now you've seen her fangs."

  "Hm. A pleasure to meet you, Champion." Graf looked over his shoulder, towards the cluster of nobles retreating to their camp. He sighed. "I suppose I must be going, then. Best not to get accused of conspiring with the enemy."

  "I don't suppose you could be convinced to find employment with Tulian?" Sara asked, springing the offer while she still had the chance. "From Evie's stories, you seem like one of very few nobles worth a second thought."

  "No," he said simply. "I am a mercenary, but I am a subject of my King. There will be no betrayal."

  Sara didn't bother arguing the point. She could tell it was no use. She nodded. "I understand. I hope we will not meet on the field."

  "As do I, Champion Sara." He bowed slightly to her, then bowed again to Evie, deeper. "Champion. Lady Evie."

  And with that single gesture, he left. They were left alone beneath the empty tent, the sun finally breaking through the clouds above. After spending several minutes standing at one another's side, Sara ran a hand down her face.

  "Well," she said, "I think that went pretty well."

  Evie let out a long, tired sigh. "You would think that, wouldn't you, Master?"

  "Hey, we got most of what we wanted accomplished. The King's too close to pissing himself to copy the guns himself, we ticked him off enough to keep him stupid, and Graf's gonna have a monopoly on Sporaton firearms for the foreseeable future."

  "I remain unconvinced that ensuring the greatest general of our enemy has the greatest weapons was truly wise, Master."

  "That enemy also has the only force composed almost entirely out of commoners, I'll remind you. Those are the people I want to get their hands on guns, anyway."

  "If you insist, Master. I only hope he will not replicate them in time to have an effect upon the war."

  "Guess we'll find out, huh?"

  "Gods help us."