Two young attendees in dressed tunic suits each carried a brass jug filled with iced water as they made their route around the Barons’s table. It was fine for the Barons to speak so freely in front of these two boys as they were specifically selected: they were deaf and mute.

  As one of the disabled attendees poured out a silver chalice of water for Markus, he sat in silence and watched the other Barons preparing their statements and comments on the year’s activities.

  He absentmindedly sipped from the cool beverage and enjoyed every drop. It was good to have such luxuries. Ice was hard to come by. The Scribes in the College and the inventors of the Merchant District had been working tirelessly to create a means to store ice on hand for immediate use. But such efforts had so far proved fruitless. The only way to revise ice was to have it shipped in from the far North, amongst the ice sheets beyond Peteshko’s Crown. The great ice blocks would be brought in on ships, chipped away on the piers and quickly brought through the city to the underground storages of the Royal Hall. They would still melt and ice supplies would always run short, so more ice would be called in. Malachi had the idea of charging other merchants and tavern owners with the privilege of having their own ice supply, thereby securing yet another means of revenue for the Barons.

  Markus glanced to his brother. Malachi held his chalice in his hands and was deep in silent thought, most likely enjoying the fruits of this labour as much as he was.

  Baron Fosto, ever prepared, spoke first.

  “The first order of the evening is to address these rebel actions I have been hearing about.”

  He straightened his back and looked around to his fellow brethren. “I have mustered extra troops to secure the borders to the West and South, but now I have to be concerned with domestic issues? I do not wish to waste more capital, training hopeless farm boys and blood-squeamish milkmaids only to capture layabouts and ditch-dwellers.”

  “What of the Lawgivers?” Vilx asked with a worried tone. “Haven’t they been doing their job in keeping the peace?”

  “They have tried.” Zult chimed in. “It is one thing to catch a rapist or a cutpurse. That is easy to achieve for the everyday jobber. It is another thing entirely to catch a conspiracy.”

  “A conspiracy, you say?” Fosto asked.

  “Indeed. That is what I have been hearing from my Ravens.” Zult leant forward, eyes alight with impassioned intrigue. “There are sentiments spreading amongst the people in this very city. Anti-oligarchy sentiments.”

  “And where are they coming from, these sentiments?” Fosto curled his lip.

  Zult shrugged. “That is something I have yet to uncover. But I know it to be the case. You go into any of the inns in the city and you will hear of gripes and issues with our laws being spoken about with defiance and without care. It is the case. My Ravens do not lie.”

  “Hmmm.” Fosto leant back into the chair and laced his fingers. “Gripes and issues… I have seen these issues for myself. In Tigerstone.”

  “Oh yes.” Zult nodded. “I had heard of the riot that took place there. Well done for quelling it.”

  Fosto nodded his thanks.

  “So what measures shall we take to prevent more outrages, like the one that has delayed my Lady?” Eva asked calmly.

  “We can make incentives for whistleblowers.” Vilx suggested with his eagerness. “With enough money or another type of reward, a man can turn in his own father or son.”

  “Or enough warnings.” Markus uttered darkly. “My Bodyhunters have proven exceptionally good at catching runaway slaves. No one dares to hide a slave once the threat of the chains sits upon their necks.”

  “You haven’t caught all of them apparently.” Zult replied with a smirk.

  Markus shot him a dirty look.

  Fosto gestured at Markus. “That brings up another factor I wish to ask. What of your slavery facilities? Within this year alone, you have lost nearly a third of your slaves through the escape in the Salt Pit and the breakouts in Golden Hole and Iron Bay.”

  “And I have gathered them back, with wrathful swiftness.” Markus replied.

  “Half of them, according to the records Baron Vilx provided me last week.” Fosto eyed Markus with focus. “There are a lot of issues which will be discussed here concerning you and your conduct of work.”

  “Really?” Markus raised an eyebrow. “And what issues have you taken umbrage with my conduct, Fosto?”

  “Gentlemen.” Eva raised her hand, sensing the hostility. “We are getting ahead of ourselves. Let us tackle each issue in the course which we were talking of. Or we will be here for longer than one night.”

  Fosto upturned his hand graciously to Eva. Markus sneered but silently drank his water.

  Eva placed her palms on the table and continued speaking.

  “Firstly, we wish to talk and solve the anti-sentiments which have plagued our country. Then, we talk of expansion and then ourselves.”

  Markus leant back, hand clenched on the table. Fosto relaxed his posture and rested his elbows on the table. Malachi whipped his eyes back and forth between the pair. Zult smirked. Vilx quivered. Secra giggled.

  Eva nodded, happy to see a temporary peace emerge. “My lady had suggested something that she feels could be a solution to a myriad of present and future problems.”

  “What would that be?” Was the general reply from the others.

  “Marriage.” Eva laced her fingers together, monkeying the very body language Baron Francisca would do when suggested a new point of view.

  Every bit her protégé this one, Markus thought derisively.

  “Marriage.” Eva repeated. “We have been so focused on control, profit, and conjectures, we have looked over the simple fact that the people as a group are a mindless horde of simpletons. We can all agree on this. They crave distraction. If we give them something to complain about, they will complain and complain for weeks. But we give them a spectacle, a display of our affluence, they will love and love us for years. Bread and bloodshed. Such delights that we can all provide. The Tashiishans do it well enough with their fighting arenas and windsail races, no? A true Darganian marriage, with all the pomp and circumstance, is a spectacle for anyone. Be it in a village or a city, it is a joyous sight. And what better marriage is there than a royal one?”

  Royal? The Barons stared at Eva.

  “But the Dargans are no longer in power.” Malachi stammered. “What are you talking about?”

  “Ah.” Eva held up a finger. “But they still have power, do they not? A legitimacy that we ‘lowly’ people can never have. None of us here are highborn, including my Lady, we do not have such ‘oh-so-special’ blue blood running through our hearts. So, as much as we can threaten and bribe, we do not have what the Dargans had. Inherent loyalty of the populace. A loyalty only gained by centuries of rule from one family that has led the country through wars, famines, and disasters.

  And to get that type of loyalty, we must have legitimacy. And to get that legitimacy, we form our own Royal Family. That is what my Lady has proposed. Frigga is of age, isn’t she?”

  The Barons looked about one another. Vilx sat up straight and cleared his throat. “Ahem, yes. She is. I have been kept abreast of her well-being by her ladies-in-wait. She is of eighteen years. She has had her moonflow when she reached her twelfth year. She is healthy and well-cared for.”

  Malachi snorted. “That is all well to know. But that serves us nothing as we do not have anyone with direct ties to us to suggest for the pairing. Any of the simpering merchants, courtiers, or magistrates are lowborn like us. And trust me, even with the correct breeding, they are loyal to their coin. Not us.”

  Zult smiled. “Ah… I do think we have a suitable candidate.” He turned towards Fosto. “Fosto, your son Neelus. He is well, I take it?”

  Fosto nodded with a knowing smile that grew. “Indeed.”

  “Well!” Zult clapped his hands together. “That settles it. Is he not the perfect candidate for the job? Strong, capable, doubtlessly virile, and a direct bloodline to one of our own? Would you say he is a good choice, in your lady’s opinion, Eva?”

  Eva regarded both Fosto and Zult quietly, hands laced and thumbs rubbing together, before saying, “He is certainly agreeable. And I believe my lady will approve, given the current circumstances we stand in.”

  “As if we have any other choice.” Zult laughed. “Would it be safe to say that we do not require the good King’s permission for this betrothal?”

  “That’s the understatement of the century.” Malachi grunted. “Simpering fool still moping up there in his tower about his long-lost love?”

  “Yes.” Vilx nodded. “But would it be prudent that he participate in this as well? I mean, a wife is the one who proposes to a husband. And Princess Frigga will also require her father’s blood for the Blood Rite. It is how it is always done. And more importantly, the princess would be more than likely to listen to her father.”

  “A wise notion, Vilx.” Eva agreed with a smile. Vilx slightly blushed at her generous comment.

  Markus huffed a laugh. “And why would Yorick listen or work with us, after what we have done?” He sneered. “And do not tell me we intend to actually place his daughter on the throne following this union?” He looked over towards the empty chair gathering dust. “No one sits there… No one should ever again…”

  “We can provide good incentives,” Eva said. “All we have to do is tell him that her freedom will be granted, as well as his. Should she ask Neelus for his hand. Refuse, refuse, they stay locked up for the remainder of their days. Accept the new lay of the land, have the marriage officiated and sealed, then we will have Yorick sent away to Tashiish or a distant county where he will never bother us. Frigga stays in the city, under lock and key, bears a child or two, and we will have our own royal family under our control.”

  “I can arrange that to happen,” Zult nodded. “Yorick will be watched, and Frigga will be contained. Their future children, hypothetical as they are, will prove great distractions for the people and tools for us when they come of age. And Neelus becomes a great king, crafted by our advice. You have my vote.”

  Foists nodded with a smile only a proud father would display.

  Markus tapped the table with his finger. “I do not agree to this,” he said empathically.

  “Seconded,” Malachi followed up with a grunting nod.

  “Of course you don’t…” Zult sighed. “What are your issues with this, man?”

  Markus cocked his head at Zult, like a crow baited by a rat. “Aside from the fact that we have no reason to believe Frigga will even agree to this match? We began this organisation to step away from dogmatic rulers and stifling bloodline debates. Now you want to create a new royal family for us to use. Who’s to say in the generations to come that we will be done away with instead? Do the histories say that we acted with loyalty? No. The history will say as much to our puppet rulers, and they will act accordingly to safeguard themselves.”

  “Then we will ensure that will not be the case,” Fosto said. “Neelus is strong and loyal to me. He will keep Frigga and their spawn under his thumb.”

  Markus tisked with a flick of his hand. “I remain where I stand on it. Let that be my warning on the subject.”

  “Let us keep that path open for now,” Eva said calmly. “We may return to it later.”

  Vilx raised his hand next. “I have a suggestion in regards to populace control if a royal marriage is not viable.” He stood up with a cough and a smile.

  “It is what you briefly mentioned, Miss Eva. I have been reading on some cultural aspects of Tashiish. As you can imagine, it is wise to learn from our neighbour. Especially with the tenuous trade agreement we have with them. One of the prime sports that they partake in is their monthly battle arenas in their capital. The gladiators fight. I have read tales of great battles waged there. The blood that is spilled. The roars of the crowds, baying for blood and carnage. Truly spine-chilling stuff. Bread and blood. Something for people to enjoy?”

  Markus raised an eyebrow. “Now, that is an idea I can enjoy. I have plenty of slaves who can serve as fodder for these… what are they called?”

  Vilx sat down with a happy smile that his idea was not shot down like Francisca’s was. “In the Tashiishan tongue, the arena fighters are called tesh-glishters. Bloodletters.”

  “Bloodletters…” Markus grinned. “I can enjoy that too. Would you say, Fosto, that you would benefit from getting seasoned fighters like that? You can forgo training, for the arena is the training. Should save you time and hassle. The weak die, the strong survive and then you have your pick of the best.”

  Fosto nodded with satisfaction. “Certainly.”

  “And furthermore,” Markus led onwards, turning to his brother, “imagine the admission fees for the right to see this. People like a bit of blood. We have stories told around campfires of battles and crimes all the time. Spine-chilling stuff, as you said Vilx.”

  Malachi’s eyes widened with greed. “I can assure you that our profit margins will only go up in accordance with this idea. It is good entertainment. And it will be a welcome cash injection after that debacle with the debtors’ office being burnt to the fucking ground… ”

  “I see no reason to say no to this.” Zult said with a shrug. Even Eva nodded in silent approval.

  “Since we are all in agreement,” Markus continued, “I would like to suggest that we use the Salt Pit south of this city as a place for the arena? It is useless as a mine now and a blight on the landscape as it is.”

  The Barons and Eva nodded.

  Malachi rubbed his hands together, the life coming back into his face with such an interesting venture to undertake. Markus leant back and gave a nod to Vilx.

  Vilx has his uses, I suppose. Shouldn’t write him off. Not yet anyway.

  “A question!” Secra at last spoke. He had been out of the conversation till now as he was busy watching the stars through the windows of the room after finishing counting the ceiling’s tiles. All eyes turned to him. He tapped the table in a rhythm that only he could hear.

  “Can we build another hundred acres of farmland down south, please?” He asked.

  Furrowed brows of confusion came in reply.

  “I think… I think we will be needing more food in the coming years.” He stated. “A warm sun will be hot. And hot and hot. And the rain won’t follow for a bit.”

  “A drought?” Vilx asked nervously. “You think a drought is coming?”

  “Not just a drought…” Secra spoke. “Heat. Hotness like- like- like a kettle. Sands to the west, they push towards the grass. Eating the grass. The sun will build the way. And we will need food, oh yes yes indeed!”

  “And you’re certain of this?” Fosto asked him. “This better not be another flight of fancy you are having.”

  Secra looked at Fosto with an unblinking stare. It was slightly unnerving to see.

  “I am serious.” He replied slowly before getting louder and more unhinged. “We need food. Apples, oranges, blueberries, raspberries, strawberries, gooseberries, cherries, tangerines, barley, wheat, grain, pigs, cows, goats, sheep, chickens, pheasants, geese, turkeys, fish, clams!” Secra began to work himself into a fidgeting frenzy. “Drought is coming! Sands and darkness! The darkness! We will die if we do not prepare!”

  Zult placed a hand on Secra’s before the young Baron fell off his chair. “Calm yourself, Secra. No one is doubting you. If you say that there is a drought or a famine coming, we will create measures to shore up our stockpiles. Now, do you know when this will occur?”

  Secra’s breath was shaky as his nerves gathered themselves back together. These moments of mania came and went as swift as the ocean tide. “In… In a couple of mice’s years…” he whimpered.

  There came a slight pause. Followed by…

  “What… what the hells does that mean?” Malachi asked, genuinely perplexed by this answer.

  “Mice live for about two years.” Vilx explained. “A couple of mice. So he means that the drought or famine will come in four to six years’ time, correct?”

  Secra nodded quickly before his eyes faded back into another daydream in which he was the only viewer.

  “And… he’s gone.” Markus sighed. “Well, more food, beer and wine. Supposed agricultural disaster or not, is it good for our economy? And that means we should expand well enough into the Thicket. A good hundred acres or two will do nicely.”

  Vilx’s face went a tad pale at that comment. “The Thicket? You wish to expand our borders into that place?”

  Markus regarded Vilx with a nonplussed frown. “Yes. It is a forest that we can use for fences, homes, boats, bridges, charcoal and furniture. A large enough forest. It is a wonder that we haven’t gone there to begin with. Why the worry, man?”

  “It’s just that… I have heard stories.”

  Markus rolled his eyes. “Oh, of course… gremlins, fairies and trolls under bridges. I suppose if I go under my bed I’ll find the Nuckelavee there too if I looked hard enough! Really, Vilx, you are a grown man. Children’s stories are for them, not you.”

  Zult coughed lightly into his hand. It wasn’t a cough. But a snort hidden under the reflex. If only Markus knew how wrong he was.

  “What are these stories, Vilx?” Eva asked.

  “Talks of ghosts, phantoms, killers in the shadows— bah!” Vilx flinched with a squeal when he saw something in the corner of his eye. It scurried out from the shadows of a pillar. A few of the others looked to where he was staring.

  In the corner of the great room, a small black rat scurried quickly across to the other side and disappeared into the shadows. Whilst the others regarded it as just a rat, Vilx stared at the rat as if it were death itself.

  He pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed at his forehead. “Even the bloody rats have been acting differently, people have been saying. That rat, it looked like it was listening to us. Actually listening. People have seen the rats do this… I have read up on these things happening before in the past. Especially during the Fracture. The tales of the Fey, those creatures were not to be trifled with. Going into the Thicket, I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  “Oh for the love of all that is— No one has seen the Fey in a thousand years, you fool!” Markus snapped. “They are likely to not even exist in the first place. All you have are hearsay from drunks, madmen, and attention-grubbers.”

  “I must interject in this case, Markus.” Eva raised her hand. “For this comes upon the rumour which I was told by my lady to impart to Zult and Vilx.”

  With everyone’s, even Secra’s, attention on her, Eva looked to Vilx and Zult. “You all recall last week’s incident in Tigerstone Harbour concerning a bank owned by that magistrate? Fosto’s riot? What was his name again, that magistrate?”

  “Daldon.” Zult helped.

  “Thank you. Yes, Daldon. He disappeared the day that the bank was broken into. Now, the reports from the local Lawgiver precinct stated that the money, jewels, and possessions of the bank were oddly left untouched. Not even a gold coin was pilfered. Yet, ten guards were killed and five more badly wounded and not likely to survive. Fifteen men dispatched for no apparent reason. Now, you may think the subsequent rioting created by the rebels— which Fosto’s forces swiftly put to the sword— would be the culprits. But my lady did some digging and found that something was taken.”

  Eva paused for effect. She seemed to enjoy having the power of knowledge that even Vilx and Zult were lacking. “An egg. A green egg. Kept in constant heat in a coal pot and locked in the deepest part of the bank. An egg that contained… a dragon.”

  Markus and Malachi scoffed in brotherly unison.

  Vilx’s eyes widened and he gaped like a fish.

  Fosto inclined his head curiously.

  Secra noticed a fly hovering over his head.

  Zult raised his eyebrows. “And who were the robbers?” He asked, already half-guessing the answer.

  Eva smiled skeptically. “The survivors stated that a woman with wolf-like features attacked them. Aided by a slender-looking man. With pointed ears.”

  “A Lycan and a Changeling!” Vilx squealed. “The Fey do exist! I knew it!”

  Markus rolled his eyes. “And this testimony comes from the words of dying guards, likely on an opiate to ease their suffering.” He waved off his hand. “It seems like a case of breaking and entering and finding nothing of worth. And as for this… dragon egg? A sculpture, a relic. Meaningless trinkets for a country bumpkin to sell. This is a matter of little note for us. Fosto has dealt with the rebels in the harbour, so the issue is closed.”

  “But the Fey, Markus!” Vilx was on the edge of his seat with excitement. His eyes bulged. “Think of what we can exploit from this! The knowledge of the world they would have at their fingertips! The magic they could wield! We have the Marked amongst us. But the Fey are an entirely new level of strength! The power we can take! All my life I have studied the histories we have of them. They have a hierarchy, an ecosystem - Hells - even a religion! Maybe a court or royalty! A civilisation completely untouched and unheard of for centuries!”

  “Unheard of? For good reason.” Markus retorted. “They do not exist. In the name of all that is…” He sighed deeply and with great exasperation. “This is just a rumour and nothing more. Have we sent our people out to verify these so-called claims that Secra’s farmers have claimed? They have found nothing, because that is nothing to find. So why bother now? And if we try to now, it will not matter since those surviving guards will most likely be dead. And where is Daldon? I shall tell you. He’s most likely skipped town with the valuables that weren’t found at the scene. Maybe he set up this break-in? We won’t know. So let us move on and we shall have no more talks of Fey, goblins, wolf-women and flights of fancy.”

  He sat back in his chair and stared down Eva, daring her to challenge him on this. It was a strange feeling. He could see Eva. He knew Eva was sitting there in front of him. But her mannerisms and ways of speaking and the things that she was speaking were a near dead-ringer for Francisca herself. So it felt like Markus was challenging Francisca herself, without the backlash and the haughty attitude she exuded. It felt good as he allowed a shadow of a sneer in the corner of his thin mouth for Eva to see.

  Malachi coughed wetly into a handkerchief, leaving behind a sickly brown globular in the fabric. “I guess that we expand into the Thicket then?”

  Fosto nodded. “Seems to be the case. Get some contingents of slaves to begin ploughing up the rough lands for seeding and the fences for husbandry for the livestock. I’ll have some people brought in to provide a light southern patrol to keep an eye on the Thicket. Secra, you shall oversee the works to ensure they are completed to your standards. However, whilst I do not believe in pixies and dancing toads, I believe in bandits and escaped slaves. Markus, can you select us a good number of yours to support this expansion?”

  “Certainly.” Markus said to Fosto. “Finally, some sensible words.” But his attention stayed on Eva. For she was drawing it.

  Eva drank from her water, and swirled the beverage in her hand. She had on her face the most infuriating expression. Smugness. Like a cat that killed the canary’s family. She looked up and gave Markus a smile. That pissed him off.

  None of the other Barons noticed this silent exchange as they were busy discussing the logistics with Secra of setting up the extra space for the famine stockpile, despite his consistent interjections about the number of cats he counted on his midnight walks along the docks.

  Markus ground his teeth. Why was she looking at him like that? She had just lost an argument with him. No, she didn’t lose. She gave that one to him without a fight. What was she—?

  He was about to open his mouth to confront her, when Zult asked a question that Markus did not hear properly.

  “-they true?” Zult’s words came through. “Markus?”

  Markus blinked, focus returning his sense to their full extent. “What?”

  “The things I’ve been hearing up north. The rumours. Are they true?” Zult asked again.

  And there it is. Markus knew that matter would rear its damned head once again.

  Markus crossed his legs and regarded Zult firmly. “…I did what I did to instil our rule.”

  “Over a mining town?” Zult pushed. “Over some peasants?”

  “Over possible rebels that may have been amongst them!” Malachi interjected. “They burned down my house! Freed my manticore! Those bastards and that arrogant little shitbag slave!”

  “Oh yes… the infamous runaway slave…” Zult reached into his pocket and pulled out a small leather-bound book. He opened it and shifted through the pages until he stopped with his finger tapping the page. “A slave called Arcos Blade, hm? It says here that he was one of the unaccounted-for slaves that escaped from the Southern Salt Pit a year ago. One that was under your charge, Markus. Quite a lot of trouble to be handled because of a single boy.”

  “Not just him. He had help from others.” Malachi hissed. “Some Tashiishan warrior, a woman from the city, and others.”

  “So you lost control of the town that did not even have a local garrison set in place.” Zult gave Malachi a saccharine grin. “How did you allow this to happen?”

  “I didn’t allow it to happen!” Malachi snapped. His wheelchair shook with his growing anger. “I had it all under control until they came and ruined everything! They put me in this bloody chair!”

  Zult sighed. “And you had to get help from your brother to solve your mess. And you,” he turned to Markus, “you thought it best to just kill a bunch of them? Just string them up like cured meats?”

  The other Barons remained quiet as the conversation continued. “I did what I did to install our order.” Markus snarled. “Did you expect me not to respond when I heard what happened? What they did to Malachi? My kin? Those people needed a reality check. And I intended to make it a message to anyone else who thinks of acting in defiance of us or in accordance with rebels.”

  “Curious…” Eva spoke softly. “My Lady and I saw a different message in what you did.”

  “And what did the two of you see? May. I. Ask?” Markus hissed.

  Eva stopped drinking, set down her chalice, and glared at Markus with fire.

  “My Lady saw vengeance. Pure, unmitigated vengeance. Your bruised egos couldn’t allow those people to live with their victory over you, so you had to do what you felt was right. The children that swing on those ropes? What crime did they commit? The old men and women? What did they do to deserve the noose? Yes, most of the people fought against you. And some led the charge. But not all of them. You knew this and you still did what you did. For the first time, my Lady has seen that you did not act with the best interests of the Oligarchy. My Lady saw vengeance. Personally, I saw fear. ”

  Markus stared at her. He was too stunned to even make a reply.

  Eva pressed on. “Which brings us around to the point Fosto raised at the ways you work your position.”

  “Aha.” Markus sneered at her and Fosto and Zult in order. “So that’s what this is. This is why you all wanted me to be here tonight. This is an ambush.”

  Eva ignored his response. “You are not acting with a clear head. You returned from Silverstreak and raided villages and towns up and down the Western Way, snatching up more slaves than you can count. Did it not occur to you that those locals were needed at the farms minded by Secra? The smithies and tailors for Fosto? Some of them could have been whistleblowers for Zult or researchers for Vilx. This recent rampant collection will hamper our areas. There is a balance that must be maintained.”

  “A balance?” Markus replied coldly. “Oh please, tell me what you mean by that.”

  “A systematic use of slavery was a perfect way to keep the people in line. Commit a serious enough crime and into the chains you go. That is what it was used for in the beginning. Not anymore. Your reasoning for what has happened has ensured the opposite effect. Zult’s report on anti-Oligarchy sentiment is the start. This attack on Gallian’s bank. The arson fire on the debtors’ office to the west. All of it began after The Silverstreak Butchery.”

  “The what?” Markus spat.

  Zult piped up helpfully. “‘The Silverstreak Butchery’. It’s what the merchants in Paratell call it now. Even the esteemed Taris Family.”

  Markus twitched internally.

  The Taris Merchants were one of the oldest merchant families in Dargania. Their wealth was so vast that they essentially ruled the southern coastal city Paratell with little oversight from the Oligarchy. But they were sworn allies to the Barons, so their support and services were always expected and welcomed. For them to weigh in on this event with a critical eye… that was not good. The Barons could not afford to have a rival develop within the Taris clan, not with the merchant city so close to Tashiish, their country’s ancient rival. Markus would not put it past the Taris to align themselves with a foreign power if it gave them an edge.

  Markus did not like where this conversation was headed.

  Eva gestured at the Zult for solidifying her point. “May we remind you, Markus, of why we overthrew Yorick Dargan? So that we would rule the people with a fair and firm hand. Fair and firm.”

  “Give a dog too much of his lea, he can run away.” Fosto said. “But keep him too close and tighten that leash, he will be close enough to bite you.”

  Eva leant forward on the table. “These people are our brethren. Our kinsmen and kinswomen. You have been treating the people like playthings at your disposal, not the founding stones of what the Oligarchy is now. A rebellion is occurring, and we had our part to play in that genesis. This ‘butchery’ is not what we need at this fractured time. That is something we must change here and now.”

  “And what would that be?” Markus asked sharply.

  Eva opened her hands. “Release the current prisoners you have in your cells. The people of Silverstreak and the villagers from your return. Show good faith and justice to those that wronged you and leave them with a warning that swift retribution will return should they break the peace.” She exchanged a look between Fosto and Zult before concluding.

  “And then dismantle the slavery market you set up. All of the slave pits are to be closed and the slaves be released without fail. Call it a sentence served for past transgressions and then reopen the pits, mines and fields for working-class plebeians. By the end of this year, we shall outlaw slavery in Dargania as a whole.”

  Silence. No one spoke a word.

  Malachi gaped wider than before. He stared at Eva, at the cool-faced Fosto, at the shrinking Vilx, the smirking Zult and the distracted Secra. And then Malachi looked - with a trepidation not felt before - towards his brother.

  Markus was straight in his chair. Back fully ramrod against the panel, as if he had replaced his spine with a plank . His eyes, corpse-like and usually cold, seemed to blaze with anger. His right eyelid twitched, showing a storm of emotion under the usually calm facade he had fashioned. Malachi could see it as clearly as the sun. His brother was about to explode.

  And he did.

  “WHAT?” Markus barked louder than a lightning bolt. The shout echoed in the chamber, reverberating off the marble pillars.

  Markus leapt to his feet, whilst Malachi shrank away from him.

  “What is this madness you ask of me?” He snapped. “Release my slaves? Close my pits? Destroy seventeen years of work for a group of malcontents scattered across an entire country? And all for your lacking sense of security? You have any idea, any at all, what you are asking of me? You wish to destroy me! Destroy what makes me a Baron! My reputation will be ruined! I give even one slave a single grain of mercy and that will be the end! You say this will lessen the risk of rebellion? It will double it! You cowards! You shiver in the shadows of rumours of fairies, you strain to hear whispers of rebels and dangerous conspiracies. Whilst I have been planning my own retaliation against the very people that caused this problem in the first place! If it is a problem, it shall be mine to deal with, not you!”

  He stabbed a finger at Eva.

  “You go and tell your mistress that I shall handle the business we agreed to long ago in any way I see fit and in any capacity I deem it so. She can keep sticking her nose in politics and diplomacy and trade agreements and her paltry affairs. But stick it in mine, then it will be cut off!”

  Eva nodded slowly with a raised eyebrow as Markus ranted.

  He rounded on Fosto next.

  “And what of the great and fearless Fosto? A few peasants with pitchforks have you quaking in your boots? Come now, where is the rage and the terror that the Smiter wielded on the field of battle? Now you’re an old man, like me and all of us.”

  “There’s still plenty of power in me yet, Markus. Tread lightly…” Fosto warned softly.

  Markus did not hear the warning.

  He was incensed. All evening, he had put up with the incessant pandering from Vilx, the sly comments from Zult, the stonewalling from Fosto, the idiotic babbling from Secra, and the indignant mewling of Francisca’s current cunt. No more. Enough.

  Where was the fight in the Barons that he had known in the past? What was so wrong with what he had done in the name of his brother and the name of the Oligarchy itself? Yes, dozens of villagers died, but they had committed far worse acts of war in the name of the kings and queens that ruled this land! Markus couldn’t help but snap out a laugh. It was like he had just woken up from a pleasant dream and was living a nightmare.

  He snapped his head towards Zult, who still wore that damnable smirk.

  “As for you! You smile and laugh. Where have your Ravens been since the last week? Have any of them seen Blade and his ilk in the city or outside of it? No? Why is that? Are they not doing the job that you trained them for? What good is your information now?”

  Zult continued to hold up his smile and said nothing at all.

  Then Eva raised a hand to show she wished to speak. She said nothing but kept her hand up like a schoolchild ready to ask a question. Seeing that his rant had served no other purpose but to alleviate the sudden stress he had been under for the last few days, Markus slowly lowered himself back into his seat. He suddenly felt very tired and very old.

  Eva spoke calmly and firmly.

  “It is clear that the last week has had us all in the state of nervousness and frustration. It is also clear to me that it has done you no favours, Baron Markus. As my Lady had foreseen, this desire for vengeance has blinded you to the future. She— and I imagine she speaks for those in this room— extend our sympathies and thoughts to you. All of us understand. But I must also tell you that this is a path that we will not follow you on. Revenge is a never-ending circle, a snake eating its own tail. You can go around and around with your conjured enemy until one or both of you are dead. Even the winner will be too damaged to fight on afterwards. My Lady implores you with her full heart that you think carefully about what you wish to do in the next few weeks. You have your slavery market opening up in that amount of time. My Lady wishes that it will not be opened nor be opened ever again. Settle your feud with Silverstreak, release its inhabitants and move on from this madness and put your intellect into avenues where we need you the most.”

  Eva leant back and clasped her hands on the table.

  She looked like she was done speaking.

  Fosto was silent and observant, watching the others for a response. It was clear from his body language that he had agreed with every point Eva— and by extension Francisca— had made tonight. Zult rested an elbow on the table and rested his chin in his hand, clearly relishing the emotional distress Markus was now under.

  Vilx remained quiet, wisely abstaining from this situation.

  Malachi was stuck in the position of little to do with so much power. His world was that of business. The economy. Despite his distaste for Eva and Francisca and his loyalty to his brother, he saw the logic. They can’t keep killing and slaving forever. Someone would be needed to rear the cows, to brew the ale, to sew the tunic, reap the corn. All to ensure the world kept on turning and the Barons kept on ruling.

  Even Secra, in a rare moment of clarity, spoke quietly as he dug dirt from his nails, though everyone in the silence could hear him.

  “You cannot dam a river forever,” he said. “The bank will break, then burst… It always does…”

  Markus looked around at the room. At all the faces of the six that looked back at him. He finally turned to his brother. To the one that he embarked on this chaos for to begin with. Malachi could not look him in the eye. He turned his eyes down towards his chalice.

  Markus felt a breath catch in his throat. Even his own brother…

  Betrayal. It stabbed at his chest. A barbed crossbow bolt that sliced and cut through his heart.

  There was not a single person in this room that had his back.

  Malachi showed no love. No loyalty. Even after everything Markus had done to avenge him and care for him.

  “You too, brother?” He uttered in a hoarse whisper. Malachi refused to meet his glare.

  Markus clenched his jaw. Coward. Fine. That is how it is? Then so be it.

  Markus ground his teeth, puffed out a short breath from his nose, and slowly rose to his feet. His sinewy fingers dug at the tabletop as he leant on the table with a poise of dignity, despite his emotional outburst.

  He held his chin up as he regarded the six Barons he once called allies. His voice came out clipped, but dripping with caustic acid.

  “I believe I have heard all that I need to hear. I shall return to my home. I shall give thought to what you have spoken to me about, and I shall give you my decision by the end of these coming two weeks. I thank you for your time. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

  He pushed away from the table and stalked out of the Throne Room, without so much as a glance towards his cowardly brother. Markus threw the doors open and stepped through with his face fully contorted in rage.

  Just before the doors closed on his back, he heard Eva speak, “Now with that unpleasant business out of the way, shall we discuss Neelus and his newly minted position as Baronet, Fosto?”

  Back to the closed doors, Markus let the mask of civility fall instantly.

  He snarled as he stalked away, down the corridors, past the artworks, past the windows where all the Royal Hall’s hosts could see the two towers imprisoning the last Dargans in the country. He stalked all the way to the courtyard where his carriage still sat. Anyone— be it maid, sweeper boy, or guard— who saw him coming their way immediately hid from him or pretended to work without catching his eye. It was clear that the Slaver Master, in the foulest of moods, would not be above striking someone down without a moment’s thought.

  His three Bodyhunters— he did not care enough to learn their names— all snapped to attention when he stormed out of the front doors of the Royal Hall. He snapped his fingers, and the three Bodyhunters flew into action. His driver leapt down from his perch and opened the carriage door and the assisting steps. The accompanying guards hoisted themselves onto their horses and saddled themselves into position. All this was done in the seconds it took for Markus to reach them from the front entrance.

  Climbing in, he banged a fist against the wall of the carriage. “Hunter Fortress. Now.” He snapped.

  Without another moment to pause, the carriage lurched forward and was on its way back towards his base of operations.

  Damn them. Damn them, damn them!

  Markus found it hard to control his breathing. His knuckles grew white with tension. The veins in his neck throbbed with the raging beat of his heart.

  How was it possible that all his power was being torn away from him with such ease? How? Was it shortsightedness on his part, not considering the traitorous actions that the Barons would try to outmanoeuvre him, just like how he and they had outmanoeuvred King Yorick and his Royal Arms? Or was he really lashing out without cause, against a nobody slave that attacked his pathetic brother? Markus rubbed his mouth in consternation. This was all going wrong. All of it. He had to think of something. He had to—

  He stopped his thoughts. He smiled. He laughed. He cackled.

  He cackled aloud, uncaring for anyone to hear him.

  What was he worried about? What exactly would the others do to stop him?

  Would they try to attack him? Could they afford to?

  No. They couldn’t. They were just scared.

  Acting out of desperation against a made-up threat of revolt and rumours from thickets and dead trees. Idiotic. They had shown their true intentions. All of them. Even Malachi. They all distrusted him. That meant that they feared him. They feared his power. They had every right to.

  Of course, that was it. And what about that comment about Neelus’ new position? Are they seeking to replace me with Neelus? Were they intending to force me out? Well, that will not happen.

  Markus scratched his chin. Kill Neelus.

  That would be his first port of call. Not now though. Not yet. Give it a couple of months. But removing that little pawn from the board would even up the field against him. Darius or Hildur would get it done.

  Then Markus would take great pleasure in dispatching that arrogant bitch Eva personally. She would suffer a messy death, prolonged and filled with sharp edges at his very hands.

  Malachi and Vilx would fall into line, they would cower before him with ease.

  Secra was no one’s problem. Give him a bag of mushrooms laced with arsenic and no one would care what would happen afterwards. Markus would welcome the silence following the fool’s death. Though he would have to find someone equal to the task of managing the agricultural sector.

  That would leave Francisca, Zult and Fosto. That trio proved essential during the Coup, they laid the foundations of the current Oligarchy and were the oldest of the seven. They had experience and were aware of the cloaks and daggers used to ensure their power. They posed the real threats. Difficult deaths to plan certainly, but not impossible.

  Zult had to die first; his Ravens would see an attack coming. But Markus’s Bodyhunters were well trained; they would make short work of some lowly spies and assassins.

  Fosto would be next; cutting off the head of the army would sow the country into discord. Rumours or not, no man was unkillable. Fosto would die as easily as any man.

  Which would leave poor old Francisca. She would be helpless and friendless. And ripe for murder. A knife to the back or a hand on her throat. Simple enough…

  Markus felt a once of goodness in his heart at the thoughts of his traitorous colleagues dead or cowed. Goodness and a tinge of regret. The Oligarchy had such purpose and such purity, based on a dream of shaping a destiny they would call their own at last. But now, once again, Markus saw his destiny mired by the bleeding hearts of lesser people around him. This country clearly needed a firm hand like Francisca’s current bitch had said. But not theirs. His.

  Upon leaving the city and embarking on the road towards the fortress, his mood— whilst still darkened and murderous— beheld another thought that warmed the cockles in his stomach.

  Blade. He was still out there. Soon he would come. Markus did not know why he felt that would be the case, but he did. Maybe a sixth sense of things, like mad little Secra and his crops. A heaviness of a thundercloud about to break. Soon, very soon, Blade was coming and by all the Hells, Markus was going to be damn sure to be ready for the lovestruck fool.

  Markus just could not wait to make that little slave suffer.

  Markus suddenly felt his loins burn. And his mind began to drift to the fortress. And to a certain blonde-haired bodyhunter stationed there.

  Hildur Blackheart.

  Markus hissed as he adjusted himself with thoughts of her toned body under him. Her gritted teeth and her blazing eyes, alive with lust as he forced himself on her and into her. And the fact that she enjoyed his viciousness only drove him more mad with desire. Their little ‘arrangement’ had started only recently, but both fully enjoyed it.

  His blood was up and he needed relief, especially after such a stressful evening like this. Hildur would give him that, as always. He took her from behind the last time he had her in his chambers. She liked it violent. She always liked it violent. Hells, she would even beg for it.

  Maybe she’d like that again tonight. Gods knew that Markus would.

  “Driver!” He snapped, his voice strained with exasperation of a different kind.

  “Sir?” Came the carriage-driving bodyhunter’s reply.

  Alone in the carriage’s dark shadows, Markus broke out a wide smile. “When we arrive at the fortress, I require your riding crop. I have need of it.” Gods, he lusted for relief.