War has no inherent rules. When one fights for survival, freedom and the prosperity of the coming generations, there is no question of propriety or correctness - there is only the end toward which we strive.

So why, then, do we play this warlike game and term it war? Why do we withhold ourselves from our utmost and tread lightly around delicate situations? We are shooting the Ardans but are afraid to offend their sensibilities; in my first years on the front the contradiction irked me daily while I watched Kolbe and his butchers do their bloody work.

Amira counseled patience, as ever. She has a trust in the bedrock of the world that I cannot approach, and though it pained her to do nothing she was firm in her resolve that we would not sink to their level. I asked her why, and I think on her answer often.

She said that the War would never end if we sacrificed our notion of civil society in the name of victory. What we won would forever be tainted, smeared with blood from our hands, and our children would grow with the taste of it on their lips.

Her words quieted my anger. How could I profess to believe in a higher justice, then forsake it in favor of my own base imitation? We trusted to faith, waited - and when the sun rose from the north to punish the Ardans for their excess, there was not a drop of blood to be found.

- Saleh Taskin, On Reclamation, 687

Michael could not help but tap his foot impatiently as he watched Gerard and Charles methodically clear the rubble away from the fallen Ardan soldier. Cracked and shattered masonry shivered at Gerard’s touch, flowing away from the body. Most of the work was his; Charles stepped in to bisect the occasional wooden beam. All of the bracelets from his arm had flowed into a flat, toothed blade that sliced cleanly through anything Gerard could not shift.

“Have you not seen a master artifex at work before?” Sobriquet said. He felt an odd tingling in his arm as the shimmering apparition moved to stand closer. He did not look, his vision was still examining the exposed portion of the courier’s papers - his father’s name glaring black-on-white from the page. The fact of Karl’s continued survival was distracting enough that he nearly forgot to reply to Sobriquet, his mind returning to the question only when there was a polite cough from beside him.

“No,” Michael replied curtly.

“Oh ho, so dour after such a victory,” Sobriquet said. “Whatever is the matter, Elias? You’ve discharged your task! Now I shall fulfill my end and smuggle you to the doorstep of sunny Mendian by means both clever and skillful.” There was a pause, and Michael felt the tingle shift as Sobriquet moved to his other side.

“Only,” Sobriquet whispered, its voice coming close in his ear, “when you saw the papers I felt more than just the secrets of Leik shift to take hold in you. One of those deeper secrets you carry has some resonance here. I would very much like to know what it is.”

Michael froze, letting his vision drift back towards its natural viewpoint. It was possible for Sobriquet to piece together the truth of who he was, given the correct names to start from. It would not take a genius to link Karl Baumgart’s missing son with the young man of similar age and appearance who happened to turn up in Daressa half a year later - and Michael was depressingly certain that Sobriquet qualified as such, at least in this particular.

In that event, would Sobriquet make good on its promise to Michael? He had the sick certainty that his father’s involvement in this atrocity was neither benign nor peripheral. That thought settled in with the rest to churn his gut; images of dead and mangled innocents flickered through his mind.

“I’m - not sure of its significance yet,” Michael said hoarsely. “I would like to read the rest of that packet before saying anything.” He paused, feeling the shivering adrenaline course through his veins with every rapid heartbeat. He turned to look at Sobriquet, forcing his vision to center on the blurry, blank mass without wincing.

“You think that Ardalt had a hand in these deaths,” Michael said.

“Yes,” Sobriquet said, its voice lacking any of its usual vigor or flourish. It was a flat monotone, quiet and dangerous. “Yes, I do.”

Michael nodded. “I am Ardan,” he said. “But after looking in those houses, seeing-” He paused for a moment as his words failed him; Sobriquet waited. Michael clenched his jaw, then looked up once more. “I hope you can see the truth in my words when I say that whoever did this, whoever that might be - I have no loyalty or obligation to them, and will share anything I know that might aid you in delivering justice.”

Sobriquet regarded him quietly for a moment. “I cannot hear truth in those words,” it said, “nor untruth. Do you know what that means?”

Michael shook his head slowly.

Sobriquet chuckled. “Your loyalties do not touch on secrets,” it said. “Which, while inconvenient for me personally, does tend to be a marker of honesty. I will take your word on this - for that reason, and one other.”

It held a finger up, close enough that Michael could feel the tingling hum of it on his dirt-smudged, tearstained cheeks. “In Daressa we value shed tears more dearly than shed blood,” it said quietly. “You are at least human enough to merit the benefit of the doubt.”

The sensation faded, and when Michael looked he found Sobriquet standing near Charles. The artifex had bent down to slice away the courier bag’s strap, hauling his prize up like a happy fisherman when it was clear. Gerard gave him a hearty slap on the shoulder, and the two began to walk back toward the sheltered alcove where Clair and Vernon were hunkered down.

Michael followed. His heart pounded with each step, and he forced himself to walk steadily and place his feet with care amid the rubble. When he arrived, Clair had withdrawn the papers from the bag and had them spread over a paving stone. Her face was drawn into a scowl.

“This is useless,” she said. Her eyes scanned down each page in turn. “Vague orders, code names, no real details of the operation. We can’t learn anything from this.”

Michael bent over to look at the paper, the familiar sight of Assembly documents momentarily transporting him back to the cool, dry air of his father’s study. He had not been allowed in there unaccompanied. Sometimes, though, in the years before his first failed attempt at ensoulment, his father would summon him into his private domain and draw his attention to a matter he was working on.

Usually it was because he had secured some important concession or executed a move he considered particularly clever. Other times it was simply to impress upon Michael the importance of Karl’s position. Michael had enjoyed hearing his father explain the twistings and turnings of the Assembly, even if Karl had never really been speaking to him. Those visits had soured and eventually stopped as Karl despaired of Michael ever gaining a soul. They had, however, been quite comprehensive before that.

“This is a Theatre Logistics Writ of Authorization,” Michael said, leaning over the pages and picking one up. “They describe high-level routing and appropriations procedures for new resources allocated by the Assembly. This one is marked with a code-word, meaning it’s specific to a particular operation, this ‘Sunburn’ that’s noted up top.”

He set the page down, then picked up another. “They don’t have much detail, since a good deal of that is left to the discretion of the theatre commander, but there should be a digest of major assets - here.” He picked up a third page, scanning through it before handing the paper to Clair. “This describes the deployment of two infantry battalions, two engineering battalions, one communications segment and one special command unit.”

Clair took the page, although her eyes remained on Michael - as did those of everyone present. “You want to explain how you know that?” she asked.

“Past experience,” Michael said, meeting her gaze. “I’m just trying to help.” He let his eyes linger a bit longer, then nodded at the page in Clair’s hand. “We find those battalions and we’ll find their specific orders. Any real evidence will be there, if it’s left.”

Nobody spoke, but Clair turned to look at Sobriquet for a short moment. Michael saw no sign from the shimmering form, but Clair’s eyes widened fractionally - then settled back on the paper.

“Ghar’s fucking bones,” she muttered. “All right, fine. We’ll need to find a map of the encampment - shit, will they have moved since the shelling?” She scratched at her neck distractedly. “Se-”

Sobriquet’s blurry form pulsed, and all sound disappeared for a heartbeat. Clair flushed. “Sorry,” she said, extending the papers toward Sobriquet. “Wasn’t thinking. Do you have a direction for us?”

The blur hovered closer to the papers. “This is nebulous,” it said. “Such details fade against the weight of the central secrets, but they do add a certain highlight to the web, a piquant note…”

After a moment Sobriquet floated back and pointed toward the northern side of Leik. “The most promising locations seem to cluster outside the walls, opposite the coast.”

Charles blanched, exchanging a look with Gerard. “That’s solid Ardans,” he said. “Swarming with them.”

“It is rather unfortunate,” Sobriquet said wryly. “Let me see what I can do.”

It was an odd sensation, walking while invisible. Michael had not noticed it when escaping the stockade through the deserted nighttime streets, but now they walked through a broad, bustling camp of soldiers. Canvas flapped in the mild breeze, and though the smell of smoke was strong it was joined here by a confusing melange of shit, refuse and cooked meat. Add to this the pungent note of warm and unwashed bodies, for Charles had been right: there were soldiers everywhere.

Yet, nobody looked at them. Men moved by, engaged in conversation or hurrying about their business, but their group was mere empty air to the soldiers. Much of their time was spent scrambling aside as a column of men passed; there were a few near encounters where Michael found himself stock-still on the side of the road, unwilling to step off lest he bend telltale blades of grass and unable to move forward for the men marching an arm’s length away.

The only one to speak during their infiltration was Sobriquet, and it only sparingly. On occasion it would stop to inspect a footprint or scrap of rubbish, looking at things only it could see - then, finally, setting an altered course with a murmured word to Clair.

Their group proceeded in this fashion for nearly an hour before they arrived at a camp which, to Michael’s eyes, looked the same as the rows of tents and pavilions they had seen for most of their walk.

“There,” Sobriquet murmured. “It’s in the - ah, wait. It’s moving.”

All eyes moved to the tent as a short, rotund man in an officer’s coat exited one of the large pavilions and began to walk along the broad main road of the camp.

“Ah,” Sobriquet said, its voice a buzzing whisper. “Yes. Not documents. The man.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Clair hissed. “What should we do, walk up and ask him about secret plans he may be privy to?”

Sobriquet chuckled and disappeared. The departing officer stopped abruptly and turned his head to the side, peering at one of the tents.

“Oh, for-” Clair let out a wordless grunt of irritation and began to walk toward the officer. Michael followed, watching as the man stepped hesitantly closer to the tent, finally lowering his head to peer inside - at which point a sparkling blur reached out and tapped him on the shoulder.

The officer stiffened and fell forward into the tent, only his boots protruding outside the canvas. Clair and Charles hurried forward to drag him the rest of the way through while Michael cast his gaze around to see if anyone had spotted the collapse and the anomalously-active tent flaps.

There were few men nearby, and none were looking in their direction. Cautiously, Michael entered the tent. Inside he found Clair kneeling over the weakly-twitching body of the officer.

“Thank you so very much,” Clair hissed. “Now what are we supposed to do? Slap him until he wakes up and hold a knife to his balls? We’re in the middle of the damn camp!”

Sobriquet drifted to hover over the sleeping form of the officer. “I will ensure nobody notices,” it said. “A risk, yes, but one I believe is necessary. It will take several hours for the Ardan auspices to notice the blind spot.”

Clair looked directly at the blur, her eyes narrowing. “It’s important?”

“Extremely,” Sobriquet confirmed, none of the usual levity in its voice. “I will not lose this thread, Clair. This is no longer about my curiosity. Someone used Daressan lives as means to an end. We must impress upon them that this is not a viable tactic, or it will happen again.”

Clair hesitated, then nodded. “Fine,” she said. “Then how do we begin?”

“I will keep him in complete sensory deprivation,” Sobriquet said. “You will need to bind him.”

Charles bent down and touched the man’s ankles, a bracelet slithering from his arm to lock them in place. Gerard slid off the officer’s coat and held up his wrists while Charles repeated the process there, leaving the man thoroughly manacled.

Their job done, the two artifices stepped back while Sobriquet leaned in to hold its arm under the officer’s nose; Michael had the impression of snapping fingers amid the chaotic glow. The officer’s nostrils flared immediately as he twisted his head away, bucking and straining against his bonds. His face turned flushed, then pale as he stared wide-eyed and sightless around the tent.

“Hello,” Sobriquet said, its voice quiet and liquid. “I would like to ask you some questions.”

The officer’s eyes widened further. “Who are you?” he croaked. “What did you do to me? I can’t see-”

“I am asking the questions,” Sobriquet purred, floating over the bound man. “What do you know about Sunburn?”

He shook his head weakly. “I don’t-”

“Sunburn,” Sobriquet said again. “I know you have information related to the operation conducted two nights ago. Tell me what you know.”

For a moment the man quivered against the sound of Sobriquet’s voice; another moment later his jaw firmed and he shook his head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, speaking in a quiet, deliberate voice that nevertheless showed the faint vibrato of fear.

“I see,” Sobriquet murmured, drifting closer. Once again an arm came out from the blur to float a handspan away from the man’s face, the remainder of Sobriquet’s body floating down just shy of his ear. There was a half-heard noise, a subsonic whine and growl that rippled through the tent.

“Liar,” Sobriquet said.

The officer’s eyes snapped wide, staring in horror at the empty air. He began to buck and twist with renewed vigor against his bonds, mouth open in a scream that did not travel past his lips. Stains appeared on his trousers; the man had wet himself in his fear.

Michael turned away, not willing to watch the man endure whatever torments Sobriquet had contrived for him to see. Charles and Gerard watched impassively, although the latter frowned. Vernon had turned away as well, watching the door to the tent.

Clair looked sickly, pale, as though she might collapse. She stared, although her eyes looked past the writhing officer. Michael turned; from his vantage it seemed as though she was staring at Sobriquet.

After an endless moment Sobriquet relented and the officer flopped to the ground sodden and weeping. “Sunburn,” it repeated. “Tell me what you know.”

“Nothing,” the officer gasped. “Emperor’s bones, I don’t know anything. Just the name, I heard someone mention it in passing, please-”

“Liar,” Sobriquet said again.

The man’s mouth opened to scream again, but Sobriquet had already robbed him of sound. This time Clair turned away, walking quickly to the side of the tent with one hand pressed to her mouth.

Michael watched the officer twist against his bonds and felt the seductive whisper of the soul he could not think about. Was this the lesser evil, to watch a man broken by Sobriquet’s phantasmagoria when a few words from Michael could achieve the same end painlessly? Wasn’t the suffering of men something to be abhorred as well?

Michael thought of the tree until the whispers stopped and Sobriquet relented once more. The officer appeared nearly insensate, shivering and gasping on the ground. His eyes were bloodshot and vacant, a trickle of blood slowly dripping from his nose to the ground.

“Sunburn,” Sobriquet said, leaning close. “Tell me what you know.”

The man shook his head. “Just - kill me,” he panted. “I can’t tell you what I don’t know.”

Sobriquet hummed tonelessly, its hand moving back toward the officer’s head. Michael felt the beginnings of a pain in his chest. He let his hand drift to his sternum, then clenched his fist.

“Wait,” Michael said. “Let me speak to him.”

Sobriquet’s blur seemed to ripple. “Stay out of this, secret-keeper,” it said. “Your part in this is past. This is our matter.”

“He’s not going to talk to you,” Michael said. “You’re just going to end up killing him. I have - something I can try.”

“Do you?” Sobriquet asked. “I was not aware that spectors had any great skill in interrogation.”

Michael took a step forward and looked down at the officer, then up at Sobriquet. He managed a smile. “It’s one of those secrets you were curious about,” he said. “If I fail, you may consider it your payment for the attempt.”

There was a pause, and Michael felt the sensation of intense regard from the blur. The pain in his chest faded. A rustle came from behind him, and he turned to see Clair standing close by. Her fists were clenched, and a tear tracked through the dirt on her cheek.

“Let him,” she said. “Please.”

Sobriquet hovered for a moment, its outline fuzzing with bright color - then drifted away. “Fine,” it said. “Make your attempt. I will permit him to hear your voice.”

Michael held up a finger, bending down to pick up the officer’s discarded jacket and slipping it over his shoulders. It was a poor fit. He dragged one of the cots from the tent over and sat on its edge, hoping that this officer did not make a habit of keeping up with news from the mainland.

“Let him see me,” Michael said. “And an empty tent.”

Sobriquet fuzzed once more, and the officer sat bolt upright, pulling with renewed strength against his bonds. His eyes filled with relief as they took in Michael’s uniform and Ardan features. Michael held eye contact and began to think very deliberately on memories of his father.

Sobriquet would have found out soon enough anyway.

“Soldier,” he growled, letting his chin jut out in imitation of Karl’s haughty stance. “Focus. Tell me what happened.”

“Sir, I - I don’t know,” the officer said, blinking as he looked around the tent. “I was walking, I heard a voice calling me-” He blinked again and focused on Michael’s face, his expression still half-delirious. “I’m sorry, sir, but who are you? How did you find me?”

“I am Michael, Lord Baumgart.” He leaned forward, furrowing his brow. “Sent by my father to personally oversee his operations here. I need to know what you told them about Sunburn.”

There was a pause. Michael held the expression on his face very steady as he clung to the hope that this man would believe him and live.

An idle thought informed him that he did not have to rely on hope. He pushed it to the side, but in that instant the officer’s eyes widened and flickered over Michael’s face, his resemblance to the man who helped steer the armies of Ardalt. “My Lord,” the officer said, bowing as best he could with his bindings still in place. “Forgive me, I wasn’t informed of your coming. I didn’t tell them anything - please, if you could unbind me?”

Michael was frozen. Had he done that? There had been no feeling of a soul, no surge of intent - but the man’s expression had changed in the same instant that Spark’s soul came to his mind.

He had no time to consider, he had to answer or waste the opportunity. Michael let a breath out and clenched his fist, pushing his worry aside for the moment.

“You don’t strike me as a man used to torture,” Michael said, letting his voice take on the silken tones of threat he had grown to fear as a child. “Don’t lie to me. You screamed and cried. You pissed yourself. You told them everything.”

“I didn’t!” the officer protested, turning pale. “Sir, I could not! I’m not privy to any part of the operation, I just helped with quartering the troops-”

Michael rose to his feet. “So you told them where all four battalions are?” he hissed. “You gutless fool. You’ve given them everything they need. Tell me exactly what you said.”

The bound man shook his head vigorously. “I didn’t, I couldn’t! I don’t even know where they are anymore, they went west the morning after the attack! I swear, sir, I didn’t give them anything.”

“Not good enough,” Michael said. “You mean to tell me that you didn’t glean any details of their mission despite being involved with their logistics? That you didn’t have a guess as to the nature of their mission, one you screamed out just to make the pain stop?”

“Sir, no,” the officer said, confusion leaking into his voice. “They brought their own supplies, in sealed boxes-” He squinted up at Michael. “Are you wearing my jacket?”

Sobriquet tapped the man on the shoulder, moving back as he fell twitching to the ground. “I think that ends the conversation,” it said. “Well done, Michael.”

Michael looked around the tent to find all eyes on him once more.

“Lord Baumgart, is it?” Clair said, all of the previous emotion gone from her voice. She took a step toward Michael with narrowed eyes. “Is that what this is?”

The hostility was palpable in the small tent, and Michael took a step back. He held up his hands placatingly. “Listen,” he said, “it’s not-”

“-not true at all,” Sobriquet said, swooping in from the side. “Oh, Michael is his name - but the rest? Marvelous acting, and a complete fabrication. It’s a shame, he would have made a good little Ardan lord.”

The blur shifted towards Michael. “You may have fooled the rest of them, however: I am Sobriquet.” There was the sense of a grin in its voice, a self-amused cadence to the words. “Your name is not the secret I was hoping to learn, nor is what we found from our friend. It seems to match. I believe we have reached a balance of favors today, wouldn’t you agree?”

Michael nodded haltingly. He wasn’t sure what game Sobriquet was playing. The lie was flimsy, and none of the others looked particularly impressed - but Clair’s posture had shifted from threatening to evaluative. She looked back and forth between Michael and Sobriquet, finally turning away with a disgusted grunt.

For a moment Michael felt nothing but bafflement; that excuse should not have mitigated the hostility he had felt from Clair and the others. He had missed something, but what? Sobriquet offered no answers, and the others had stopped focusing so intently on him.

“So what now?” Charles asked. “If the Ardans went west then they’re headed to the front. We won’t be able to find anything there, it’s madness up and down the lines.”

Gerard shook his head. “We’re not equipped for that kind of trip regardless,” he said. “We’ll need supplies, forged papers-”

“All can be arranged,” Sobriquet said. “I will begin while you travel back to the safehouse. I already have some additional faces in mind for the expedition-”

Sobriquet broke off. For a moment, nobody moved. From the corner Vernon raised his head, a worried expression on his face. “Something’s coming,” he said. “Air squadron, maybe, but they sound - off.” He tilted his head. “Coming fast.”

“Outside,” Sobriquet said tersely. “Back to the safehouse, fast as you can.”

“What’s going on?” Clair asked. “If it’s more Ardan scheming-”

“Clair, please.” The blur moved to hover in front of her. “Run.”

From outside the tent, Michael heard men shouting, the pounding of feet on the packed dirt. The low drone of engines began to vibrate the air around them.

“Run!” Sobriquet shouted.

Vernon did not wait for clarification; he ran. The rest of the group followed shortly, only to pause in the wide avenue between tents and stare upward.

A large, oblong shape blotted out a segment of sky to their north. It was smooth metal with propellers mounted at intervals along its behemoth length, a central ovoid stretched atop a cluster of cabins and compartments below. Around it were small dots that swarmed like so many insects; the scale was such that it took Michael a second to realize that they were a fighter escort.

No biplanes, these. Michael had watched the lazy turns and loops of fighters in the air before, and they bore little resemblance to the sleek, silvered craft that shot past on a single pair of broad wings, so fast that he couldn’t track them as they buzzed low over the city. Their propellers roared in a ghastly chorus as they traversed the land - and headed out towards the bay.

“Not an attack?” Gerard yelled. “What are they doing?”

Clair was staring upwards at the gigantic aircraft as it executed a slow, lazy turn over Leik, bringing its nose towards the Safid blockade in the distance. Beams of sunlight caught its side, revealing a stylized sunburst in gold against the rigid shell.

“The bastards,” she whispered, barely audible over the din. “So this was their play.”

Michael looked up, uncomprehending, but before he could ask what she meant a woman’s voice boomed forth from the airship with thunderous volume.

“This is an authorized punitive expedition of the Mendiko Arbitration Court,” she proclaimed, echoing from every ruined facade and cairn of rubble. “For crimes against civilian populations in a war zone, all Safid naval assets in this area are forfeit. Do not attempt resistance or surrender. We will not target lifeboats.”

Cheers began to erupt from the Ardan camp. A hand grabbed Michael’s arm; it was Gerard.

“Come on, lordling,” he yelled. “We’ve got to run.”

Michael allowed himself to be pulled forward, glancing at the airship above as often as he dared. “What’s happening?” he asked.

“Your countrymen put thousands of Daressans in front of Safid shells,” he shouted back, breathing hard as he ran. “Or blew them up themselves, it makes little difference. Mendian thinks the Safid killed them.”

Michael stared. “And now Mendian and Saf are going to fight?”

“No,” Gerard said. “Now the Star of Mendian is going to kill them all.”

His next question never came, his foot landed on a patch of ice and sent him stumbling to the side. Gerard, too, stepped on a frozen puddle and lost his balance. Michael looked up from the ground, his breath fogging, and saw snowflakes falling from the air. A warm glow lit them from behind, and for a moment the scene took on a haunting beauty in Michael’s eyes.

At the front of the airship there was a platform, and at the limit of the platform there was a railing. Against that railing a human form stood out against the open air, arms outstretched towards the distant blockade. Her hands glowed bright, so bright that Michael had to turn even his spector’s sight away from the spiking brilliance - and then it lashed out in a fat bar of purest light that swept once across the ocean.

Michael watched the steam rise from the water, watched the warships glow red and ripple with black clouds of smoke. From one a thinner beam of light struck back toward the airship - the lucigens he had seen in the earlier battle. The figure on the airship did not flinch; the light bent to the side and streamed past the airship harmlessly.

The Safid offered no further counterattack. A fresh sweep of radiance from the airship destroyed a second line of ships just as Michael heard the distant explosions of their predecessors resonate to Ardan cheers.

Stormclouds were billowing in a circle around them, though the sky above still burned clear. The wind whipped by hard enough to numb Michael’s cheeks, and thunder rumbled amidst the summer snow.

As another beam of light struck the ocean, Michael turned and ran.