To assign blame in the wake of tragedy is natural. Indeed, men are often more interested in identifying the responsible party than they are in addressing the root cause of the calamity in question. Guidance on the subject varies across cultures, but most agree that the responsible party is the one who, by action of their will, might have prevented that harm from occurring.

This is all very well for such clear-cut things as murder, gross negligence, et-cetera. But not all tragedies are made with such square corners as these. What of the good men who strive their utmost and fail, their sterling intentions sowing disaster in their wake?

For there are these men, who live in a more perfect world than the rest of us inhabit. They all walk forward blindly into the abyss of our imperfections, their failure obvious to all else save those blinded by optimism, love, or some horrid amalgam thereof.

Is it we who bear the responsibility for failing to be who they thought we were? Or is it that we might have shattered their gilded illusions, and through that petty harm prevented one much greater?

It presses on me as I watch the far shore of Ardalt, my desk bereaved of letters with only ill news to take its place. I wonder if there was more I might have done, or if our paths bend towards the same destination regardless of our struggle. Was his illusion mine to shatter? My hand stayed itself, unwilling, and now it has no-one to whom it may write its sorrow.

- Leire Gabarain, Annals of the Sixteenth Star, 672.

“Not a priority?” Michael asked, raising his eyebrow. “I’m sorry, but that seems like a strange thing to say. Isn’t it important to find out who infiltrated your camp and killed Galen?”

Antolin shook his head. “I didn’t say it wasn’t important,” he said. “I know it’s weighing on you, and that you want to find out why you were given this soul. On top of that, Sobriquet’s worries are concerning. But we have a city to secure, and another over the horizon. If we let our timetable for Imes slip, our strategic position is liable to do the same.”

He made a weary, irritated gesture towards the camp, bustling through the scratched glass of the airship’s windows; trucks rolled through with loads of supplies and men, pallets of gear under tarpaulins were stacked in their hundreds. “Even if I could spare resources, I have a dozen things that are wanting for manpower, things actually relevant to the war effort going forward. Knowing who killed Galen would be satisfying, yes, but not instructive or helpful. Absent the knowledge we will be more careful, just as we would with it.”

“You’re not worried that there will be more such attacks?” Michael asked, almost keeping the frustration from his voice. “That this was only the first?”

“We are at war, Michael.” Antolin clasped his hands behind his back. “Obviously this points to an insufficiency in our standard security practices, but all indications are that they attacked with a small team of very powerful ensouled. That sort of threat is exceedingly difficult to guard against - a fact that has worked in your favor ever since your arrival on the continent, I might add.”

He turned towards the window. “The prisoner was a highly-ranked commander, captured alive. It stands to reason that the Ardans would want him back.”

“The kidnappers didn’t take him back, though,” Michael objected. “They broke him free, then killed him.”

Antolin shrugged. “He seemed unstable, from your recounting of the battle. Perhaps they had no use for him, and simply wanted to keep him out of our hands. Perhaps during the rescue he became violent and had to be dealt with.” He turned back to face Michael. “These questions are important. Knowledge is something to be pursued, always helpful - but not without evaluating the cost. We will defeat the Ardans regardless of the answer to this mystery, but delaying to solve it could make that defeat more costly by far.”

“And if it wasn’t the Ardans?” Michael asked.

“I have never been in the practice of underestimating Saf,” Antolin said. “If they were responsible for this, for whatever reason, then it does not give me cause to revise my assumptions about their capabilities.”

Michael pressed his lips into a line; he could feel a slight thrill of anticipation from Antolin, echoed in his own gut. They both knew what Michael wanted to say next. For a moment, Michael delayed - then he looked Antolin in the eye.

“Have you considered that the culprits could have been Mendiko?” he asked.

Antolin sighed. “Yes,” he said. “The lack of alarms prior to them taking action practically guarantees that they had at least one man on the inside.” He held up a hand to forestall Michael’s next words. “We are taking the appropriate precautions regarding our contractors and civilian labor. There will be increased scrutiny - but you must understand, there are hundreds of such men entering and leaving the base daily. Our food , ammunition and fuel are driven in from Estu by a force that is primarily composed of civilians, including Daressans aligned with the resistance.”

There was a shift in the air to Michael’s left; when he looked, Sobriquet’s avatar was hanging motionlessly in midair. “Is your implication that resistance members aided in this attack?” she said, her voice very neutral.

Antolin gave her an irritated look. “You know that it wasn’t,” he said. “Mendian is not a populous country by any definition. To prosecute a war we need men to do mundane tasks, and we were stretched to the limit even prior to opening the Ardan front. We’ve been forced to use local help, and with that comes the chance of infiltration.” He raised a finger at Sobriquet. “By men claiming to be part of the resistance, or at least sympathetic to your cause. It’s not as though you keep a roster I can check their names against.”

Sobriquet shifted; were she here in person, Michael was certain he would see a scowl on her lips. “And your own men are beyond reproach?” she asked.

“They are least likely to be involved,” Antolin replied, his voice mild. “Especially those who have stated as much in your presence.” He looked at her avatar directly, which left Michael oddly-impressed; even he was not capable of doing so for extended periods without feeling ill.

After a long moment, Antolin shook his head. “I don’t have resources to spare for an inquiry,” he said. “But I won’t forbid you from investigating, provided that you are discreet.” He brandished a finger at Sobriquet. “No rumors, no gossip. You obtain solid proof, you present it to me alone. I can’t have this becoming a distraction for the men.”

Michael nodded, stepping forward before Sobriquet could speak. “Thank you,” he said. “I’ll let you know if we find anything.” He looked at Sobriquet, then turned and walked to the hallway.

She did not follow, appearing in person a few moments later. “He’s more concerned than he’s letting on,” she grumbled. “He didn’t lie, but there were a few moments where he came close. The closest was when he said he didn’t have resources for an inquiry.”

“He likely does, but he doesn’t see the value in it,” Michael said. “I don’t think he finds it especially revelatory that my life might be in danger, or that people want to attack us. It’s not an unreasonable position, as annoying as I find it. I see his point.”

Sobriquet shot him an irritated look. “You could stand to be a little less reasonable,” she muttered. “He’s stonewalling us because he’s afraid we’ll uncover a problem that will be a priority. That doesn’t make you angry?”

“Not particularly,” Michael said, shrugging. “He met with us, explained his position. He let us know the conditions under which he’d support us. This is politics, or close enough to it, and as a political response he practically bent over backwards for us.”

She stared at him, then shook her head in disgust. “And you still think I’d be a good choice to participate in the new Daressan government?” she asked. “I like Antolin, and I was still tempted to do unpleasant things to him just now. With career politicians I may not be able to restrain myself.”

“It’s a skill, like any other,” Michael said, leaning over to carefully kiss her cheek. “If I can learn to live within the resistance, you can learn to tolerate someone taking a balanced stance on issues.”

Sobriquet looked at him, exasperation clear in her eyes. “We learned to live with you, not the other way around. You’re about as good at the business of resistance as you are at motivational speech.”

“Perhaps we can trade pointers,” Michael chuckled. “You teach me to resolve disagreements your way, and I’ll teach you mine.”

“No, thank you,” Sobriquet said, her voice quiet and serious. “It’s the resistance that needs to change. I’m just not sure we’re all going to be able to do it.” She pursed her lips. “Antolin isn’t wrong. Not everyone in the resistance is trustworthy, or reliable when we don’t have the threat of the Ardans and Safid to hold us together. Now that we’ve got Mendian here, with the end in sight - I can already see the fractures spreading.”

Michael frowned. “Do you think they were involved in Galen’s death?” he asked.

“No,” Sobriquet replied. “But I don’t know that for sure. I can’t rule it out, and that’s troubling me.” She paused, then shook her head. “Come on,” she said. “If we have to dig through all this ourselves, I know where we should start.”

Michael pulled the chair out carefully, his fingers brushing against the metal tubing of its frame as gently as he could muster. It scraped back along the airship’s metal decking; he set his tray down on the table and sat.

“It’s like a very bad dance,” Charles said, grinning as he lazily swirled the dregs of his drink. “And one you never bothered to learn the steps for.”

“I’ve had all of a day to get used to this,” Michael retorted, inching his chair closer to the table. It resisted, with his weight on it, so he pulled just a bit harder - only to be rewarded with a pained groan as it deformed under his fingers. He looked down at it and sighed. “Antolin said there are a few military movement training courses he can set up for me, specifically designed to acclimate new potentes to their strength.”

Sobriquet raised an eyebrow, swallowing her mouthful of food. “I wouldn’t count on him for too much,” she said. “You heard him. Between the advance on Imes and putting a bow on Leik, he’s occupied past the point of sanity.” She prodded at her lunch idly. “And then on top of that there’s managing the Safid front, quiet as it is currently. Cross-strait logistics. Whatever domestic issues he’s expected to attend to back in Mendian.”

“The man needs to learn to delegate,” Emil said. “There’s only so much one man can do, even with a competent staff. Things have been slowing down administratively the farther away from Mendian we travel, and it’s because the Mendiko have an odd aversion to field commanders.”

“It’s not so odd. They’ve been operating within easy reach of their capital for hundreds of years,” Sobriquet said. “Although it is annoying. I’ve heard nothing but vague estimates concerning our timetable for Imes.”

Emil nodded, rifling through a pile of papers in front of him. “They haven’t said anything firm, but we’ll likely be there within a week. Supply orders for Leik take a drop about three days from now, I’m assuming that’s when the bulk of their forces move out.”

“Sharp,” Vernon noted. “It agrees with what little I’ve overheard; they’ve been careful to keep actual strategy well-protected from eavesdroppers.”

“So we’ve got around three days to find out who killed Galen, as well as how that could tie into a threat against Michael.” Sobriquet tapped her fingers against her chin, then looked at Emil. “Antolin suspects that they had a man on the inside, probably someone with the supply convoys.”

Emil turned back to his stack of papers, pulling out a few folded sheets. “Convoys are normally scheduled from Estu a few days in advance,” he said. “If they came in because they heard Galen was captured - it’d be tight, but doable. I can check to see if anyone pulled strings to get a schedule change after the battle for Leik.” He frowned, then looked up. “If they were already in the camp, though, we’ll need other ways to ferret them out.”

“I’ll talk with the artifices,” Charles said, rising from his seat. “The five dead jailors were all artifices who pulled the occasional shift in the motor pool, the boys are taking it rough. I’ll ask if anyone’s heard news.”

Vernon leaned back in his chair, taking a drink from his mug. “I’ll keep my ears open,” he said, a faint smile playing on his lips. “I may find some excuses to hang about near the contractors’ barracks.”

Michael looked between the three men, feeling somewhat dazed. “You know, I’m not sure what I can do to help,” he said.

“Not a damned thing,” Charles snorted. “If this is really all about you - which seems annoyingly possible - then the last thing we want is you flouncing about poking your well-bred nose into things. It spooks people.”

Sobriquet smiled and squeezed his hand. “Help Emil,” she said. “You’ve got a head for paperwork.”

Emil looked up and nodded. “Sure, could use another set of eyes. Two, if you’re also looking to occupy yourself.”

“No, I’ve got other plans,” Sobriquet sighed. “Plans that are probably going to leave me with a splitting headache.”

“Convoy three-eight-zero,” Michael said, his voice dull. “Arrived at the north entrance on Rimesday. Food and medical supplies.” He slid the page forward; a few moments later Emil paired it with a page from his own stack.

“Scheduled three days before the battle,” Emil said, his eyes flicking between the pages. “Departed late Arborday, manifest and personnel look identical. No-”

“No discrepancies, changes or oddities,” Michael sighed, having heard the phrase more times than he could count in the past couple of hours.

Emil lowered his dwindling sheaf of papers to give Michael an arch look. “Milord Baumgart,” he asked. “Are you perhaps bored?”

Michael winced, shaking his head. “Sorry, no,” he said. “Just tired. I didn’t mean to be flippant, it just seems like-” He gestured to the hefty pile of papers they had gone through already. “Like we’re coming up with nothing, despite all this work.”

“Nothing?” Emil said, sounding vaguely offended. “Nothing is not a problem. Nothing is a result. If we determine that there were no irregularities with the convoys, then it allows us to focus our efforts elsewhere.” He leaned back in his chair, slowly working his neck from side to side; he winced as a muscle pulled a bit too tight. “There is often as much value in ruling out a possibility as there is confirming it.”

“And can we?” Michael asked. “Rule it out, I mean.”

“To the extent that our process is appropriately rigorous,” Emil confirmed, patting his stack of papers. “We put in the work now so we don’t have to do it later. Come on, not too many more to go.”

Michael nodded and carefully refrained from sighing as he scanned through the next sheet. “Two-zero-five,” he said. “Ammunition.”

“Four-four-two,” Michael said, feeling a bizarre mix of relief and hopelessness as he placed his final sheet on the table. “Fuel.” Another hour had passed since his objection, but now the table was piled high with neat stacks of paper - proof of their long labor that had produced what Emil insisted was a good result.

Michael looked disconsolately at the papers. “Antolin seemed so sure that it was one of the contractors that breached security,” he said.

“Antolin wants it to be a contractor,” Emil said. “Because if it isn’t, then he has to start looking at the other possibilities. Why do you think he told you to keep this quiet? What do you think would happen if he started questioning the loyalty of his men on the eve of our push forward to Imes?”

“Nothing good,” Michael muttered.

Emil snorted. “To put it mildly. It isn’t something he would do without the raven’s own proof to back it up - hence the rigor of our analysis.”

Michael let out a long-suppressed sigh and pushed back in his chair. “So how do you propose we tell him that it wasn’t the contractors?”

“We don’t,” Emil said. He raised his hand; in it, he held a single sheet of paper. “You’re out of records, but I’m not.”

A moment passed before Michael sat up with enough force to make his long-suffering chair creak, his eyes locking on the leftover sheet of paper. “What does it say?” he asked.

Emil raised a finger. “One moment,” he said. “Boss, we’ve got something for you.”

An eyeblink later, Sobriquet’s avatar was floating over the table. It was less-distinct than usual, its edges fuzzy and hard to discern. “Yes?” she said, weariness evident even through the distorted tones of her projected speech. “This had better be good, I’ve still got ten cells left to contact along the main transport arteries.”

“You tell us,” Emil said. “This might be our convoy. Michael hasn’t read it yet. Figured you’d want to watch while he did.”

“Yes, fine,” Sobriquet said, waving a blurred arm at the two men. “Get on with it.”

Emil handed the page to Michael, who turned it over and began to read. “Three-seven-four, bedding, linens and bandages. Left Estu late on Arborday.” He paused, looking up at Sobriquet; she had drifted close to him, fixing him with an unsettling intensity of focus.

“That shifted something,” she said. “Read the rest.”

Michael looked down at the neat, spare writing on the page, furrowing his brow. “There’s not much to it. Five trucks, plus two for an escort. Dispatched by the Third Supply Division, with civilian crew from the New Lands Transport Group-”

“That’s it,” Sobriquet said, cutting him short; her avatar drifted slightly, as if a breeze were blowing that only she could feel. “They did a good job covering their tracks, I’ll give them that. If they had tried to keep it secret, it would have been easier to see - a few people holding on to a burning truth.” She turned to face Michael, giving him a small nod.

“But they were smarter than that. Half-truths and equivocations are harder to spot than lies, they round all the sharp edges away. People know the truth of a matter but miss what it means, and so the secret is less dear, burns less vividly in my sight.” She rolled her neck, and the avatar shimmered. “But you’ve touched their spiderweb directly, and set it moving. This is it.”

She turned to Emil. “What can you tell me about that transport company?”

“It’s a big one,” he said, standing to shift through a stack of papers. “Probably a third of our total volume, judging by how frequently I see their name attached to shipments. They stand out because of that name, it’s apparently hard to translate well from Mendiko and we thought they were two different companies for a while-” He shook his head. “That’s neither here nor there. Unfortunately, they’re involved in so many places that it won’t narrow our search much - unless you’ve got a direction?”

This last was directed to Sobriquet; she nodded - then floated downward, seeming to lose some of her solidity. “I’ll - damn. Hold on, I’ll come to meet you.”

“Are you okay?” Michael asked.

Her outline fuzzed away, leaving only her voice echoing faintly in the cramped airship cabin. “Been projecting as far as I can reach all day,” she said. “Just need a break.”

Emil and Michael exchanged a glance.

“Handy,” Emil observed. “To know which of a hundred things is the secret you’re looking for.”

“She is one of the Eight,” Michael said, leaning back in his chair. “But ‘handy’ is probably a dangerous term to toss around where Sera is concerned.”

Emil laughed, shaking his head. “I’ll have to hope she’s too tired to be angry. This whole time we’ve been pushing papers around, she’s been shaking down resistance cells from the highlands to the coast, asking if they saw anything out of the ordinary.”

“I doubt they did, if the kidnappers were posing as a standard convoy.” Michael sat up straight, stretching his back with a wince. “Then again, who knows. I’ll never bet against her when it comes to finding what’s hidden.”

A groan of metal sounded as Sobriquet opened the bulkhead door, stepping inside. “Why, thank you,” she said. “Although in this case some help would be warranted. Whoever did this-” She broke off, frowning. “They took steps to hide what they did that go far beyond anything I’ve ever seen. I could scarcely do better.”

Emil sat up in his chair. “You think they were planning with you in mind.”

“It does begin to feel that way,” she agreed. “Which carries a whole raft of troubling implications.” Her eyes strayed to Michael and stuck there; the concern she felt was strident in his mind, clear and deep.

Michael shook his head. “You were saying before about a direction.”

“There should be a - confluence of interaction, for lack of a better word, tied to their arrival in camp. Information exchanged with the guards, people that saw their faces, little truths that link them with people here.” She pressed her lips together. “Except I can’t see any of that. They’ve taken steps to remove it.”

A shiver traced its way down Michael’s spine. “Okay,” he said. “Where does that leave us?”

“With a need to speak to some of the camp’s regular guards,” she replied. “We’ll have to figure out who would have been in a position to interact with them, then work from there.”

Michael nodded. “I think I know someone who can help.”

“Sorry, jauna,” Zabala said. “I can’t help.” He leaned against a nearby post, tapping his heel against the ground. “This sort of thing is a matter for military police, and I’m not one.”

“We don’t need you to investigate,” Michael protested. “We just need someone who is familiar with Mendiko procedure so that we can spot any oddities.”

Zabala raised an eyebrow. “So you want me to observe subjects of interest and draw conclusions based on my observations. My grasp of Gharic isn’t perfect, but I’m pretty sure that’s what investigation means.”

Michael sighed. “Fine,” he said. “I feel like my life may be placed in danger during this unspecified inquiry I’m performing, and I have need of your protection.”

A light tap on his chest made him look down just in time to see Zabala’s knife clatter to the ground, the thrown blade had made a pinprick hole in Michael’s shirt, but no more than that. He looked up, wide-eyed; Zabala shrugged.

“You seem like you’ll be all right,” he said, bending to collect his knife.

“You-” Michael brushed at the hole in his shirt, then shook his head. “Ghar’s ashes. At least come along so that Sobriquet and the others aren’t in danger.”

Zabala made a face. “You’re just going to keep coming up with reasons until I accept one of them, aren’t you?” he asked. “Fine, but I don’t want to learn anything that I’ll have to repeat back to an inquiry later.” He held up his hand before Michael could speak. “And don’t thank me. I won’t be doing anything that merits thanks.”

“I was going to say that you owed me a new shirt,” Michael said. “All my spares are back in Ardalt.”

Zabala snorted. “You can pick from any of mine,” he said, plucking at the epaulet of his uniform. “They all look the same.”

Michael chuckled and waved him towards where the others were standing. “Okay,” he said. “Emil, do you know which gate we should start with?”

“North,” he said. “They’re not sending much down the coast road.”

They set off, winding their way through the camp as it slowly began to stretch awake from its post-battle torpor; gear was being checked and rechecked, the sprawling medical tents coming down now that the war wounded were either healed or back at Estu.

A sense of apprehension hung in the air, acrid to Michael’s senses. Even if no announcement had been made, the men here knew they would be on the move before long. The sun was dipping low, shadows stretching out over the packed dirt where the blinding arc of lamps did not banish them.

The gate emerged sooner than he expected amid the bustle of soldiers, a simple checkpoint with a small cadre of soldiers attached. As they approached, Michael saw them inspecting the cargo of a canvas-topped truck while the driver smoked a pipe.

“Good evening,” Michael said, walking up to one of the few men not engaged in an inspection. He seemed relaxed, standing casually with his rifle propped against the fence, though his eyes gained a wary glint when Michael spoke. “Are you usually posted at this gate?”

“Good evening… jauna,” the man said, looking uncertainly at Michael, then at Zabala and the rest. “This is the usual night detail. Any reason you’re asking?”

Michael smiled. “We’re interested in a shipment that passed through here-” He looked back at Emil.

“Early yesterday morning or late Ravensday, most like,” Emil supplied.

The soldier frowned. “Jauna, we see hundreds of trucks pass through here, day and night.”

With an effort, Michael held his smile. “This one might have been a bit unusual,” he said. “Some of the men may have acted strangely, or tried to hide their faces. It would have been a truck from the New Lands Transport Group.”

“New Lands,” the soldier muttered. “Sorry, can’t say that’s familiar.”

“Ghar’s blood,” Emil muttered, rifling through his folder of papers. “He’ll know the Mendiko name, we translated that. One moment…”

“Lur berria would be the Mendiko for that,” Zabala said, his brow furrowing. “But I can’t say that I’ve heard of - ah.” He snapped his fingers. “You mean Lekubarri. The meaning is close, but it’s a surname, not a phrase. Lekubarri Bidalketa Taldea, they’re one of the bigger freight companies out of Goitxea.”

Michael frowned. Something in Zabala’s correction had tugged at his memory, but it wasn’t coming to him easily. Out of the corner of his sight Michael saw Sobriquet shift forward, her focus sharpening; he took it as a sign that they were on the right path.

“Thank you,” Michael said; Zabala winced. “How about it? Any shipments of note pass through here from Leku - what he said?”

“No, jauna,” the soldier said, offering a small smile. “Like he said, they’re a big company. Dozens of trucks every day, and none-” He coughed, wiping his mouth with a hand; Michael saw a quick tremor in his fingers. “None of note.”

Michael looked at the soldier, saying nothing. There was no fear or concern building in the man, at least no more than he felt from anyone on the street, but something in his manner had prickled the hair on the back of Michael’s neck.

“Among the men in the convoys, were any of them ensouled?” Michael asked.

The soldier laughed. “They don’t make ensouled drive cargo,” he said. “Maybe a few indartsuak to help unload.”

Michael felt his heart speeding, though he could not say why. There was something in the soldier’s face that deeply unnerved him. He watched as the man smiled at him - and tried, just for a moment, to stop.

It was past in an eyeblink. The world slowed as the details slotted together in Michael’s mind. It was Stefan’s smile, bright and beaming under lost eyes. He took a step forward.

“This may be an odd request,” Michael asked. “But do you mind if I see your hand?”

The soldier’s smile froze. “I don’t like being touched,” he said, the words smooth and toneless.

Michael’s mouth was a grim line; he extended his own hand and took another step. “Just for a moment,” he said.

“No, jauna,” the soldier said, stumbling backwards; his hands were shaking openly now, an animal fear building in his eyes. “I don’t - ez zait gustatzen-” With a quick, jerking motion, his hand shot down to grab his knife. It came back up, flashing silver towards the soldier’s own throat.

Zabala shouted and stepped forward; Michael was closer. He grabbed the knife by the blade, feeling the metal bend in his grip as he wrenched it from the soldier’s hand. The man gave a cry of pain and lunged towards his rifle. Zabala tackled him before he drew near to the fence, holding the screaming, struggling man easily down to the dirt.

“Zer arraio!” Zabala spat, frantically waving down the other gate guards, who had come rushing over at the noise. “You mind telling me what you’ve dragged me into?”

“Still not sure,” Michael said, letting the mangled remains of the knife drop from his fingers. He walked over to the struggling soldier, looking into his eyes. They were wide, wild and empty. “But at least one of the men in that convoy was a Shine.”