Edeard had never heard someone beg before. At least he thought he hadn’t. Least of all for something that wasn’t on their own behalf. When his eyes opened, he recognized the weight of his own bed sheets. His eyes glacially rolled in their sockets as he gathered his surroundings. Dark wood four poster bed. Oval mirror. Modest dresser. A single wide window made of several panes on hinges. This was his master bedroom.

To his side, Iana sat absolutely still, head cocked to the side. She snored, almost imperceptibly, as if even in sleep she abided by the adage ‘A servant should be seen, not heard.’

“Iana?” He said.

She sprang to life, uncrossing her legs, and clearing her throat.

“Sir? How are you? Are you—?”

“I’m fine. Thank you. For all this. Did I tell you to or…”

“You were mumbling ‘no hospital’ before you went limp. I had a physician sent for. Discreetly. A Doctor Deidre.”

“I’ll have to visit them later to make sure they are compensated for discretion.” He dragged himself to a sitting position. Iana left her seat to help, but he held up a hand.

“Were you…” Edeard said, thinking, “Did you also say something else during my delirium or—”

“I said nothing.”

“Really?” Edeard smirked. “So that was an angel pleading for my life.”

“What kind of angel would pray for you?” Iana snapped.

“There was praying involved too?”

“Shut up.”

Edeard laughed. It was an airy, wispy exhale. His strength had yet to return.

“I’m sorry for worrying you,” he said. “My work was important. There’re plans beneath our city. When I am stronger, I will take the evidence to someone I trust in the mayoral palace. Perhaps Lady Velvedere.”

“Sir. What do you see in that woman?”

“Well, when I first awoke I was in this city and with her face hovering over mine. She gave me everything. She taught me Nephila, paid for my training—”

“I get it.”

“—and she is quite beautiful.”

“I really do get it.” Iana cleared her throat again. “Unfortunately, Lady Velvedere is indisposed. While you slept, the Lord Mayor announced a plan to deal with the volcano at the Heldrazi Forest. She and a group of her chosen will freeze the mountain, if such a thing is possible.”

“Well it was about time. I’ve been hearing about that operation for weeks.” He sighed. “Weeks. Bureaucracy. Maybe that’s why this city is failing.”

“What do you mean, sir?”

“I’m being paid too much. Only a third of the Knight’s Guard is deployed at any time, even in this monstrous city. And elites like me who can cast and fight rarely get called in. You’re working for an idle lord, Iana. As a citizen you ought to be concerned. Perhaps even hate me.”

“I-I don’t dislike you, sir.”

“Right.” Edeard smiled. He groaned as he prepared to leave his bed sheets, tossing the corner aside. “I suppose I do compensate you very well.”

“That’s not why,” Iana said, far more forcefully than she intended. “I mean that uhm—I think you’re one of the good ones. As far as knights go.”

“Thank you for that.”

He showered and dressed in fresh clothes on autopilot. His mind was elsewhere, thinking. With Lady Velvedere busy, he could speak to the Knight Captain. Lord Jace was an honorable and cautious man; he ought to notice if there were clandestine forces with an ear against his walls. The Lord Mayor was too obvious. Should he wait? The enemy would be on high alert after his stunt. If he waltzed into the palace now it would be the most dangerous time, and he was still recovering from whatever toxin had ailed him. But with every passing day the enemy’s plans near fruition.

When he had finished pinning on his aiguillette, he had completed the arithmetic. Trading days of preparation by the Knight’s Guard for his returning health was not the play. He nodded to himself. He’d take the gun and sneak into Lord Jace’s office just as he was to leave for the night. The man often liked to stay late. All the better to facilitate Edeard’s passage under the cover of night.

“Iana? Some coffee please.”

Edeard opened the doors to his study. For the second time, he felt faint. The desk was empty.

“Iana!”

“Th-the water hasn’t boil—”

“Who tended to me?” He rushed to find the maid in the kitchen, grasping her by the shoulders.

“I-It was Doctor Deidre. A man from the adjacent district.”

“Were you with him the entire time he was treating me?!”

“Yes… no, wait, I didn’t show him the door after I paid him. I stayed with you.”

“Damn it!”

Edeard stormed off to get his rapier.

Iana called after him, “Did I do something wrong?”

“No. No you didn’t.”

Edeard rushed outside, his scabbard rapping against his hip in his haste. The door was left ajar in his wake.

--

Jorge set his axe upside-down against the wall of the room he had been given. It would have barely sufficed as spartan for the average sized soldier. For him it was like a broom cupboard. He didn’t want to spend any more time than necessary in those cramped quarters. As he wandered the headquarters, drawing attention wherever he went, he weighed his options. Perhaps he could just leave. He knew of nothing that could stop him. Except numbers. If he left he would be supremely suspicious, and he’d likely be painted as an enemy across this country. One of countless numbers no doubt.

The city made him think of home. Earth. The only difference being aesthetics. Great gothic spires both old and new. Pointed roofs and windows glazed with time, covered with thin layers of dirt and dust. The roads were paved but discolored. Even though the headquarters was embedded deeper in the city beyond those unnamed neighborhoods, he still received looks from passersby. Not of anger, but perhaps from disdain. Jorge took up a lot of space. His clothes were strange. He was unshaven.

Go downtown in any large enough city on Earth and busy people would give anyone like him sharp looks just for existing on the same pavement as them. Except Ralagast seemed a lot less busy than it had room to sustain. Something was wrong. He knew instinctively. He glanced over his shoulder at a rooftop behind him. A brief smile crept up on his face. The runners were quicker this time; he didn’t see them duck. But their presence was not well hidden. Yavi wasn’t going to let him out of their sight.

Jorge thought to give them a challenge. Just for fun. There were places in this relatively quiet city where he heard noise, life. Little cultural islands anyone would find metastasizing in every large enough town. He turned a street and headed into one of them. The austere gothic grey and bronze was exchanged for reds, golds, and violets. The streets here were smaller, but far more densely packed. And as expected, the faces were different. There were almost no purple eyes in sight that Jorge could see among the flurry of citizens.

Languages were thrown his way. Not Nephila, although he heard phrases and loan words here and there. Indistinguishable noise to him, but he did notice tone. Welcoming tones, pleading, angry, uncaring. People wanting him to buy things. People angry that he was taking up so much space on an already budgeted street. People begging for coppers.

“Really is like Chinatown in here,” he muttered to himself.

The roofs were occupied with clothes hung out to dry. Children played unattended up there as well. He wondered in amusement how the runners were going to follow him in here.

These sorts of places were always so dirty. The curbs were as likely a home for a rat as it was for a person in ragged clothes, or a stall where unimaginable roasts hung dripping fats and grease. They smelled and were guaranteed to be as delicious as they were likely to give the uninitiated an upset stomach. For all the rigid social engineering that seemed to be Faleria’s theme, they seemed to have no issue letting these places accrete.

“Come, child, come.”

Jorge turned his neck. Tucked deep in the shadow of an alley, an old man in silken robes beckoned him with accented Nephila. Jorge entered the elder’s domain and sat down.

“I haven’t money to pay for a palm reading, old timer,” Jorge said.

“Palms? Bah, those lines are never accurate.” The old man smiled. “And my payment will come. I see you by your absences, young man.”

“Okay, I’m going to leave now.”

“Troubled childhood.”

Jorge stopped and sat back down.

“This is a common trick isn’t it?” He said. “You say basic things all of us share to some degree?”

“Ah, experience with charlatans? Something specific then. The angelkin.”

“What?”

“You’ve seen it.”

“I’ve seen no angel since I came here.”

“Three heads. One mind. Inscrutable goal.”

“…Go on.”

“People don’t usually see it. The balance forbids it. That’s why power is so hard to come by.”

“Because everyone has a place in the fold,” Jorge scoffed. He glanced behind at the busy streets. “A beggar to his curb and a lord to his linen table.”

“No beggar is welded to his curb, neither is a lord chained to his gold, young man. The balance is hinged.” The old man raised a finger. “Someone like you is here.”

“What!?”

“My price—”

“Wait, what do you mean ‘like me’!?”

“—is that you steer the storm away from this place.”

“That’s not enough to go on, old man!”

“We are not this frustrating because it is entertaining to us, child. If I tell you too much, the future changes. And my sight isn’t what it used to be.” The old man sighed. “Well. It is lunch time. The fowl ought to be done roasting by now.”

And then he retreated further into the alley, into that sliver in the shadow that seemed impossibly dark. Jorge jumped to his feet, knocking the chair backwards, and rushed forward, but he found nothing but a brick wall. It was within arm’s reach. There was no stall. There may never had been.

“I hate this planet.” Jorge stormed out of the alleyway, hoping no one caught sight of a crazy man talking to a wall.