A knock came at the door; Ilya set down his stylograph and reached for a cigarette.

“Come in,” he called reluctantly.

Several days out, and everything was still a mess—dead royals produced a surprising amount of paperwork. Too many losses, lowborns screaming, morale down—oh, and an apprentice found fainted in the dungeons with the traitor-whore gone. His table was awash with papers and it was only an hour past dawn. Now was not a good time to be a Magician.

His apprentice stepped through, with a companion behind him: a young woman in a lower scribe’s uniform, hair tied back and a determined set to her face. Ilya racked his brain for a connection—the cousin? Ah. This was going to be irritating, wasn’t it.

“Master Cardainne,” Karim said with a bow. “My esteemed cousin wished for an audience with you.”

What secrets did she hold over him, Ilya wondered, that she could string him around like a puppet? It was not his business what trouble his apprentices stuck themselves into, but perhaps he would have to put a stop to it if the overuse of such leverage became…annoying. He recalled a similar situation, some years prior—some trouble with the Library.

“Do be quick,” he said, and lit his cigarette in vague hope of shortening their visit.

Karim took a wise and discreet step backwards. The cousin strode closer, her heels clicking across his floorboards. Ilya eyed her shoes with distaste; not two weeks ago, he’d paid for polishing. If she left so much as a scratch, he would see that Karim be the one to fix it.

“Magician Cardainne,” she said, with a practiced cool that made his eye want to twitch. “I wish to inquire after certain matters.”

“Yes,” he said, taking a much-needed drag. “I can see that.”

“Of those missing following the faery attack,” she started.

He shook his head. “I cannot help you there.”

She took a deep breath, set her shoulders back. “Aliyah Scionsong,” she said instead. “You remember her? Do you have any idea where she went?”

He tried to concentrate on the pleasure of his smoke over the annoyance of being questioned, and by an impudent court climber no less. Alas, it was a futile effort.

“There are too many Scionsongs for me to know them all. Have you perhaps mistaken me for the census-man?”

“Two years ago, I asked you to—”

“I recall nothing of the kind.”

Her mouth tightened into a hard line. “But you know the apprenticelings, don’t you? Apprenticelings of all kinds. It is your duty to keep watch over incongruities in the kingdom, is it not?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Very much like a scribe, to think all Magicians do the same thing.”

“Okay. Perhaps you don’t know. But you can find out.” She did not say it like a question.

He schooled his expression into one of neutrality—it would be very rude to reach for the mask and put it on. “Now, miss—why would I do that?”

She pulled a pouch from her pocket and set it, very smoothly, onto his desk. It did not make a sound, never mind one so improper as a clink.

“Your colleagues are investigating the matter of the missing spymaster,” she said, her eyes boring into his own. “That’s most salient to the kingdom’s interests, I’m aware. But others speak of muddied waters regarding the whereabouts of a Healer Saar-Salai. I have…discovered…that his apprenticeling is gone.”

Fishing for favours, was she? If Karim was anything to go by, it seemed she already had quite the collection. Ilya had no intention of having his own hand cut off in reaching for anything. “I cannot promise you that my colleagues would care overmuch for this information—”

“No,” she said. “Understand me well: I do not come here to aid you and yours. This individual is important to me.”

Ilya leaned back in his seat. Ah, so that was how it was. The apprentice in the dungeon had been dazed, but not overly injured. He had recounted the situation quite sufficiently.

“The Scionsong whom you refer to is, regrettably, not in our charge,” he said. He sensed an argument ready on her tongue, caution borne of treading the fringes of court. “She never was, understand? And if this were not the case, please know that your bullying of my apprentice would do you no good. I think we are finished here.”

The cousin’s shoulders slumped fractionally in obvious relief. Ilya supposed he would be happy as well, in her stead.

“Thank you,” she said, and had the good grace to make her way out, click-clicking back across his freshly-polished floor.

Karim, fool boy, opened the door for her. Ilya turned back to the forms before him and sighed. He had an inkling that it was going to be a long day.

+++

Silence washed over the foyer as Faizan emerged—silence, that is, except for the yammering of one woman. She was a courtly one, dressed in the fashions of her own continent—Faizan suspected coin was the only reason their kind got away with parading around in so much red and gold both. Like any true court nuisance, she was busy demanding the attention of a dozen of his staff, and then some.

Bad enough the disrespect—worse yet that she was pretending she did not know. Taif had assured him that the Sungrazer nobles had been made well aware of their standing in court. The problem with these types of heavy-pocketed outsiders was that it never did stick.

The woman turned her head at his footsteps, her earrings jangling with the movement. The anxious-looking scribe she had been speaking to took several quick steps in retreat.

“Ah, you must be the overseer, I imagine—Giltyrzar, was it? Well, I am glad you are here to fix the misunderstanding, very sure we can work something out—”

His staff eyed her with open hostility; Faizan hid his own frown. “I oversee the Higher Library, yes. Pardon, miss. I must ask you to leave.”

The woman had the gall to flutter her eyelashes at him. “Oh please, call me Shirin. I have the missive right here, see?” She held it up in one long-fingered, lacquer-nailed hand.

Ah, the so-called missive—the only reason she had not been soundly kicked out the door. Taif had seemed very apologetically certain that it was legitimate. Faizan took the proffered scrap of parchment and could not help the beginnings of a reflexive scowl when he saw the stamp and signature there, emblazoned with blue ink.

It was from a Magician, of course. Cardainne—of course.

“I will have to verify this with the provisioner,” he said.

“Why, certainly.”

The Sungrazer woman beamed, as if that would do her any good. If the missive was legitimate, he could always re-route her this way and that. He would not have secret-hungry foreigners poking their noses into his Library.

“You must leave in the meantime,” he said. “Nadira here will escort you.”

The woman—Shirin, he noted, in case she became a larger problem—batted her eyelashes some more. Nadira hastened to lead her away.

Faizan straightened up and cast his gaze over his staff, noting the speed at which they resumed their work as he did so. New foyer scribes, these—hm. Gawking couldn’t be helped, but he would need to delegate someone to keep a closer eye on them while Taif was off on errands. It simply wouldn’t do, otherwise.

Faizan crumpled the missive in his hand and swept outside. It was good an opportunity as any to check if Cardainne’s head was yet still firmly attached to his body.

As he strode through the halls and passages that governed the solid-state armature of the castle, he could not help but feel a faint sense of unease. There were noticeably fewer lowborns about; a dearth of servants murmuring amongst themselves. What whispers there were—a pair of maids scrubbing at the windows, a group of twilight kiters on their way out—sounded dangerously solemn. He hoped the Magicians knew what they were doing. The last thing the kingdom needed was a couple hundred disgruntled bastards making nuisances of themselves.

He entered a set of double doors in the Magician’s wing, the seventh one along. He didn’t bother knocking—the entrance runes did that for him, emitting a sound like birds taking flight.

“How can I help—oh, it’s you,” said Cardainne.

The office was drenched in enough blue to make his eyes hurt. Cardainne sat at his ludicrously large desk, a drink in hand. Faizan was almost disgruntled at how neat it appeared—even the papers, many as they were, had been stacked into orderly piles. His own office was a wreck in comparison, made worse by the many scribes huddled within its depths throughout the faery attack. And of course, the demands of the Magicians following said attack meant he’d hardly had the time to clean up.

Faizan cast his gaze away from Cardainne and out to his floor-to-ceiling windows instead. He strolled over to better appreciate the shining ribbon of river in the distance.

“Disappointing weather we’re having lately,” he observed.

Cardainne snorted. From across the room, the scritch of stylograph over paper resumed.

“Take it up with the ‘mancers. What do you want this time?”

Faizan heard him taking a noisy gulp from his drink—coffee, most likely.

“Am I correct,” Faizan said carefully, “in assuming you are having trysts with some foreign woman?”

Cardainne choked and spluttered; there came the sound of droplets hitting the table. It was very gratifying. Faizan resisted the urge to turn around and stare; further gloating would be improper.

“What the hells are you on about?”

Faizan held up the missive. “It is the natural conclusion, is it not? I did not think you would be stupid enough to issue this of your own free volition. Clearly, this woman has sucked your brains out through your—”

“Faizan,” Cardainne said in a warning tone.

“—ears,” Faizan finished.

“You have misunderstood the situation,” Cardainne said, sounding heavily unimpressed.

“Is that so?” Faizan asked. “Then please, explain.”

“Come over and say what you want to say to my face,” Cardainne said. “Perhaps you make a little habit of this in the Library, but you are in my office now.” The sound of the stylograph continued, unbroken.

Faizan considered pushing his point—Magicians were generally ranked higher than Librarians, it was true. Yet Faizan had been a Chief Librarian for five years now, and Cardainne was only middling second-rank, or thereabouts. He considered it very briefly, savouring the idea. But he was here for answers, and an uncooperative Cardainne was ram-headed as anything if he put his mind to it. He sighed, strode over, and pulled himself a chair.

“Shirin, she calls herself,” he prompted.

“Yes,” Cardainne said, half-focused on writing. “I recall.”

“Would you pull your head from your inks for a span of some minutes?” he asked.

“I am near finished with this batch.”

Faizan frowned and read the letters upside-down—ah, a requisitions sheet. He bore Cardainne no envy as he watched him sign off with a sour flourish.

“So,” Faizan said as Cardainne moved the finished paper off to the side. “On what grounds did you write this?”

“Mm. It is a matter of court, you see.”

Cardainne fished around his robes and lit up one of his loathsome smokes. Faizan wondered if the walls had once been white before this particular Magician had moved in.

“Elaborate,” he prompted as Cardainne exhaled. He cast a discreet working, one that fanned the smoke away from his person—he had become more practiced at it than he would have liked.

“The Sungrazer clan. She is one of them.”

Faizan raised a brow. “Surely they are not so wealthy as to buy out the integrity of the kingdom?”

“Have you quite read the missive?” Cardainne asked. “I thought you Librarians were supposed to be good at that—reading.”

“The missive which states that some Sungrazer is allowed to trample over my Library?”

“Restricted access,” Cardainne said. “Shallow levels. A chaperone. I thought you could be reasonable. I now discover that I was wrong.”

Faizan scowled. “What, you assumed you could sneak it by Janan?”

Cardainne gave a so-so sort of shrug, not even trying to feign innocence. “Chief Librarian Sheratan is more reasonable than you.”

Faizan held up the missive. “I could burn this,” he said. “Much like your kin should burn these thinly-veiled Sungrazer invaders at the stake.”

Cardainne inhaled more smoke and tilted his chin thoughtfully. “We behead them nowadays. More merciful, that way.”

Faizan, who had been a Scionsong before he had become a Giltyrzar, had seen evidence that suggested otherwise. He refrained from commenting on the pitiful strength of their blades, the amount of sawing required.

“It’s better nowadays,” Cardainne added, as if reading from his thoughts. “Do not blame my elders for whatever twisted, mismanaged things you were obliged to see in your long-crusted youth.”

Faizan set the missive on fire.

Cardainne’s pale bastard-eyes watched on as the paper turned to ashes in his palm.

“Well,” Cardainne said, finally lifting his smoke from his lips. “That was unnecessary. Now I will have to write another.”

“It is kind of you to provide me with kindling,” Faizan said.

“Hm. Perhaps I will speak directly to Sheratan.”

“Perhaps you will explain yourself.”

Cardainne sighed heavily and stubbed out his cigarette. “Having seen the might of our kingdom throughout that accursed attack, the Sungrazers are suitably cowed yet intrigued. Or so I have been told.”

No, Faizan thought. Opportunists weren’t like that—and the Sungrazer clan was nothing if not opportunistic, that they would come all this way. He would bet his teeth that they were not cowed—merely having had a chance to evaluate the kingdom’s weaknesses.

Aloud, he said, “intrigue is not a good thing. I would have expected your colleagues to have resolved the issue sooner.”

“Just so. Unfortunately, we the Magicians are currently otherwise occupied.” He cast a meaningful glance over his desk.

Faizan frowned. “Do not speak to me in excuses.” The Magicians could bend the ear of a Healer just as easily as they could write a missive. A sudden onset of fever, a burst blood vessel—it was far more elegant than droplets into a drink.

“Faizan,” Cardainne said rather abruptly. “She is not going anywhere. Everything will be taken care of.”

“And this involves my Library, how?”

He let a warning growl creep into the words, unpeeled the masking of his magic a fraction. It was a cheap tactic, he knew, but it worked. Cardainne leaned back fractionally and drummed his fingers atop his desk, as if deliberating.

“Need I begin with saying the sanctity of this information is dear to my heart?”

Faizan inclined his head in agreement.

“I agree it has gotten out of hand,” Cardainne said. “The Sungrazers have fed the kingdom, but they have pushed at our terms for years now. We should not have let them stray so deep. Now we know they are very many, and it is…not ideal. The fears of whispers drifting—it is not easy a duty, to guard the kingdom well.” He paused. “I can see you thinking that we are fools.”

“Do continue.”

“The whispers will fare well enough. I have spoken to several of their kind, and they are…well, it is as I said—they are many. A large clan, many allies, though none so deep as to entrust with true news of the kingdom. The safeguards are internal, merely off-continent…” Cardainne trailed off meaningfully.

“You cannot venture to Cathay,” Faizan said.

“We do not need to,” Cardainne said. “They are coming here. Their patrician, this very month.”

“Again, I fail to see how this involves my Library.”

“Such plans are always conditional. The woman, Shirin, she is not so important. The Sungrazers have no educated spies—it is not their way. Their way is the little cheeping bird in the mineshaft. They pay her well. Her family, too.”

“You are certain that this plan of yours will work?”

“I?” Cardainne said. “It has nothing to do with I. We the Magicians act as one. You would do well to remember that, Faizan.”

Faizan shook his head. “They would leave other safeguards, I am sure.”

“No important ones. Not if they are bursting with their overconfidence.”

“You seem confident yourself.”

“How many Sungrazers are in the kingdom, at this very instant?” Cardainne asked.

Faizan hesitated. “That is your job to know, and not mine.”

“Very well. Here is something else to think of: how many Sungrazers would it take to overcome the kingdom?”

“You speak in jest, surely.”

“Surely,” Cardainne agreed. “For there are not so very many now. None of them are overskilled, either. But soon—let us say there has been some correspondence, intercepted. Let us say that recent events have been connected. The king is dead, the queen insensate. Two princes slaughtered—how was it that the murderers knew which royal doors to batter down, one must ask. Do you understand?”

“Ilya, this is doubtful. An opportunistic assassination—I trust your colleagues are following it through, though I fail to see how these aspiring Sungrazers have orchestrated a faery attack. In any case, it failed.”

“Yes,” Cardainne said. “It failed owing to our use of the rituals. Are you the Magician here, or I?” He paused and lowered his voice further. “Correspondence unearthed reveals truth.”

Faizan frowned. “You are so certain of your faith in this correspondence?”

“Seventhborn Alhena was,” Cardainne said.

Ah.

Faizan had not attended an execution in years, his rank excepting him. For the most part, he forgot of their existence—but of this one, he had been made well aware. His staff had spoken of it at length—Janan, especially, had expressed sorrow.

“Alas,” Cardainne continued. “The Seventhborn, may she rest in peace, came to the wrong conclusions. We the Magicians have since acquired more pieces, unstitched the true nature of the problem. Hand after hand, you see? In a coup, the emperor cannot hide in Cathay. The emperor must be here. The generals, too.”

“But of the faeries?” Faizan asked. “What of this Sungrazer usurper now that they have failed? Your ranks are not overly weakened, I would hope.” He narrowed his eyes, very deliberately. “Excepting the overeager apprentices who fell by way of daemon.”

The opportunism of foreign nobles was known. The merchants who had taken advantage of the chaos to try ransacking his Library had been well-dispatched, but next time they might not be so lucky. The waylaid apprentices had been an acceptable loss, but it was a sobering reminder all the same—one that Cardainne needed if he was considering inviting an enemy into the fold, even for reasons such as this.

For the first time, Cardainne looked faintly perturbed. “Those particular double-dealing foreigners are not under my jurisdiction. Regardless,” he hesitated. “The faeries have not failed yet. We believe there are more in wait.”

Faizan frowned. “I heard the skies were blackened.”

“Those creatures are not human. They are a plague—made to be used, I am sure.”

“You speak of a borrowed army. This is most unreliable conjecture.”

“Borrowed, bought.” Cardainne shrugged and took a slip of paper from one of his many stacks. “Enough for it to have been shown that they obey the will of the Sungrazers. We were forced to reveal a portion of our rites, and the movements of the patrician do not lie.”

Cardainne began to write; blue ink feathered out the tip of his imperfectly-held stylograph. Faizan stared down the words which spiraled out, and kept staring as they were stamped and signed for.

“Here.” Cardainne slid the missive across to him. It weighed heavier in his hand than it ought to.

“I hope you Magicians are right,” Faizan said.

“Relax,” Cardainne said. “Your precious Library is in no danger. I had Octans jostle into her, earlier.”

Faizan blinked.

Healer Octans was first of the first-ranks, good at slow-onset illnesses—very good, and very, very slow; a bud planted into the heart, filaments spreading like roots and biding their time. Faizan had read the literature on equilibrium; Shirin was a dead woman walking.

“As I said.” Cardainne’s lips twitched into the faintest of smiles. “All taken care of.”