[40th Year of Foresai, Upper Fire Month, Day 18]

To review. Two dozen waystations along the highway east of here, none more than a league orthogonal to the road. Extrapolating similar densities in other directions, double to and fro Re-Blumrusher, we have in essence a system of umber caravansaries about sixty percent as extensive as the actual above-board trade institutions. Assuming, even then, that the Eight Fingers smugglers and so forth use the above-board lodges at significant rates - let's say half - it still amounts to… a staggering total. Hundreds of weights per day. Though being only one-in-two hundred of our population, one-in-fifty of our economic output flows through them. The grip of vice is that strong?

Renner lightly tapped out the total on the table, chewing without pause. She had stayed awake through the night, seeing off the Blue Roses at sunset and spending the wax and wane of the night pouring over reports and drawing connections between them.

Actually, that’s calculable too. Population of nine and a score ten-thousand. Production of the refined substance… lets see. A dozen-dozen estimated manufacture sites at raw yield ratios of eleven-to-one Laira to Black Dust - ten-to-one with alchemical additives or five-to-one with adulterants - processing two-thirds of the year at average speeds of a quarter amounts to Eryuentiu Ton per day, leads to… about four aurim per year per capita. No wonder they could afford the Black Night. What an awesome market they have. Ah, I ought to burn that entire division to the ground before this Kingdom smokes itself into the grave. No, that would only release more fumes of mind-robbing make.

These estimates were nearly solid. She now felt she had a complete picture of the scope of Eight Fingers, giving her a predictive power she hadn’t had before. She felt ready to work backward, and even from the sparse data points the Blue Roses provided, she was able to place enemy bases on a map blind.

It's becoming increasingly clear they possess highly centralized distribution centers. Evidence is almost overwhelming. They do batch production of most of their product, precursors such as lime, solvent substances, and any number of cinnabars, brimstones, and soaps. There isn't the capacity to furnish that at once, it's bought over the course of the full year and held in reserve for the processing season in late fall through early winter. I suppose I finally have an explanation for oddly large salt purchases on the Gambling ledger, then the immediate flipping to Narcotics merchants. In any case, the quantities they go through necessitate stockpiles, large ones. The question is where.

Renner stayed her fork, thinking of the practical effort needed to seek and destroy such locations.

There are scores upon scores upon scores of lands to search, an area equivalent to almost a square spindle. Worse, by the nature of the substances, salts especially, they must be stored in cool, underground places. I speak of caves or perhaps abandoned mines, the sort of places completely hidden from the sort of aerial reconnaissance our-friend-in-red is wont to do. Interrogation is unlikely to reveal such places; answers can only be soothed from the data. I have weeks of work ahead of me. At least it won’t force idle time onto Lakyus and her companions, they’re going to be busy enough as is. Obligation with this council, now that it seems so likely to degenerate into further argument and cacophony, will cut into that. I’ll need to find an out.

These calculations had taken most of her time through the night, though it provided her with a few opportunities she wouldn’t have otherwise had. She, being awake late - or rather, early - enough, was able to lodge a request for a specific breakfast with one of the provisional chefs. The woman, an upstart butcher's daughter, had proven herself to Renner when she successfully cooked a steak-stuffed puff pastry as - in her words - a “parody of pie”. Thus, Renner was currently digging through one of her creations, though this was filled with cream rather than the charnel of an animal.

Maybe I can finally replace Rennac with her. Send that charlatan back to the slime from which he emerged - and with every dish he adds too. Head Chef Anise has a ring to it, no?

She lifted her cup and drank. This was coffee, and though it was out-of-step for her, she had already found a love for the stuff.

This has the sort of flavor that requires drowning in milk, but its utility! Liquid vigor, I’ve never felt so awake in my life. I wonder what stamina tonics must feel like. I should purchase some. Ah, on the subject of concoctions.

Pulling in a sip, she swiftly cut a portion of her pastry with her fork. Its filling bulged and dripped onto the plate, and with a deft scrape, she scooped up the lot and slipped it into her mouth a moment after. The bitterness of the coffee, smoothness of the cream, and sweetness of the bean paste filling mixed into a veritably decadent profile. Renner let a dull smile spread across her face as she chewed and swallowed.

Oh, this is wonderful.

“Darling.”

“Yes, father?”

She and her father were in their breakfast refectory, sunlight pouring in as it always had. Ramposa’s lips were quivering, his breakfast untouched.

“How- How are you doing?”

Present a shattered face. Draw out sympathy. I don’t know if I’ll use it to any ends now, but perhaps another time.

“Mmm. Well enough, I suppose.”

“Are you sure?”

“Um. I- I think.”

Renner hung for a moment, before closing her eyes and shaking her head.

“Yeah, I think so, father. I just um… yeah.”

“Would you want something more substantial? There are some new hens-”

“I um… I’m not particularly… I don’t know if I want any meat right now.”

“Ah… of course. I apologize.”

“No matter, father. Vanquish the thought.”

“Darling. I…”

Hm, I ought to take Vena up on her offer to hit the districts. That seems like a nice pastime. She mentioned a new hat shop; that would be feyish mirth - see what tacky things we can find. Anything else of note? She mentioned wanting to get makeup as restitution for that kohl. Strange apology, but no matter.

“I- I want to apologize for-”

Now that I think about it, I’m nearly out of bronzer, and that horrid imitation the maids fetched for me. Gods above, I don’t know how people trust those women for anything. The whole lot are lame of sight and mind. Well, I might as well find some new outfits. It's nice that I won’t need a replacement tailored. That prayer of hers saved me money as much as it inspired discomfort in me.

“For… for what…”

I still can’t sooth a truth of my reaction the day before. Why? Ah, too many questions. The Godhead realized or not, I should confront this directly, give myself a proper education in scripture rather than what the passing flits of mine have yielded. A short jaunt to a chapel ought to be lucrative.

“For what… happened.”

Ramposa wasn’t able to get anything out anything further, eyes filled with fear and shame. After a moment, he burrowed his face in his hands. They hadn’t had a proper conversation since the morning of the sixteenth, the crippling weight of guilt crushing his words underfoot.

I should probably say something conciliatory.

“It’s alright, father.”

“It’s not. It’s not. I’ve shortchanged you in every respect. You deserve so much better than what I’ve given you.”

“Father-”

“Stop. You shouldn’t need to be brave right now. I’ve failed you. Under my watch, the Royal Guard somehow found cause to leave the post outside your room empty.”

Not simply a shattered face; rather, that of a simpering fool.

“That can’t be considered your fault. You were busy with your obligations with the Margrave, after I rendered myself incapable of performing my duties. I was the one who… who proved herself a drunkard and a useless entertainer.”

“That’s not true. You played your part that night as well as you could have been expected too.”

“As I could’ve; doesn’t say much, though. Only served to drag things. When it came to ease the pain of Barbro, couldn’t even do that right. Didn’t… didn’t have answers to his questions. Dull too - can’t scry the character of my mistake, only its impact. I continually ruin things, don’t I?”

Jircniv is to declare later today that we are not going to war. No point on spilling blood and coin for an opponent that’s content to gore itself. There will be shock, outrage, and no one will know what to do. Accusations of conspiracy, rumors of plots from any number of sources. It’ll be a riot, I’ll need to find an excuse to miss it.

“Don’t think that, you’re the light of my life. I’ll make sure that he… that Climb, receives accolades for this. Perhaps. Who- who saved your life.”

Hm, something to punctuate this. Ah, my opportunity.

Renner gagged, then wretched, bringing her hand to her face a moment later. The motion tipped over her cup, spilling its black contents over the tablecloth. She wretched again, doing her best to stem the tide which threatened to come up from her stomach.

That ought to be enough to dodge afternoon duty. This leaves me roombound, a breach I can fill off the top of my endless pile of tasks. To read over the fruit of Fenthrop’s confessions. That man has been quite a boon.

“Darling!”

“I’m sorry. It’s fine. I’m okay. It’s fine.”

“Please! I-”

She looked down at the spill she had made, some of it having made it onto her dress.

That Eight Fingers has a system of couriers is not itself surprising; but the speed and efficiency of their operation! It must be more reliable than the above board methods of communication. I have no doubt that if I were to race a letter through both systems, that polydactyl fist would clench victory. There’s a wonderful irony in that.

“Gods, Chardelon you’ve made such a mess of yourself. Second one I’ve ruined in just as much time-”

She wretched again.

Ah, perhaps I attempt to get one of their men to fill the courier position with. Oh Chardelon, that’s a wonderful idea, no? A direct vector to Keveleos and whoever his confidants are. The turn-around would be instant, the sort of action I could inspire from them just with an errant word or two. A wonderful idea, but completely impractical. You can’t unshatter a cup, and to rebuild it is to alter it irrevocably.

“Are you alright?!”

“I’m fine father. I just- I struggle to- to bear things... sometimes.”

“Darling, please!”

“I’m sorry, father. Let- give me a moment to… uh, clean up. I’m sorry.”

We “destroy them” as Lakyus is so wont to want, that chain falls into their hands, it would take such a sequence of absurd lucky breaks for me to avoid persecution. I wouldn’t be able to convince them I wasn’t aware, and playing it as if I was aware plausibly draws absurdly dangerous suspicion. That skirmish with her yesterday wasn’t easy - though I think our relationship is stronger for it. Shame.

“I’m not angry! Please.”

“I know, I know. I just- I inconvenience you. So often. My brothers too. I- I don’t…”

“Darling you aren’t-”

“I still haven’t gotten married… A burden on the house.”

“Renner!”

She stopped speaking, letting silence reign for a moment.

I’m completely disjoint from the rest of the family. In many respects, I seem to have shaken out on top of this night. An interesting spiral of events. I ought to make a closing move. Lakyus convincing father and company that the Black Night was Eight Finger’s doing - which verily it was - will help in this regard. With that, it will be far easier to convince Zanac of the weight of my words. Far easier to convince Raeven. Luck of the greed kings.

“Sorry. What is it father?”

“Don’t think like that.”

“I apologize. I’ve been thinking. I’ll- I’ll secure a marriage soon, father. I promise.”

“Renner-”

“I promise father. I’ll fulfill my obligations. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I’ve failed you again and again. I’ll be… I’ll do what is required of me. I promise.”

Ramposa again was left without words. After a moment, he sighed, and began to pick at his breakfast. Renner braced herself, then reached over and rang a handbell. Ringing it, she bid in a maid. El’ya stepped in a moment later.

Onto the subject of Lakyus’s reward. Standard weight after standard weight of platinum - rather, gold - ought to do. It’s not like we possess anything else to give, no weapons or armor of note. Some token figure, ten or so ought to do. What does this mean financially? They’ll recoup the cost of the teleport. I’d suggest land, but they already seem content to live in the company of stow-workers and stores.

“Please forgive me, I’ve spilled my morning drink. Not to burden you with more tasks at daybreak, but could you perhaps fetch a cloth to dab this with.”

“Of course, Your Highness.”

“Return with some stomach soothing tonic as well.”

“Yes, Sire.”

She bowed, and left. The two were alone again, though the silence was not complete. The steady hum of insects, singing praises to the heat of the coming solar zenith broke the quiet, a peaceful - if annoying - reminder of the world’s life.

“Mm, father, a practical point.”

“Yes?”

“I had some time last night, I worked out a planting pattern for my portion of the crown lands.”

“Have you now?”

“Yes. I was thinking root vegetables and the like. Run them in a… oh, what would be the term? Shifting the fields used, or perhaps rotation, akin to the way we shift round the guards to keep them fresh.”

“Oh? The purpose of such?”

“Soil health. Different kinds and clades tend to rob the earth of different things when they grow. Others tend to regenerate the earth with their own fruit. By substituting them in a field year after year, the vitality and yields can be increased. The fullest investigation of such will take years, so, I figure I ought to start now.”

“And where did you get this idea from?”

The crop yields from last year. After swapping that brassica for beetroot, we pulled bulbs almost double in size from the earth. Earlier records seemed to suggest similar things, detriments when corns were planted in the same spots over the course of decades. It checks, too; that as the soil bends the plant, so does the plant bend the soil.

“A conversation I overheard at the last banquet.”

His face upturned into a slight smile.

“Only the Gods know what I’ve done to earn such dauntless children.”

“And we such an indomitable father.”

Lo, a rough list of to-do’s: Hit the districts, get something tailored for late summer, new dress and hat; an alchemist for a replenishment of potions, a few novel ones as well; travel to the mages guild, sign up Climb - oh, and some message scrolls; mark the location of those stows - perhaps plant information in the Eight Fingers network and see where it pops out, though that’s something I’ll have the Blue Roses do; ah, and as always, see what groundwork I can’t lay with Zanac and Raeven. All things well to be, no?

—

[40th Year of Foresai, Upper Fire Month, Day 18]

Gods, this is going to be bad.

Raeven flicked his eyes back and forth between those present, the meeting space for diplomatic receptions nearly full. Almost every high-blood invited was in attendance, almost as good as the opening of the general council. It had come at an inconvenient time as is, cutting into that valuable early part of the summer for commodity trading. This was less for profit, more to brace his demesne against the manpower shortage during the expected annual war with Baharuth; now that said war seemed right on the horizon, he could feel the steady drain on his coffers that holding such assets meant, unable to vanquish the painful sense of useless expenditure. Worse, proceedings had suddenly extended; a night that had descended into violence, a second spent reeling, and now a third that seemed fit to spiral into further confrontation. He had intended this to be a short jaunt to the capital, to and fro in a week; now that seemed impossible.

First the attack on Gazef’s life, then that on the royal family, the marshalls, and then Gazef again. This, on the surface, looks like an attempt entirely designed to shatter our warmaking capability. It only makes sense as a prelude to an all-out invasion, the sort of war we’ve dodged for almost a decade now. It's unimaginable. The assault on Renner makes less sense, kidnapping plot perhaps? Oh that would be devious, feels like something out of a bad myth. “Slay the dragon, get the girl” - ironic that it’s against her of all princesses.

The room was filled with dozens of tables, all arranged around a square arrangement in the center. The staff of Baharuth’s embassy in Re-Estize took one of its four sides, Head Ambassador Lucius Mercat, along with Ambassadors Agricola and Silva, and several other minor members of their staff. Mercat seemed to brace himself, before pushing off from his seat. Alongside him was a woman Raeven was completely unfamiliar with, she too rose with a scroll in hand. She was older, but bore a peculiar beauty that had remained undamped with age.

Strange, I don’t think she’s a member of the diplomatic mission. I have no clue what her inclusion is supposed to mean. Is this actually meant to be a declaration of war? Gods, if only I could have been in the room on the twelfth! His Majesty clearly saw this as a faction matter, but I’m unsure why. Noble faction collaboration with the Empire is not unheard of, but to my knowledge, the only great traitor in that boy’s service is Blumrush. I need to seek an ear among the marshalls.

The pair looked around, and seeing that the room was at attention, started. She unfurled the scroll carefully, torquing its filigreed rods to read off the text.

“Edictum de Majestatis Imperatoris, Exactoris Progressor Politia, Renovator Servitii Civilis, Hasta Punctum Aetatis, Princeps Civitatis, Imperator Jircniv Rune Farlord El-Nix.”

Wait, she’s reading this in Tutulian?

“Presenting a message from His Imperial Majesty, Driver of the Progressive Polity, Renovator of the Civil Service, Spearpoint of the Age, First Citizen, Emperor Jircniv Rune Farlord El-Nix.”

What’s the point of this? Why not have Lucius read this out directly?

“Declaring that a state of war does not exist between the Empire of Baharuth and the Kingdom of Re-Estize, nor will it exist without the continued aggressions levied upon our lands and our peoples by the King and his men.”

Wait, what? Why? Is it because they failed to actually accomplish any of their objectives?

Things were badly off course. The room slipped into confusion, the general expectation most everyone held shattered. A declaration of war would have meant the necessity of dozens of tasks; that the next few months would become consumed by the preparation and equipping of the levy. Some may have already started this, locking up liquidity in spear-point orders, eating withdrawal fees from Merchant Guild banks, and - akin to Raeven - purchasing future orders of grain. Raeven had spent much of yesterday for this purpose, running himself ragged

Luck of the Greed Kings that the Forge-Master couldn’t meet with me yesterday. Saved myself thousands.

“Such wonton accusations of maladherence to the principles of valorous relations and clear diplomacy are wholly without basis in reality or sense. The Imperial Diplomatic Corps has provided its excellent and diligent service vigilantly and without fail to the Re-Estize Kingdom. All previous commencements of adversarial engagement born from fundamentally irreconcilable courses between our nations have never been made without a prior declaration of intent to do so.”

Things started to bread, a growing sense of irate rage at the insults being levied. Raeven kept his cool, as did several other high nobles and other individuals.

What’s the angle here? I don’t get it. Why pretend it wasn’t them? Hm, what if it wasn’t? What would that mean?

“That you now believe that our nation would need to stoop itself so low and bismerch its honor to waylay your Kingdom - whose institutions and civil structures are so rotten as to bring forth internal disunity to the point of treason - is an insult to the Empire of Baharuth.”

That speech Jelka gave at the end of that night, before he resigned. He spoke to the intruders being Eight Fingers, but made no sure mention of Baharuth. Was this only a machination of that baleful syndicate; not hired by Arwintar, but by themselves? Or perhaps this matter is truly internal. The royal family, the marshalls. Which members of the royal family? Andrean and Theiere. The oaf and the… oh what does Zanac always call her, the monster. Wait, is this a ploy by him?

“The origin of the turmoil and violence which had so taken the lives of your people and bloodied your halls of power is unknown to His Imperial Majesty; however, he finds it a telling fact that you would so blindly speak unsupported claims of villainous intent on his part. That your nation would be so content to wind itself in a fit of rage before pointing a finger at your solemn and balanced adversary, something that can only be the product of delusion or foul-nature.”

The room exploded, irate outrage at the words of the ambassador.

No, his targets wouldn’t make sense. He’s cunning enough to target himself, but he took no glory last night. I doubt he would target his sister either, he can’t possibly dislike her to such a degree. Hm, or perhaps it’s fear; I wonder if that would drive him to action. Also, he wouldn’t send men after the marshalls. He would want this to be a simple plot, not a blunderous killing of all his enemies. Was- was it Renner? Is she capable of such a thing? Who knows. My memories of her as a girl are still clear, but she hasn’t been like that in so long. If it's an act, it's a perfect one. I’m off course, I still can’t place this woman. Is she- Oh my Gods, she- she’s- she’s a member of the Imperial Harem! He’s… Holy- I don’t… What?!

Raeven was stunned. The insult struck him suddenly. Even the courtesans who birthed his bastard children were good enough to deliver the Empire’s message.

“In addition, His Imperial Majesty wishes to assure you that if you find cause to prosecute a war on this completely inane and mad basis, that your levy which you so cowardly field in place of true warriors will be met not with the care of a temple priest who aids to restore the mental equilibrium of the village feeblemind, but the full strength of the Imperial Army, including the breadth its Eight Legions, the Wizards and Archanists of our Mage Corps, and the might of our various and diverse martial forces.”

Shouts filled the space, several noblemen leaping out of their chairs. Men pointed fingers, yelling over each other. Ambassador Mercat and the concubine by his side raised their voices, booming out the remaining words.

“Go back to the pit you crawled out of!”

“Go hang yourself, you feckless whore!”

He’s not just vengeful, he’s gloating. He knows we can’t go to war against him without shredding ourselves in the process. No, these words are actively intended to trigger a war, or, something like it. To make House Vaiself look weak. I wonder-

“Run yourself through!”

“His Imperial Majesty has expressed his sincere admiration for the jesters of Re-Estize for their ability to come up with ever more absurd and humorous comedies, and deeply hopes that House Vaiself learns to leash its curs and control its wild dogs.”

He desires internal conflict. Gods above, this will be difficult to clean up

“His Imperial Majesty considers this horrid insult and the sickly flits of the broader nobility of your nation to be signs of your complete inability to participate in honorable discourse.”

“Get out!”

“You damn imperial dogs!”

“As such, His Imperial Majesty has ordered the recall of the diplomatic mission on an indefinite basis.”

“Good, we don’t want you here!”

“You and your ilk, get out!”

“See you bastards at Katze in six months when you’ve grown back your balls!”

“Fututus et mori in igni!”

The woman signed a rude gesture, earning several disparate thrown objects - including pens and an inkwell. She, Lucius Mercat, and the rest of the staff stood and walked out, moving silently through the heckles and jeers. They filed out the double door exit to the room, slamming it shut with enough force to cause a bang and send a pair of tapestries fluttering. A few nobles threw the door back open, several others joining them, an impromptu crowd following the mission out. One, Davadet, charged over to one of the Royal Guard flanking the exit, demanding he hand over his sword. The Guard refused, triggering a sputtering of insults. Raeven sighed, trying to scope what had just happened.

Ah, so he feels confident enough to be direct. Are people going to fall for this? Yes, yes they will. They absolutely will. Hm, actually…

Raeven, then several others thought to look to the Vaiselfs. The Royal family had mostly tepid reactions, the most animated of which was Zanac rubbing his face; Ramposa and Barbro remained solemn; Renner looked slightly confused.

I would have expected Barbro to chase those men out himself; I suppose he’s a changed man. With that, the Royal Family is completely unified on this front. They’re never like that. Barbro always runs a little counter to his father, Zanac a little counter to them both. Renner always does whatever she likes irrespective of consequence. I have no doubt she’ll find some pointless cause to champion through all this. Something that will seem witful to the common folk, witless to our fellows, then halfwit at further inspection. Strange that it always seems to shake out that way.

So what does that mean? It means they feel forced to hold a line. They needn’t do that against Baharuth, only in strictly internal matters. The noble faction wasn’t simply involved, they were the cause. Bolloupe looking to crown his legacy? But why attack the crown prince? Isn’t he the easiest to control? That is unless he’s struck some cunning ploy with Zanac. I’m running in circles here. I need something concrete to glom too.

Raeven thought for a moment, letting the room quiet down. He scribbled a few notes on a piece of paper in front of him - less from need, more to look busy - and passed a few minutes fruitlessly trying to piece together a perpetrator. The easy explanation was “The Noble Faction,” but he was far too cynical to think such a descriptor useful. Specifically who conspired to kill the king, how they rallied support, and why they had found cause to do so eluded him. At some point, the double doors were closed and remained so, the room having been drained of about half those present.

The scary thing is, I don’t see why Eight Fingers has cause to kill the king. Isn’t their drug trade booming? This only makes sense for them if they’re seeking a complete consolidation of power. That they think they can seize something like that. They wouldn’t want a civil war; they’d make money on getting weapons across the border from Baharuth - which they’d likely be sold at reduced-price from Imperial Army surplus - but every other industry? No, they think there would be a complete consolidation of power under the new king. That means… what? One of the princes is in their pocket, and they think that prince holds enough political backing to keep things intact. Gods above.

Raeven closed his eyes and craned his neck, cracking his back a moment after. He was not the sort of man to lose his composure at a stressful juncture, however, he needed some way to relieve the growing mental burden that sat on his shoulders. He held a stock straight position in his chair for a minute, emptying his mind of the impending ruin and woe likely to fall on his nation. He opened his eyes, and was struck with an idea.

Why not simply speak to one of the boys? Zanac, probably. Not as if he’ll suddenly lay bare his guilt - even his reckoning - though he’s sure to reveal something with time.

“Marquis.”

“Your Highness. How bode the proceedings?”

“About as well as it looks.”

He seems content to drop proper forms of address. Let me see if he gives any resistance if I do the same.

“Don’t want to get more specific than that?”

“Hmph, something like that.”

Evasion, but no outward disapproval of my speech.

“Why don’t you regale me with some of your thoughts?”

Zanac paused, and looked him over. After a moment, he seemed to nod slightly, the shadow of a smirk on his face.

“It won’t be without indulgence.”

An invitation.

“Oh? You’ve piqued my interest. Pray tell. What indulgences?”

“The crudely humorous parts of this affair.”

“As times like these demand fine whiskey, they also demand a little midnight mischief.”

“Midnight maledictions more like.”

“Lo?”

“Hm, alright. That woman there, the one who gave us that declaration. Do you know what she is?”

Ah, he realized too.

“It hit me about halfway through the reading. I couldn’t believe it.”

“Good, then you’ll share my feelings on this.”

“Those being?”

“It made me realize, that boy seems to short change us in every aspect.”

“Oh? Why’s that?”

“He doesn’t give us our well deserved annual war.”

Into the crucible immediately? Acceptable.

“Right.”

“And then when he sends us his bitch to spit his rejection in our faces, in a move that I - at first - thought was overly thrifty, he skimps us on whores as well.”

Raeven burst into a chuckle.

“How miserly can he be?”

“I don’t know about you, but I don’t feel content to share her.”

“Ay, I’m with you on that. Say, why did you only think that at first?”

“Work out the math. There’s only what, three? Between us, the rest of those here, our men, their men, and their mens’ sons, that’s a significant amount of… sausage to make. We’d need to take shifts, and by the time all of us have had a go, he’ll be in E-Rantel with his britches down ready to fuck us.”

“Ah, your Highness, you’ve missed something.”

“Oh?”

“He has us in a double bind.”

“Do explain.”

“We screw her at the preappointed rate, we get caught going into battle with our pants down. But, if we wrap up early-”

Zanac exploded into laughter, Raeven an instant later. The pair completely failed to keep their raucous delight low, drawing the looks of several around them who hadn’t heard the exchange. It was an odd moment of brevity, one Raeven sought to savor.

“Exactly!”

Maybe this will be easier than I expected. Certainly far more enjoyable.