The mockingbird was riding atop the boar’s haunches one day, talking of unimportant things, when it spied the raven sitting solitary on a branch. It flew up to greet the raven, wishing it a good morning.

The raven returned the greeting, but said nothing more.

This irritated the mockingbird, who had hoped for conversation. He scolded the raven for being unfriendly, and said such a practice would see him alone and friendless.

At this, the raven turned to set his eye on the mockingbird. He said that the mark of a friend was not what was said in greeting or passing, nor in any words said to one’s face. Those with limited sight may count themselves rich in friends, and only discover their poverty when need arose.

Those with true sight saw the words whispered in shadows, and acts done in secret. Why else do wise men discard all but their robe and bowl? True friendship did not change with distance or company.

The mockingbird wished the raven a good morning all the same, and flew back to the boar that it might speak further of unimportant things.

- Pre-Gharic Ardan manuscript, vellum, c. 500 PE

The central square of Imes had been strewn with debris and the wreckage of Mendiko tanks when Michael last saw it, any clear space given over to command and medical tents set up for one of the forward staging areas. The tents were gone, now, the shell craters graded over with dry sandy soil and the burnt hulks towed aside. At the north end of the plaza sat the old town hall, a stately building that had weathered the city’s siege with only a few visible scars; it was missing a front column from the facade, and the left side of its steps was a rubble-strewn slope.

That much had not changed since Michael had made his weary way back and forth through the square during rescue operations. Now, though, the broken facade was obscured by a riot of banners in green and white, the front steps repaired with rough wood planks - and the entirety of the plaza filled with people, stretching all the way to the still-empty storefronts and apartments ringing the perimeter. They pressed in close, the noise of their conversation making a cheery roar that gave voice to the joy Michael felt in waves, the beating of a massive heart that pulsed through the crowd more strongly with every passing moment.

It was not a unanimous joy, of course. Too many were missing, whether dead or departed for Saf. There were those who harbored some disquiet about the transition away from stable Safid rule to whatever this new Daressa might bring. Those sorrows formed a basso counterpoint to the joy, but in harmony rather than dissonance. It was the celebration of an ending as well as a beginning. It was where Michael felt a disconnect from the crowd; he had only seen the ascent, and not the tortuous journey in the intervening decades under oppression and conflict.

It was one of the reasons that he was not on the stage. Sobriquet had argued for it, more strongly than Michael expected - but at the end of the day he was an Ardan, and his future lay with Mendian. There was only one person fit to stand before the crowd, to mark the end of the revolution that had become synonymous with her name. She stood back from the empty podium with a sheaf of notes in her hand. The stage was far from empty besides Sobriquet; Emil was there, as were a selection of regional partisan leaders. They had found the old mayor of Imes, now an elderly man who seemed barely awake, as well as a few other dregs of the old government that had survived in boltholes or quiet farms in the country.

Amid them all, Sobriquet looked utterly alone. Michael brought his sight close to her, watched her mutter the words from her notes over and over. The pages shook.

Michael breathed in, inhaling the fevered excitement of the crowd, their inchoate happiness - their love, to which he added a not-inconsiderable amount of his own. Gently, he let Spark touch Sobriquet; the barest whisper of the feeling, surrounding her in gentle warmth. Her head came up sharply to look at him; Michael smiled.

“You could say anything at all,” he murmured, “and we will love you.”

He saw the corners of her lips turn up, even as she dropped her eyes back down to her notes. Her lips formed muttered words: stop distracting me, you meddling aristocrat. Michael laughed and let the emotion drop away, leaning back in his seat to let the crowd wash over him. It was intoxicating. The memories of grim and quiet Imes were forced to step aside, to make room for this vibrant and tumultuous city, bristling with cheer and song.

The great clock in the square began to toll the hour. There was general applause, though Michael knew that the clock was still in a shambles from the fighting; for the ceremony, Charles had climbed the tower to pummel its great bell with a bit of metal. As the last peal faded away, Sobriquet stepped forward.

The crowd quieted. She stood before the podium, placing her notes on it - then shook her head, another smile touching her lips as she stepped past the podium with her eyes closed. The crowd gasped as an image of Sobriquet materialized in the air over the steps, mirroring her pose. She opened her eyes and smiled; a roar of approval came back.

“Daressa!” she shouted, her voice a booming resonance that would have likely collapsed buildings were it anything more than an illusion; the crowd’s responding roar was enough to shake dust from the crumbled stone around them. The cheering slowly tapered away, as she raised her arm for quiet.

“It wasn’t long ago that reclaiming Imes was only a distant dream,” she said. “And now here we stand, in the capital of free Daressa once more!” More cheers, though she kept speaking even as the noise redoubled. “Free from occupiers and oppressors! Free from theft, murder and terror! Free from the War!”

The crowd reached a crescendo, though a shadow crossed Sobriquet’s face; many in the crowd noticed it too. The quiet that came next was total. When she spoke again, it was softer, closer to her normal voice.

“And we find ourselves in charge of our own destiny at last,” she said. “After the struggle and sacrifice each one of us has endured, now we face a far harder task - to set aside the past, and walk forward into the future.” She paused, letting the last words linger in the air between them.

“The Daressa of Safid and Ardan occupation has been our world. It has been my entire life. And we have - all of us - done and seen things that are best left in that world. We must etch a line into the flow of history. Who we were as partisans, as warriors and saboteurs so fierce that the largest armies in the world had no hope of keeping us down - these people must remain in the past, so that this new Daressa might be a country where law holds sway instead of force and terror.”

She pressed her lips together. “So I will discharge my duty to you all,” she said. “And draw that line. I have assembled a committee of those who have worked the hardest to make this country anew, those with the talent and skill to walk in both worlds. This Transitional Committee will be charged with one task: to assemble a government of citizens, selected by citizens.”

Murmurs erupted from the crowd. Confusion predominated; Sobriquet raised her hand again for quiet. “Daressa was not preserved by those who fought against its occupiers, although our work was needed. It was the Daressan people who kept the flame lit, who struggled onward to live their lives as best they could, to secure food, shelter and safety for their children - to carry on.”

She paused, looking down, then raised her head again. “We worked to give this back to you,” she said. “And with order, with deliberation, and the support and guidance of all who helped us to stand here today - we shall.” She stepped backward, her image fading away. “In that spirit, I am proud to introduce to you the chairman of the Transitional Committee - Emil Souris.”

Emil stepped forward to applause, although it was scattered and quiet compared to what had come before. He stepped before the podium, placed his notes upon it, and looked up at the assembled crowd.

“You don’t know me,” he said, his voice ringing out with Sobriquet’s assistance. “You don’t need to. My job is to replace myself and my comrades with skilled, competent experts in administration, economics, law and culture. If you think I’ve just described you or someone you know, please submit your names and a short summary of your relevant expertise at the Committee headquarters here in Imes.” He pointed to the building behind him. “This is the headquarters.”

Some scattered laughter broke out, causing Emil to furrow his brow; the audience was mostly bemused by the difference in tone between the two speakers, though some were tickled or troubled by the absurdity of the shift. He waved irritably for quiet and continued to speak, but a voice from behind him drew Michael’s attention away.

“An efficient public speaker,” Antolin chuckled, walking up to stand at his side. “Perhaps Mendian could take some lessons.”

Michael turned to reply, but his answering quip died unsaid; Antolin was not alone. Rather than his normal accompaniment of aides and officers, the grand marshal had brought a small group of Mendiko that were dressed in well-made civilian clothes.

In lieu of his comment, Michael gave Antolin a questioning look; he answered his own question a moment later when he looked again at the man standing nearest to them. It had taken a moment for Michael to place the thin, bald man with his closely-trimmed goatee.

He had never seen Xabier Lekubarri outside of the Batzar, after all.

Michael’s eyes flitted back to Antolin, though his sight lingered on Lekubarri; the man gave away no strong sign of emotion that Michael’s eyes or soul could sense, watching Emil speak with a faint smile on his lips.

“Is that why the Batzar is in attendance?” Michael asked. “It seems a long way to travel for such a small thing.”

At the mention of the Batzar, Lekubarri’s eyes turned to Michael. His smile grew wider, and he took a few paces forward. “Jaun Baumgart,” he said, inclining his head slightly and switching to precise, unaccented Gharic. “I’ve heard so much about you in the dispatches. It’s a pleasure to speak with you in person.”

“Jaun Lekubarri,” Michael replied, borrowing the Mendiko honorific. Something about the man’s speech resurfaced old memories of his father at social events, an empty mask with a smile drawn crudely on its face. Michael donned his own. “Your name reaches my ears rather often as well. Are you in Imes to attend the ceremony, or did you have other business?”

Lekubarri waggled his hand. “I felt it was important to attend the ceremony marking the end of the War, of course,” he said. “It was purchased with no small number of Mendiko dead. Leire would not want me to count her as chief among them, but I struggle to diminish the significance of her loss; her death in particular is another reason for my presence here.”

“I had heard something to that effect,” Michael replied. “Coordinating the search for the Star of Mendian?”

“You’re well-informed,” Lekubarri said, smiling. “A positive trait in any leader. I see that my friend’s confidence in you was justified. With any luck, we should be able to find your wayward comrade and send her soul to you before the year is out.”

Michael nodded. “An aggressive timeline,” he said. “But then again, you’re practiced at this sort of thing.”

Lekubarri laughed, waving off the comment. “We’ve had our operatives training hard over the years, certainly,” he said. “But there hasn’t been a need to retrieve the Star of Mendian from outside of our borders in nearly a century. I expect there will be some stumbles along the way, just as I expect those stumbles to resolve in our favor. The timetable takes that into account.”

“That’s very forward-thinking of you,” Michael said. “But you don’t do yourself justice; your men have already delivered one soul to me, after all.”

The smile on Lekubarri’s face did not waver. “The investigative capability that you and your friends demonstrated was unparalleled,” he said. “I was embroiled in meetings for a week while we unpacked the operational consequences of that particular embarrassment. Rest assured, we have revised our assessments of all involved to reflect our findings.”

“Eight days of meetings for six men dead and one violated seems like a bargain,” Michael replied. He drew on the joy around him, letting his anger bleed away into its surging ocean; his voice stayed level. Small, gilt edges intruded upon the world, though, and the sound of Emil’s voice seemed far away.

“Indeed,” Lekubarri replied. “Especially since one death now threatens to keep us occupied for weeks to come.”

Michael studied his face; it had not changed in the slightest since their opening pleasantries. There was no feedback from Spark; he might have been talking to a particularly infuriating fencepost.

“Perhaps I can reduce the toll on your schedule,” Michael said. “I had thought of engaging in the search for Luc myself.”

The batzarkidea raised one finely-shaped eyebrow. “Had you? If you would like to sit with some of our profilers, that would be helpful; knowing more about our quarry would greatly increase the efficiency of our search.”

Michael smiled a fencepost smile, watching the edges of the world etch themselves ever-deeper. “I apologize, Jaun Lekubarri - I was unclear. I mean to find Luc myself and prevent him from causing further harm as expediently as possible.”

“Expedience would suggest cooperation,” Lekubarri replied mildly. “Our resources are considerable.”

“I’ve considered them. I believe that my strategy is better-aligned with my own resources.” Michael could no longer hear Emil at all, the world condensing to two smiling men.

“It is your prerogative, of course,” Lekubarri said. “I must say that Grand Marshal Errea has been doing a grave injustice to you in his reports. I had no inkling that you had cultivated capability to rival the world’s best.”

“Some have said our capability is unparalleled, in fact,” Michael replied. “But to your point, we will all see how theory becomes practice. I wish you luck in your search.” He extended his hand.

Lekubarri’s eyes flitted down, glancing at Michael’s outstretched, ungloved hand.

There was a pause, long enough to be noticeable.

“And you in yours,” Lekubarri said, reaching out to clasp it. “I-”

The facade cracked, his smile slipping. Leire’s flame burned incandescent in Michael’s chest, a cold light that raced out through his veins and danced across his skin. He did not know what Lekubarri felt in the bare moment that they shook hands, but he saw its echo in the man’s eyes: recognition, shock, and no small amount of fear.

Then it was gone, and the batzarkidea released his hand with measured poise.

“I wonder if I might impose upon you for one thing,” Lekubarri said. “It occurs to me that having two independent teams working in the same theatre may cause unfortunate - misunderstandings. It would be best if someone affiliated with the Zuzendaritza joined your company.”

Michael met his eyes. “I can see how a line of communication would be informative for you,” he said. “But I’m afraid that our effectiveness might suffer as a result.”

“I must insist, Jaun Baumgart. A lack of coordination could be detrimental for both teams, and the stakes are too high for such risks.” Lekubarri spread his hands helplessly. “Surely you would not press ahead so recklessly.”

Michael studied the man’s face, again finding nothing. He did not want to agree to Lekubarri’s spy in his midst, but the request was reasonable on its face. Perhaps Sobriquet’s veils could-

“Batzarkidea Lekubarri is entirely correct,” Antolin rumbled from beside them. Michael managed to avoid startling; he had quite forgotten that Antolin was standing so close. The grand marshal’s lips quirked upward, his eyes fixed on Lekubarri. “Fortunately I have an excellent candidate for such a liaison ready at hand. You remember Unai Goikoetxea, of course?”

Lekubarri’s right index finger twitched minutely. “I’m afraid Jaun Goikoetxea has been absent from our ranks for many years,” he said. “I don’t believe he would be a good candidate.”

“Surely his qualifications aren’t in question?” Antolin asked. “And his operational history is impeccable, as I’m sure you’re aware. In my view he satisfies your requirement rather neatly - wouldn’t you say, Michael?”

“I can’t think of a reason why anyone should object,” Michael replied blandly. “I’d be happy to include Unai in my travels.”

Lekubarri gave Antolin a lingering glance, then turned his eyes back to Michael. “Then I suppose I have no further reason to impress upon your time,” he said. “Enjoy the celebration, gentlemen. I hope to celebrate further victories before long - in whatever form they may arrive.”

He nodded to them both in turn, then walked unhurriedly away towards a line of food stalls that had sprung up along one side of the plaza. The other batzarkideak trailed off in his wake, leaving Michael and Antolin alone amidst the crowd.

“What a thoroughly alarming man,” Michael said.

Antolin chuckled. “You handled him about as well as anyone I’ve seen,” he said. “The conversation doesn’t end here, though. It only gets quieter, slower. You’ll have to keep your eyes open.”

“Gets easier every day,” Michael muttered, watching Lekubarri pause to inspect a row of crisp sausages. “Do you think he’ll actually interfere?”

“He’ll watch,” Antolin said, shaking his head. “But he wouldn’t actually do anything to jeopardize the mission - only your due credit for accomplishing it. His offer to plant a spy at your side was likely so he could present his narrative to the Batzar while you were still in some forsaken stretch of the continent.”

Michael snorted. “And instead I have Unai. Was he actually one of the Zuz-” Michael frowned. “One of the Batzar’s men?”

“Directorate is the closest Gharic word,” Antolin said. “And yes. Never lie to Lekubarri. He’s no verifex, but he’ll turn falsehoods around on you in due time, every time.” He paused, then looked back in the direction of the Mendiko camp. “It’s no accident that Leire’s personal anatomens was someone of capability and experience, even if the Batzar was ultimately disappointed at where his loyalties fell.”

“Huh,” Michael said. “Well, as long as he consents to go.”

Antolin gave him a grave look. “I imagine that he intended to search regardless,” he said. “Or why did you think he was planning to leave?”

“He implied that you blamed him for Leire’s death.” Michael frowned. “Do you?”

“I suspect that nobody blames Unai more than himself,” Antolin said. “He made a questionable decision, but none of us saw the boy as a threat. Not even Leire.”

Michael hummed, and said nothing; Emil’s voice droned out over the crowd beyond.

“…not important what you are used to, or what you remember,” he said. “We could not create the Daressa that was, nor should we try. We must create the country that we need now, in this moment, and for the future of those to follow.”

There was a surge of applause at those words, which seemed to surprise Emil; he looked up at the audience with a scowl until they desisted. “That’s all I have to say. Any complaints about the Transitional Committee should be submitted in the form of a job application - but not today, since there’s a party. Enjoy.”

More applause followed, and no small amount of laughter; Emil turned and stalked off the stage as a haphazard band began to play the first rising notes of Forth Daressa. The crowd began to sing. A few moments later Michael blinked and staggered to the side, his head swimming with the raw voice of the people sounding forth in joy and release and pain and delight and pride and-

He shook his head, taking a breath and waving off Antolin’s concerned look; the fires in his chest burned bright with their own song, grounded and steady amid the storm. Anchored, he let himself enjoy the moment.

People sang. His sight found Sobriquet, her eyes bright with tears. Charles, alone and bawling atop the bell tower. Vernon, a look of absolute serenity on his face as he drew the bow of his cello in smooth, gliding rhythm. Emil was the only partisan of their group to join in the song, rough and tone-deaf.

Then it was done. Some tried to sing a refrain, others devolved into wordless cheers; most of the people simply dispersed from the square to drink, to eat, to be with family - to live, in Daressa.

Michael’s own celebration had not strayed far from the ordinary; he woke early the following morning, disengaging from his covers and kissing Sobriquet on the forehead before setting off towards the airship’s mess. The long metal halls felt deserted, over-quiet. Only a few airmen were eating when he arrived.

Vernon was not among them. He had elected to stay with Emil as part of the Transitional Committee, and had made his goodbyes before Michael and Sobriquet left the celebration. The food was bland and unsatisfying; Michael abandoned it and returned to his quarters.

A short time later he set out with Sobriquet, departing the airship with nothing but a light pack. He had managed to accrue a surprising amount of notional possessions during his brief stay aboard. They remained aboard save for a change of clothing and his favorite canteen.

They walked through the streets of Imes until they reached a certain cafe, of little note save that it was operating despite the sorry state of the town’s infrastructure. The chairs and tables were mismatched or cast roughly by an artifex, the windows were shattered and the kitchen stood open to the sky courtesy of a half-collapsed upper storey; nevertheless, Michael smelled coffee and some variety of cooking meat.

It felt better than the sterile confines of the mess. There was texture and color in the broken street, a feel that fit the moment. A small breakfast came and went. Michael sipped at his coffee and waited; they were early, after all. Midway through his third cup, Sobriquet sat upright.

Michael turned and saw Unai walking briskly down the street, which was expected. Zabala walked on his heels, which was not. The two men approached the table and sat.

“Good morning,” Michael said, lifting his eyebrow at Zabala. “I didn’t think I’d see you here. Weren’t you shipping back to Estu?”

“I’ve been summarily discharged,” Zabala said. “Something about rank insubordination, you’d have to ask Antolin for the details. He’s confident that time will reveal it to have been an unfortunate misunderstanding. For the moment, though, I’m looking for employment.”

“Convenient timing, that,” Sobriquet noted. “I suppose we do need a liason for the peacekeeping force as well as Lekubarri’s thugs.”

“I doubt they shall bother us overmuch,” Unai said, nodding pleasantly to the waitress as she brought coffee for the two new arrivals. “Our presence in your group should help to resolve any issues before they become noteworthy.”

“One can hope,” Michael sighed. “Has there been any word from the northwest?”

Zabala shook his head. “We’re monitoring for reports of fire or illness, but there’s enough of that amid the evacuation to thoroughly confuse the issue. We’ll need to be there on the ground to investigate and verify. Fortunately, the motor pool has lost four trucks; we should be able to return them to a convenient forward base of our choosing.”

“Four?” Michael frowned. “I’m not sure that will be enough. The Ardan soldiers were most of a battalion, last I checked.”

“Now they’re most of a company,” Zabala said. “Their unit cohesion was minimal at best, I’m surprised your idiot captain convinced that many to sign on.” He turned, looking down the street. “Wasn’t he supposed to be here as well?”

“Oh, he’s coming,” Sobriquet snorted. “As is Charles. They’re just slightly delayed from yesterday’s events. Give it a few moments.” She nodded towards an alleyway.

The three men turned to look; after a short pause Charles and Lars emerged into the street, staggering drunk. Each had his arm across the other for support, making for a shambling, raucous approach.

Zabala lifted an eyebrow. “I’ve changed my mind,” he deadpanned. “I’d like to return to the military after all.”

Unai chuckled and rose from his seat to drag over two additional chairs, then walked to intercept the approaching men; he drew his glove off and slapped both of them lightly across the face.

They recoiled, first in shock, then in sudden, horrified sobriety. Unai wiped his hand on his trousers and put his glove back on, taking his seat wordlessly.

Michael watched with interest as the two men promptly vomited into the street. “I didn’t know anatomentes could do that,” he said.

“An old soldier’s trick,” Unai said. “They’re not actually sober, but they’ll feel that way for a spell. Best to conclude our business early, though, as they’ll be useless afterwards.”

“Status quo, then,” Zabala muttered, wrinkling his nose in distaste as Lars staggered to sit beside him.

“Morning, Lars,” Michael said pleasantly. “Charles.”

“Morning, milord,” Lars rasped, rubbing at his eyes. “Deepest apologies, I was coordinating with your man Charles here and the time-” He paused, gratefully accepting a coffee from the waitress. “Thank you, love, you’re a treasure. The time simply ran away from us.”

Charles took his coffee with a grunt, saying nothing.

“Are your men ready to move?” Sobriquet asked. “Or are they still coordinating as well?”

“Never you worry, my men are light on their feet,” Lars said. “They’ll all be right when we get where we’re going.” He sipped his coffee with a wince, grabbing a lump of sugar with his free hand. “Do we have a direction yet?”

“To the new Safid border,” Michael said. “Or at least the general region. If Luc means to press his attack against them, he’ll be moving that way - probably in hiding amid the emigrants. Traveling by truck we may be able to intercept him before he crosses into Pashaluk Qalo.”

“Capital,” Lars said. “My men will be delighted, we’ve been spoiling for some action.”

“No action,” Sobriquet said. “We’re searching for Luc. Your men will be serving as lookouts, scouts and runners.” She frowned at Lars, her eyes lingering on his black uniform shirt; he had lost or discarded his distinctive Swordsman jacket at some point. “Civilian clothing, too. Ardan uniforms will cause problems, especially in that part of the country.”

Lars grimaced. “I expect that you’re right,” he said. “Very well, I’ll have my men scrounge-”

Charles fell out of his chair, sprawling to the ground in a small puddle of coffee.

“That usually works for longer,” Unai said. “He must have had quite a bit to drink.”

Zabala sighed and plucked Lars’s coffee cup from his hand; the Ardan captain shot him an indignant look - then toppled sideways.

“Seems like we’ll be getting a late start,” Michael said. “Zabala, I don’t suppose Mendian could conveniently lose some clothing along with the trucks? And rations, while we’re at it?”

“No promises, but probably,” Zabala said, standing up. “I’ll drive over to the Ardan camp and see what I can make of them.” He spared one last weary look at Lars and shook his head, turning to walk back the way he had arrived.

Michael glanced between Unai and Sobriquet. “Perhaps not the most auspicious start,” he said. “But we’ll work it out.”

The other two exchanged a glance. Charles began to snore.

“We’ll work it out,” Michael insisted.