All Redoubt personnel are to fall back to 0-X-Hold until advised otherwise. No disruption to the transfer ceremony on 1 Waning will be attempted. An emergency meeting of all Redoubt and Starfall personnel of C-grade or higher will be held immediately, attendance mandatory.

All other priorities are rescinded. Stand to, gentlemen.

- Institute Circular #3566, 48 Gleaning 693.

In the broad sweep of the world, there were places that had never felt the touch of human settlement in any real way. Michael had traveled through some of them, mountainous and desolate lands in the interior of Ardalt or Daressa. Others he had only read of; the great Bulu desert spanned most of the continent’s southern stretch, while wild islands and peninsulas could be found at every extreme.

There was something different, though, about seeing an empty land where there had once been people. The western Daressan highlands had never been well-settled, but roads and villages snaked into the mountains wherever the land permitted. Trees had been cleared and soil ploughed, plots bounded with walls of stone or slouching wooden pickets.

But these were only bare, forgotten footprints. The roads had emptied of travelers; the small villages they passed had been largely vacated by those who feared a future without Safid protection. Some lay wholly empty, others populated by Daressan remnants who had known no other home.

They made no move to approach these villages. Their supplies were well-stocked after the departure of so many soldiers, and Rouissat had robbed them of any enthusiasm for visiting. They pressed south past empty roads and deserted farmsteads until the mountains began to fade into rounded hills, which in turn became an undulating plain.

Michael caught a glimpse of the sea as they cleared a ridge, though it was only visible from his vantage high over the truck. It was no more than an iron-dark bar on the horizon, and still hours away. Regardless, he shared the news with the men in the back to general acclaim; one man asked him if he could see Rouns and was roundly mocked by the others.

“He’s hardly Sibyl, Arn,” Richter chuckled. “We’ve got to still be - what, a full day’s drive? More, if the roads get worse farther down.”

Unai wrinkled his nose. “A distinct possibility,” he said. “At the very least we won’t get stuck in mud, not with Michael to pull the truck out.”

“Hear that, lordling?” Charles grinned. “Promoted to draft horse! Your old man will be so proud.”

Michael chuckled along with the laughter that comment provoked, though it stirred a fresh eddy of dread in him. The notion of perhaps returning to Ardalt had been something he thought improbable at best; it now seemed as though it might become inevitable.

There was still the hope that Luc had fled elsewhere, of course, but it felt like desperation when he tried to entertain those other possibilities. The thought of Luc on Ardan soil felt too neat, fit too cleverly with the tightening skein of pathways around him.

He looked up, noting that the conversation in the truck had stilled; more than a few eyes were on him. Michael forced a smile. “I don’t think it’s likely that we’ll be meeting my father,” he said. “What little news I’ve read from the mainland makes it seem like he’s keeping busy.”

Lars snorted. “I’d say so. Between unifying the Assembly and rolling up the Institute, he’s as good as in charge of the whole country - or will be by the end of the year, mark me.”

Michael frowned and sat up. “What’s that about the Institute?” he asked.

“Not very popular in any corner right now, I’d say,” Lars chuckled, waving one hand dismissively. “And they’ve lost their backing, thanks to you. Assembly knows that very well, even if they’re not saying it aloud. Last I heard they’re meant to be integrated into the military.”

Unai nodded. “I had heard the same,” he said. “The Assembly has been jealous of the Institute’s power for some time, but the War rendered them essential and they’ve historically had at least one of the Eight as their backer. Now that neither is true, it’s only natural that they’re losing influence. They’ll make an excellent scapegoat for any negative sentiment about the Ardan withdrawal or mistreatment of soldiers.”

There was a round of grumbling at that, though it was accompanied by grudging nods. Michael had to concur; that did sound like something his father would do. The years of ruinous payments on Michael’s behalf had rankled, and he surely hadn’t forgotten the subsequent threat from Spark. Subordinating the Institute would have been a mad dream earlier in the year, but with Spark gone and his father’s power ascending-

“Ain’t right,” muttered Voss.

Michael turned to look at the lucigens, who flushed - but did not look away.

“They knew what the Institute was about,” Voss said, to nods from the other soldiers. “They knew and didn’t say a thing so long as it kept us quiet and in line.”

“I doubt that the use of obruors will change much,” Unai agreed. “It’s been integral to Ardan military doctrine for years, although it was rarely as - distasteful as what we observed in the withdrawal.”

“War’s over, at least,” mumbled Leo; the taciturn potens looked aside uncomfortably as he became the focus of attention. “There’ll be no reason to use obruors without the War.”

Charles snorted. “You think so? Soldiers get up to more trouble out of battle than in, and they’ve got most of their men back home now. No need to fight, and they don’t want them getting restless. They’ll be locked down tighter than ever until there’s some fresh excuse to ship them out again.”

An uncomfortable silence took hold in the wake of that observation. The men swayed in time with the motion of the truck, their expressions pensive and guarded.

“I expect you’re right,” Lars sighed. “A mass of enlisted men on the mainland spells nothing but trouble. During the evacuations I heard talk of keeping most of the men by Stahm - far from Calmharbor, so as not to cause trouble, and ready to ship back across the sea at a moment’s notice.”

Michael shuddered; the thought of quiet, obedient soldiers moving numbly about their tasks spurred a visceral disgust in him. There was no way those men would emerge unscathed from that ordeal, the bright human facets of their mind dull and chipped from months or years of mistreatment.

Battle fatigue was a familiar condition in Ardalt, with so many veterans on its streets; loud noises were to be avoided in crowds, and men who became violent in their cups were treated with some consideration. It had always been explained away as the echoing terror of battle; Michael had never considered that there might be more to it. But the shambolic men on Spark’s island, the aimless remnants of the Ardan forces roaming Daressa - there were parallels there, for those familiar with the symptoms.

He felt sick. More than that, a bright star of anger had begun to flare in his chest, the low heat of flames dancing within him at the thought of the men sitting in their quiet rows, idle save for that forgotten corner of their mind that would not stop screaming-

Michael clenched his fists and took a slow breath; the inside of a crowded truck was not the place to test the boundaries of his temper. He had been feeling less confident in it of late, and did not know if that was his own will eroding, or if the world had simply grown so monstrous that he had become inadequate to it. A bit of both, perhaps.

His fists relaxed, and he looked up; a few of the men glanced away hurriedly.

“It’s not our concern right now,” Michael said. “We have one task, and everything else hinges on it. If we do go to Ardalt, it will be for Luc. Dealing with my father, rescuing the rest of the army from the obruors - I won’t rule it out, but that’s not something we here can do.”

There were grim nods, but no disagreement. The men sat quietly with their own thoughts as Zabala guided the truck the rest of the way across the plains, driving until Michael could see Rouns spread out across the coastline.

It was not a handsome city, lacking the whitewashed facades of Leik or the grandeur of Imes. The architecture was possessed of a ramshackle utilitarianism that left it looking like so many mismatched crates on a quay, patched over with wood and grainy plaster.

There was still smoke rising from the port, though, and ships in the harbor. Looming behind the commercial vessels were two Mendiko battleships, slate-grey islands of steel and weaponry that massively outsized anything else afloat. The evening sun glinted from spots on the deck, painting the rest of the ship in warm tones.

“See anything?” Michael murmured.

After a moment Sobriquet’s voice buzzed close by his ear. “Nothing clear,” she replied. “Seems like the outskirts of the city are largely empty, but still a fair number of people clustered around the port. That’s to be expected…” She trailed off, then made a frustrated noise. “Who knows. I feel half-blind ever since Luc killed Leire. Too many things resting on too few supports, and even little things shine too brightly to peer past.”

“I suppose we’ll have to move in closer,” Michael said, turning his view to glance at the sun. “Maybe not today. Have Zabala pull off before we get too close to the city; we’ll be better off spending the night outside and tackling the port once it’s light again.”

“Right,” she said, pausing a moment. “Zabala says he was going to pull off soon anyway, but that it’s probably best if it’s your idea.”

“It was my idea,” Michael muttered. He pulled his sight back and looked at the men.

“We’re at Rouns,” he said. “Or as close as we’re going to get today. Let’s set up camp, we’ll get an early start on the city tomorrow.”

After they disembarked, the evening passed largely by rote - which was something of a surprise to Michael; he had not noticed a routine developing. Men no longer looked to Zabala for direction, nor did they cross paths awkwardly. Perhaps it was easier with fewer men, or the ones that had stayed were of a different caliber.

They had all chosen to remain, after all. It should have spurred a resurgence of that familiar discomfort in him, as it had when he heard some of these same men jokingly pledging their souls outside of Imes. Yet there was none.

He sat, spoon resting in the cooling remnants of his supper, and thought about why that was. There were no answers in the bottom of his bowl, though, and none in the chill silence of the night. He slept, and left it for another day.

Michael awoke before the dawn, instantly and thoroughly awake in such a way that he didn’t bother contesting it. He slid out from under Sobriquet’s arm; she grumbled and rolled until the warm, vacant covers were entirely hers.

Outside the tent was purpled twilight, limned with faint hints of gold to the east. The grass sparkled with frost, Michael’s breath fogging the air. He stood and stretched, enjoying the quiet view until the crunch of footsteps on frozen grass made him turn.

“Morning,” Lars said cheerfully, waving from within a bulky, enveloping coat. “Up early today?”

Michael shrugged. “Later than you.” He looked around and saw nobody else up. “Was there another sentry, or are you on watch?”

“The latter, I’m afraid,” Lars sighed. “Some of the men were lagging and I volunteered for my turn at the post - keep them fresh for tomorrow, you know.”

“I’m not too well-versed in military matters, but I thought officers generally didn’t stand watch,” Michael observed.

Lars smirked. “I’m hardly an officer now, am I? Just a deserter, and there’s more than enough of those.” His smile faded. “Truthfully, I enjoy standing watch. Perhaps more because it’s beneath my station. It’s a simple job, yet important. A rare bit of quiet.”

“I can see that,” Michael said, thinking back to when Jeorg had forced him to stand in an orchard; how his perception of it had shifted with time. “Maybe I should try it out some night.”

“I’m not sure the lads would tolerate it from you,” Lars chuckled. “They’re not much for military decorum, but I expect it would keep them up knowing you were losing sleep on their behalf.”

Michael frowned. “I was half in jest before, but now I’m rather set on it. Why shouldn’t I stand watch?”

“Why, that’s-” Lars blinked, then shook his head. “It’s just not done. An Assemblyman’s son standing watch? Unheard of.”

“Is that who you think I am?” Michael asked, failing to keep some irritation from his voice. “If my father could not constrain me on Ardalt, he shall certainly not do so here.”

Lars looked confused for a moment, then began to laugh. Michael’s brief ire faded as he watched the other man’s amusement; he waited for Lars to compose himself once more.

“Ah,” Lars said. “It’s - how do I even begin to explain this to you?” His expression sobered. “Do you know who my father is?”

Michael considered for a moment, then shook his head. “I don’t believe I’m familiar with Lord Webel,” he admitted.

“Precisely,” Lars said. “And why should you be? He’s not ‘Lord Webel’ at all, for one - merely Rolf Webel, of the Korbel Webels.” He grimaced. “Caused me no end of grief as a child, that. No Assembly seat, no title - nothing but money and a mild durens soul, which is enough to get him within sneering distance of his betters.”

He turned to look out at the city. “But no closer. There’s always a distance between the established families and the upstarts, a watchful eye waiting to see when we’ll slip up and reveal our crude bearing. Things that are waved off as eccentric when the old money does them are ruinous for families like mine.”

Sour anger emanated from the Ardan captain, enough to give Michael pause. He held up a hand placatingly. “Lars, you know I don’t care about-”

“I know. But for the rest of us-” Lars grimaced. “We spend our whole lives striving for a scrap of what you were born with. I don’t know if it’s galling that you discard it so easily, or if it’s that you might be right to do so.”

Michael gave him a considering look, then undid his cuffs. He rolled his sleeves back and held his arms out, hands palm-down; even in the dim twilight the tracery of scars was visible. “It’s worthless,” he said softly. “My father is a miserable, lonely, hateful man. Nobody should envy what he has, or what I might have been if I had stayed.”

“Then what is it?” Lars asked. The question was earnest, lacking any of his usual affectation. “There must be something. Ghar’s ashes, you’re both meant to lead nations - are you telling me that’s happenstance? What do you have that sets you apart from the rest?”

Pain threaded through Lars’s voice, and Michael did not respond. He remembered hearing his father rant about minor grievances with other Assemblymen, about social events and displays of wealth. Seething that he could not afford the trappings that others flaunted, staying up late plotting elaborate comeuppance for slights of procedure and formality that played out in the Assembly halls.

Victory had never granted him a reprieve from it, only shifted focus to the next target, the next challenge - and for what? Michael suddenly felt the echo of the dread that had gripped him when he first stared into the inky black beyond life, realizing what all of his failure and struggle would eventually amount to.

He could have taken it, regardless, and inherited everything of his father’s. The name, the title, the vexingly-mediocre wealth - and he would have spent his life scrabbling at the same ladder for meaningless increments of progress. He would have been-

Michael’s eyes settled back on Lars. The other man stood quietly, though his breath steamed out in quick bursts.

“I suppose I owe my father for showing me how a life might be wasted,” Michael said quietly. “And Sera for showing me how it might not be.”

Lars grimaced. “That’s poetic, but not much of an answer.”

“There is no answer,” Michael said. “You should live your life in the way that makes you happy, and is worthwhile in your own estimation.”

“Easier said than done,” Lars sighed. “I suppose it was hopeless to expect that you’d have it in plain language.”

“Maybe it will come to me if I stand the rest of the watch.” Michael jerked his head towards the tents. “There’s some time left until first light, you should rest.”

Lars gave him a dubious look, but eventually sighed and slouched off towards his tent.

The dawn took its time in coming, hidden behind sloping hills far to the east. Richter was up first, busying himself with the cookfire; the man spared a glance when he saw Michael standing watch, but only shook his head and went about his work.

Michael smiled, and enjoyed the sunrise.

They were in the outskirts of Rouns not long after sunlight first painted the tops of its mismatched buildings, rolling in without challenge or question from the few inhabitants they saw. Indeed, the scattered residents of the city ran from them on sight, disappearing into alleys and behind doors like surprised mice.

“Not the friendliest town,” Michael muttered, watching a mother scoop up her child and run awkwardly out of sight.

“It’s the sane reaction to seeing armed men you don’t recognize,” Sobriquet said. “You wouldn’t understand.” She paused. “On that note, we may want to stop short of the port. A few scared people will run, a mob of them may decide to do otherwise. A smaller and less-militant group might be advisable.”

“Can’t you just veil us?” Michael asked.

“The truck occupies most of the street, it’d be a neat trick to sneak it past any degree of traffic,” Sobriquet shot back. “There are plenty of empty buildings near the port, a few of them with doors large enough to admit the truck. Warehouses and the like.”

Michael nodded and let his sight drift farther afield; as they approached the port he located one that was clearly disused, it’s contents scattered by looters and one door hanging ajar. In short order the truck was inside while Charles made impromptu repairs to the door.

While the men secured the immediate surroundings, Michael, Sobriquet and Unai left to walk closer by the harbor. Afoot, the smells of the city were stronger; it stank of the usual effluvia of human habitation, rotting fish and excrement mixing in a putrid miasma.

Michael wrinkled his nose at it. “What a sorry town,” he murmured. “Was it always like this?”

“Not while I was here,” Unai replied. “It didn’t look any nicer in the sixties, mind, but the Safid at least kept it relatively clean and orderly.”

“I’ve never been to Rouns before,” Sobriquet admitted. “Too deep into Safid territory, but I never heard of anything like this from our operatives here. Some people preferred postings here, in fact.”

“Any contacts left that we could talk to?” Michael asked. “Either of you?”

Sobriquet grimaced. “We lost the largest cell here around the time we traveled to Mendian, without central guidance they got impatient and decided to act on their own. A few people dead, others just vanished. One of the taverns by the docks was a safehouse, but who knows if anyone’s still there.”

“I’m not aware of any Directorate agents in town, although there assuredly are some,” Unai said. “We won’t be able to locate them with any reliability, so I suggest we check this tavern first.”

Michael nodded and struck out down the boulevard towards the docks, lofting his sight high to see over the warren of twisting streets. They made it to the piers before long, with Sobriquet keeping their approach hidden from the few passers-by.

Now that people were not fleeing at their approach, Michael had the opportunity to study them more closely. Most were Safid. He didn’t know if that should be surprising or unsurprising, considering the length of time that the town had been occupied, but evidently some had chosen to remain rather than follow the exodus across the border.

There was no common thread among those who stayed, at least none that Michael could pick out at a glance. He eventually stopped scrutinizing everyone that drew near when they walked farther along the quay into more heavily-trafficked areas; there was a loose circle of market stalls and debris set up on the west end of what had been a fishmarket.

Now it was more of a town in miniature, with people going about their shopping or methodically gutting fish. Other stalls sold fabrics or meats, children ran pell-mell through the sparse crowd.

Normalcy, in other words, though it was a bizarrely condensed form of it. There were men standing at the perimeter of the stalls with watchful looks, their eyes roving over the empty streets surrounding the market.

Sobriquet scowled as they slipped through a gap in the barricades to draw close to the tavern. The place looked relatively intact save for a few shattered and boarded windows, but it was clearly abandoned; a quick check inside with Michael’s sight showed no people in evidence, and the modest basement had been ransacked of anything useful.

“Drat,” Sobriquet said. “I suppose we’ll have to make inquiries elsewhere.”

“That may be easier said than done,” Unai observed. “Look around, see the way this place is laid out; I’d venture that many of the remaining residents of Rouns are gathered here for security more than anything. In a town this size suddenly bereft of its law, there would be chaos in short order.”

“You don’t think they’d relish the sight of strangers,” Michael said. He took another look around. “Particularly not Gharic strangers.”

“I’m not the slightest bit Gharic,” Unai sniffed. “But yes, I expect that they’ll be suspicious of anyone who doesn’t appear Safid. Perhaps the young mistress can alter our appearances?”

Sobriquet sucked air in between her teeth. “That’d be rough,” she admitted. “The appearance is one thing, but I’m not sure I could make the sights and sounds match well.”

“I could dampen their suspicion,” Michael offered.

The comment earned him looks from Sobriquet and Unai. Michael felt a flush rising to his cheeks; he shook his head. “I’m not talking about overriding their will or anything,” he muttered. “Just assuring anyone we speak to that we intend no harm, which would be entirely correct - since we don’t. It doesn’t seem any more deceptive than faking our identity, and it’s much more likely to work. Unless you want to announce us as Seeker and Caller, draw the crowd?”

Sobriquet winced and shook her head.

Unai nodded slowly. “You’re probably correct,” he said. “As long as you feel up to the task.”

Michael felt more words pass unsaid; he could guess at some of them. In the balance, though, it would solve their problems neatly - and was no more questionable than driving soldiers away in fear, to say nothing of what he had done to Thomas. Even so, he felt sweat prickle on his skin when he first stretched out that troublesome soul to caress a woman’s mind as they approached.

She turned to them with a smile as Sobriquet let the veil drop. “Hello!” she said, brightly. “Rare to see strangers in town these days. Come down from Viche?”

“From a bit farther,” Michael said. “We’re actually looking for a friend of ours, an Esroun man who may have passed through sometime in the last week or so. Have you seen anyone like that?”

“Esroun?” she said, her face screwing up in thought. “No, no - although I only moved here from the outer district two days ago, it’s the only place left with water and clean food.”

Michael thanked her and stepped back, withdrawing Spark when she looked away; she looked back a moment later with puzzlement, but Sobriquet’s veil had already hidden them.

He exchanged a look with her; her eyes searched for something in his own. After a moment she gave him a faint smile. “I suppose it couldn’t be the first person we asked,” she said. “To the next?”

They moved down the market, asking isolated people if they had seen a foreign traveler matching Luc’s description. None had. Sobriquet became increasingly restless as they moved onward, though, her eyes flicking continually to a far pier.

“What is it?” Michael asked. “If it’s about Spark-”

“What?” she asked. “No, it’s - there’s something past the market, in those shops facing the piers. It’s hard to tell amid the rest of this city, but it seems like it may hold some significance.”

Michael turned to look, then nodded and began to walk. The shops in question were mostly vacant, like the tavern; one had been gutted by fire, another swarmed with thick clouds of black flies.

In front of one, though, was a small crowd of people. They faced a bench, and on that bench burned several small candles surrounding a grainy photograph. It was water-damaged and torn in places, but clearly showed the unsmiling face of an older man, his skin weathered and burnt by long hours outdoors.

“Funeral?” Michael wondered.

“Safid funeral,” Sobriquet confirmed grimly. “Been to a few, though never by invitation.”

Michael decided to leave any further inquiry on the subject for later; he walked up to a man who was standing quietly on the edges of the mourners. “Excuse me,” he ventured. “Can you tell us what happened here?”

The man turned to look at him; Michael saw a flicker of distrust on his face before he grimly smothered it.

“Old Bachir’s gone missing,” the man said quietly, moving a few steps away from the rest so as not to disturb them. “Did you know him? You’re not from here, I’d wager.”

Michael shook his head. “We’re not,” he said. “Just passing through. Do you mind if I ask what happened?”

The man shrugged. “Not rightly sure. Shipwreck, likely. They left port last week and haven’t returned.”

“Thanks.” Michael nodded to the man and took a step back, looking at Sobriquet.

She paused, then nodded slowly. “I think that’s it,” she said. “It’s still - thin, but it’s a piece of something more.”

“Unexplained deaths and disappearances are the primary sign of a wandering Star,” Unai said, his face expressionless. “If I were an agent still, I would report this up as a priority. It matches the profile.”

Michael looked out over the sea. It stretched out, dark against the sky, vanishing into distant haze. After a moment, he turned back to the mourners.

“Well,” Michael said, walking towards them. “Let’s see if anyone knows where they went.”