A special tower had to be constructed at the eastern edge of the harbor, like a miniature fort. The town of Aliston had begun a metamorphosis from Lucius’ efforts, and he suspected because the demon had sought different fortifications of its own. The corruption of the city had to be put on hold while other strategic resources were secured for the long war. That was the way of demons and angels alike. Just like a child needs immediate gratification, and it can be agony for an adult to wait weeks, spirits who measure their lives by centuries hardly grasp the concept of hurrying.

This isn’t to say they are laggard in action, but that they do not get impatient. If they know they will eventually win by one course of action, it does not matter to them if it takes years. This is an oversight that humans can sometimes take advantage of, but it also let Lucius build his base without molestation from the being of the veil.

Lord Raymi sent a dozen men to Aliston, along with a single ley cannon of enormous size. King Arandall had been quick with the blueprints I provided him, and Raymi saw fit to use his weapon defensively. Personally, I didn’t hear of this till much later, else I would have cautioned the boy that it implied Raymi wanted to force the Cyclops to make a play for the Misty Isles. Weapons are better for offense than defense afterall. Unfortunately, Lucius didn’t know how the weapon compared to others in caliber.

The defensive power of a cannon can hardly be understated, in those times. The linear amplification of momentum allowed for nearly horizontal firing trajectories, allowing for a very sturdy roof above the crew. Given no naval ship could bring a catapult to the fray, they had to rely entirely on archers and chemists. Some ships had ballistae to deal with, but those were categorically weaker than a ley cannon.

As such, it was the kind of weapon that one didn’t much care to have around because it essentially declared that the city would be attacked. The city would repel the attackers, but the people of the Misty Isles preferred to not be attacked at all.

The march of progress couldn’t be stopped however, and the growing greed for gold and industry crept into the port. It started in the pubs, as these things often do, as more and more establishments opened themselves up to feeding the northern sailors while the rest of the town napped away the heat. The non-stop construction work was pushed to resume in the evenings, and the stability of proper cobblestone roads increased foot traffic. Where historically a light rain storm would reduce half the city to mud too thick to walk through, men and women could still scurry from store to store even in the middle of such storms.

The marketplace began to adopt a Giordanan flare as multi-colored awnings became permanent fixtures, staggered about to block the sun but not break the breeze. The change was such a curiously fast affair that it hadn’t even had time to cultivate a crop of thieves. Lucius was able to walk without protection from one end to the next, listening to the bustle of life. His mind had been consumed by the fate of the deserter, as a fleeting distraction.

In a sense rescued from the gold mine, he had a seemingly loyal soldier that had marched halfway across the world with him, but he had knowingly left them all behind to see the king. The men’s existence had given credence to his stolen identity, but without the mind numbing fear of imminent death, there was the risk that they would make some innocuous comment and catch him for the impersonator he was. Of course, that problem had nearly been solved throughout the rebellion, but now he had one of those snakes under his foot and he didn’t know if it was about to bite him.

His instinct had told him it was wrong to leave the deserter in the mine, but also that he shouldn’t let the man join the guards. That had pushed the deserter into a sort of limbo, and he had assigned him as a support laborer for the cannon engineers. Had I been present, I would have simply seen to the man’s death, but Lucius still lacked that form of ruthlessness.

It still brooded in his mind, and distracted him right up until the moment he realized Kajsa was standing in front of him with a meat skewer in one hand.

She blinked and swallowed, giving him a quick bow and a mumbled, “Good to see you my lord.”

“Kajsa, I didn’t realize you had the day off.”

She cleared her throat. “Well, the factory is almost done, now that we have Walter the fuel problem is solved but that’s not the only limited factor.”

“Oh? What’s the problem now?”

“Ah, well, it’s not much of a problem. It’s just a labor thing,” she said, twirling some hair around a finger and not meeting his gaze. “For the chemical brine to work, the gold ore has to be reduced to powder. Historically this was done by hand, but the factory now has a water wheel to automate the process. Now it only takes one worker to process it all but…”

He arched an eyebrow at her.

“It’s slow. I mean, it’s as fast as it gets shipped to us, I ran all those numbers, but it’s not as quick as the smelting process. Does that make sense?”

“So, you’re saying you automated the factory so well you’re not actually needed anymore.”

“Not true! I’m the only one who can manage the mixing of the chemical brine!”

He held up a hand. “Calm down Kajsa, that was meant as a compliment. If the factory doesn’t need you, that means I can give you some other projects… in addition to letting you have time to yourself.”

She was certainly dressed to have some time to herself, a tight corset dress that flared out around her legs. In a more northern climate, she would have had stockings and boots, but the heat of the isles dictated mere sandals. The alchemist kept her hair short out of necessity, and there in the street it was hardly even tucked back behind her ears. “Well, it’s not so much about time to myself, I get plenty of that with my books and experiments. It’s time with other people I need… People who don’t work for me, you know?”

Lucius sighed. “As the governor, I understand your plight better than you could imagine. Is a minstrel troupe in or something?”

She thought for a moment, and then her face brightened with the realization that she was about to spend her boss's money instead of her own. A minstrel troupe was in, though a rather small one. They had already disgruntled the pub owner by promising him an ability to put on a play, one of the latest creations from the capital, a masterwork of Gertah’s literary mind. It was meant to be a tragic tale of war and love, of rival leaders dueling across the spans of their lives. The entire production proved to be held together with nothing more than twine and luck. Actors vanished, songstresses ended up in bed with ship captains, one of the lead troubadours got his hand broken over a gambling dispute, and the rest of them had resorted to baudy dance songs to squeeze complimentary drinks out of the clientele.

Of course, this means it went as well as could be expected from a rag tag troupe of performers at the edge of the world. That didn’t mean that Lucius wasn’t grinding his teeth at their farce. Master Wilhelm would have beaten them all about the head and set them straight long before, but Master Wilhelm had been of a different sort.

The two of them were given a table near the window and the crowd gave difference to them. The serving girls brought mugs of beer at once and Kajsa was soon grinning. Her cheeks turned apple-red as she snickered at the jibes and puns. She even joined in with the foot stomping and chorus cheering.

It was Lucius who found he couldn’t enjoy himself and the alcohol lifted him out of his seat.

“Don’t you have someone with some range to their singing?” he asked, crowding the lead bard into a corner.

The man cleared his throat, assessing Lucius quickly as someone of means but not as the island governor. “I do have one, yes, a falsetto man. He could shatter a fine glass–not that he would!”

“Where is he?”

The bard cleared his throat and gestured at one of his employees. “Around here somewhere. We shall fetch him at once. Is there a particular song you wanted to hear?”

“Anything that isn’t about sex,” Lucius declared, and half the room booed him. “Oh shut it,” he snapped back at them and swung a hand at the window. “The sun is still up, for Lumius’ sake. You all are too sober yet.”

“Speak for yourself,” one shouted back at him.

“Now now,” the bard said, jumping back to the middle of the room. He strode between the tables, happy to be away from Lucius. “The man has a point. Surely you wouldn’t go to a fine brewery and only ever drink the same beer, would you? Variety is the essence of life!”

The room stared back at him. They mumbled and muttered until the pub owner said, “I’ve only got the one beer,” and set a cleaned mug down on the bar counter with a clang. “And I’ve only got the chicken curry on the menu too.”

The bard cleared his throat and dabbed sweat from his forehead with what appeared to be a lady’s handkerchief. “Don’t you all worry, you won’t be disappointed. Just a moment so we can arrange the next song, yes?”

Lucius returned to his table with Kajsa and found her smirking at him. “I bet that makes it hard to feel like a noble.”

Lucius hefted his beer and peered into the amber depths. “You know, I can tell you from personal experience that it’s better to be a bounty hunter than a noble.”

“When were you a bounty hunter?”

“Before the fiasco in Puerto Faro,” he said quickly. The real Solhart had never done such a thing. “The difference between bounty hunting and soldiering is rather slim, depending on the war situation.”

Kajsa glanced around the room and saw the singer stumble in with them. He was a gangly youth with a soft face and facial features too small for his round cheeks. “I would imagine, based on my own experiences–I’ve been up and down Vassermark and met many a vagabond and nobleman both, you know–that you’d be here drinking either way.”

“The trick to good governance is to make it so you don’t have to do much at all.”

“Are you trying to automate people? Like some kind of money making island factory?”

“I prefer the term economic liberty.”

Kajsa grinned and snickered. “And to think the rumors said you had been sent here to suffer.”

“Shhh, don’t tell the king’s court.” Lucius snickered as well.

Kajsa wetted her throat and loosed a question out her lips. “Did you want this to happen? Was your family’s land not good enough for you?”

Lucius felt his smile fade and he grabbed his mug with both hands. After a moment’s consideration, staring into the dregs of his beer, he said, “This might sound silly, from your perspective, but a low noble is as powerless to a high noble as a peasant is to a low noble. When the king says he wants a mine in the southern continent, the nobles aren’t given a choice; they're sent to war like anybody else. Worse at times because they’re tracked. They’re given responsibility. You can’t even desert and run away because bounty hunters will hunt you down and kidnap you for ransom. The only thing you can do is claw your way up the ladder of power, no matter what you have to do because if you don’t the things you cherish will be trampled on and destroyed by someone who did. They will stamp their boot into your face to reach just an inch higher on the…”

The singer had wandered to their table and stood behind Kajsa with a blank expression. He loomed over the confused girl as she twisted to look at him. Lucius had been too distracted with Kajsa to realize the music hadn’t started, and he thought first that the man had come over to ask what song Lucius wanted to hear.

He saw only too late the gaping pupils blotting out the man’s eyes.

Kajsa let out a quiet and surprised, “Ah.”

The man didn’t have a flicker of emotion. Not a twitch of a facial muscle. He stood like a puppet and pulled the knife out of Kajsa’s back, dripping her blood on the floorboards.