Look at the lamp’s flame. All men will agree that there is light as it burns, but when standing in night with thoughts of day, a single lamp is little different from darkness.

Feel the lamp’s flame. All men will agree that there is heat, but it will not save the man freezing in the depths of winter.

Yet fire is among the simplest threads of life. None may live without it, and all know its touch. Its scent grasps us more than any other, its flickering motion calls to the spirit in the same voice as men. Among the aspects of the divine, the Flame stands proudly.

Many stand confused that a thing so dear to us should hold such difference when viewed through the myriad eyes of men, but it is a natural consequence. The lever pulls at its utmost close to the fulcrum. The baker and the woodsman both dwell upon fire; the man ablaze thinks of little else.

And still, it is only flame. Pity those with greater sight than yours; for they see things closer and greater than your eyes shall ever know.

- The Book of Eight Verses, the Verse of Truth. (New Kheman Edition, 542 PD)

If Michael had been asked what differentiated the grey, choppy waters of the Iron Bay from those elsewhere in the world, he would have likely said that there was nothing in particular to set them apart. As their small ferry made its transit from west to east across the bay, however, something settled into place, something he had not missed or even noticed until it returned to him.

He was coming home.

Compared to their last couple of sea voyages, this had been downright simple; the Iron Bay was always swarming with barges, boats and ferries linking Calmharbor to points elsewhere in the bay or down the coast. They had only needed to travel a small ways before they found a port with a departing ferry.

It was still snowing as they were underway, the storm having lost none of its intensity in its sweep eastward. The mass of snowflakes obscured the late morning light, encasing the boat in a soft, close cloak of white; the first warning they had of their approach to Calmharbor was the groan of its foghorn. The ferry pulled up to the public docks with little fanfare, dropping its gangway before it had fully stopped moving; Michael stepped onto the dock and took a breath of the salt and smoke.

“Ghar’s blood, it smells rotten,” Charles muttered. “Like burning pitch, if pitch were made from fish. No wonder you were so eager to get out, lordling.”

Michael laughed. “You get used to it,” he said. “I had forgotten, to be honest, or I’d have warned you. It gets better as you draw farther distant from the docks.” He sent his sight upward until the streets blurred behind the haze, trying to get his bearings. After a moment, he pointed to the left.

“This way,” he said. “We can cut over in a few blocks and walk straight to the government quarter. There’s lodging there, although it’ll be expensive-” He broke off, realizing he was rambling. “Lodging first.” He began to walk across the creaking wooden boards towards the quay street, threading around coils of rope and stacked crates, only to draw up short as a port official stepped into his path.

“Name and business?” the official droned, sounding half-asleep.

“Michael, Lord Baumgart,” Michael replied. “Assembly matters.”

The official gave a snort, seeming to startle awake from his stupor to peer at Michael. His eyes traced over Michael’s rough, haphazard clothing, still ripped from mistreatment while fighting the Institute. There had been no chance to wash up, and Michael’s hair and beard were both in disarray.

“You want to try that again, milord?” the man chuckled. “You’re far from the first ‘Michael Baumgart’ we’ve had through here this month, though the others at least looked the part.” He tapped his pencil against his clipboard sharply. “Now give us your real name, and I won’t summon the constabulary for impersonation.”

There was a pause, one only slightly perturbed by Charles and Sobriquet attempting to restrain their laughter. Michael looked back at their moderate success, then turned to the official with a sigh. “I really don’t look the part, do I?” he asked. “But unfortunately, that is my name.”

The other man scowled, tucking his clipboard under his arm. “So you’d rather talk to the constables-”

Michael smiled and let his soul spill out into the snowfall. The wind stilled, the snow hung motionless in midair for an eternal moment as the sounds of the port faded to silence. He waited until he saw the color drain from the official’s cheeks, then relaxed his grip upon his surroundings. The wind resumed with chilly vigor.

“I assure you,” Michael said, “I’m telling the truth.”

The man blinked against the sudden blast of snow that carried into his face, wiping a hand nervously across his eyes. “Ah,” he said. “Ah, well-” He looked up at Michael’s smiling face, then behind him at the others. “Assembly matters, you said?”

“That’s right,” Michael replied. “Matters of some urgency.”

There was the briefest of pauses from the official before Michael felt the man’s meager resistance crumble. “Then I won’t detain you, milord. Please enjoy your day.”

Michael gave him a smile and nod, then walked past him towards the street. Sobriquet followed with a contemptuous snort.

“That’s it?” she said. “What horrible security. You’re telling me that I could have just sailed to Calmharbor at any point during the occupation and come ashore that easily?” She shook her head. “If I’d known intimidating petty officials was all it took, I’d have set fire to the Assembly years ago.”

“Let’s put that off until after we’ve dealt with Luc,” Michael muttered. “We do actually need to talk to the constabulary at some point, too - they’re likely to take a threat to the lives of the Assemblymen more seriously than the Assemblymen themselves. Assembly first, then constabulary, then - hm.”

“May I suggest the Mendiko embassy?” Unai rasped. “If pressure on the Assemblymen is what’s needed, they can likely arrange for some.”

Michael nodded. “How cooperative can we expect them to be?” he asked. “I know the Batzar has their own agenda here.”

“The Star is everyone’s top priority,” Unai replied, shaking his head. “There will undoubtedly be some political complications from involving them, but the situation has worsened considerably from when we first began searching. The last thing they want is for the bearer of the Star to involve himself with foreign government in any official capacity. They’ll be even more invested than we are in ensuring that no dialog begins between Luc and the Assembly.”

“Maybe before the constabulary, then,” Michael agreed. “I want to try and get us on the agenda at tomorrow’s session of the Assembly. Notionally it’s a simple matter of asking the parliamentarian, but I’ve never actually exercised my right to address the Assembly before - and my father is still a seated member, so those may both present issues.”

Sobriquet nodded. “I should probably stay back,” she sighed, looking up at the buildings around them. “I can’t be sure how far Sibyl has spread my description; while the Ardans trying to arrest me would be amusing, it probably wouldn’t help us much.”

“I think most of us should stay behind,” Michael said. “Lars is a deserter, Zabala and Unai aren’t supposed to be in Ardalt, you’re-” He looked at Sobriquet, tallying words in his head. “-very illegal. So, yes. I’ll go to the Assembly alone.”

“Aren’t you something of a criminal yourself?” she asked, nudging him with her hip. “Won’t that pose an issue?”

Michael shook his head. “Probably not. It was only ever the Institute that was looking for me.” His steps hitched a bit as he realized what he had said; a moment later he sighed, giving Sobriquet a rueful smile. “Sofia may have said something, of course, but if any constables trouble me I can remind them of who my father is and they should go away.”

“It’s like watching a fish slip back into water,” Charles muttered from just behind them. “We’ve barely arrived back in the city and he’s already acting the rich brat.”

The comment earned him a flat look from Michael. “It’d be the first time, if it happens,” he said. “I didn’t really get into trouble when I was here before.”

Charles smirked. “I’m glad we’re such a good influence on you,” he said, lacing his fingers behind his head and stretching. He looked down the long street with an annoyed expression. “How big is this city, anyway?” he asked. “I’m looking down this street and I don’t see an end.”

“Rather big,” Mike said. “A good quarter of Ardalt’s population is in or around Calmharbor, last time I checked. Larger than Imes by a fair amount, although not the largest city in the world - Goitxea is bigger, I think. Probably Khem as well, but the Safid have never been prone to sharing population figures.”

A constable’s eyes lingered on them from across the street, watching their roughly-dressed group pass. The streets had grown less crowded, the buildings cleaner; Michael realized that they were drawing far enough from the docks that their attire made them conspicuous. He steered them down a side street and nudged Sobriquet; she veiled them just as the attentive constable rounded the corner.

Michael looked back at the confused man as they walked onward down the narrow alley. “I think I’ll need a change of clothes before the Assembly,” he muttered.

Lars coughed from behind him. “Going to be rough finding a tailor who can work on such short notice,” he said. “Especially when you walk in dressed like that. There are a few places where the Webels have an account-”

“No, I have someone already,” Michael said, a smile tugging at his lips. His next steps took him to the end of the alley; as they emerged back onto the street he found that he recognized some of the buildings. “There’s an inn just down the street that my father used to complain about. Said it catered to disreputable sorts; I imagine that makes it perfect for our purposes. We’ll get settled in, then Sera and I will go back out.”

“You need help picking out a suit, lordling?” Charles asked.

Michael laughed. “No, but we nearly got arrested just now and it wasn’t in a particularly nice part of town,” he said. “Where I’m going, I wouldn’t make it five paces down the street without getting stopped. But more than that-” He looked at Sobriquet. “There’s someone I want you to meet.”

“This is the place?” Sobriquet asked, peering through the wrought-iron bars of the fence. “Ghar’s bones, I’ve been in villages that took up less land.” She squinted. “And were built with fewer bricks. You really lived here?”

Michael nodded, feeling an odd mix of emotions as he looked at his father’s house. His home, for most of his life. He squinted at the carriage house. There was only one set of tracks, and it was buried under a decent layer of fresh snow. “Is my father in? It’s early enough that I wouldn’t expect him back.”

Sobriquet paused, then shook her head. “Just a woman in the kitchen,” she said. “And an older man, but he’s dusting - I don’t think that’s your father.”

“It would be very surprising if it were,” Michael said, reaching his hand out to the carriage gate; it was locked, but a firm twist of his hand wrenched the lock aside enough to open it. He swung the gate open and began to cut across the lawn towards the estate’s front door.

“Do you keep horses?” Sobriquet asked.

“Only for the carriage,” Michael replied, giving her a quizzical look. “Why?”

She gestured to the broad expanse of snow-covered grass in front of the house. “Why the pasture, then?”

“It’s a lawn,” Michael said. He managed, through great force of will, to keep from smiling. “It’s decorative.”

“Decorative.” Sobriquet’s eyes had glazed over a bit as she took in the expanse of the estate’s grounds. “Ghar’s blood. So this is what the discomfort of the War was for Ardalt.” She looked as though she had more to say, and Michael felt the words percolating within her, but their arrival at the door came before she could speak them.

Michael paused. “Do you need a moment?” he asked.

“No.” She shook her head. “It’s nothing important. Just another reminder that I’m smaller than I think, in the grand scope of things.” She gestured towards the door. “Go ahead.”

He knocked, mindful of his strength; the door reverberated with the noise. A few moments later he heard the sound of footsteps from the other side. The latch clicked, and on oiled hinges the door swung wide to reveal Ricard.

“Good afternoon,” he said, squinting against the blast of cold and snow. “Master Baumgart is out at-” He paused, his wrinkled old eyes widening as he took in the man standing in front of him.

“Milord Michael?” he croaked.

Michael smiled, feeling buffeted by the emotion roiling off of the other man; he felt no small amount of it himself, seeing Ricard’s face again. He had changed little in the intervening months, though he looked as though he had not slept well recently.

“Hello, Ricard,” Michael said. “I’m - ah.” He broke off as Ricard lurched forward to wrap him in a hug, his old arms trembling with the force of his embrace. A moment later, Michael gently put his own arms around his manservant. “I’m back.”

“I didn’t think we’d see you again,” Ricard said, his voice tight with emotion. “After your father’s injury, and the terrible things we heard from the Institute-” He trailed off, hugging Michael tighter still, then pulled back to hold him at arm’s length. Tears streaked down to the corners of his smile; his eyes never strayed from Michael’s face. “But here you are. I’m so glad. I-”

He broke off as he noticed Sobriquet beside them; an embarrassed flush spread over his cheeks. He let his hands drop back to his sides. “Sorry, milord,” he said. “And you with company, too-”

Sobriquet stepped forward and wrapped Ricard in a one-armed hug. “Wonderful to meet you,” she said. “I’m Sera. Michael has told me all about you.”

Ricard looked helplessly at Michael; Michael inclined his head towards Sobriquet. After a moment, Ricard tentatively returned the embrace, patting her lightly on the shoulders. “Welcome, milady Sera,” he said, pulling away to clear the door. “And come inside, both of you - this weather, milord, I can’t believe you’re walking around in such clothing.”

He ushered them inside, shutting the heavy door behind them - then turned to take in Michael’s appearance once more. “My word, have you been living outside all this time? In the mountains? You look like a wild man, milord.”

“You caught me at a particularly disheveled moment,” Michael grinned. “I’ve been living rough for the past couple of weeks; we were, ah-” Michael paused. It was one thing to say it to Sobriquet, but here in the foyer, with Ricard expectantly listening, the words sounded absurd. “We’ve been on the front fighting the Institute’s rebels for the last while.”

Ricard’s eyes widened fractionally. “Ah,” he said. “As excuses for appearance go, that is a good one.” His smile made its way back onto his face, crinkling the corners of his eyes. “So you did figure it out. Your soul.”

“I - yes,” Michael laughed. “It’s hard to know where to begin.” He took a deep breath, looking around the foyer. “Why don’t you fetch Helene? I’m not sure when my father is due back, but I doubt I have time to tell the story more than once.”

Ricard’s eyes sharpened. “We’re avoiding your father?” he asked.

“For the time being,” Michael said. “I have business in Calmharbor, and - I will speak with him, but not right away. And probably not here.”

“It won’t be a problem,” Ricard said. “He’s been kept late at the Assembly offices nearly every day since the Institute began their attacks, and I doubt if he’ll be back before dark.” He dismissed the thought with a gesture, beckoning Michael forward to the sitting room. “Wait right here, I’ll go let Helene know-” The old man disappeared down the hall, still muttering excitedly to himself.

“Well, he’s delightful,” Sobriquet said. “You never said-” She paused. “Michael?”

Michael shook his head, still smiling at the hallway Ricard had taken. “I think I’ve been taking him for granted, all these years,” he murmured. He touched his chest lightly with his fingers, feeling the warmth resonating there; the old man had no soul, yet he shone with an ecstatic radiance that was easily Saleh’s equal.

Sobriquet smiled. “I like him. You make more sense now.”

A moment later Helene burst into the room with flour still dusting her hands. Michael was again thoroughly hugged, with Sobriquet in the bargain by virtue of simple proximity. Ricard managed to extricate them from her grasp before too much time had passed, dusting white handprints from the back of Michael’s shirt almost by reflex as he steered the group of them towards seats.

“So,” Michael said, smiling despite a sudden bout of nerves. “I’ve had an eventful few months.”

A short time and a long while later, Michael sighed and gestured helplessly in the direction of the Assembly. “…which means,” he said, “that we have to convince the Assembly to turn Luc away, for their safety and the safety of Ardalt. Failing that, we have to ensure they reject any peace with the Institute. I plan on petitioning for a spot in tomorrow’s schedule to make my case.”

Helene’s eyes were wide in her pudgy face, while Ricard’s had gone narrow. “Forgive my language,” he said, “but Ghar’s blessed bones, that’s a tale.”

Michael laughed. “I suppose it is,” he conceded, scratching at his chin. “So that brings me here, since I can’t very well petition the Assembly looking like this. I’m hoping you still have a suit that will fit me.”

“You’ve trimmed down some,” Ricard muttered. “And filled out more. But I think I’m up to the challenge. Come upstairs and let’s have a look.” He rose from his seat, clapping his hands with vigor. “Helene, please see to milady Sera.”

Helene looked immensely relieved to be back on familiar ground; her head swiveled to Sobriquet like a hawk sighting prey. “Come along, my dear,” she said. “You’re shorter than milady Liesl was, and a bit broader in the shoulders, but I’d wager there’s something for you-”

She turned away from Sobriquet’s nascent protests to beam at Michael, stretching up on her toes to plant a kiss on his cheek. “You’re so handsome,” she said. “But too lean, milord. Stop by when you’re done with all this nonsense so I can feed you two properly.”

Helene guided Sobriquet inexorably towards the far hall as Michael followed Ricard up the familiar stairs towards his room; the creaking wood and the smell of the hall had Michael shivering with sudden remembrance. He didn’t trust himself to speak as they arrived at his room.

Ricard spoke first, as he was sorting through Michael’s wardrobe. The room looked just as Michael had left it, save for the heavy winter drapes on the window. “I did eventually get those shoes I had ordered,” he said. “Though the cobbler was a few days late to catch you. There’s a suit in here that I had marked for the first day you’d go to the Assembly, but I doubt that one will fit you now. You’ve grown in the arms, and the shoulders-”

The manservant slowly let his hands drop down; Michael saw the tremor in his fingers as Ricard slowly turned to face him. The old man’s eyes glittered in the dim light. “It’s been hard, hasn’t it?”

Michael swallowed; it was quiet in the room save for Ricard’s deafening turmoil. “Sometimes,” he admitted. “But there’s been good in it too.”

“I always felt that you were waiting for your moment,” Ricard said, a sad smile upon his lips. “Although I admit that my imagination failed rather profoundly in what might follow. The things you’ve done, the places you’ve seen - you’ve done so well, Michael.” He laughed, wiping at his eyes. “I’m so, so proud of you.”

Michael found himself staring into radiance once more, feeling the warmth of summer sun on his cheeks; he stepped into it and hugged Ricard as tightly as he dared.

Michael walked back down the stairs shaven, shorn and clad in an impeccable suit that somehow fit perfectly despite Ricard’s worries; the old man had confided that he had kept a few spare suits in larger sizes in case Michael developed a sudden interest in sport, or Helene became too liberal with her servings.

Whatever the motivation, Michael descended to the foyer looking every inch the young Ardan statesman. Sobriquet had not reemerged yet from Helene’s ministrations; Michael contemplated sitting back down and decided not to risk the suit’s fabric against his physique quite yet. He leaned against the wall instead.

“My father,” he said. “He’s been busy.”

Ricard pressed his lips into a thin line. “Been keeping busy, milord. It’s always been a silent old house, but the silence agrees with him less than it did last year. We’ve seen less of him, as of late, and-” He paused, looking suddenly nervous; his voice dropped. “I’m thankful for it, milord. He’s been angry since his injury, angry and spiteful.”

“Did he hurt you?” Michael asked, his expression darkening.

“Not as such,” Ricard said, holding up his hand. “A few scratches here and there, a few jackets for Helene to mend. But Lord Baumgart has been angry, make no mistake. Some unkind voices have remarked that he’s tidying one house to distract from the other. The injury he gained in your - well, I can’t call it a kidnapping any more. He hasn’t had the endurance to walk far, nor stand for long. The coachman pushes him in a bath chair most times.”

“I had no notion,” Michael said, surprised. “What little news I’ve heard of him never mentioned difficulties.”

Ricard smiled, and for the first time the expression had no joy in it. “He’s prevailed upon the news to mention it very little, and always stands for speeches where he’s able.”

“Hm.” Michael tapped his chin. “What do you think his reaction will be when he learns I’ve returned?” he asked.

“Difficult to say, milord.” The manservant frowned. “I’m sorry to say that he hasn’t mentioned you once since you left. Not in public, and certainly not to me. It’s difficult to say what a man might do in those circumstances, if confronted with a truth he doesn’t want to see.”

Michael sighed, then scratched at his newly-shaven cheek. “I suppose I’ll just have to deal with that right along with the rest of it.” He paused for a moment. “It can’t have been easy for you and Helene, alone with him all this time.”

“We managed, milord,” Ricard chuckled. “It’s no small skill to be nimble underfoot, but it’s one we’ve practiced for years.”

“When I leave here, I’m going to return to Mendian,” Michael said. “If you two want to come with me there, or travel on to Esrou, I would make it happen.” The last words he spoke carried force that he did not intend, one that shivered the windowpanes and sent snow fluttering down from the tree branches outside. Ricard arched an eyebrow at the disturbance, then smiled.

“When your lord grandfather brought us here, we promised to serve the Lord Baumgart,” Ricard said. “And we have, and will.” He nodded firmly, then smiled up at Michael. “I should think he’d have no objection to us serving the greater of the two. Of course we’ll come.”

Michael found himself grinning again. “Wonderful,” he said, clasping Ricard’s shoulder. “Speak nothing of it until our business in Calmharbor is concluded, but before I leave-”

He broke off as the door to the far hall opened and Sobriquet strode out in a slender, uncomplicated dress under a leather and fur coat with a heavy lapel. It had obviously been intended as an understated outfit for formal or somber occasions, but Sobriquet’s bearing transformed it into something more militaristic. Helene had given her a half-cloak draped neatly over her left side, obscuring where the empty sleeve had been pinned back. Her hair was washed, and pinned to fall artfully over her scarred cheek.

She gave him a look, lifting her chin as if daring comment.

“You look fantastic,” Michael said.

“I do,” she laughed. She twirled a bit, making the hem of the dress flare out. “I admit that it’s not the most practical, but it’s much less restrictive than I imagined such clothing would be.”

“Lady Liesl always hated clothing that bound too tightly,” Helene said, coming up beside her with a handbag.

Sobriquet took it, then frowned and looked inside. She sniffed. “Are these biscuits?” she asked.

“Scones,” Helene replied happily. “For the road.”

“I think I’m in love,” Sobriquet sighed. She winked at Helene, then offered her arm to Michael. “Not that you don’t look dashing. Shall we go to the Assembly, Lord Baumgart?”

Michael raised an eyebrow, but took her arm. “I thought the plan was to have you stay back, so that we didn’t involve the constabulary?”

“And waste this?” she asked. “I’ll just vanish if need be. Besides, if I showed up at the safehouse looking like this, Charles would actually die.”

“I’m not seeing the downside,” Michael said. “But all right.” He kissed her hand, then pulled away to face Ricard and Helene again. “Thank you both, so much,” he said. “For everything.”

Ricard smiled; he sketched a short bow. Helene curtsied beside him, her cheeks dimpled and eyes twinkling. “Always,” Ricard said. “Good luck.”

Michael nodded, feeling tears welling in his own eyes; he let himself look a moment longer then turned back to Sobriquet, the door, and the snowstorm outside.

They arrived at the Assembly not too much later, sped along by a passing carriage; having dressed, they now drew the eye in a different way and found it much easier to hail transport as a result. Michael held his arm out for Sobriquet to disembark and tossed a coin to the driver as if it were not one of his last.

“You really were born for this,” Sobriquet murmured. “That looked practiced.”

Michael flushed. “It wasn’t. Just spent too long watching everyone else do it, I suppose.”

She took his arm again, forcefully. “Don’t you dare stop. We are going to stomp all over this city in our ludicrously-expensive shoes and make them all bend to our will.”

“You’re liking this entirely too much,” Michael observed.

Her cheeks flushed. “Ghar’s blood, I am. No wonder rich people act the way they do. I feel like I could kill someone with a look.”

“You can,” Michael said, patting her hand. “Come on, let’s see the parliamentarian before he goes home for the day. Keep an eye out for my father, I’d rather not run into him first. In the worst case, he might try to obstruct us-” He paused as they drew close to the gate guard, lifting his chin in his best Lord Baumgart stance. The man saluted, then held his hand out.

Michael looked at it. “Yes?” he asked.

“Papers, milord,” the soldier replied stiffly.

“Papers,” Michael repeated. “Oh, but I must have forgotten mine back at the estate. Darling, did you-?”

“I’ve quite forgotten mine,” Sobriquet sighed. “Will we be late for our appointment, then?”

Michael looked back at the guard. “I don’t suppose you could pass us through just this once?” he asked. “I had a spot on the parliamentarian’s schedule-”

“Sorry, milord,” the soldier said. “We’re at full ensouled protocols with the Institute lurking about. Nobody in or out without papers.”

Michael paused a moment, his smile fading slightly. “Then I suppose we shall be late,” he said. “Come along, darling.”

Sobriquet fell into step, leaning close as her veil stole their voices away. “What was that?” she asked. “I know you’re opposed to using Spark-”

“If they’re concerned about Institute infiltration, they’ll be watching for Shines,” Michael muttered. “We couldn’t get in, not without raising a fuss. We’ll have to find another-”

“I say, Michael!” a voice thundered from behind them. “I thought that was you!”

Michael froze, then slowly turned to look at the man who had called his name; he was a robust man with hair that had once been full and dark. His cheeks were flushed in the cold behind an immaculate mustache, though he wore clothing that was perhaps even finer than theirs. He waved his hand as they turned, walking towards them across the plaza.

“Thoughts?” Michael whispered. “I don’t know him.”

Sobriquet shook her head slightly. “He walked out of the Assembly,” she said. “We should play along.” She stepped forward to greet the man, a smile breaking out on her face. He barely slowed as he approached them, spreading his meaty arms to usher them away from the Assembly building at a brisk clip.

“We should speak,” the man rumbled, his voice bereft of the cheer that had been dripping from it previously. “And where we speak should be quiet, milady.”

Sobriquet looked up at the man, no longer smiling. “I can do quiet,” she said, backing her words with the slow embrace of her veil. “You know who we are.”

The man gave her a pained look. “Yes,” he said. “Obviously. Dramatic posturing at a minimum, please, we haven’t much time. You came to the city later than I’d prefer. We need to discuss-”

“-your name?” Michael interjected. “Your name seems like a fine place to start.”

The man’s jaw clenched; he steered them down a side street. The noise of the Assembly plaza faded behind them. “I suppose the timing isn’t terrible,” he muttered. “Fine, yes.” He looked suddenly and intensely at Sobriquet. “Carolus Altenbach.”

Before she could summon more than a stormy expression on her face, Carolus had lifted a finger between them. “Ah!” he said. “Ah, ah! You very much dislike my daughter and my niece, I’m aware. It’s a viewpoint I’ve entertained as well. Unfortunately for all of us we must be productive, so if you please?” He gestured onward down the street.

A long moment passed before Sobriquet turned and walked in the direction he indicated, muttered curses trailing in her wake. Michael gave him a considering look before following. “Carolus,” he repeated. “Vera had spoken of you. You’re not at all like I imagined.”

Carolus gave a quick, mirthless chuckle. “Am I not?” he asked. “Strange. You’re just as I expected.” He looked at Michael, an odd look that spurred a pang of complex emotion from within the older man; before Michael could question it, though, he was being urged forward.

“Come, come,” Carolus said. “There’s never any time.”