I am increasingly irritated at my illustrious predecessors for handing me the problem of Ghar. The worst of the blame must fall on the Tenth Star, of course, for precipitating the entire mess with his indulgence of spite and petty grievance. I shall allow some sympathy for the pressures of the time; it’s not as though I’ve had to contend with Gharic aggression personally. Nevertheless, I should like to think that if Saleh Taskin were to present himself asking for aid, I’d have the good sense to offer a simple denial.

But that is not what happened, centuries ago. Mendian swore its damnable oath, and now we must grin and pretend that we will really spill the blood of our sons if some Safid idiot decides to test us on that particular matter. In truth, I doubt that we could make good on that threat. Certainly, I could wander around the peninsula casting death about me, and our men would give a good accounting of themselves.

The difficulty is that there is no secret in our motivations. Everyone knows it was spite that drove us to that end, and none of us now feel such a spite. We have only managed to pass it off to the sad remnants of that once-great empire, and I cannot bear the thought of asking someone to go die for a people who will spit on his corpse.

- Leire Gabarain, Annals of the Sixteenth Star, 689.

Gharon was a city known for many things. It had been the center of the world for centuries, the beating heart of an empire. Later, it was a symbol of decadence and decline. For all of Michael’s life it had been an empty monument to hubris, a cautionary tale for all of Ghar’s children.

Today it was something else entirely. Its empty streets were packed with people, Gharic and a smattering of Ardans; they clustered near the silty quays, by the crumbling warehouses against the shore, and cheered madly at the passing bulk of Mendiko ships slowly sailing eastward - back to Mendian. Cheers and chants echoed from the buildings, sounding out over the water to chase the ships away.

Michael stood on the roof of the building they had secured, watching from a distance. Even this far from the shore, the streets were thronging with people; they had overheard enough to know that all Ghar was pouring in from the hinterlands to watch the Mendiko leave, to say they had been there when the hated occupiers were finally driven from their shores.

There had been no confrontation to drive them away. No Mendiko garrison had contested the advance of the Ardans up the old coastal road, or barred their entrance into the city; indeed, the Ardans had not even bothered to advance into Gharon itself. Michael suspected that was largely because they did not want their obruor-touched troops within the city needlessly, but it mattered little in the end. Mendian had been driven from Ghar, and Gharon was alight with joy.

Save for one man. Michael walked over to where Zabala stood watching his countrymen sail away. His expression was stony, closed, but Michael felt the low drumbeat of his anger, his shame.

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I wish Lekubarri were here,” Michael murmured. “We’ve been blind to events back in Mendian, and it seems that he didn’t get his way after all. I’d love to hear his explanation for this.”

Zabala shook his head. “It wouldn’t be an interesting one,” he said. His voice was low and hoarse. “This is who we are, it seems. Cowards and liars, without the goad of a Star to keep us honest. I knew the Batzar were gutless, but I never suspected that they had grown this - weak.” He tilted his head back, looking at the evening sky. “Just a rotten shell of something that mattered.”

“The batzarkideak aren’t willing to spend their energy protecting Saf,” Michael said. “It’s cowardly, perhaps, but I can’t say they’re without a point.”

“You don’t understand the - weight of what they’re doing,” Zabala said. “For centuries Mendian has stood on the strength of its word. The world knew the consequences of crossing us; when we spoke it meant something. Now they’ve shown that our promises can be broken, and people will test the others. The strait won’t be safe anymore, nor will our holdings by Estu.” He glared at the retreating ship. “I can’t believe Grand Marshal Errea permitted this to happen.”

Michael frowned. “He may not have had a choice. Antolin brought me to Daressa in large part because it was outside of the Batzar’s purview; I’m beginning to suspect they kept him there for much the same reason. It would be hard for him to push back effectively from Rouns.”

“You’re probably right,” Zabala muttered. “They’re daring in their own service, at least.” He looked out at the departing ships once more, then turned back towards the stairs. Michael followed him down, and the two men made their way to the bottom floor. The building was uninhabited - and had been for centuries, from the state of it. Its neighboring structures were entirely collapsed, but this one had been built uncommonly well, or with some measure of luck. It served to shelter them from the mild winter chill, at least, and obscure the light of their fire.

Sobriquet looked up as they entered. Her eyes settled on Zabala, then moved to Michael. “Get tired of watching the party?” she asked. “I think it’ll be going for some time yet.”

“I think you’re right,” Michael agreed. “I had no idea there were so many people still here. They’re coming from far afield, from out of whatever haven they had made for themselves.” He frowned. “Right into the arms of the Ardans. I hope Marcus is going into this with his eyes open, or this will end badly.”

She sighed. “You warned him. I warned him. I don’t think there’s much more we could have done to prevent this. We’ll have to hope that he’s got contingencies for when the Ardans turn on them.” Her head tilted towards the door. “For now, the soldiers are staying well away from the citizens. That means they’ve still got a use for Gharic goodwill. As long as that’s the case, Marcus will have some leverage.”

“They don’t want to have to worry about Ghar at their backs,” Michael said. “They’re going to have their hands full with Saf. Saleh won’t have been sitting idly by; I expect he knows more about the Ardan buildup than we do. He’ll have defenses prepared. He and Amira are the perfect counter to Luc and Friedrich, though-” He broke off, scratching his head. “I’m not sure they’re prepared for either, to be honest. Those two are each more than they should be.”

“Worried for our dear Safid friends?” Sobriquet asked, grinning. She shook her head in the next moment. “It’s a valid concern. Luc is bad enough as he is; any conflict with Saf is likely to make him worse. And if he were to lay his hands on Smoke or Sustain-” She grimaced. “I’m not sure what we could do in response.”

Michael nodded grimly, looking around the room. Lars had been playing a game of dice with the other soldiers; they had all stopped to listen. “Luc’s already tried going after them once,” Michael said. “Hopefully he’ll be predictable in his advance north. We’ll be able to draw near and force a conflict before circumstances worsen.”

Zabala snorted and shook his head. “You want to steal a march on Sibyl?” he asked.

“We do have Sobriquet,” Michael pointed out. “We can’t hide from Sofia entirely, but we should be able to achieve some manner of surprise.” He gestured to the south. “He’s got an army with him; he wants this to be a grand conflict. That means he’s tied to their movements. He won’t be able to flit around as he pleases, not like in Ardalt. Especially as he approaches the northern border with Saf, his movements will be constrained.”

“Relatively constrained,” Sobriquet said dryly. “As will ours be; he’ll have a large hostile army around him at all times, you know.”

Michael shrugged. “It’s just an army,” he said. “And we’re hardly going to be their first concern. There will be Safid forces to distract them - or large cheering crowds of Gharics.” He inclined his head towards the doorway. “Can you tell where he’s at right now?”

“You mean to go after him - what, now?” Sobriquet muttered, standing up and stretching. “As good a time as any, I suppose. But, no; this city is a madhouse right now, and likely will be until the Ardans take their leave. I could perhaps spot him if we drew close.” She craned her head to look out as the crowd gave another roar. “Very close. Sibyl will be a concern.”

Michael nodded, then turned to Zabala. “Are you up for a retreat if we need one?” he asked.

“At least one Mendiko should be doing something,” Zabala grumbled, rising to his feet. “I’m rested enough.”

Michael smiled, clapping his hands together. “Then let’s take a walk.”

The walk turned out to be a halting, circuitous exercise. The streets of Ghar were narrow, and narrowed further where debris had blocked the path. This would ordinarily not be a problem, save that those streets were now choked with revelers. Borrowing strength from Zabala wasn’t enough to let the men jump clear over the crowds, as Michael would have, and the crowd was too tightly-packed to slip through without revealing themselves.

“Tempting to just go unveiled,” Michael muttered.

Sobriquet gave him a flat look. “I’m sure that wouldn’t be an unmitigated disaster,” she said. “Sibyl would task men to our position - or artillery. At the very least, the element of surprise would have fled.”

“She has to know we’re here already. Simple inference would tell her that, to say nothing of the blind spot your veil causes - at this range, she’ll be able to detect it even if she can’t tell precisely where we are.” Michael shook his head. “Even so, we may still manage to surprise Luc. Whatever Sibyl may think of me, I don’t think it’s a given that she’d warn Luc. She may even hope that we meet, since it’s probably her best chance of seeing me killed.”

“That’s a lot of presumption on your part,” she sniffed. “She could warn Luc and Friedrich both, for all you know. How would you fare against both of them in concert?”

Michael paused, then shook his head. “Probably not well,” he conceded. “Although I can’t see the two of them working in concert. Friedrich holds Luc in contempt, and Luc hates Friedrich.” He grimaced. “More likely Luc would sit back and watch, then strike at the victor while they were weak.”

“That does sound like him,” Sobriquet agreed. “I don’t think we should risk it. We - damn.” She drew up short, nodding at another festive crowd blocking the way ahead. “Maybe today isn’t our day.”

“It’s not like we have anything else to do while the Ardans are encamped here,” Michael sighed, turning down a side street. They made their way closer still, circling back twice until they reached the perimeter of the Ardan forces, ringed by dull-eyed sentries - and a thick crowd of cheering Gharics who had chosen to welcome them to the city. They pressed close to the obruor-touched soldiers; one man wobbled under the attentions of an inebriated woman who clung to his shoulder and waved a skin of wine under his nose.

None of the soldiers reacted. The locals seemed to take it as a game rather than the troublesome sign that it was, offering drinks, jokes and bared skin to try and crack the stony facade. The sight would have been comical in other circumstances. As it was, Michael’s stomach twisted to see it.

“You’re right,” he murmured. “Today’s not our day; they’ll be like this all around the perimeter. We should head back and wait for things to calm down.”

Lars cleared his throat. “Slight problem,” he rasped.

Michael turned to follow the Ardan captain’s gaze and saw that another crowd was streaming onto the street behind them, intent on joining the party. The way back out was blocked, and growing more so with every passing moment. “Damn,” he spat, surveying the street around them. There were no doors to duck into; the structures in this part of town were largely collapsed, impassable rubble.

He let his breath out and shook his head. “Just unveil us,” he said. “Sibyl will see what she sees, but we’ll be gone before she can do anything of note. We’ll make our way through the crowd, slip back into the city, and try again another day.”

Sobriquet nodded; their party stepped to the side of the road and she released her veil before the oncoming press forced the issue. A few in the crowd blinked and rubbed their eyes when they noticed a group of strangers where there had been none before, but by and large the cheering masses streamed past in oblivious joy. Sweaty, rank bodies knocked into them. Michael served as a sort of breakwater, since the crowd couldn’t move him; there were a few piquant Gharic curses flung his way as men bounced off his unyielding stance. One man swung a drunken punch at him and reeled away clutching his hand.

Another reached past him to seize Sobriquet’s shoulder, bleary eyes widening. “I know you,” he slurred, squinting. “Know your face.”

She jerked out of his reach, scowling; Michael shifted to interpose himself between the two. “She’s just got one of those faces,” he said.

“Seen you on a poster,” the drunkard said, frowning. Michael felt dull heat begin to pulse from the man, the stirrings of nascent anger. “Sobriquet.” He leaned to the side, his eyes fixed on her. “It’s Sobriquet!”

Michael watched with a sinking feeling as a few more faces turned to look at them, their expressions shifting from joy to confusion, then to anger.

“Sobriquet?” someone shouted. “Where?”

A young man stepped forward with squared shoulders, staring daggers. “Mendiko whore,” he spat. “We won’t go back-”

Sobriquet lifted her chin. The man met her defiant glare and cocked a fist; before he could swing the air rippled next to him. His eyes rolled up in his head, and he dropped to the ground twitching. Outrage spiked from the crowd around them. Michael swiveled his head in alarm as more eyes turned to focus on them, anger building upon itself-

The air rippled again. Sobriquet raised her arm and slashed it viciously sideways; every local within ten paces of them dropped to the ground save for two men and a woman who stayed groggily upright.

“Potentes!” Lars warned. He raised his hand. Michael felt the crescendo of violence building, ready to crash down on them-

“Peace,” he whispered, closing his eyes and seizing the flood of anger with Spark. He tore it away, hid it, buried it. The crowd stumbled to a stop. The vacuum held for a bare moment before uncertainty and fear flooded into the gap; Michael let that build unchecked. Grim-faced, he led the group quickly away down the street, roughly shoving a few confused, tottering people from their path. Others scrambled hastily away.

Before long they were in the clear again. Michael felt Sobriquet’s veil settle on them; he released his grip on the crowd in turn. Screams echoed through the maze of streets, shrill and panicked. They ran without speaking, weaving their way clear of the busiest areas - nor were they the only ones moving at speed. More than once they saw Gharic potentes or durentes running with bloody-minded focus.

“We need to get out of the city!” Zabala shouted. “Get clear of the mob. It’s not safe here.”

“You think?” Sobriquet retorted. Her voice was tight, her face pale; Michael could feel more than mere anger from her. “Someone seems to have told them all what I look like; even those farmers down south recognized me.”

Michael pressed his lips together. “We can stay veiled,” he said. “Make our way as far from the crowds as we can, then lay low until they disperse - at night, perhaps.”

“You’re presuming that they won’t search for us,” Zabala grunted. “Those runners we saw weren’t out for their health; they’re calling people to this district. We can pick a place and hide, but if enough come, or if they enlist the aid of the Ardans…”

“Then we’ll deal with it,” Michael said grimly. “With some time to discuss strategy we can settle on a subtle use of our souls - something like what I did in Rouns, perhaps. That should be less likely to draw them down on us.”

Casting about with his sight, Michael found a building with a partially-obstructed doorway; they squeezed inside and arranged for it to be fully-obstructed, laying chunks of debris so that it matched the countless other impassable entrances around them.

There, huddled out of sight, they waited for dark.

The sounds of roving crowds filtered through gaps in the stonework; they sounded less merry than before. There was no cheering. Rapid, purposeful footsteps swelled, sometimes pausing for long and tense moments before continuing on their way.

Mostly, though, the afternoon passed in quiet boredom. As the sunlight turned golden, Michael leaned his head back against the wall and turned to Sobriquet. She had been uncharacteristically quiet since they went to ground. Granted, they were supposed to be keeping stealth - but that had never stopped her from commenting before. Her face was blank, staring into a dusty corner of the room.

“How are you holding up?” Michael asked.

She snorted quietly. “Bored,” she replied. “Irritated.”

“Nothing out of the ordinary, then,” Michael said. He offered a slight smile with the comment; she didn’t react. His smile fell slowly away. “It’s more than that, though.”

She gave him a withering look, but it lacked in commitment. After a moment she shook her head and let it thunk back gently against the crumbling brick. “I have sympathy for you,” she said. “It’s extremely annoying when someone can tell you’ve left more unsaid. I must have been a right horror to talk to back when we were first getting to know each other.”

“Your words, not mine.” Michael edged closer to her. “So are you going to tell me, or are you going to hold the secret in reserve to secure my good behavior? Turnabout would be fair play.”

“As funny as that would be-” She shook her head wearily. “I’m too tired for that. I miss the old days. We knew where we stood then - with respect to the people, and to our oppressors. It was simple, or simple enough.” She closed her eyes. “I miss Charles, and Clair. Gerard. Others you didn’t get a chance to meet. We should have all made it through, and stayed to enjoy what we built. Instead we’re - here.”

“We did build it, though,” he said. “Daressa is still free, and thriving under Emil’s guidance.”

“And so our job is done,” she muttered. “You know, back in the resistance we used to despise people who couldn’t think outside the confines of their little village. ‘The Ardans are treating us well, so why should we get involved?’ Selfish and cowardly - but look at us. Throwing our lot in with the Mendiko, blind to all of this.”

“This is hardly the same as the occupation in Daressa,” Michael protested.

Sobriquet shook her head. “It’s the same in the ways that matter. They certainly thought it was the same. They looked at us and saw kindred - looked at me and saw hope. Then we turned around and threw our lot in with the Mendiko.” She looked up at Michael. “I understand why they hate me. I’d hate me, for that.”

Michael nodded slowly. “You know,” he said, “I’ve had cause to think about my impact on others, lately. About the Michael that they see, which is their truth. It’s a version of me, but not one that I have any control over. I expect there are plenty of people that hate their Michael. They’re all justified; he's horrible.”

She mustered a small smile. “So it’s not that I’m horrible, merely that I’ve behaved in a way that causes an entire city to see me as such. As reassurances go-”

“You never made any promises to them,” Michael insisted. “You never asked for their hope. They imagined you saving them, and never thought once about the means by which you would do it. Now your true self is in conflict with the Sobriquet they’ve built, and they hate you - not for harming them, but for destroying their pleasant fiction of you.”

“My true self is so disappointing that it drives men to violence,” she said, deadpan. “I feel so much better.”

He grimaced. “That wasn’t what I meant. There’s always some friction. Always some points where what they see doesn’t match up with your truth. And where there is difference, one of the two must yield. You’re under no obligation to change the truth of yourself for men you’ve never met.”

“And yet when we do meet, they tend to insist,” she sighed.

“We all shape ourselves around the world as we see it,” Michael said. “Some of them clung to a version of you, crafting a space in their lives for a person they’ve never met. It doesn’t matter what the truth of you is, or if you ever meet - they still shape themselves to-” He broke off, sitting upright with wide eyes. “Oh.”

Sobriquet’s eyes narrowed, her head coming up. “What is it?” she asked. “Trouble?” She frowned. “I don’t see anyone nearby.”

“No, I-” Michael laughed, running his fingers through his hair. “Sorry. I just realized how affinity works. Or - why it works, I suppose.”

She blinked. “Does understanding it give you some modicum of control?” she asked.

“I don’t think so?” Michael made a face. “Probably not. But it’s something that’s weighed on me for a while. Even if I can’t control it, understanding - helps.”

Sobriquet gave him a long, considering look. Eventually, she let her head rest against the wall once more. “I’m happy that it works like that for you,” she sighed. “I-”

She stopped, her eyes opening once more. “There is someone coming,” she said. “Three men. They’re heading straight for this doorway.”

“Only three?” Michael asked, rising to his feet; he sent his sight outside and quickly found the trio. “If they’re intent on searching here we should be able to - ah.” He frowned. “It’s Marcus.”

“From the rally?” she asked. “Why is he out here?”

“To speak with us,” Michael shrugged. “Apparently.” He walked to the door and began to shift a few pieces of rubble, enough to make a gap for passage. He stepped back from the opening he had made; Marcus ducked inside shortly thereafter, followed by his two companions.

“Hello, friends,” he said brightly, casting a smile around the ruined interior. “An eventful day in Gharon, I’d say.”

The men looked at him warily, Zabala with undisguised suspicion; Michael smiled and offered his hand. “It’s been interesting,” he said, as Marcus shook it. “I hope you’re not here to make it more so.”

Marcus laughed. “Depends on definitions, I’d say. The people are in something of a frenzy over the news that not all of the Mendiko forces have left the city.” He held up a hand before anyone could speak. “Not strictly true, I’m aware. You’re welcome to have a debate on semantics with the next mob you run across.”

Zabala made a derisive noise. “Why don’t you tell them, then?” he asked. “It’s not like they have anything further to fear from the Mendiko.”

“That may be true,” Marcus agreed. “But that’s not what the Ardans are saying. They’re taking quite an interest in fanning those flames. It’s making my position somewhat tenuous. To contradict them now would force a conflict, and that would be - poor timing.” He waggled his hand. “Politics. So I’d rather obviate the need for that conflict, and get you out of the city. It will deprive the Ardans of their goad and make my life much easier.”

“You know a way clear?” Michael asked.

Marcus gave him another sunny smile. “Gharon is my city,” he said. Despite his disposition, the words had a granite solidity to them; they hung in the air for a moment before he continued. “I see everything that happens in it, and know all of its secrets. This includes quite a few safe paths outside the city, although if you had hoped to move south I’d advise that you reconsider. There are currently several Ardans hanging about the south road.”

“We’d noticed,” Michael chuckled. He looked towards the outside, then back at Marcus. “No, we need to go north.”

“Then north you shall go.” Marcus turned to the door. “This way, please.”

Michael turned momentarily to ensure that everyone was up, then followed Marcus out the door. The Gharic leader walked quickly across the street, then down a narrow alley choked with a thick carpet of evergreen ivy across its bottom.

“Have the Ardans given you much trouble?” Michael asked.

Marcus shook his head. “Not as such. Oh, they’re bothersome, particularly in how they inflame the people with their proclamations, but they’ve had a light touch. They’re not here for us, after all.” He turned to give Michael a significant look, then continued on.

“Therefore, now is not the time to make them concerned about me. I am happy, grateful, and fully cooperative with their forces. In return, my people are fed and given their liberty. I expect that I’ll shortly have the opportunity to make a few trade missions, which will be a nice luxury.” Marcus turned a corner, then ducked through a doorway; Michael scrambled to keep up.

By the time he had made it through the low doorway, Marcus was already contemplating an ancient wooden door. It was rotten and crumbling, and the ivy had grown up to impede its path. He shook his head, then looked back at Michael. “I think the last time I used this path, I was only a boy,” he said quietly. “The door still swung freely, and the floor was not so overgrown. It didn’t occur to me that any part of it could change, it had not done so since long before my birth. Yet, here is a change.”

He turned back to Michael, his eyes twinkling. “The city still has lessons to teach me,” he said. “In this case, about complacency. A timely reminder, don’t you think?” He grabbed the door and roughly yanked it open, tearing the ivy free from the stone beneath. Cold air blew up from a staircase; Marcus walked into the unlit space without hesitation.

Michael followed him. There were no lights as they picked their way down the stairs, which didn’t trouble him; he did hear a few muffled curses from the men as they followed, though. After a steep descent, they arrived in a room with a hole in one wall. Marcus led them through the hole and into a long tunnel that stretched out into the darkness. There was a depression in the center of the tunnel, encrusted with ice atop a slight trickle of running water.

“This path is entirely straightforward,” Marcus said. “By which I mean you may proceed straight, forward, and arrive at a cistern which sits just inside the northwest wall. That wall has, alas, largely fallen. You should be able to find a clear path across it and thence to parts north.”

“I don’t suppose you have a suggestion on which parts,” Michael said. “We’d like to intercept the Ardans as they move towards Saf.”

“Then go to Saf,” Marcus said, very seriously. “You will find that Ghar has lost its tolerance for friends of Mendian. If you stay within its borders, then you will inevitably come into conflict with my people. I’d rather they not die from such an avoidable cause, so - please. Go to Saf.”

He paused, and his tone slid back into his usual neutral affability. “There was an old road, long ago, that wound its way up the coast to a low pass. It’s an easy crossing, and the best way to get into Saf from our lands. I expect that the Safid will have that pass well-guarded, and that the Ardans will nevertheless march right into the teeth of it.”

“That does sound likely,” Michael agreed, extending his hand again. “Thank you, Marcus. I know you’re not doing it for us, but I appreciate it all the same.”

The other man smiled as he returned the handshake. “I dearly hope our best interests continue to coincide this pleasantly,” he said. “Until next time.”

And then Marcus was gone, along with his two guards. Michael stood in the damp, cold tunnel, listening to the flow of water, then shook his head. “All right,” he said. “We’ve been shown the door. Let’s go to Saf.”