The unfortunate timing of Prince Gabriel’s political marauding through the central kingdoms was such that it began precisely after the good bishop left Jeameaux. Thus, the political turmoil fell on the secular government. Sir Rodrick The Holy Blade was nominated as her steward because he was already the chief of the city guard, which constituted the city-state’s entire armed forces. He was universally acknowledged as a man of competency, even temperament, and careful wisdom.

That was why he was able to hold his tongue, even on a withering summer day as he listened to a local lord, who didn’t even have a proper title of nobility, whine at him about the dangers to the grain harvest that Prince Gabriel, and by extension all of Vassermark, presented to the people of Jeameaux. Of course, he really meant to his own estate. This could not entirely be faulted on the local lord, for his wealth was predicated on feeding the people. If he couldn’t make money, that meant people weren’t being fed

Sir Rodrick was all too aware that the man had already signed contracts of sale with various merchant groups out of Vassermark that were costed out to send the grain south through Puerto Vida and up the Vassish coast, a relatively costly method of transport that had been agreed to as a gamble when they expected so safe transit could be made through Giordana and the lord would have to pay the bill of of physical transport across land. Now that Vassermark had put down the rebellion, it was Jeameaux that would profit from the gamble.

Thus, the merchants that supplied the Vassish armies were pushing for war to wipe their contracts away and simply seize the grain plus whatever other plunder could be had.

Such is often the cause of wars. The legends love to retell stories of love and valor, of how spurned kings might lead their men across the world to win back a beautiful woman no matter the cost. The conflict in the central kingdoms was of no such wonder. It was the kind of penny pinching conflict fought across maps with little toys completely disconnected from the human lives being wagered and thrown away.

To put it simply, it was the kind of war brewing that made Sir Rodrick want to cut off the head of every merchant involved.

People would starve if he did that though. He saw no alternative but to listen to the entreatments of the half-corrupt merchant lord while single-handedly downing an entire amphora of wine by himself.

Rescue came in the form of his cupbearer, an orphaned girl taken in by the church who he had earlier sent away to play with the other children rather than listen to grown men argue. She poked her head through the doorway and tried to clear her throat, but it was nothing more than an awkward imitation.

The merchant lord grimaced. “More wine, is it?”

“I didn’t send for any,” Sir Rodrick said and waved the girl in. “What is it?”

She closed the door behind her. “You’ve been requested at the cathedral, Sir. The angel wants to speak with you.”

“The angel? Which angel? Is Jean back?” Hope warmed his chest for a moment and he allowed himself to dream of spending his nights with his wife once more.

The girl blushed and fidgeted with her dress. “No, it’s not Lady Jean, sir. It’s the one in the stone. The statue angel. He said his name was–”

“Aurum,” he finished for her. He rose to his feet, somber faced. “We’ll have to finish our discussion another time.”

The merchant lord sighed. “Of course, sir. Of course. Can’t leave an angel waiting.”

Sir Rodrick lifted his goblet to his lips, but stopped and put it down half-finished. Thanking the girl, he strode out of the meeting room. His honor guard fell in behind him and the trio left the palace of the twins for the city’s grand cathedral.

The city of Jeameaux is a beautiful thing of graceful age. Courtesy of a stoneshaper several centuries prior, it straddles the land between the two namesake lakes, not on a bed of wet silt but on upraised bedrock, as though the city sat upon castle walls fit for a siege. One would have to travel all the way to Drachenreach to see an equivalent monolith. For generations, this proved to be ample space to live and prosper. There is even a grand network of sewers and flood tunnels to service the city, but the city grew and no new stoneshaper was found.

They tried to service the tunnels with traditional masonry, to ill-effect. Several areas had to be forsaken completely and were taken over by vagabonds. The city cannibalized the greenery around the city until getting wood for a cook fire became so burdensome that most citizens couldn’t afford to cook their food. Over half of the population ended up living off the stone bulwarks, their shanties sinking into the mud, giving new meaning to the city of the twins.

Half lived in wet squalor and half lived in the old city, and it was at the heart of the old city that the cathedral tolled out the hours. This made it a focus point for discontent that I must say was largely misplaced. The people of Jeameaux were able to see the inherent wealth disparity and that made them more sensitive to it despite the fact that it was one of the most egalitarian cities in the world.

To make matters worse, there was a seventy percent correlation between ethnicity in the city and whether one lived on stone or upon mud, and it was the descendents of Giordanan refugees that lived on mud(1).

Sir Rodrick couldn’t pass a single day without looking upon the lakeside docks, at the workers running between ships and warehouses, and not wonder how he could keep the city from ripping itself apart. He was painfully aware that the city guard proper could never recruit from the lower classes, no matter what wages were offered. They simply didn’t trust the pale skinned men from on stone. Instead they organized local militias throughout the city reaches and confounded the attempts to build new city walls.

If Jeameaux were to go to war, it would have a choice to make. The army could stay behind what walls it did have, and in doing so abandon hundreds of thousands of people. Or, the army could take to the field and be outnumbered, possibly out maneuvered.

If a proper diplomatic envoy from Vassermark had arrived with reasonable terms, he would have happily avoided war.

Unfortunately, he knew that Aurum would only bother to attend to him in the most extreme of circumstances. Sir Rodrick found the angel, or at least the dispatched incarnation, in the private living quarters of the cathedral. While the marble vaults, the murals and frescos, were a wonderful way to capture the awe of the worshippers, the work of the cathedral was done in rather dismal stone rooms decorated by faded tapestries and soot stained from too many centuries. There was no private garden, barely any fresh air, and servants were needed to bring food in and waste out.

Sir Rodrick had to duck through the stooped doorway to enter the library that Aurum had commandeered, where at least there were windows and no candles were needed until dusk. While he showed no outward sign of it, he was disgusted by what he saw inside.

Aurum was a divine beast, a more true one than even Golden. His relationship with mortality was perverse and private, something barely even gossiped about in the churches. Those that knew, kept their mouths shut. Not because of divine retribution but through very simple methods of bureaucratic punishment. Volunteers were always needed to staff religious schools on the theological frontiers, and the voluntary aspect was negotiable.

Sir Rodrick shut the door.

Aurum, temporarily clad in the body of the temple prostitute, sat open legged and sprawled across a reading sofa. The woman whose body he inhabited had a certain stigmata inscribed upon her face that marked her as such, written not by the gods but by Aurum. When activated, it transferred his will to her body, suppressing her mind as well as her memories of the events. The effect was less convenient than it sounded, because it also interfered with Aurum’s ability to create short term memories. Weeks would pass like days if he were not careful, or in most cases: chided.

“Put some damn clothes on.”

Aurum reclined on the couch, twisting the book he was reading sideways. I still wonder if such behavior was merely to show off, or if it aided comprehension in some way. “It’s hot in here. Do not order me like a child.”

“You’re in a woman’s body, Aurum.”

The divine beast tossed the book aside. “What of it? Is our great paladin unable to control his lust?”

“You’re acting like your brother,” Sir Rodrick said, crossing his arms.

Aurum leapt to his feet. “Do not bring him into this.”

“Then put some clothes on. It’s not your body that’s being disgraced, it’s your unwitting servant. Do what’s right and then tell me what brought you here.”

The angel stifled further complaint and pulled down a dressing gown barely fit for walking through halls. Wrapping it around the prostitute’s body, he spoke as though no cross words at all had been exchanged. “What do you think about the situation with Vassermark?”

“We’ve always been their friend. A few rising powers making trouble won’t bring us to war. Even if some in the city want proper independence, it won’t happen.”

“The crown prince of Giordana is one calling for independence,” Aurum said, turning back to the paladin.

“He was,” Sir Rodrick corrected. “Until the Canta boy’s rebellion was crucified up and down the coast for miles. Vassermark is big enough to devour a city like us and come out stronger for it. We’re a granary for them as they focus on Skaldheim.”

Aurum said, “Find the lout. You’ll need him on your side. War is coming, I assure you of that. Sir Rodrick, in the name of my father, Helios, I am ordering you into independent action, on your own initiative. Take whatever resources you need, leave nothing untapped. Vassermark is bringing an army north from Puerto Vida to put down any rebellious forces in the area and I need you to rebel. Draw out the men leading the army and kill them. The official commander is a noble named Lucius von Solhart. I think you’ll struggle, but will ultimately be able to best him. I care little for his fate. With him is an old man–you’ll recognize the demon when you see him–known as Amurabi.”

The paladin scowled. “You expect me to kill an old man?”

Sir Rodrick, you are hereby excommunicated from the church until such time as you deliver me his head. If you cannot, then the world will burn.”

The paladin staggered back at the words, but resisted the urge to ease himself into one of the reading chairs. “Excommunicated?”

Aurum turned away from him. “Unfortunately, to protect the church, we must denounce you, or Vassermark will have standing to root us out entirely and spread their own faith. While they are but one army of a few thousand we have the best chance of killing him. You’re the strongest knight we have, Rodrick. What’s more, I’ve hired a mercenary for Aillesterra to help you.”

“A jungle savage?”

Aurum laughed. “The Cyclops is from the central kingdoms actually.”

A deeper population analysis would reveal that almost every refugee from the age of the King In Yellow had married into the local population. Their ethnic stock was diluted into the city and most had found employment in the old city. Those living in the outer reaches were primarily recent arrivals creating a fiction of centuries long oppression to explain the obvious disparity between generational wealth and poor wanderers.