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Chapter Text

In all the ways a man could, Magistrate Faltan would fill up a room. If he was an inch he was all of six feet and two inches; his voice was sweet in song (for he had been a singer for three years in the marketplace of Zerzura during his youth, earning his pay for tuition in the Great Academy) and booming in declaration; he was portly in the belly but strong in the limbs, for he spent an hour a day in strict observance of Practices of Health for the Polite Gentleman ; his face was like the ramming prow of an old ship, dominated by a fierce and pointed nose, sitting over a brush of wiry black beard shot with silver; and in his hand he forever grasped a sergeantstick, much like a walking stick but used by the watchmen of Zerzura to apprehend criminals, solid and reliable wood, with its studded and banded tip making it a fearsome club in times of peril. 

It was this figure of majesty, in his blue wide-legged trousers and blue traveler’s cape over a coat of vivid green, that strode down the ramp from ship to shore in the bustling harbor of Gang Song. Behind him were porters with his luggage- only two, for the Magistrate travelled lightly, a pair of trunks and a couple of satchels. A trio of Imperial officers awaited him, and stood by patiently as he leaned hard on the sergeantstick, his feet feeling solid ground once more after the two months’ sea voyage and immediately sending his head into an uneasy lurch. 

“But one moment, my lords,” he said, breathing deeply in and out, seeking to steady himself. They provided a flurry of assurances, stepping out of their parade-crisp stances as they waited for him to right himself. 

“Indeed, Magistrate, please- no man is ever quite ready to discuss business the very moment he steps off the ship. This, your luggage, shall we put it aboard the carriage?” 

The porters stopped hauling, standing by for their cue. They were wights of Arcadia, well along in the unlife all Arcadians knew, their flesh desiccated and half-withered from their frames. But their strength they retained, and they hardly ate, nor could they fall ill. Faltan paid handsomely for their services, and they had travelled halfway over the world with him. He tipped them a nod, gesturing towards the ornate carriage that stood at the ready. At once, the junior officer of the trio and the two wights began loading up the Magistrate’s trunk. The senior officer stepped aside, and the Magistrate followed. Though Faltan had learned to tell, in any group of soldiers, who the commander was, from the slightest of movements and the levels of ease any of them might exhibit, it was the cloth-of-gold neckerchief and captain’s signet that gave him away.

“You are Magistrate Faltan, of Zerzura, indeed?”

Faltan drew himself up, and quite a ways up did Faltan have to draw himself. “Indeed, my lord, your servant is the Magistrate Faltan of wherever he may go, be it Shangri-la or Antillia or even at one time Atlantis; but what has my lord of it?” 

The captain produced a lacquered wooden tube, opening it with a soft pop and withdrawing a roll of paper. “In that case, I certify you are indeed the Magistrate Faltan I am to deliver this message to, and the message is as such: it is the honor of the Baron Ying, Chancellor to the Exchequer, to declare the Magistrate Faltan will reside in the guest house of his manor in Gang Song, and be there supplied with every need and every gentleman’s want, at the expense of the Baron Ying and the Imperial Treasury, for the duration of the work he has come to provide to them, and blessings and long life should pursue him and overtake him, and his name shall mean prosperity.”

With that, the captain neatly re-rolled the paper and returned it to the tube. “That was the message it was my task to deliver. Your luggage- great gods!” 

Faltan snapped his head in the direction that the captain was staring aghast, and saw the shoving match that had erupted between his porters, the junior officer, and the carriage-driver. Curses were being bandied in Arcadian, Xanadunu, and indeed Avalonese and Hyperborean, and Faltan had the ear to understand all of them; the luggage was toppling; the men were near blows; and- his brow furrowed down -he knew precisely who was to blame for such a thing. 

With a stride like a giant he approached the contending men, breaking through the knot of the quarrel using his sergeantstick as though it were a battering ram, and thundered out, “Bad enough my trunks are bumped about on a ship those months! Mind how you use them, gentlemen!”

You could blame everyone, Faltan knew, or you could blame nobody; it was when you decided that there was somebody in particular to blame that things went sour, curdled into bitterness. He hefted up one trunk, handing it to the hapless carriage-driver, shaking his sergeantstick in a warning gesture. “You, man, a wainer of years I take you, to tumble a passenger’s belongings so? Peter! Thomas! You know well how to manage my luggage, what’s come over you, now? Carefully, men, set it all down, let’s begin from the start.” 

He gestured with his stick as they all begrudgingly loaded the trunks and bags once more. The carriage creaked slightly as the Magistrate got aboard, followed by the senior officer; another carriage, less ostentatious, took aboard the younger officers and the porters. With a crack of whips that echoed off the buildings along the docks, the small entourage made way for the Baron’s manor. 

From above, the manor was a strange stain on the dense city; breaking the tight, efficiently organized sprawl of grid-streets was the broad green grounds, the gardens and wings, the guest-house and stables and entertainment salon, all bounded in with elegantly wrought fences and patrolled by guards. To be the highest representative of the Imperial Treasury here in the Hinterlands was a task which required a generous measure of pomp and pride; it was no good managing the finances of a continent if you did not conduct yourself as though you were exactly the person for the job. 

There were three people aboard the carriage that Faltan was in; himself, the senior officer- who had introduced himself by this point as Bu -and the driver. There were four passengers. The fourth sat across from Faltan, with a horrid look of self-satisfaction on his face, speaking in the slightly quavering tone that forever only Faltan could hear. The Magistrate would have gone waxen and livid, but neither Bu nor the driver could see this fourth passenger, nor hear him; to put on a foul face would disturb them both, and probably only encourage that passenger further. 

“You can’t blame me, come on,” Syro said, chuckling. “Two months on that boat. And now so many fresh faces to play with- it’s like a buffet dinner!” 

A ghost from a war, as Syro had once explained it, not due to be fought for a thousand years. Faltan had been bound to him by a charmed amulet he had once foolishly donned, and now neither ghost nor amulet seemed able to leave his company. The amulet he kept bound within its ivory casing, resting between his coat and shirt; such things were uncommon but not unheard of, and it would arouse little suspicion. The sardonic wraith was more of an issue. 

“Professional men, that’s the thing. Professionals are dying to fight, they’re these bottomless wells of ego. Every professional, as far as they’re concerned, is the best professional what has ever lived; it’s like dry wood, like wood shavings with just a spark. Sawdust! That’s the thing. Just the slightest push and they ignite.” 

Faltan sought to ignore the spirit’s ramblings. Syro fed on agitation, anger, hostility in general; regrettably, a Magistrate’s job was to suppress as much of that feeling as possible. It was difficult to do with a poltergeist tethered to you who had the ability to nudge the state of mind in any mortal just that far towards outrage, and the inclination to do so as well. He avoided staring at where the spirit sat: firstly, it would make him appear unfocused, and second, Syro was a terrible sight when he made himself visible. His face a lattice of scars, his clothing disheveled and ash-stained, his grin a leering and awful smirk. 

Rather, Faltan peered out the window, taking in the sights of Gang Song. People stepped out of the way as the carriages rattled by, then promptly closed once more like water sealing over an anchor dropped to the depth. Carpenters and tailors were hard at work, butchers and apothecaries, glaziers and- ah! He sniffed in the air with a relish, savoring the smell of fresh baking as the carriage passed by a bakery. Such a smell he had not scented all the time at sea. 

“Should I live a thousand years,” he said, “I shall never tire of the way a bakery smells. Keep perfumes, keep incense, fresh bread, that is the scent to beat all others.” 

“It is Ysan,” Bu replied. “They are masters of bread there.” He took a few whiffs of the air himself. “And of course, they bring their bread here, and people will fight for a place in line to buy Ysan bread. Now, for me, if there is a king of all smells it is duck, slow-roasted duck. That is a smell that could last me a thousand years, duck done long over a low fire.”

“They’d fight over it, did he say?” Syro murmured, craning out of the window. His spectral form melded into and through the captain’s physical body as the ghost sought for a look. “I mean, I’ve seen people fighting over bread, it’s just usually more a matter of getting any of it than one particular type.” 

“I have eaten Xanadunu duck, my lord, and there is nothing to compare to it. There must be a space, a count of ten at most, exactly where the meat is perfectly cooked through- ah, that is a foretaste of paradise. Too long- it is dry, too short- it is raw, but in that gap between, like the eye of a needle, like the edge of a knife, that is food fit for the Emperor’s table.” 

A hot scratching sensation was in Faltan’s stomach. He had barely eaten that day, and most of the food on the voyage had been plain sailor’s fare. Delicate dining was all but out of the question when the food stores had to put up with two months at sea, and as fortifying as the slightly greasy seaman’s soup could be- more a gravy or stew than a soup, really -the Magistrate would have paid golden double-nef coins for just a cake of bread or bowl of rice, with a pinch of salt or perhaps some herbs…the more he pondered, the more insistent his hunger became. But such was life in his trade. For every time he had sat hungry when he would rather have eaten- be it listening to a long-winded address, or in his younger days, singing in the marketplace -there were times when he was obliged to eat when he would much rather have abstained. He still remembered- and it somewhat banished his appetite to recall the occasion -being presented with a platter of thel-pel , meat of the shaggy tundra arot served barely even touched to a hot pan, when he adjudicated among the corsair lords of Hyperborea. 

The driver cracked his whip more frequently, half to drive on the horses as they toiled uphill and half to scatter the crowd on the streets, as they approached the handsome gates of the Baron’s manor. Three pillars, a gate between each two, fifteen feet high and wrought with springing lions and soaring gulls. On the central pillar was marked the great seal of the Imperial Treasury: a circle, divided in half along its width with the tossing waves, meeting a shore at each side- the homeland of Xanadu on one, and the other representing lands abroad. In the upper half, halfway between sea and circumference, was marked a glowing sun. 

The soldiers who pulled them open- six to a side, twenty-four to the two gates -wore black coats and flat-topped red caps, each with a red sash where hung their sabre and pistol. Magistrate Faltan knew little of weapons; unfortunately, he had a travelling companion who happily supplied information of such things. Whether he asked for it or not. 

“First Bodyguard Regiment of the Imperial Hinterlands,” Syro remarked, peering out at the assembled soldiers, as their captain barked an order. With crisp step and peerless unison, the soldiers closed the gates once more, as the second coach pulled in behind them. “Some of them are second-generation Hinterlanders. Never saw the old country, some of them. Trained out on the Green River Fortress. They use the same stuff as the Imperial Army, though. Manual of Arms, the Campaign Primer, a lot of drill and parade stuff, too.”

There was a nearly imperceptible tremor in the air, like a thread-thin heat haze reaching from the carriage out to one of the soldiers, followed by the wraith declaring, “Pretty disciplined, I’ll give them that. At any rate, I can’t get in their heads. Not right now. But everybody’s got a weak point.” 

“A fine body of men,” the Magistrate declared aloud, breaking the quiet of the journey along the streets. “I’ve seldom seen their like. The Baron could ask no better a regiment to stand guard at his gate.”

“Oh, indeed.” Bu arose from his seat, as one of the Bodyguards opened the door of the carriage. He had to stoop to get out- Faltan did as well, although for him it was less merely stooping than almost bending double. The carriage was finely appointed, but many a carriage had Faltan rode in without yet finding one that was truly comfortable for a man of his size. 

“These men, Magistrate, are trained as every soldier of Xanadu is. It takes a true man-” Bu clenched his fist, giving it a subtle shake, as though grasping tight on discipline itself, “-to face down the bullet-storm, marching with head high and gun ready while shot, ball and rocket go past. A true man, and these men are truest of all. If the Magistrate will accompany me?”

Faltan turned back towards where the luggage sat on the coach. “Shall my porters be quartered here? I cannot prevail upon my lord’s hospitality, but it would be a shame to me to send off men in my employ.” 

“Ah,” Bu clapped his hands together, “of course, of course, Magistrate. There are many rooms in the guest house of the Baron, fear not.” 

Already, Peter and Thomas were unloading the trunks, and soldiers of the Bodyguards stood a rigid watch around them, a few directing the coachmen towards the stables. Faltan turned back one more time, bowing deeply towards the driver of the carriage.

“It is ill use of your carriage, my lord, for poor Faltan to ride in it. You are a man fit to drive princes and kings, bless you!” 

The coachman sat up straighter in his seat, raising his broad-brimmed straw hat in a friendly gesture. “Bless you, Magistrate. Hey, hey!” He tugged on the reins, and the horses set off, leaving Faltan with his trunks, the officers, and the stern-faced soldiers of the Bodyguards. With the soldiers falling into firm lines behind them, marching at a pace so steady their footfalls could be their own marching drum, the band made way towards the guest house of the manor. 

It was a large, low structure, square and white-walled, planted about with flowerbeds. In the vast diplomatic codices of the Magistrate’s memory he sought out the meaning encoded in them, but decided that it was either exceedingly well-encrypted or that the gardeners of the Baron’s manor cared very little for the symbolism of different flowers. Syro, invisibly, addressed the building with a cynical sneer. 

“So we don’t even get a second story? How dignified. I suppose we’re lucky we’re not getting quartered in the stables.” 

“Such a house, for a humble guest?” Faltan declared, his stick thumping softly on the grass of the rolling grounds. It was grass of the Hinterlands, different, new. He had learned that in his years of travel. No two places were ever precisely the same, no two lands had the same grass, or the same taste in the water, or color to the sunset. 

“Magistrate!” Bu exclaimed. “To provide hospitality is the most saintly thing any man can do. Are we not all guests of the Divine Agency? And see what a lovely guest house they have furnished us with, the world with all her wonders.” 

“Indeed, indeed,” he nodded. The door was ahead- or doorway, rather; in the style of the Xanadunu there was an open doorway into an antechamber, and within the chamber stood the proper door to the house. Smooth as ships on a silent sea, four soldiers of the Bodyguards split off from the columns marching behind and stepped smartly ahead. Two pulled on the brass rings, tugging open the doors; two stood to attention next to the portal, and the marching soldiers came to a halt as Bu stepped through. Faltan followed after, tucking his sergeantstick beneath his arm; to leave staff-marks on these lacquered wood floors would, he felt, scarcely be the conduct of a courteous guest. 

The great room of the guest house was prepared- two carved wooden tables, surrounded by low seats, for such was the way of the Xanadunu, serving to the guests on one table and to the host on the other. Faltan’s knees began to ache at the mere sight of the benches which sat by the table, and it took some force of will to marshal himself. Many were the qualities he retained, proudly, from the strength of youth, but to arise from so low a seat was a task of its own. Round about the tables went servants and waiters, directed at the dignified gestures or curt commands of a single woman who stood off to the side of the room. Her gown was of subdued golden-auburn, and her face was elegantly made- the fashion, if Faltan recalled correctly, in Xanadu’s mainland, where cosmetics were bold and exquisite in quality. 

“Cook, the fish on its plate, at once. You, and you- our tables are too far apart, are they not? Yes, bring them together. But half an inch. The yellow bowls? No, today we serve on the black set, bring them at once.” 

Her steady stream of commands put Faltan in mind once more of the journey over, how the captain would marshal the crew, sending them this way and that at frantic pace whenever the weather ran rough, or as the ship came into the dock. It took the mind of a tyrant to run such affairs. Indeed, some tyrants Faltan had known were less ruthless than a ship’s captain or the chamberlain of a house when it came time to serve a feast. 

Bu bowed and stationed himself in the corner of the room, and Syro draped himself lazily over the bench. Future casualty of war or not, Faltan couldn’t help but envy the ease with which the spectre could simply slide down or unfold himself upwards from the low-slung couch. For the moment, he remained standing, until it drew a sharp glance from the lady commanding the staff.

“Dear Magistrate! Shall a guest be left standing at a meal in his honor? Sit, if you please. The Baron shall join you once you have had bread, fish and fowl.” Her graceful makeup seemed to flow like ink as she raised an eyebrow. “No sooner can any man be considered sated, and one cannot conduct business with those who are not sated.” 

Faltan bowed, leaning deeply on his sergeantstick as he lowered himself, inch by agonizing inch, onto the cushioned couch. He was most grateful to that stick- any cheaper one would have likely snapped under his weight years ago. “My lady- inasmuch as your servant is graced by your hospitality -will…” 

He stopped short, pulling his expression back from the edge of a glare. Syro had arisen, and was exhaling a steam-like cloud of phantasmal essence between two of the waiters. Bad enough of its own accord, but as they were carrying a silver platter loaded with delicacies between them, chaos was far too close at hand. 

“...please, give your servant only a minute portion of such delights,” he said, gesturing at the tray-bearers. “I have come from sea not too long ago, and it does the senses mischief to change too quickly from a seafaring diet to a landed one.” 

She looked haughty, and gestured over the pair of waiters, just as they began to glower at one another, the tray rocking in a grasp not quite steady at either end. “In the guest house of the Baron Ying, we shall neither give what is not wanted nor withhold what is demanded, dear Magistrate. Men- take but one portion and leave it on the glazed platter. Then you return the rest to the kitchens, and you shall bring for the dear Magistrate our wine of the day.” 

She turned back, giving a glance of all those in the know to those they assume are in it as well. “It is of the vineyards of Antillia, dear Magistrate. It shall never be said that the guest house of Baron Ying serves anything but that wine which is proper for an esteemed guest.” 

Faltan inclined his head. “My lady, no tongue would bear speaking the words.” 

Chapter Text

The wine was indeed fitting the meal, and the meal fitting for the wine, and the whole of the hospitality provided pleasant for a man just coming from weeks upon weeks at sea. Faltan praised the Mistress of the Guest House, and the cooks and waiters all alike, though he ate little of the meal; Syro skulked about the room, tracing his spectral hands along antique trophies and bowls and vases. 

It was after a pair of waiters cleared the glazed dish of brownbird from before the Magistrate to the far end of the table and wiped away any stray crumbs that Baron Ying entered. The Magistrate did not deign to stand, knowing that an awkward attempt at rising to bow was worse than no attempt at all, and that for him in particular there was no chance at all of rising without a significant degree of awkwardness. The Baron showed no sign of disdain, taking his seat quickly. 

He was an older gentleman, of slim body and thinning black hair, clad in shimmering grey robes of silk, trimmed and decorated with the most luxurious of embroidery in golden thread. His eyes forever seemed calculating, gazing about this way and that, like a tiger pacing about its cage in a king’s menagerie. Little emotion did his face show; the whole of his expression was neutral, but couched in an unshakable majesty. From the set of his features, Faltan could discern a man who did not take orders; he gave them. 

Behind him marched two men of the Bodyguards, wearing helmets instead of caps and breastplates over their coats, and bearing gilded but most definitely more than ornamental double-barreled muskets. Such weapons were precisely made things, and only the guards of nobility were outfitted with them. Behind them came two men- Faltan’s mind searched for meaning in the golden rod they held between them, until they drew closer, the Bodyguards parting to the side and standing in parade stock-stiffness, and them standing behind the Baron himself. Faltan knew well of the custom among businessmen of Xanadu to keep a thread of coins, one golden nef for each successful season of business they had went through; until now, he seen them in bracelets and necklaces of coins, but never a four-foot rope, so laden down with coins it looked like a solid pole made of gold. 

If there was one year’s coinage on that thread- doubtlessly a rope, indeed, to hold all those coins, no mere thread would stand the weight -there must have been twenty or twenty-five years’ worth. The two footmen carrying it stood to attention behind the Baron as he began to speak.

“Magistrate Faltan, it honors us to have you. Your reputation resounds from one end of the world to another, and thus it was that the Empire sought out your services here in the Hinterlands province.” 

“Baron Ying, it is your servant’s honor to be had. What ill means are in my possession, you may consider at your disposal.” 

The excellent thing about the sergeantstick, it forever occurred and re-occurred to Faltan, was that it was exactly the thing to rest your hands on while you spoke. Too many people did not know what to do with their hands while they were speaking, and thus looked boorish fiddling with items or fidgeting their fingers. Whereas a gentleman could remain quite gentlemanly with simply keeping a grip on his stick, relaxed and casual, just as he did now. 

Baron Ying began to speak, and to a horror that Magistrate Faltan had learned to keep withdrawn beyond even a flicker in his eyes, Syro sidled over, tapping on the governor’s shoulder. If the as-yet-born-dead man had any body to speak of, Faltan would have laid to it severely with the business end of his sergeantstick, and felt none the worse for doing it in the presence of a host and a house of government; and yet all he could do was brace himself. 

“It is by no means necessary, Magistrate Faltan, to so ingratiate yourself to us. The Empire is well aware of your talents, and your learned stature. Did you not make yourself the counselor of the corsair lords in Hyperborea, before their destruction at our hands? And is it not well-known to us your rendering of judgement in Shangri-la during-” 

The man took a deep breath in through his nostrils, and Syro recoiled as though his meddling fingers had been stung. “My apologies, Magistrate Faltan. It has been many weeks awaiting your coming, and we are all- save the Emperor -mere sons of men; you see how I can have a craving to hasten into business.” 

Faltan nodded gravely. “It is all understood to me, Baron. If you please- continue. I shall stay you no further.” 

From the folds of his robe the Baron produced a lacquered paper-cylinder, opening it and withdrawing a small sheaf of documents. They were written in fine Xanadunu hand, and though Faltan spoke Xanadunu as well as he spoke the many tongues that were taught in the Great Academy in Zerzura- from Punti to Hyperborean -he had never quite mastered the reading of Xanadunu script, particularly in such densely-written scribes’ hand as this, as well as upside down, relative to him, across the table. 

“The Hinterlands has been settled, dear Magistrate, for but twenty-two years now. It is long and short, long in terms of how much has occurred since this place came to be known and short relative to generations, and yet in that time there has not been a full year gone by, nor a month, nor I think a day where some crime against the Empire is not committed. The driving force, the wedge , one might say, against the rule of law as established by the Heavenly Agency and translated for we, the sons of men, by the Emperor, is twofold. The Trade Force Mariners Mercantile, and the Rafarios family.”

He separated two sheets of paper, and continued. “It is our estimation that they are currently robbing the taxation of the Hinterlands of some ten to twelve thousand nef that would be accrued if the business they carry out was conducted by law-abiding citizens, who pay their fair taxes and tariffs. Ten to twelve thousand annually, dear Magistrate, multiplied by twenty-two years, is no small sum of money, nor one that the Emperor will tolerate being robbed of, especially not in such a brazen manner as the Trade Force and the Rafarios do.

“I speak the truth, dear Magistrate: there is no furtiveness to their actions. The Trade Force captains brag openly in their saloons of running the Imperial blockade, and everyone up and down the coast knows of the illicit dealings that the Rafarios engage in. Now- you will ask me, I am sure -what keeps us from simply striking them down and hurling them into prison, or onto the jail barques to row away their penalty?” 

Syro had crept closer, squatting down, hanging onto the Baron’s every word with a nauseatingly smug expression. Faltan mentally blocked him out, which was exceedingly difficult, the ghost only existing within Faltan’s mental image; at the very least, he kept his eyes focused as though entranced on Baron Ying’s brow. 

“On the mainland it would be exactly so, exactly so. Indeed, there is no doubt in my mind they would face the executioner’s sword or the killing squadron with their muskets. Yet we are not on the mainland, dear Magistrate, and the fact of the matter is that we do not possess the means or the authority to wage the kind of war this matter demands. And I do say war; they have hundreds of men at least equal to a militiaman, with swords or pistols, and in the case of the Trade Force they have their marines, who are trained in muskets and have rockets and cannons as well. It is a great regret to me, dear Magistrate, a bitter regret that they are permitted to keep so many men under arms, and the reason, they say?

“Pirates! Pirates, they say they must be armed against! Dear Magistrate, the Hyperboreans were pirates, dare I say they still are pirates, or at the very least they must still be living in high style on the profits of past piracy, and they have the audacity to keep a small army within Imperial borders to protect themselves from pirates. Audacity is too small a word for it. No, it is impossible to dismantle their system and bring the iron hammer of justice down upon their heads, not at the moment, and so we turn to more subtle means.” 

Syro rolled his eyes and slid to the side of the cushioned bench, lounging at full gorge of outpoured annoyance. The Baron composed himself as the ghost slipped away from him.

“If it can be arranged such that this great racket the knaves operate in broad daylight is compiled into an informed and persuasive form, dear Magistrate, then it can be brought in the court of the Emperor, and thereby I will receive the authority and hopefully the force required to stop these outrages and turn the Hinterlands into a profitable land once more.

“That is the truth of my pursuit, dear Magistrate,” the Baron sighed. “At the moment, the Hinterlands takes nef from the Emperor’s purse and it hardly returns. This is a disgrace to the Empire and moreover to myself, as its governor. I am Chancellor to the Exchequer, I sit upon a land bustling with industry, alive with business, where trader and farmer and artisan have but to yawn and they will accidentally swallow a golden double-nef, and I cannot say I earn more than I demand in budget. It tears at my heart, dear Magistrate, and I must have it no more. This is your task.

“While I say, ‘everybody knows it’, this is hardly proper evidence; and if furnished from my own clerks, why, it would be seen as merely a play to bring a fatter budget under my hand. You, dear Magistrate, your mind is the stuff of renown. You judge any two folk of the world alike, and when you draw up this case, there is no doubt to me that it will be heard and taken with perfect gravity. Thus I conclude myself, dear Magistrate. There is nobody more scoured of suspicion’s stain than you, and thus it is you I must have declare that the Hinterlands province is being robbed by her own subjects.” 

Syro spoke up, in his grating voice. “So, the local Empire representative needs somebody he can claim isn’t on his payroll to declare he has a good reason for running his province in the red. And to do that, he has put you on his payroll, so you can declare that he has good reason for running his province in the red.” 

He tapped a finger against spectral teeth. “Either you’ve got way more credibility on your name than I’ve noticed, or they don’t really hire them for their brains over in Xanadu.” 

Magistrate Faltan cleared his throat softly- it never did to rush to reply; to begin and then need to re-begin after your voice returned to a clear state was perhaps the most terrible way to botch a statement. “Baron Ying, not even I knew that my name was held in such esteem in the courts of the Emperor; I suppose in my travels I have outrun my own renown. But you look upon Magistrate Faltan, and when I am called to a matter I judge it fairly, as surely as I sang in the markets of Zerzura. You are a man whose repute is besmirched by dishonest dealers, this I understand. No man have I more sympathy for- no, nor woman -than one whose reputation has been robbed from them. 

“Were that great cord of gold I see behind you stolen, you would only perhaps have the attention of the Magistrate Faltan, but it is your good name that has been torn away from you, and I can see that you are a man worthy of it. Thus, let it be known to you, Baron, that it shall be my business to compile as full a report as there can be made, and I will swear upon it just as surely as I would that I sang in the markets of Zerzura. Your case shall be drawn up, and it shall be heard, in the name of Magistrate Faltan.” 

The Baron spread his hands, his features bending from placid to pleasant, with a triumphant gleam in his eye. “This is outstanding, dear Magistrate. I consider our meeting successful; request you anything else from the kitchens of my guest house?” 

He gestured to the dishes which adorned the table before them, from plain buns to roasted silver nailfish, a delicacy on three seas, but Faltan shook his head. 

“Baron, your servant has dined to perfection, and indeed he had drunk more wine than any man should before a meeting of such import; but you must understand, after two months on seafarer’s food, one more bite of such fine meals of the land would surely send my soul straightaway to Paradise- and then who would compile your report for you? I am sated, if it please you.” 

“It pleases me indeed to sate my guests, dear Magistrate. Hospitality is the virtue of gods and saints, but the credit cannot be mine.” 

The Baron arose slowly, the Bodyguards returning to his side and the men who bore his thread of coins hefting it up to their shoulders once more. He gestured to the Mistress of the Guest House. “That which you would praise me for is all done by Mistress Yua. Ah, another matter- and this of grave seriousness, dear Magistrate. I shall assign to you two men of the Bodyguards- fierce fighters with fist, sword, pistol and musket, alert at all hours, one awake if the other sleeps, and trained to pick a single spy from a crowd of fifty. These are dangerous people, the Hyperboreans and the Arcadians both, and I will never hear it said that I left the great Magistrate Faltan to face perils and lawless men without so much as one Imperial Musketeer at his side.” 

“May the tongue that says so burst between its teeth!” declared Faltan. “You have my every assurance, dear Baron- my work begins tomorrow, and it shall end as swiftly as I can manage, to assure that your reputation is restored to its deserved spot, which is to say, the peak above all its peers.” 

“You shall be my sword, not of steel, but of gold, dear Magistrate,” the Baron proclaimed. “I will meet you, if the Divine Agency declares it so, on the morrow.” 

With that, the Baron turned and departed, the waiters bowing after him as the Bodyguards shut the door with the softest of clicks. They fell about gathering the dishes and cleaning the table, as Faltan, leaning heavily upon his staff, began the monumental struggle to arise from the low couch. Syro cast his disparaging gaze about the room.

“Two whole Bodyguards. Color me flattered. All that two men by you does is give two shots at the guy who kills you. Alright- maybe it gives two opportunities for them to stab someone else before they get you, but he’s acting like he’s given us a hundred Grenadiers. Hey, I want a hundred Grenadiers. Ask him for-” 

“It is my desire,” Faltan said aloud, “to see my quarters, and rest alone for a time, for I have had a most busy day and a most wonderful meal. Mistress Yua, is there anyone under your peerless charge who can show me the way towards where I shall reside?” 

She raised her chin a dignified inch, gesturing for a maidservant. “If you will, Xafa, escort the dear Magistrate to the Baron’s guest suite, and ensure not a thing is absent from all that we here can provide to him.” 

Faltan found the suite as well-appointed as anyone could desire- as any three people could desire, in fact, stocked with every need that could be imagined and few which defied even his broad-traveled experience to identify; they turned out to be cosmetics and a particular variety of salve against stinging and biting insects, as Xafa explained. He gave her a devoted thanks before she absented herself, and closed the doors behind her, taking a moment to admire the woodwork polished so finely there was hardly a need for the mirror. He then turned back, seeing Syro throwing himself bodily, or lack thereof, onto the bed. 

“Ah! Nice place, this. Our Baron might not know from providing proper security, but he’s got his guest-keeping down pat, I’ve got to give him that much.” The ghost was all the more grotesquely present when no others were nearby. The Magistrate busied himself with unpacking his trunks, the luggage that had seen nearly half the world, still smelling of the sea from the voyage. It was the best way to ignore the cadaverous Syro, his torn and cut flesh so much more visible, his eyeless sockets sparking with an eerie crimson light.

“In the presence of nobility, it is advisable to keep a civil tongue,” Faltan said. He could feel his jaw clenching, hardly of his own accord; anyone alone in a room with Syro would experience as much. 

“I believe-” he lowered his voice, in case the walls were thinner than he expected, “-I believe that is a skill which you could stand to improve upon, young man. A civil tongue in your mouth and some measure of propriety in those hands.” 

Syro held up his hands, rippling his fingers in a back-and-forth waggle. “What, these? I didn’t say anything to him. I could have, but I didn’t! All he said was what he really wanted to say. Easy as, all I did was- you know, I think I did him a favor. He’s a man with a lot to get off his chest.”

“And some things must stay on one’s chest, Syro. If everyone in the world said everything that they felt, few of us would have friends.” He removed his shoes from the trunk- for a long while on the voyage he had worn a slightly pinching pair, more resilient against the chill of the sea wind, but now with the sunshine of the Hinterlands, his favored pair would be a practical choice once more. 

“This is no trifling matter I am called to, no little case which I simply happen to be present to adjudicate. The government of a province lies in the balance here, and that station is a weighty one!” He paused the task of pulling on the shoes to shake a finger of warning at the ghost. 

“I’ll be on my best behavior, of course. Nothing to worry about from me.” 

“You could as easily tell a convincing lie as you could eat a fresh-baked bun, Syro. I shall be watching you with the greatest attention, and I expect you to keep your- feeding -to the minimum that you can manage.” 

The ghost crossed his arms, huffing a phantasmal breath through his nose. “When I actually get born, I’ll eat a dozen buns hot out of the oven just to prove you wrong. But you know exactly what happens if I don’t eat, Faltan, and I agree that this is a big fish you’ve landed, so you really can’t afford that. Come on. A few people get in a couple of shouting matches, maybe somebody feels really sour for a couple of minutes- it’s not the end of the world.” 

The Magistrate did know. He had felt it before, early on in their unsteady partnership, what happened if the ghost was starving. It wasn’t a feeling he was keen to experience again, that searing, hollow hatred that boiled up inside him, made him breathe in a seething hiss through his teeth, made his arm shake as he wrested it back from slamming doors or battering people from his path with the sergeantstick. It was a volcanic anger that turned the mind into something like a jug of milk left on a riverside dock in humid Punt over a midsummer afternoon. 

His shoes on and a brief rest later, spent checking through his satchels and trunks to ensure none had been soaked through over the voyage or torn in that mishandling at the docks, the Magistrate felt more a man than he had been arriving. The floorboards no longer jigged under him; a stomach for swift change between land-legs and sea was a necessity in his travels. He knew fifteen sea-gods he could thank for the swift passage, and for the moment declined; what god, after all, was there for the ocean that broke on these new coasts? No shrines had been built, no visions seen. Some said these were godless lands; others might say there were too many gods, each jostling to put a guiding hand on their followers as they mingled in this territory as they did in no other. 

Peter and Thomas reported to his door, changed as well from their seafaring clothes to more modish and respectable city-wear. While the Magistrate preferred bright colors, it was subtle and cool ones that drew the Arcadian eye these years; they wore an assortment of beige and burgundy, each in stockings and breeches, shirt, waistcoat and jacket, and a brimmed hat, as though they bore the uniform of some corps of moderately well-to-do gentlemen. 

“Alright, what’s the word, boss?” 

“There shall be much to do, gentlemen,” Faltan replied, rising on his stick, leading the way down the hallways of the guest house, blinking as the trio- truly a quartet -emerged into the sunlit grounds of the manor. “For the day, however, the city is at your disposal. No gambling, though, and no laudanum, it is abominable stuff. Ah, and no taking the company of ladies, though I know two such fine gentlemen as you must fend them off with a billhook. We are here on an endeavor of the mind, my friends, not the heart.” 

“Easy enough, boss,” replied Thomas. “Left my canopics in my room.” 

Chapter Text

The city of Gang Song happened around Magistrate Faltan. Even the knock of his sergeantstick against the flagstones underfoot was lost in the din of business. Bells rang out from the harbor and whips cracked each time a coach passed on the street. This was the early afternoon, and people were setting each one about their business with great enthusiasm. Every industry, it seemed, had their street or cluster of buildings here in Gang Song; you could find everything from fresh grapes to vinegar, live oxen to leather shoes. At the very least, he reflected as he strolled, the air was clean enough to the nose. He had been in many cities over the course of his career, and not all of them had smelled wholesome, but the Empire valued cleanliness and hygiene enough to spare that trouble from those who might stroll in the street. 

The two Bodyguards followed at a distance. They were indeed experts; nobody could have taken the two miscellaneous workmen, in their slightly worn jackets and trousers- just baggy enough to disguise holsters and sheaths about their persons -as elite guardsmen of the Empire. Faltan had requested they conduct themselves in a furtive manner. Doubtlessly having a pair of soldiers by you was effective, but doubtlessly too it made you seem like the kind of person who wanted to have a pair of soldiers by them. Bringing muskets to a negotiation table- at least, in plain view -was an excellent way to end up with whoever sat on the other side of it bringing their own muskets, and likely more of them. Moreover, it had seemed to him, it had been more than pleasing to the Baron to allow his men to demonstrate their skill in subtlety. 

“The thing about Green River,” Syro explained, as the Magistrate carried along at his strolling pace, “it’s built all wrong. It’s built as a coastal fort, but it’s too far from the coast to actually serve as one. Perfect for training- just look at these guys, they’re class A -but in terms of the fortress itself? Totally misplaced. Unless somebody was trying to storm Gang Song from the river instead of the sea, half the guns would be out of elevation.” 

“Fascinating,” Faltan muttered, looking over a building before him. The architecture was that of the Avalonese- wholly out of place among the austere and elegant design most of the Xanadunu businesses abided by. The folk of Avalon built their buildings much like themselves: immense, sturdy, and only about as tall as they were wide. The sign over the door proclaimed it, in golden letters along the facade, the Halden Capital Corporation of Gang Song, Unlimited. As he watched, two stout Avalonii left through the handsomely carved wooden doors. They had nearly as much beard as height, and chatted as they went, with elegant gold-tipped canes. Faltan hefted up his own stick and made for the door. 

The two Bodyguards, shadows or mere details in the backdrop of the city, sidled closer; Syro stormed ahead, fading straight through the door and then coming back out. 

“There’s nothing in there. What’re we doing, Faltan? What’s the plan here? It’s just…” he gestured wildly, “offices. It’s a bank, literally nothing else going on.” 

The Magistrate spoke low enough that none watching might suppose he meant anyone to hear, but Syro managed to always be listening. “I am here on business, and if there is anywhere to get one’s bearings for matters of business, it is where all those who do business hope to end up: a bank. Within, hey.” 

With those words, he twisted the ornate brass knob and entered. Few people inside were over the height of four feet. Four foot five was towering for the Avalonii, and the Magistrate’s height drew many a gaze as he entered. The front room was long and low, divided from the back half of the bank by a counter of dark wood, its top of polished stone, and from that counter up to the ceiling ran a decorative lattice of brass. The counter had some ten niches, a clerk sitting at each one, and it was to the one furthest on the right that the Magistrate walked, his stick clicking softly on the tiled floor. 

The Avalonian who sat on the other side of the grille did not merely possess a mustache; such a word would never have done him justice. He was overlord of a vast hirsute empire, laying claim to the whole of his face from the nose downwards and expanding in colonies out to some six inches on the right or left of his actual head. He wore no hat, for the Avalonii never did indoors, but a dark green waistcoat and trousers over a shirt of yellow-beige. 

“A fine afternoon to you, sir. And how might I be of assistance to you?” 

The trouble with the Avalonii, the Magistrate had found, was not, as some folks declared, their ancient system of clans forever in feuds ranging from jocular to bloody, nor in their unquenchable thirst after tea, nor the minute but significant differences in the meaning of slang terms between Avalonii of two clans who lived merely a few days’ walk apart. Rather, it was that when one was nearly half again as tall as the person one was addressing, to carry on a discussion in a dignified matter was a puzzle of anatomy. 

Faltan leaned upon his staff, craning his head back, studying the ceiling as though searching his mind. His Avalonese was without flaw grammatically, although his accent was thickly Hyperborean, due to the professors he had studied under. 

“Tell me, sir, would it be possible to put a moderate sum of liquid currency in the trusted safekeeping of your establishment? I have come from overseas, you understand, and brought with me a certain amount-”

“Say no more, sir!” The Avaloni turned on his stool, producing from beneath the counter a pad of paper, and dipping his pen into the inkwell at his elbow. “Sir, it shall be the honor and pleasure of Halden Capital Corporation to see to the safekeeping of your funds. Your name, sir?”

“Faltan of Zerzura.”

“And your signature, if you please?” 

From the minuscule gap between the polished stone countertop and the brass grille, a paper slipped through, accompanied shortly thereafter by a pen. Faltan took it in his grip, signing off the sheet of paper. No sooner had he finished than the Avaloni pulled it back through.

“Now, there is a monthly fee on storage and stowage of liquid currency with our enterprise, good sir, but! It is the honor and pleasure of the Squire Halden to guarantee all those registering for a deposit box within our vault a free first quarter of usage. Afterwards there are of course a monthly fee, based upon-” 

A small blizzard of paperwork began to flow through the space between the grille and counter, paper pamphlets and bills and sheets. 

“We insure against robberies or catastrophic losses, sir, at an unmatched rate, and if you please to read over this, sir, you’ll find our plans of interest for as long as you count yourself client to the Capital Corporation- now here, sir, if you sign off on this, we can count you on the Long Plan, which you can see is two-point-five percent higher on payment. You’ll want it, I assure you, unless it’s your plan to be here for a short time, sir?”

The Magistrate paused for a moment, stroking his beard, then shook his head. “No, no, not at all. Please, I should like to sign on for the Long Plan, I believe. Hardly any disadvantage to it, eh?” 

The Avalonian nodded, gesturing with a pen. “No, no indeed, sir. So, sign off just about there, and you’ll be counted on the Long Plan, beautifully done, sir, thank you, I shall take that back, excellent, now, with a Long Plan account- wait right here, sir, only a moment.”

He slid from his stool and consulted a machine at the back of his niche, polished black and silver metal, loading into it from a small cup of them nearby a brass ring. The banker turned dials this way and that, mumbling to himself as he did, before pulling with all his might- his shirtsleeves bulged as muscles stood out -on the lever attached to the side of the machine. He resumed his seat, sliding the ring underneath the grille. Faltan took it, fitting it onto his finger, noting that it had been stamped with a name, but the name was Fulton , followed by a string of numbers and ‘Gang Song Branch’. 

“That right here, sir, is your signet of access, and right close to you should you keep it, present at any legitimate branch managed by the Halden Capital Corporation and withdraw as you desire, minor fee for access of course, sir, free on the Long Plan here at our establishment, which is of course the establishment of issue. Now, does sir wish to deposit his means at once?” 

Faltan carried on the discussion as he signed off on the papers, and as the clerk shuffled them together, filing them in a pigeonhole next to the desk. Bearing his new signet and with a gracious bow, he departed out onto the street. Syro materialized at his side, his scarred face looking even more unpleasant than usual. 

“Okay, what was the point of that, Faltan? Your money is all in the Baron’s place. What’re you doing?” 

“It is a good habit for a gentleman,” he explained, as he made his way back along the streets, “to spread about his business, wherever he may find himself. It builds connections, acquaints one with knowledgeable folk, and, of course, in this particular assignment, I should think it lacking in sophistication to claim that I am impartial if the Baron is to be my banker as well as host. As I am now holder of an account at the Halden Corporation, I shall instead have at least one leg on the table, so to speak, with which to say that I carried on business here in the Hinterlands without any special bias.”

Faltan looked down, admiring the ring. The craftsmanship of the Avalonii was beyond compare; the pressure of that machine had stamped the brass with delicate crosshatches and spiraling trails. For the spelling of the name nothing could be done. In his travels he had had his name mispronounced and misspelled more ways than he could recall, and this was mild compared to the worst of them.

The Bodyguards arose with the silent grace of a snake uncoiling from the pair of barrels they had sat down on, strolling off but never too far. It was a trait they had proven themselves masters of. They could look for all the world like they were in a rush to get somewhere, and yet never end up more than a dozen or so paces from the Magistrate’s side. 

What he needed, Faltan decided, was a means of gathering information. Regrettably, he had a perfect one on hand. He put himself back into a strolling stride, making his way down towards the docks, where gulls were tormenting sailors and Imperial Harbor Guard alike as they attempted to eat their lunches. Men were running helter-skelter or batting at the tenacious birds with hands, lengths of rope, sabers and pistol-butts to keep their food to themselves. The harbor wasn’t very busy, but it was crowded; nearly two score ships, from majestic Imperial blockade ships to a coastal skiff with sagging sails, bobbed at anchor in the dark water of the bay. The sun shining overhead turned every wave into a glinting mirror. It was hard to look at the ocean for too long without squinting against the glare coming off the water. 

The Magistrate sat down on a stone outcropping by the road, where the cliffs of the sea met the edge of the town, and focused his gaze down at the sailors and soldiers who ate on the docks. The road sloped down towards the harbor, like the wall of a bowl- the town at the brim and the harbor at the bottom. Syro spoke before Faltan could make a remark. 

“I know the drill. I’ll go down there and see how they’re feeling about things around here. But you don’t blame me if they get really sour, right?”

Faltan nodded absently, and off the wraith went, the phantasmal tether to the amulet lengthening and thinning as he did. The two Bodyguards ambled up, making the smallest of small talk in Xanadunu; from what the Magistrate snatched of their conversation their current pretense was being in town from down the coast in Scout’s Port to receive a cousin newly arrived in the Hinterlands. Such dodges he had encountered before, innocuous conversations coded to transmit information without any being the wiser. These were skilled men indeed the Baron had assigned. 

Down on the sea-soaked wooden walkways of the docks, chatter over lunch turned into earnest discussion; discussion turned into disagreement; the arguments were just short of fisticuffs when the Magistrate focused his will inwards, recalling Syro. The effort was mentally confounding, like trying to imagine a new color, or flex a muscle one didn’t actually have; it was usually far more efficient to merely walk by and let Syro glean his information within regular distance, but to amble around the dockyard was strange for a gentleman, and being strange drew unkind eyes.

The ghost snapped to attention as he returned, his marred face crumpled in a dutiful smile. “Alright, aside from the seagulls getting at their lunch, what most of them are angry about is the new protocols. Soldiers don’t like having to search and double-check and everything; sailors, they’re even more sore, because they’re getting frisked for smuggling more and more often. And as far as they’re concerned, it’s the soldiers’ fault for doing it, so there- well- you know how things can get when people are angry, there might be a bit of brawling. Probably not. But maybe. Either way, point is, there’s new orders for double-checking cargo being offloaded at the docks to make sure people don’t say they’re bringing in one thing and then actually bringing another.” 

“Brazen way to smuggle anything,” the Magistrate said, but gestured for the ghost to carry on. Syro shrugged.

“Apparently it’s the new code. All I managed to hear is that the Harbor Guard are using the old don’t-write-the-rules argument and the sailors are saying that if the Baron wanted to put a stop to smuggling he’d be doing it up Kanmthusa way, not here on the docks.” 

At the waterfront, there was the sound- barely detectable at this distance, but Faltan had been listening for it with pessimistic alertness -of somebody shrugging off their coat to start a bout of fisticuffs. Syro had clearly eaten well. 

“Kanmthusa, indeed. You, gentlemen-” the Bodyguards portrayed quite credible expressions of shock to hear the Magistrate address them, strolling over. “Gentlemen, do you know anything of the town of Kanmthusa?”

“Dear friend, if we know anything of it, it would be that it is the great town of the Hyperboreans on these coasts,” one of the Bodyguards replied. Their charade was unwavering; they even modulated their accents to a more rural tone, hardly the curt crispness of elite soldiers. “All the Trade Force vessels tie up there. Not very much more than one great harbor. It is up the coast, north- the stagecoach roads go, so does the shallow boat.” 

“Thank you kindly, dear friends,” Faltan replied. “I merely wondered at the name. I shall leave you to your business.” 

They nodded with perfect synchronism, continuing their alert idling over on the other side of the road, as Faltan looked out over the harbor. The soldiers appeared to be taking to their heels, jogging back to the stout garrison tower that overlooked the harbor, as the sailors pursued them. The mob was going strong at first, hurling rocks and shaking longshoremen’s hooks, but as they came towards the gates of the tower they seemed to lose momentum. Like a tide breaking on an unseen stone they stopped in place about twenty paces from the bayonet-tips of the squadron standing guard at the tower gates. After a minute or two of shouting for an end to rummaging their cargo and demanding the Baron stop policing honest workers for smuggling they weren’t doing, the fury seemed to wear down, and the sailors and dockers stalked back to their ships, with a final barrage of griping and snarling as they went. 

Magistrate Faltan turned towards Syro, who had been taking in the entire thing with a broad grin. At the notice of Faltan’s gaze on him, the ghost returned his expression to as close to normal that the scars and scorchings allowed for.

“Quite an outburst, that was,” Faltan declared, levering himself back to his feet with a firm shove downwards on his stick. “I cannot imagine things are in such a terrible manner every day at this harbor. Quite extraordinary.” 

Syro had the decency to appear somewhat self-conscious. 

For the remainder of the afternoon, with his twin shadows and unseen compatriot, the Magistrate acquainted himself with the streets of Gang Song. He inspected the jetty from which launched the shallow boat- so named not for its shape, but rather that its course ran the shallows of the Hinterlands coast. He traced the tip of his sergeantstick along the course as shown on the map: from Scout’s Port in the furthest-known south of the Hinterlands, up here at Gang Song, and then onwards into the north at Glass Bay and finally turning around once more at Kanmthusa. The rates for passage were hardly frugal, but then, the alternative was the coastal highway- still under construction, as some questioning told the Magistrate, some stretches washing away entirely in the fierce storms, and robberies along the path a shameful normality to the newly-formed Hinterlands Coastal Guard Regiment, whose charge the roads were supposed to be in. 

“Roadside attacks. You can’t stop ‘em,” Syro sighed. “There’s always too much road. You want a road locked down, you need a man every ten meters. It’s that, or you just watch where you walk.” 

Onwards the Baron went throughout the town, stopping to peruse the many stores in High Market Street. This was a place where the most delicate of wares were sold, the jewel-box of Gang Song, and jewels there were indeed, as well as perfumes, ivory carvings, medicines, pelts and more. The streets between the shops were shaded over, tall wooden poles holding up drapings of blue, red and yellow cloth, coloring the streets below like a stained-glass window when the sun shone down. No expense had been spared to make the place as comfortable to high-paying customers as possible. The city guard were on triple the alertness they showed anywhere else, and glared with canny, inquisitive eyes at anyone who dared to so much as walk with their hands in their pockets. Another point, in Faltan’s mind, for having the sergeantstick to keep one hand occupied. 

Not every street in the city was so sophisticated, nor were they all under such scrutiny of the guard. As he sauntered, Faltan found himself down rows with tight-crammed houses and cracked or nearly absent cobbles. The worn, ragged pennant at the corner- each street had one, proclaiming fortune and long life for the street’s inhabitants -declared that this was the Street of One Hundred Blessings. To Faltan, it looked like they had a significantly lower number. Another street, of the Black Goose, according to its pennant, was a task to even set foot on; tanneries, if the Magistrate was any judge, or perhaps dyers’ workshops, were in such a frenetic matter of business that you could smell it all the way past the corner onto the Street of Golden Coins.

At long last, the click of his sergeantstick on the cobbles made its way back to the Baron’s manor. He had seen near the whole of his city on the long round, a welcome change from the bouncing of carriages or bobbing boats. He did not dare say he understood the city, or the people therein- but at the very least he had seen it, and seeing with his own two eyes, as far as Faltan was concerned, was the foundation of all foundations for accruing knowledge. 

Dinner that night was served with diminished aplomb, as- the note of apologies was profuse -the Baron was occupied with matters of state. Nonetheless, Faltan ate a modest meal and retired to his quarters. His evening exercise was only disrupted by Peter and Thomas returning back, providing their bill of expenses for what diversions they had indulged in throughout the day, to be added to the account. Syro, well-sated from the ruckus down at the docks, was for once nearly silent, and the Magistrate bathed, then slept soundly on a bed that did not rock and sway with the tides. 

On the morrow, he woke Peter and Thomas from their torpor- Arcadians in their undeath did not sleep, but merely sunk into a glassy-eyed daze -and packed up his trunk. With a brief discussion with the Baron and a doubled and uniformed escort of Bodyguards, and his porters in tow with one trunk of belongings, he first secured his funds at the Halden bank, and then made for the jetty. The procession clambered aboard the boat, taking their seats as the shallow boat made ready to take them down the coast, to Kanmthusa.

Chapter Text

The Magistrate wore fitting traveler’s garb, cream trousers and a mauve coat, under a light cloud-grey cloak with golden embroidery of grapevines down its hem. He was belted with a sea-green sash, although in defiance of the manner of Zerzura he carried no sword thrust through it. To carry swords, in Faltan’s mind, was to look like a man who desired an occasion to make use of them, and he was of no such attitude. The cape tossed lightly in the breeze of the sea as the shallow boat wound its way along the Hinterlands coast. 

The boat had a broad, long deck, and above it a passengers’ deck, covered over with a tent-like canopy. The main deck was kept for the rowers, who poled the shallow boat along, backs and brows slick with sweat as they sang out the shanty that kept them in time. Rowing paid well- it had to, to keep men at the oars -but it was no career for those without good timing, strong backs, and a perfect memory for the hundreds of shanties. The passenger deck was quite crowded; there had been a ruckus and tumult of people trying to climb aboard or go ashore at Gang Song, and now there must have been some twenty-five people travelling. Most were Xanadunu from Gang Song, but there were a few who had been on the boat as it came from Scout’s Port. 

It was one of these passengers now who approached the Magistrate, proffering a handsomely carved ivory canister, like a long and narrow box, saying something- it took a moment for Faltan to register that the man was speaking to him in Antillian, and he replied back in the same tongue. 

“Pardon me, sir, but your servant had been diverted. What was it you said?”

“Ah!” The man, as Faltan took him in, was an Ysan: it was obvious, from his slender build, his pointed ears, his majestic, tumbling curled locks, and the prominent fangs, nearly tusks, in his upper and lower jaws that showed as he spoke. Ysans were refined folk, but those who did not know so were often put off by their ape-like fangs. He wore a sport coat of soft green, like the underside of a leaf, with a white shirt and pink-beige breeches, his puce neckcloth exquisitely folded. “Forgive me, sir, I took you for an Antillian. You are…Puntu? Or Irami?” 

He went on about how there seemed some touch of accent to Faltan’s Antillian, but the Magistrate broke in through his stream of chatter. “Please, please, sir, I shall tell you. I studied many languages in Zerzura, but Antillian I had to go and learn in Presterium. That is the note you might hear in your servant’s voice. When one learns many languages-”

“-a prosperous preoccupation, suitable for any gentleman,” the Ysan commented, and Faltan carried on.

“-it is only natural to find oneself with traces of unusual accent in each one, as might be if one cooks many vegetables in the same pot and they exchange motes of flavor, one with the other. But, sir, what was it you might have said to me?” Faltan gestured with his sergeantstick at the ivory case the Ysan held.

“Ah. I had asked you if you cared for some pinzui , sir . A singularly popular herb around here, you know-” he untwisted the cap of the canister, showing the green leaves within, “-I have found it is oil on any waters when it comes to making the acquaintance of gentlemen of these parts.”

“With grace, dear sir, I shall decline,” the Magistrate said. “Chewing pinzui does a terrible mischief to my throat. However, I need no pinzui to make the acquaintance of a man of such considerate nature. I am the Magistrate Faltan of Zerzura, sir, and it is a privilege indeed to meet so gracious a fellow.”

The Ysan re-capped the canister. “I, sir, am Marcus Vigier, in the employ of the Eighnar Coalition of Financiers. Do you bank with us, sir Faltan?” 

Faltan shook his head. “No, I am afraid not. I am only recently arrived to these wonderful shores, sir Marcus. My time for such pursuits has been limited, but it is certainly the manner of a gentleman to secure a trustworthy bank for his assets.” 

“Then I tell you, sir Faltan- be sure is it an Eighnar account you secure for yourself. There are competing banks here in the Hinterlands, inasmuch as a donkey might compete with the racehorse, and they will make you promises of vanity- but hold fast!” He held up a clenched fist. 

“Only our firm is the bank in which you can have great faith, sir Faltan, only Eighnar. All others- frauds, all of them. Of this you can be certain, sir!” 

Syro slowly arose from the bench of the passenger deck, pacing around, examining the Ysan from this angle and that. The expression on his mangled face called to mind a prospector who had just noticed a gleam in the clouded river waters, and is now polishing his washpan. Faltan kept himself composed, resting his stick across his lap, fingers tapping along its wood, one brow upraised; for people who could go into such passion, to show a mote of curiosity was as good as a gift of gold. People with such depth of care for something loved the opportunity to inform others about every aspect that thing might have.

“I may have noticed, sir Marcus, a building under the name “Halden” in Gang Song- are they one of these untrustworthy firms?”

Marcus gave a great, incensed snort, lips curling back over his fangs in the terrible smile of an Ysan outraged. “Untrustworthy? Why, sir, it is not even the word! Devils, they are, devils of Avalon. They are no bankers, they are highway robbers. Inspect the rates, that is all I will say of them, inspect the rates. Inspect their rates, sir Faltan, and you will see with what voraciousness they gouge and swindle. They are the most rotten firm in the whole country, depend upon it.” 

Syro wiped his mouth, leaning down close, hanging on each word as the tirade continued. The Ysan was in a fine fit of indignation; so much so that he had switched from Antillian to native Ysaise, though fortunately Faltan knew both, even if the sudden change made him miss a few words of the continued rant entirely. “-pure and simple- this is known fact, sir Faltan, that I tell you, this is not hearsay. They strangle men, sir, strangle them with the money they lend out! It is either folly or ignorance to borrow or bank at Halden, sir Faltan, and they are only not out of business because we at Eighnar have not yet driven them out of it.” 

Faltan gazed wide-eyed, tapping the stick to his chin. He replied in Ysaise, “Such rogues, truly? And the Imperials do nothing about these practices?”

“Fah!” Marcus proclaimed a fanciful and obscene Ysaise idiom. “The Xanadunu? They bang the drum for any manner of business to be carried on in the Hinterlands, no matter how cut-throat, so long as they can skim the taxes off the top. Soon, I tell you, they shall grab artisans off the streets and hurl them onto ships to here. Ah, but we in the Coalition know better.”

He tapped his brow as he carried on. “The business of the Eighnar is the eternal one, sir Faltan, it is the only sure thing: farming. When you attain great wealth, sir Faltan, may you do so soon if you have not already, spend it on land and farming. Eight parts out of ten of farming here in the Hinterlands- all with our sharecroppers, you see. There is no safer investment. I have spent a hundred years or better in the Coalition, and not once has spending on farming failed to repay itself. Double, triple, even! People speak of the new country as having streets of gold- fah! The soil, the plain soil, the honest, endless earth, that is the gold of the Hinterlands, sir.”

“It is true in any land,” Faltan nodded. “All things, at last, they all fall upon the farmer. I have heard it said once, the peasant-king worries over his crops, the mediocre king thinks it beneath him to consider any crops at all, but the truly great king- he worries about all the crops of the land.” 

The phrase had come from a Punti general he had dined with; there it was a weary cliche, but to Marcus it seemed electrifying. 

“Brilliant, sir, a diamond among words. That is truth and truth must be told. If a king knows not how his bread comes to his table, I swear! He is not fit to be king, I swear it, sir Faltan. I must remember those words, they are first-rank, sir.” 

Faltan gestured modestly with opened palms. “The ancients said so, sir Marcus, a word in its proper place, it is like golden apples upon a silver plate. But tell me, sir Marcus, if your servant might make an inquiry unprompted, why make you for Kanmthusa?”

“Oh, no, sir Faltan,” he replied, shaking his head. “I am bound for Glass Bay, an hour closer, if the tide is merciful. We in Eighnar do much business there. They are clever people in Glass Bay- they take no other bank for their dealings. Arcadians, many of them, they know very well the value of a far-sighted approach, and only Eighnar has the far sight they need." 

The Magistrate spared a look over at Peter and Thomas; they seem to have taken no notice, not speaking Ysaise themselves, although learned in several other tongues over their long un-lives, and were in any case occupied, a lady aboard having produced a quiz-book and several of the passengers gathering to guess at the answers. Such works were popular entertainment for journeys, and the clamor of voices from the audience declaring which answer must be the correct one was enthusiastic.  Arcadians, after their initial “death”, lived on in assorted stages of undeath for a century or more; apparently, one-in-ten-myriad exceptions could become functionally immortal, in the state known as a ‘lich’. It made sense, Faltan supposed, that they would make fine partners with the exceptionally long-lived, though only the once, Ysans. 

They carried on the conversation as the oars beat steadily down below, the shanties of the rowers drifting past on the air. It was the haze of travel that gripped the passengers of the boat, and Faltan had felt it many a time; there was nothing to do but keep civil and wait to reach the destination. Such a fog of strained patience he had sat in many a time, waiting to reach some distant shore. 

Glass Bay was a brief stop, but it left a lasting impression upon the Magistrate. Marcus went ashore, along with a number of others, perhaps eight passengers all told. The town was densely built: a few winding streets, lacking the rigid grid of Gang Song’s avenues, but nonetheless packed together to make the most of the inlet that the skeleton of the town had formed around. The buildings that made up the body on that skeleton were in a mixture of Arcadian styles; some were properly constructed as such, whereas others (usually the lower ones with less decor than their neighbors) quite clearly had the ornamentation plastered on as an afterthought. From the jetty where the coast-boat tied up, the town seemed a sprawling, knotted net of streets, towers and tall houses jutting up above the crowded construction. The streets could have done with sweeping and the air with less smoke in it, but nonetheless the place managed to smack of richness. 

Above it all rose what Marcus had informed the Magistrate was the Sun and Moon Hotel, with its great dome upon the roof in style any student of architecture could have identified as in imitation of the Antillian fashion. According to the Ysan, there were a hundred luxuries for every guest under that dome, from steaming hot baths to ice-cold drinks. Vigier had spoken of an entire theater within, where the latest of plays were performed by traveling companies; of a kitchen that could procure anything from plainest Arcadian pasta to a cold elephant sandwich; and of bars with liquors of fifty lands to offer. He had spared few words, and Faltan had every reason to believe it. Ysans knew luxury very well when they saw it, for though they did not indulge in it very often they indulged in it good and hard. Seeing that glittering gold-tiled dome above the harbor, the Magistrate could believe indeed what richness of delight he had been told was underneath.

The harbor at Glass Bay was busy indeed, and anyone unfamiliar with Arcadians and their nature might have thought it a scene of horrors to see so many walking corpses strolling, shouting advertisements for their businesses, loading and unloading small cargo sloops. Faltan noted that no ocean ships were anchored here, and indeed there would have been little room for one; only the dart-like, narrow ships that could make incredible speed if given so much as a hint of wind in the right direction, excellent for the coast but far too brittle for the open seas. No wonder that international business chiefly went to Gang Song and Kanmthusa: this was ill ground for any ship worth taking from overseas. 

Quite a number of passengers came aboard, of all stages of life one might find in the people of Arcadia, from those still rosy-cheeked in the blush of their brief lives to an elegant dress and accompanying gentleman’s cloak, doublet and pantaloons, drifting along in the air with barely any visible wearer. On squinting towards the levitating garments, the Magistrate could see the smoky forms of two bodiless Arcadians- in their final phase of undeath, after bone had rotted away but before their spectral selves finally dissipated into the ether. Also aboard came a trio of Avalonii ladies, in the most modish hats and gowns, and a pair of Hyperborean officers, with pink faces and black beards, their uniforms- ash-grey trousers and a brass-buttoned dark blue tunic -leaving them sweating in the sun. 

At length, the rowers resumed their shanty and the bell was rung once, twice, three times, the last of the passengers clambering aboard in a hurry, and soon they were out of sight- though it would be some time before they were out of scent -of Glass Bay, the rowers belting out their chorus as with refreshed strength they poled towards Kanmthusa. As the tide rolled under them and people shuffled and bumped about, it was a good half-hour until everyone was once more seated and their luggage secured to not roll or tumble over the deck. 

The ghostly couple of Arcadians had sat down, inasmuch as they could sit, next to the Magistrate; they spoke in ghostly whispers, like wind rustling leaves. Not even those as dead as they were could see Syro, who paced up and down along the deck, peering into the psyche of each of the new passengers. With unseen, misty tendrils he sampled the sun-cooked frustration of the Hyperborean officers, who nearly erupted into a blazing row before the wraith moved on; Faltan gave him a stern look as he was about to drift into the ring of conversation among the Avalonii ladies, whereupon Syro strolled back. 

It was just as he was returning to the seat where Faltan resided that the ghostly lady turned, the thin mist that swirled within her bonnet turning and churning. She spoke, in a tone that seemed to come from worlds away, and in a fearfully dated Arcadian- it was the most Faltan could do to make sense of what she said, and that itself was like a study of history. 

“I say, young man- is your face familiar to me?”

“That it may be,” he replied, “I have known a great many people. I am a traveler, my lady, and if you seek after my name, it is Faltan, of Zerzura.”

Her dainty gloves met in a clap. “The Magistrate Faltan! Sweet luck, I knew it was so! I am Barbara de Angelis. Matthew, look here- we share a ship with the Magistrate Faltan!”

The hat perched upon slightly blurred air turned from its perch a few inches above the collar of the doublet. “Why, the- my dearest, you must tell me, when have we met him before? The name is right out of my reach, it just evades me.”

“Matthew, my love,” she tutted, “the duke’s dinner? It could not have been fourteen years since, who could have forgotten?” 

Indeed, memory stirred in Faltan’s mind. He had been younger then, and more foolhardy, but foolhardiness had been what the occasion had required. “It was just before the Corsair Wars,” he supplied. “Duke Pietro and his three brothers, they had sought my services for settling the will of his father George, who with bravery fell-”

“Yes, yes!” The ghost clapped his hands in sudden inspiration. “I recall it now, he was spitted through by the Hyperboreans at the taking of his barge, and the right to the ducal signet was in dispute- ah, that was a night indeed. To see a man so settle such tempers all at once- Magistrate, you could talk the juice out of grapes, and put the presses out of business.” 

He offered a gloved hand, which Faltan shook heartily, as the ghost declared, “It is all the honor I need in a day, Magistrate, to share this ship’s deck with your esteemed shoe.” 

“Matthew and I,” Barbara explained, “we are in the employ of the New Silk Merchants’ Guild. We go to sign for a shipment which is due to arrive in Kanmthusa quite soon, you understand. The laws work so much differently here- one hundred years in business in the First Lands, and now luck must give me a whole new country to learn the codes of! It should only be the worst of things to befall me.”

“ You , my love, go to sign for the shipment,” Matthew declared. “I, Magistrate, am a humble stonemason, but it should kill me anew to part with my beloved. And sea air is cleaner than that of Glass Bay these days, anyhow. It settles my essence to be out here.” 

As if in illustration, he inhaled- or at any rate made a sound much akin to inhaling -and then sighed in contentment. The Magistrate raised a genteel eyebrow, leaning back, hands resting upon his sergeantstick. “I, myself, have been found by fate in the employ of the illustrious Baron. He requires some matter of governance settled- it was decided my skill was his necessity, thus, I was retained for his service. I should only have a half of the skill you appraise me with, esteemed sir de Angelis, but it is my confidence I shall serve and accomplish.”

“There could be no doubt of it,” Barbara declared. “Magistrate, if I am a specter one year I have been for twenty years, and lady and wight two hundred since, and never have I set eyes to a man so deft in the mind as you when it comes to untangling folk from one another. Best for the knots to be undone before they end up a noose around somebody’s throat, is it not, Magistrate?”

“Precisely as you say, my lady,” Faltan said, bowing his head. The ghosts returned to chatting, remarking on the times gone by, and Syro rolled his eyes.

“If I hear one more nicety I’m giving somebody a fit,” he muttered, kicking a ragged boot against the bench. Nobody felt it, but it was his usual matter of emphasis. “How long and how polite is it to Kanmthusa?”

Faltan stood up, peering out over the bow of the boat. It was a majestic sight, the coast of the Hinterlands, rocky and so laden in trees it seemed the forest grew straight out of the water. He had seen the white sandy beaches of Punt, or the majestic white bluffs of Brittia and Avalon, but there was hardly any coast to the Hinterlands- it just jutted straight out of the water. As the rowers kept up their beat and the shallow boat cleared a spur-like promontory, he saw sails- a forest of their own come up to meet the wooded coast, a thicket of sails, like a white cloud had settled down on the water. Above that cloud of sails flew banners by the score, the bold summer-sky blue banners of the Trade Force. 

“Not very far, I believe,” Faltan declared.

Chapter Text

The harbor at Kanmthusa was a horizon unto itself. If one ship lay at anchor here there must have been three hundred. The city ashore was almost dwarfed by the city afloat, the network of plank walkways and piers where carts rumbled and porters heaved as cargo was loaded up or brought ashore. Compared to this, the docks of Gang Song were a mere jetty. Great banners stood tall and clear of the great tangle of masts and sails and ropes and pennants, designating, as one of the fellow passengers explained to Faltan, the four dockyards of Kanmthusa, for so expansive was the place that merely one could not do. 

Alpha Dockyard was where the shallow-boat was now coming in, and being the oldest it was the smallest and not quite the most soundly built; thus it was for passenger ships and traffic from along the coast, but never used for cargo. Beta and Gamma Dockyards were all a bustling sprawl, those two being assigned to the mercantile business of the Trade Force. The convoys did their business there, bringing the goods from as far as Onogoro, Waqwaq and Kumarikandam. Lastly- most imposingly, settled at the furthest edge, its great banner almost lost from sight for those approaching the dock at Alpha aboard the shallow-boat -was Delta Dockyards, and there anchored the battle fleets of the Trade Force; for it was an exceedingly proud wolf of the sea or an exceedingly foolish one who would fall upon a ship of the Trade Force and expect to escape with their spoils.

The folk aboard the ship made their way to the maze of plank walkways, but as Faltan stepped down, the Marine at the base of the gangplank held up a hand. He was a young man, but with iron worked into the set of his face, clean-shaven, in the trousers, jacket and ingenious brimmed helmet of the Trade Force. Resting against the underside of the brim, able to swing down on hinges with the flick of a catch, was a ‘battle-mask’ of metal with a thin eyeslit. While it would stop no bullets, many a Marine owed their eyes to their battle-mask when splinters of wood flew in battles at sea. The seasoned ones carved notches on their masks for foes slain, or painted fearsome visages on them, grinning skulls or snarling demon’s faces. This Marine, though, appeared in no rush to lower his mask; rather, he simply gave a disapproving look at the Magistrate, speaking in a rough-hewn Xanadunu. 

“We allow no Imperial shock troops to come ashore, grandfather.”

Faltan turned about, looking at the quartet of Bodyguards, who very nearly mirrored the expression on the face of the Marine; soldiers of any nation or army subjected to bureaucracy became blood-brothers in exasperation. He rested his hands on his sergeantstick, giving the Marine a quizzical look. He spoke to the Marine in Xanadunu in turn. 

“Do I look like I am leading an invasion, gallant man? These soldiers are not here to launch an offensive.”

“Nonetheless, they wear the uniform of the Imperial army, and we do not let them disembark here, grandfather. For them to do so would be considered an armed incursion on private territory, and armed incursion is unlawful.”

“And if they were unarmed, then?”

The Marine produced a lacquered wood cylinder from the pocket of his uniform coat, opening it with a soft pop and unrolling the scroll inside. “They are nonetheless military personnel of the standing retainer, and according to this lawful decree of Xanadunu law, no citizen nor enterprise of citizens must suffer an incursion of soldiers of the standing retainer, save it be wartime, or the citizen or enterprise’s territory- I could read the whole of this to you, grandfather, but the short of it is that I, or rather the Force, has the authority to tell these men of yours to get back onto the boat and depart from hence.” 

He returned the scroll to its tube, and Faltan tapped his stick on the gangplank. Indeed, four uniformed Bodyguards may have been ill choice for company on such an excursion, but to decline the Baron’s insistence would have been a mistake all its own. There was no sending them back, of course, but this man scarcely seemed ready to allow them to come forwards either. He thought for a moment, assaying the possibilities, and then spoke. 

“Gallant man, shall we speak in Hyperborean?”

The Marine raised a brow. “Is my Xanadunu not of your liking?”

“Is it of your liking to speak Xanadunu, gallant man?”

In Hyperborean did the Marine reply, “Not very much so, but when greeting a man with four Xanadunu soldiers in tow- well, sir, you can see my thought.”

The Magistrate too spoke in Hyperborean- although, he was sure, having learned his Hyperborean some years before the Corsair Wars, his was hardly the most modish of dialects in that tongue. “I assure you, sir, the impression is wholly my irresponsibility. I am brought here on such business that I was placed under guard of these men-”

“You under their guard or them under yours, sir, I cannot allow them to come to shore. I don’t review the passengers coming ashore here for leisure, sir; keeping security is my duty to the Force. No soldiers of the Empire are welcome on our docks.” 

“Sir, these men are not here in the capacity of soldiers,” he protested. “They are an honor guard, as any man of significant business might have about him. I am certain you have seen captains of the Force go about in just the same manner.”

“Sir, even so, I have- but their honor guard were Hyperboreans, sir, not Xanadunu, and wearing uniforms of the Force, not of the Empire.”

Faltan grasped for an angle, seeking out a means. He had spoken to a thousand guards and gatekeepers, and this fellow ranked among the least impressionable of them. To argue with a mooring post might have yielded more benefit. “Sir, let me impress upon you-”

“By all means, I shall be impressed upon, but I shan’t let Imperial shock troopers come ashore down the gangplank as they please.”

“If I were leading an incursion, I should surely have brought more men. If I were spying upon this city, I would have brought fewer, and certainly not in dress uniforms of the Empire. You must agree, there is no strategic purpose that these men can serve- they are solely a bodyguard. Is this not so?” 

The Marine took a moment, eyes flicking this way and that among the troops as he parsed a reply. “I believe, sir, I can make a resolution to this. You say they are an honor-guard and a bodyguard, yes?”

Faltan folded his hands atop his sergeantstick. “Yes, indeed.”

“Then, in defense of the honor of the Trade Force- if you will give me only a minute, sir-” from a silver chain about his neck the Marine drew a whistle, and blew upon it in a high, keen note; it was less than a minute before a squadron of Marines, twelve men strong, in uniforms just a hint different from his- their coats royal blue instead of midnight, their brimmed helmets formed slightly differently -jogged up the dock.

He spoke a quicker and more slang-laden Hyperborean to the squadron’s commander, and most of them departed, save five who stayed, carrying with them sabers and the short marine musket of the Trade Force, with its trademark thick, blocky construction that sealed out sea-spray which might soak the powder.

“Sir, none shall show up the Trade Force here in our own property. If the Imperials sent you with four men for honor, we shall give you five,” the Marine declared, as the new arrivals spun their muskets with great aplomb, nesting them at their shoulders as they finished the grand gesture. It was as crisp as any parade-ground drill could have been, and Faltan suspected it a spontaneous nudge at the Bodyguards in his company. “And furthermore, with five men to oversee you, there is no risk of these Imperials going to spy us out or sabotage our ships. Is this satisfactory to you, sir?”

“Most satisfactory, sir,” Faltan replied. Already, Syro was sniffing the air as it thickened with tension between the Bodyguards and the Marines. If flat, sour glances were cannons, the two gaggles of men would be firing broadsides at one another. The Marine at last stepped aside. 

“Then you are most welcome, and most honored, to the port of Kanmthusa, sir. Do know that the grounds- aha, and the water as well, sir, and the gangplanks and so forth- of Delta Dockyards is off-limits to visitors who carry no icon of the Trade Force; all else is in your hands.” 

With his newfound brigade of bodyguards in tow, the Marines and Bodyguards shouldering just short of actually shoving one another off the gangplanks into the water of the bay, Magistrate Faltan came at last to shore on the beaten dirt roads of Kanmthusa. No cobbles or slabs here as there were in Gang Song; the whole of the place was more roughshod in appearance, more sprawling and improvised. Cargo crates and the porters who hauled them sat under rudely built canopies to shade from the midday sun; carpenters and builders were even now hammering away to build more warehouses, the tock-tock of nails driven into lumber sounding with the regularity of soldiers on the march.

Beneath a sign that declared the building it was attached to to be the Crow and Spindle Sailors’ Inn of the Force, Magistrate Faltan reviewed the troops he had found himself trailing about. He stepped under the awning, as the rousing chorus of a Hyperborean folk-song drifted through the window, and tapped his sergeantstick against the ground for attention.

In Hyperborean he spoke first. “Good gentlemen of the Force! You have been detailed to accompany me. I am the Magistrate Faltan, and I strive against there being contention in my presence. If you must make dispute with the Xanadunu in my company, I shall wait here while you seek out another Marine who does not feel so compelled, who shall take your place among these men, and only then carry on.”

He turned, facing the Bodyguards- the two groups of men had drifted apart from one another, naturally separating like oil and water, but were it not for their uniforms and a slight tint of skin or style of beard they would have been near impossible to tell apart. They both had the dutiful cast of soldiers, both tall and hardily built, both groups wearing the same expression of men who only listened inasmuch as rank dictated they had to. “Gentlemen of the Bodyguards, you have been detailed to accompany me. I shall abide no bickering by those under duty; if you feel driven to argue with these Hyperboreans in our company, return to the docks at once, and we shall regroup with you when our business here is concluded.” 

One of the Marines, a broad-shouldered, broad-faced man with stubble like frost creeping on a window, stepped forward. Faltan gestured towards him with his sergeantstick, declaring in Hyperborean, “Yes, my gallant man?” 

“Magistrate Faltan, I am First-grade Marine Oskar of the Golden Arrow Fleet, sir. Ranking Marine in this company, sir. Will it be your pleasure to inform us to what end we shall accompany you, sir?”

Faltan pondered it for a moment, stroking his beard, before tapping his stick once more. “First-grade Marine Oskar, it is my business here in the great port of Kanmthusa to investigate a matter pertaining to missing correspondence between the Baron Ying of the Imperial Treasury and…First-grade Marine Oskar, who is the head of operations of the Trade Force here in the Hinterlands?” 

“Sir, the Grand Admiral is the head of all operations of the Trade Force, sir,” Oskar replied, his expression that of one who had answered a question they expected the questioner to know themselves. “Admiral Elbrus, sir? Master of the Snow Leopard , of Rocky Bay Fleet, sir? I assumed you would know of him, sir.” 

“Your Admiral Elbrus is a shrewd man, First-grade Marine,” Faltan replied. “He settles his difficulties himself, and thus I have yet to have been in his employ or the employ of those who do business with him. For this reason I have been ignorant of his status. Would he be in port at the moment, First-grade Marine?”

Oskar gestured outwards, down the waterline towards Delta, then- at the jog of a fellow Marine’s elbow -turned back. “The Snow Leopard is at her home port here in Kanmthusa right now- I mean, sir, Kanmthusa is her home port, right now, and she is here, sir. I mean, sir, yes, the Grand Admiral is in Kanmthusa at the moment, sir, at the Office of Admiralty.” 

The Magistrate adjusted his coat, and spoke aloud in Ysaise. “Gentlemen all, am I understood in this tongue?” 

There was a smattering of acknowledgements- Ysaise was common for a second language, for the reason that Ysaise was common for a second language. It was a circular reasoning, but when a Xanadunu and Avalonian, or a Zerzuran and Buyanski, had to make conversation, it was helpful for both to speak a measure of Ysaise; it was reckoned the ‘common tongue’ of many dockyards and markets. 

“Gentlemen, we make for the Office of Admiralty of the Trade Force. Are there any questions? First-grade Marine Oskar will be leading the way, as I am new about this town and do not know the streets. Turn about, gentleman, turn about, let us take our leave of the inn and set out.”

 Oskar spoke most earnestly with the Magistrate as they walked. He was a sailor since he had been old enough to serve as a deck runner, couriering messages and orders about a ship, but he was one of the new generation- born and bred, he explained, of the Hinterlands.

“But you, Magistrate, you are a traveling man, yes?”

“I have been to many of the corners of the earth, First-grade Marine, and I assure you, there is much glory in creation that is worthy of seeing, should there be a wind suitable to sail you there. I myself, I was born in Zerzura, but I have been to Shangri-la, and Hyperborea, and Ys and Avalon alike, many a place across the world, is my meaning. To travel, First-grade Marine, is to know more of the world, and there is nothing better a man can ask for than to know of the world.” 

They carried on speaking as they walked, their talk meandering from where Shangri-La was and how it differed from Xanadu- Oskar explaining that geography had never quite been his forte -to the princedoms of Hyperborea, to the makeup of the Trade Force with her subsidiaries and subdivisions, and further yet as they made their way along the dirt roads towards the Admiralty. 

The Office of Admiralty was a squat, sprawling structure; clearly it had begun along the lines of a blockhouse, but had been expanded and expanded, and now seemed more like an accidental castle- indeed, the wings of the building encircled a full courtyard, and watchtowers jutted up above. Dozens of flags fluttered above the gate; Faltan recognized the Golden Arrow Fleet which Oskar had said he hailed from, and many other badges besides. Faltan felt nearly surprised to see no ditch or moat encircling the gateway through the fence and towards the Office itself. Then again, no ditch or moat would be needed when there were ten Marines in sky-blue coats, with sabers, muskets and proud bicorns with gold stitching glittering in the afternoon sun. One of them- a seasoned-looking man, with eyes that held the force of an old ship’s battle ram and the scar of a musket-ball torn across his nose -barked out an order as the company approached. 

“At once!” The Marines at the gates snapped to attention, or rather more to attention than they already had been. The man spoke Hyperborean, and with clipped, aristocratic tones, his cadence coming in bursts. He assayed the Marines and Bodyguards in Faltan’s company with a critical gaze. 

“Golden Arrows, indeed, and buffalo from Xanadu! What is the meaning of this? Who are you, sir, and what is your business at the Admiralty? Speak up now, and we shall see if you warrant passing by these gates.”

Faltan bowed minutely; this was an irate man, and to be polite to the irate was all too often merely prodding their tempers more. Merely inclining his neck for a moment, he spoke, in best of Hyperborean. “I am Magistrate Faltan, on retainer of the Imperial Treasury to manage the matter of some correspondence which seems to have gone missing. My wish is to see the Grand Admiral, for it was with him that the business I go after to investigate its end was conducted, sir.” 

The man hitched up his nose, frowned, and adjusted his bicorn. “Magistrate Faltan! Magistrate Faltan, who adjudicated in the courts of the Corsair Lords?”

“A long time ago, sir, and solely for pay, as I do now work,” Faltan replied mildly. 

“Ah, Corsairs and Xanadunu alike you have worked for. What rogues seek after your wisdom!” The man smiled, and it was not a lovely smile; it might have been carved in plank and been more gracious. 

“These Golden Arrows I shall keep on guard duty, Magistrate, and get some flint in their backs; they do not drill men right in that fleet. And these Xanadunu you may take with you, for all that I care- but let them know, within these walls, a good hundred Hyperborean pistols could make sieves of them in a minute. Swing it open!” 

The Magistrate drew his shoulders up, shaking his head. “It cannot be done, sir. I have been ordered strictly to keep these five in the company of these four, that none should suspect the four of spying or the five of shirking duty.”

The Marine waxed irate; he drew off his hat and stepped forward, shaking a finger underneath the Magistrate’s axe-head of a nose. Worse things had been done to the Magistrate, but even he had to focus himself, fixing his gaze just around the man’s ear, neither looking him in the eye nor seeming distracted. 

“Ordered? Ordered by whom? Who ordered it, I should like to know! Am I not guard captain for the Office of the Admiralty? Is it not my duty to see to it that no enemy treads foot within and yet I admit four- not one, but four! Four Xanadunu shock-troops? Why do you bicker with me? Go in, and worry not about who ordered what to whom about which!” 

“You are the guard captain, and I tell you that a captain of the harbor watch, of the-” Faltan felt most grateful for Oskar’s rambling lesson on the fleets of the Force, “-Kobrin-Zymin Fleet, the Rat-Eaters, ordered it to be so, that these men are to stay in my company and in each others’ for the duration of my being here, sir! Put your hat back on, and let us on by, if you please.”

The man smiled once more, and it had not grown any more beautiful a smile since the last time he used it. He gave a short, loud laugh. “A Rat-Eater? And you never made mention of it? Go in, go in! They drink saltwater and spit tar, and they are wicked as gulls, and I will be spitted and blasted if there are better men in the Force. Go in, and take these Xanadunu buffalo with you, go!” 

He donned his hat once more, chuckling, and gestured to the rest of the gate-guards. They swung open the doors, and the Magistrate and his procession entered; there was a stir awaiting them, officers from many a fleet, judging by their uniforms. Some wore plainer coats, some wore more elegantly decorated ones, some stood in shirtsleeves. The altercation at the gates seemed to have drawn eavesdroppers, who now parted before the Magistrate like waves before the prow of a ship. A runner approached, a young lad of cabin-boy age, in a white shirt and patched blue pantaloons. He spoke breathlessly, in slightly unwieldy Ysaise.

“Sir, the Grand Admiral sends a message toward you, sir, if you would follow, and your men along with you, to the chief office. I can show you the way, sir, if you would follow with me.”

“Most certainly, young master, I shall. Gentlemen, all, come about. We make way after this gentleman.” 

The column of men reformed from their loose grouping behind the Magistrate, and with a crisp step- thoroughly coordinated, although the Bodyguards were only in coordination with the Bodyguards and the Marines with the Marines, giving a lopsided time -they marched through the courtyard, and then into the Office itself. The place was crowded and busy; runners ran, recorders recorded, lookouts looked and called out as ships signalled on the bay, coming in or out, unloading or loading anew.

It was up a broad flight of stairs the runner led them, taking a bow and gesturing towards the great doors of dark wood at the end, then departing with a patter of his shoes down the steps. The hallway was carpeted in rich red, embroidered with spruce-green, and paneled in fine wood; the doors were elegantly carved with grapevine motifs, and held polished knockers of gleaming brass. There was no such bustle as below.

“An Admiral I would believe to be busy, gentlemen, and therefore we shall not remain long. No need to become too set in place.”

Stepping forwards, the Magistrate lifted the knocker and clapped it against the wood; he was no carpenter, but he had knocked on many a door, and knew this to be a sturdy one, an artisan’s work. From within, a voice called out- manly, tinged with age, accented Hyperborean and speaking the same.

“Enter, if you will!”

“Gentlemen, the door, if you please,” Faltan declared. Two Bodyguards stepped forwards- elbowing past one Marine who had moved to do the same -and swung open the doors. Through those magnificently carved doors, into the presence of the Grand Admiral of the Trade Force, did the Magistrate Faltan stride.

Chapter Text

The room before him was broad and spacious, featuring one full wall of window- fine glasswork, it was, and sturdily wrought -that overlooked the bay. Opposite it, the other wall was painted as a map, with every known clime of the world, every promontory and cove. A grid of minute holes was bored across the whole of the wall, and in many of them was stuck a peg with the miniature likeness of a ship, in a variety of colors, by appearances coded to what kingdom they sailed from. In the sunlight that poured through that great window was a broad desk, and sitting behind it was the Grand Admiral Argus Elbrus. 

The Admiral was a man from the Hyperborean tall tales, a man with a heroic air, who ought to have rode a midnight-black steppe horse with a terrible beast’s fresh-severed head lashed to the saddle. He was as tall as Faltan was, but leaner of build, barrel-chested. His beard was black, his face vibrant and ruddy, with golden teeth showing in his smile. His uniform was that of a plain officer, a blue coat, white trousers and a slightly better-tailored version of the broad-cuffed sailor’s shirt; through his belt was thrust a saber which seemed more for use than ornamentation. What the blade lacked in encrusting jewels or notches to mark sworn enemies slain, it made up for in the gleam of a well-made blade, and a well-kept one. 

“Welcome, sir!” boomed Argus, standing from his desk. It was piled with enough heaps of paper to make it seem a mountain range in miniature, many of those white peaks capped off with a stone or piece of shot to keep them from blowing off. He stepped smartly around the field of debris, and in Hyperborean manner he and Faltan shook hands, embraced, and exchanged kisses upon the cheek. His greetings done, Argus boomed out into the hallway, “Tea for a dozen in the Admiral’s office!”

A slightly muffled affirmative and a patter of feet responded, and with that, the Admiral stepped back, folding his hands behind his back and looking over the small crowd which had found its way into his office. 

“So, the great Magistrate Faltan, whose name I know of old from the time- gods and godly things, how long ago! I was only a cabin-boy in the Corsair fleets when first I heard the name Faltan, Magistrate, and it is a wondrous thing to meet you. Also in attendance, I see, we have four men of the Bodyguards and five of the Golden Arrows, and two Arcadians. I fear I don’t have chairs enough for you all, gentlemen.” 

He raised an eyebrow, with a lighthearted grin. “Thus you only have until these men’s legs grow tired to make your suit, Magistrate. I have been around Marines who had to stay standing for too long, and it wears on a man’s spirits.” 

Argus gestured towards a richly cushioned chair, situated across the mountains of paper, as he resumed his own seat on the other side of the desk. Faltan sat, and the Marines and Bodyguards stood by in dutiful idleness. 

“Admiral, it is a great pleasure to meet you. Or perhaps to meet you once more; it was long ago that I adjudicated among the Corsairs, and it may have been that we have glimpsed one another before and do not know it today.

“I have come here in the service of the Baron Ying, Admiral Argus, who has a matter which has caused him grief. His reports to the Empire’s capital, they are slim, you see.” 

Argus shifted aside one of the taller peaks of the range, finally allowing some measure of direct line of sight betwixt the two men, and furrowed his brow down. “They are slim, you say?”

“Slim, Admiral. A province like the Hinterlands, it is expected to bring forth good, fat reports, is it not? But he has found himself sending slim ones, very lean. Why, one would scarcely need to pick the teeth afterwards.” Faltan raised a brow, layering import upon his words. Argus nodded, seizing upon the spirit. 

“And papers do not lose weight in travel as men do. It is a terrible thing, you know, how a man who well fills a new uniform- by the end of his voyage, it is hanging all about him like a cloak- ah, it is enough, Magistrate. The Baron, he thinks we are…let's say, we are dipping our bread in his butter?”

There was something of a commotion away from the desk, as a group of men in plain shirtsleeves carried in, quite gingerly, a heavily-laden small table, set with a lace-worked cloth; it featured several glazed ceramic dishes of dainties, and a gleaming silver samovar and tea-set. Argus rapped upon one of the meager patches of exposed wood on his desk to draw the attention of the servingmen bearing the table. 

“Take it out into the hallway, let these men dine at their leisure there! And godly things, bring chairs for them, gentlemen! Thank you.”

As a shuffling exodus began and the troops left the room, Argus returned his gaze to the Magistrate, who finally replied once the hubbub died down. In weighty dealings such as these, at times it was best to just hurl the shotput and hope it landed true. 

“The figures he provided me with- or the figures he has been unable to provide the Empire with, Admiral- they are ten to twelve thousand nef a year. That is what he said; the reports are slim by ten to twelve thousand.”

Argus steepled his fingers, his jaw working as though chewing the very thought, and there were some moments of quiet only broken by the clink of teacups outside the door before he answered. 

“To smuggle, she is in the blood of the Hyperboreans, Magistrate, she is our blood right. But, gods and godly things, ten to twelve thousand? That is not smuggling nef, Magistrate, unless it was nef by the shipload we were smuggling. I won't deny you that we in the Force do not pay every sixth-nef that we are most strictly obliged to pay. But no number of sixth-nefs left unpaid would make ten to twelve thousand, year by year. It is simply- it would be beyond our ability to do." 

He raised a brow, his face grave. “And to say that something is more than a Hyperborean can smuggle, Magistrate, she must be a very great thing indeed. I could produce every logbook we have taken, Magistrate, from the first Force ship to make landfall here- the, the volume, she is too much, unless, I say, it was solid gold that is being smuggled. That's what I say.”

Faltan nodded, pondering the details that the Baron had spoken of. “Therefore, either the Baron has the wrong figure; or the Baron’s officials, they have calculated wrong; or, there is more smuggling that is done, or perhaps more business carried out, of which- as you might say -the Empire receives no butter for their bread from.”

The Admiral shook his head, thumping his fist upon the desk. “The first two are out of question, Magistrate, out of question. Right out! The greatest- tell me, Magistrate, do you know what the greatest weapon of the Empire is?”

Faltan knew a question of rhetoric when one was posed to him, and so allowed Argus to continue without disruption. “It is not the Heavens-Breaking Thunderclap, the great cannon that sits at the capital harbor, that they say could sink a fleet , Magistrate, a fleet! -if she was ever fired. Neither is it the Number Four Mountain Musket, easier to use than a spoon, more durable than a stone. No, it is their accountants, Magistrate, it is their scholars. 

“They track all things, they- the gods gave them paper, Magistrate, and it's made of them the terrors of all the earth! Nothing goes unwritten, and nothing written is mistaken, that is the way of the Xanadunu. I do not believe that their figures are in error, but neither- I would swear in the house of the gods, the Force does not, could not cost them ten to twelve thousand, year by year, in dues not given. It simply could not be done!”

He finished the tirade, and then threw up his hands once more. “And yet, so you say, and I don't call the Magistrate Faltan a liar. The figure is so; the mystery, Magistrate, is who accrues such a figure.”

“There are no other-” Faltan stopped himself, reassessing and resuming, “-is there nobody else, let me say it such a manner, nobody else who does not find themselves obliged to pay what the strictest measure of the law would have them pay, Admiral?” 

Argus tugged at his beard in thought. “There are certain enterprises of that nature, Magistrate, but if we in the Force are caring with our finances- and we are so very caring, Magistrate, indeed, were we less caring the Baron should not have coast patrols run so often -if we are caring, Magistrate, they are fanatics. I do not speak lightly, fanatics! Somebody would have to make an obscene profit, and yet be a boor in managing it, to let the Baron’s accountants come up with such a figure as you speak of. Ten to twelve thousand! The man who could grift that much but couldn't hide it- pah, he did not deserve it to begin with.” 

“But then, Admiral- if it cannot be that your enterprise has acquired all these nef, and it cannot be that the Baron, his figures are wrong -how else could it be?” Faltan tapped his finger upon the table, his brow furrowed. “We have chased off all the other answers that might be here, we have sifted away the chaff- this is the grain of the matter, this is the answer that is left to us."

“It is not the only answer that is left to us, Magistrate. It is all about the men- it is about the ropes, if all this missing coin were a great sail, that is what it is. It is about the ropes that hold up our sail.” 

Argus arose from his chair, looking out the window, studying the ships upon the bay. “The men, they are on my side, or on the Baron’s side, these men who have made this strange trouble. On my side, well- there are certain men, they do not take such great care in taking all their numbers. Not everything is written down, not like the Xanadunu. What is written down can be discovered! And what is discovered, ah, that's very bad luck indeed if it is not to the liking of the Baron, what was written. Perhaps there is more that should have been written, and was not, and now it is this lack of writing that's coming down on our heads.

“And on the other side, it might be that men of the Baron have decided it is time to rattle us about. Not without cause, Magistrate, not without cause, godly things! The Xanadunu do not like our business, Magistrate, they do not like that the big shipping firm in the Hinterlands, she is Hyperborean, not from Xanadu. They may be the ones who trimmed the fat from those records, and made them look thin, to make us seem a great, mighty problem for the Empire."

The Admiral curled his lip, peering out the window with a sour look as he concluded. Faltan pondered the matter for a moment. Either way was as sensible as the other, and yet, neither was the more possible one of this nebulous third party the Baron had alluded to- the Rafarios. Nonetheless, the further Argus seemed to steer from the matter, the less it was Faltan’s wish to try and broach it with him.

“You think they would do so, Admiral? They are most scrupulous, you said. The Imperials would try to frame you with their own numbers?”

Argus turned back from the window, spreading his hands wide. “Gods, godly things, most certainly! They know the principles of good government, the Xanadunu, they know them well. A government, she must keep her people a little frightened. Not terrified all the time, that is bad, and not totally calm, but always a little frightened. That is the way in Hyperborea, that is the way in Xanadu, in every good kingdom I have put an anchor in the shores of, that is the way. It's the way aboard a ship, too, you know. The crew must fear the captain, always, but only a little bit. But they must fear a little bit. And to give us this matter, tell us ten to twelve thousand, ah- Magistrate, this will give a good little fright to us all in the Trade Force, I tell you so.” 

Faltan studied the stacks of paper on the table. Most of them, at a glance, appeared to be manifests; a ship’s name, the state of crew and cargo. A thought began to stir within him.

“Admiral, tell me, who is it that manages the numbers of your business? You tell me not everything is written down- that I understand, that not all the numbers are fit to be written -but when things are written, who is it that writes them?”

Argus tugged at his beard, still staring out at the harbor. His voice had the slightly absent tone of one deep in thought over a matter other than the one being spoken of at the time. “That is our Nadia Papok, she is head of accounts. Yes, she is the one who manages such things. But- I tell you, Magistrate, the numbers that I must worry about, they are not the kind which it is their nature to be written down. She does not attend to such things.”

Faltan levered himself up on his sergeantstick, standing a pace behind the Admiral. The four bays outside were as busy as ever with cargo and patrol-boats coming, going, depositing cargo or taking it aboard; within his mind, in reflection, a new ship indeed was mooring up, and thoughts were unloading. 

“It is a matter of mathematics, I believe, Admiral.”

“Ah! I know of such things, to an extent,” the Admiral nodded. “Necessary at sea. But how do you mean by mathematics in this case, Magistrate?”

Faltan tapped the stick thoughtfully, as he assembled the explanation. “We have the figures that- let us say the Imperial Treasury is accurate, perhaps they are not the greatest of well-wishers to you, but we will grant them accuracy. Now, we have the numbers that should appear- and in your files, we have the numbers that have appeared so far -and so, Admiral, all we must do is take what we have from what must be, to find what has been lost in between the two. Either we can prove that you have given the Empire all the butter their bread needs; or we can prove they are asking too much butter from, I suppose, the milk which you have."

Though tricky to distinguish from behind the man, Faltan was certain that Argus grinned, in the manner of a man presented with a way to untie a particularly vexing knot. The Admiral turned on his heel, clapping Faltan upon the shoulder, his face firm and set as though he had nailed his colors to the mast. 

“This is a good thing you say, Magistrate. But- it shall take time. These are many records you ask to go through, and I would trust nothing of this importance if it were done quickly. What troubles me now, Magistrate, is that you have with you Xanadunu, and you can't send them away, but I can't have them quartered with my men. And Kanmthusa, she is a good town, but our guest-houses, they are for the sailors, mostly. Please, come. It is good to have tea when discussing business.”

From the Admiral’s office they emerged into the hallway without, wherein Marines and Bodyguards were littered in clumps of two or three, sipping their tea and snacking on honey-glazed pastries and poppyseed rolls. At a curt command from the Admiral, one of the Marines rose bolt upright from his chair, and smartly as a musket-toss drill did he pour water and stir in the thick-steeped tea essence. Argus took the cup and saucer, passing it to Faltan, and only after took one for himself, looking over the men. He fairly loomed about them, and these soldiers were no squat types. Yet in the Admiral’s presence it would have seemed insubordinate to be taller than he. Argus seemed to simply radiate raw stature, and before it all others paled.

“Gentlemen! You have dined finely of my kitchen, and as it is the kitchen of an officer, I am sure you found it all very fine fare. Now, as to the matter of your bill for such dining-”

Faltan had not actually reached for his money-belt, but had been readying himself to do so, when an uproar arose from the Hyperborean soldiers. Argus allowed the laughter to subside before tapping his teacup to the saucer; silence followed swiftly. The Xanadunu troops wore bemused expressions, one of them quite visibly exasperated with the whole jest.

“Fear not, gentlemen, fear not, none shall say that the Admiral Argus, he is a skinflint of a man. No, what I must say is that the Magistrate whom you accompany shall be kept a guest aboard the captain’s quarters of my own ship, the Snow Leopard . Therefore, all of you shall sleep aboard her, for you are charged with his accompaniment, and any man found deserting at the very least the near presence of the Magistrate, that man I'll have flogged upon the docks! All of this instruction, she is very clear to you, yes?” 

A hubbub of affirmation met his question, whereupon he turned back to Faltan, who had been scenting the tea in his cup.

“The Grand Admiral, if I may ask, drinks tea of Onogoro?” Faltan spoke softly, furrowing his brow and taking an experimental sip. But the tongue offered no counter-argument to the nose, and with a nose like Faltan’s two teas did not pass one for the other. 

Argus nodded, picking up a poppyseed dainty and adding it to his saucer, taking a sip himself. “I have drunk nearly as much tea as a sailor as I have liquor and saltwater, Magistrate, perhaps not the very same, but nearly as much. And I've drunk it in many places, in the harbors of Xanadu, in Antillia and Presterium and more. And I shall say to you, Magistrate, it is Onogoro tea which is finest for my tongue. Perhaps it's not the finest for every man- I tell you, there are some who will say, when they think the Admiral can't hear, that it is vile heathen stuff, and only Hyperborean tea is fit to drink, for Hyperboreans, at any rate. But- for me, I say, for my tongue -yes, it is Onogoro tea which must beat the day.”

Argus took a long and appreciative draught of the tea, munching upon the pastry, and considered the men before him. Once more, he turned back to Faltan. “When it is your desire to consult the records, Magistrate, you must only go down the stairs, and out to the courtyard- the wing of the building that is on your right, from there, when you emerge, she is where the records are kept, and Nadia she works there. Be careful as you tread!” 

He held up a finger in warning, his face stern. “It is her ship, the records office, and she is captain there- and so, Magistrate, like all captains with those aboard the ship, it does good to be a little frightened. I'm sure she shall be of great help to you- I'm sure any of my officers should be, if they enjoy such things like receiving their pay as part of the Force. I return now to my business, Magistrate, but- there is no honor like warming tea for the Magistrate Faltan. Tonight we shall dine together on the Snow Leopard , surely?”

Faltan set down his saucer and teacup upon the table, bowing. “Grand Admiral, there is no honor in the Hinterlands like having a man’s tea warmed for him by the Admiral Argus. And if you say I shall dine, can I think to contradict? It would be honor on top of honor, Grand Admiral.”

“Wonderful! I shall put honor more atop it, Magistrate, only see if I do not.” Once more grinning with a golden flash, the Grand Admiral finished tea and pastry, and returned through the handsome wooden doors into his study. 

Faltan tapped his sergeantstick lightly on the floor; the soldiers came to attention at once. It was a high-strung attitude they had, and clearly the command to idle about the hallway with tea and baked danties had put them on edge for the slightest of commands.

“Gentlemen, we proceed from here to the wing of the building next door, to the records office. I permit any man who does not care for records, nor offices, to stay here, or to stand in the courtyard of the Admiralty. Is there any gentleman here who feels so inclined?”

There was a split second wherein each Hyperborean scrutinized each Xanadunu, and vice versa; no muscle budged, no mouth uttered a sound, on the one side, and so the other responded in kind. 

“Excellent. Gentlemen, finish your tea if you have not already, and we shall make our way, as fast as can be. This is a great undertaking which the Admiral requires of me, and as soon as it can begin, it must.”

There was a flurry of movement- carefully avoided nudges and cautious crowding, as though each man carried an open keg of powder in one hand and a burning torch in the other. Saucers and cups were returned to the table, one Marine scarfed down a final honey pastry, crumbs were brushed from uniforms, muskets were brought to march position. 

With a gesture of his sergeantstick, Faltan marshaled the men. In moments, the makeshift brigade was once more on the march, scattering officers before them like dolphins on a bow wave as they made their way down the stairs, out into the courtyard, and then back within once more through the door with the brass plaque next to it which declared it “RECORDS”.