December 13, 11 ATC

Port Anderssen, Viceroyalty of Checkmate, Principality of Monochrome

Hozack walked through the sleet-covered streets of Port Anderssen, ignoring the falling snow. The year had been quiet since the Church fell. Few issues of diplomatic importance, but there was always the issue of giving aid to nations in need and the necessity of coordinating with the other Coalition members. It had kept him away from home for months. But the winter holidays gave him an excuse to return to Checkmate, and spending time with his grandfather was always pleasant during the winter.

As he approached the gate of the manor, the guards saw him. A pair of them, one old and one young, went out to meet him.

"What is your business here?" the younger one asked. He must have been new. The old one pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed.

"Idiot," the older one said. "Can't you tell? This is the young master!"

"The young master?" the younger one asked. He bit his lip. "Apologies, my lord! I didn't—"

"Don't harass the man," the older one said. "We'll have this discussion later."

"It's quite alright," Hozack said. "Are you new here, my boy?"

"Yes," the young man said. "My lord. I've been here only a few months."

"I've been gone for much of that time," Hozack said. "I'm not surprised he didn't recognize me. Spare the boy; he's just doing his job."

"Hmph," the older guard muttered. "If you insist. You boys! Open the gate for the young master!"

The men in the gatehouse rushed down and opened the gate. The rusted hinges creaked loudly as the gate opened before him. Hozack gave a final wave to the two guardsmen before he hurried down the road to the manor.

The wind was beginning to pick up now, he noticed, blowing snow and wet sleet at his back. He saw a few servants, sent outside to clear the paths of snow, abandon their posts and head inside instead of trying in vain to finish their job. He would pretend he didn't see it, Hozack thought.

He arrived at the door of the manor and brought down the brass knockers on the door. Footsteps behind the door, and it opened. The butler was standing there, his beard longer and his gray hair thinner than it had been when Hozack left. He smiled.

"Master Hozack," he said. "Come in, come in. It's much too cold to be out there."

"Thank you, Aloysius," Hozack said. The butler closed the door and took Hozack's snow-covered coat. "I sent the servants in. It's much too cold to have them out there, and it's not like they're making any headway."

"Yes, I was just about to call them in," Aloysius said. "It's been a bitter winter this year."

"I'm sure my grandfather will gripe about it," Hozack said. "Speaking of, where is he? He knew I was coming, did he not?"

Aloysius shifted uneasily. "He's in bed, sir."

"In bed?" Hozack asked. "But it's only, what, six o'clock? He's usually in his office until at least nine." He studied Aloysius's unease. He did not like at all how the butler refused to make eye contact.

"Aloysius," Hozack said. "What is wrong?"

"Your, ah, grandfather," Aloysius stammered. "He's, er, taken ill. Very ill, I'm afraid."

"Ill?" Hozack said. "We have the finest doctors in the nation on call! It can't be that serious." He paused. "Can it?"

Aloysius pulled Hozack closer and his voice dropped to a whisper. "I've kept details from the other staff," Aloysius said, "on Lord Sphinx's express wishes. All I know is that his sickness is severe and that—" He stopped. "And that there may be no cure."

"Is that all?" Hozack asked.

"He said he would tell you the rest himself," Aloysius said. "He's in his bedroom, waiting for his dinner."

"Thank you, Aloysius," Hozack said. "I'll take his dinner up. You have the rest of the night off."

Hozack fetched the dinner plate from the kitchen, which was adorned with fine meats, cheeses and vegetables. He grabbed a small mug of mead, his grandfather's favorite, and went upstairs to his grandfather's bedroom.

Sphinx was lying face-up under his covers, and Hozack was astonished by how much he had changed. It had only been a few months since he had left, but Sphinx had become frail. His skin was splotchy and pale, and his face seemed to be pulled tighter across his face. As Sphinx saw Hozack enter, his face brightened.

"Hozack, you're back," he said, and Hozack noticed his voice was very dry. "And you brought me dinner. Aloysius will be out of a job."

Hozack set the platter on Sphinx's lap and pulled up a chair. "You didn't tell me you were sick in your letters," Hozack said.

Sphinx shrugged. "That's not information I wanted intercepted, or accidentally decoded. But you know now."

"What is it?" Hozack said. "What disease is this?"

"The doctors say," Sphinx said, "that it isn't cancer, at least. No tumors. But they say that my entire body is weakening. My bones, my muscles, are deteriorating. It won't kill me immediately. But it will leave me vulnerable to something that will."

"How long do you have?" Hozack asked.

Sphinx looked down at his food. He didn't look very hungry. "A few years," he said. "I'll live to see seventy, that's for sure. I'll probably live to see the next Diet. But I don't think I'll make it to seventy-five."

"Don't say that," Hozack said. "The doctors can treat this! I can have our agents retrieve—"

"No," Sphinx said. Hozack went silent. His grandfather sighed. "No, don't waste our resources on me. The Diet is approaching, and there is work to be done in the meantime. The time for my leadership is almost over. It is time for you to take the mantle of command. Finish our good work."

"I will, grandfather," Hozack said.

"The road ahead is treacherous," Sphinx said. "There are enemies on every side: Nitesco, Bluewhale, Generic. They will disrupt our plans if we let them. We cannot allow that. Can you handle this?"

"The plan is already in motion," Hozack said. "Peters and I have seen to that. Melanie is on her way to Arkos."

"You must not forget Nitesco and Generic," Sphinx said. "Arkos, Lancaster, Guns N' Roses. Lay them low, and you guarantee prosperity and peace for all the Order."

"I will," Hozack said. "For the common good."

Sphinx nodded and coughed a wheezing, dry cough. "Yes, grandson," he said. "For the common good."

February 1, 12 ATC

Thetis Prison, Province of Lesser Arkos, Oligarchy of Arkos

Strike sat on his cot, running his overlong fingernails along the wall in an effort to keep them short. A year in Thetis Prison had run him ragged. His entire life was ten feet by ten feet: his cot, his chamber pot, and a window with a view that led nowhere. Twice a day he and the other prisoners were allowed out in the yard for an hour, but he knew the other prisoners didn't care for his reputation, so he kept to himself. Strike didn't like it, but it seemed better than the gallows to him.

His stomach growled. The guards wouldn't be coming around to deliver lunch for another two hours. Strike went to the bars of his cell and looked both ways down the block. The guards were busy harassing some other prisoner.

Strike went over to the wall and dislodged a loose brick, revealing a small alcove. A few strips of jerky, a biscuit, a brown half-eaten apple. It wasn't much, and it wasn't appetizing, but it was better than nothing. Strike grabbed the apple and pried off a chunk before putting the food back where it belonged.

As he ate quietly, his back to the cell door, he heard the guards walking down the corridor in his direction. Strike swallowed what he had in his mouth and hid what he hadn't eaten in the waistband of his uniform as the guards stopped in front of his cell.

"This is the one?" One of them, a gruff-sounding woman, spoke. "Seriously? He couldn't lift a sword if his life depended on it."

"Not our place to question orders." An equally terse man spoke. He rattled the door of the cell. "Oi! You! Stand up, put your hands on the wall! We're coming in!"

Strike grumbled. "Are you coming to beat me? What did I even do?" He hoped he sounded defiant. He knew he probably just sounded weary.

"Hands up on the wall!" the woman barked. Strike sighed and did as he was told, hoping the apple bits didn't fall out of his pants, or they would give him a beating for sure.

The cell door unlocked behind him. The two guards entered. Strike felt shackles enclose around his hands.

"What are you doing?" Strike asked. "Where am I going?"

"Not to your execution," the man said. He sounded disappointed. Strike tried not to notice.

"Then where?" Strike asked. He turned. The woman looked to the man, who shrugged.

"Hell if I know why," the woman said, "but some bigwig has come here especially for you, Colonel."

"Which, er, bigwig?" Strike asked.

"Admiral Bluewhale," the man said. "So I'd sit up straight and make eye contact if I were you. Now, hands in front. We're going."

Strike sighed and followed the guards out of the cell, one in front, one behind him. Admiral Bluewhale, come to visit? It seemed like a good sign. Or perhaps a very bad one.

Strike kept quiet as they walked through the drab hallways in silence. The other prisoners, still in their cells, looked at him with apprehension or curiosity as he walked by, but he ignored them. Eventually, they entered the administration wing, leading Strike through the well-adorned hallways until they reached the warden's office.

Bluewhale sat in the warden's chair, fiddling impatiently with a pencil. He looked up and saw Strike, disheveled and ragged, walk into the office, and he sighed.

"You look worse for wear," he said. Strike said nothing. Bluewhale pursed his lips.

"Nothing to say? No clever comments? No pointed speeches?" Strike remained impassive. Bluewhale frowned.

"Guards, leave," he said. The guards gave Bluewhale sloppy salutes and left. As they closed the door behind them, Bluewhale beckoned for Strike to sit.

"Apologies for the poor accommodation," Bluewhale said. "I tried to get you transferred to a prison in Jaunerrha, but the others were having none of it."

"The others?" Strike asked.

"The other Oligarchs," Bluewhale said. "Didn't you hear? Zealander has stepped down."

Strike's eyes widened. Vulpix, step down? He never thought he'd see the day.

"What does that have to do with me?" Strike asked. An almost imperceptible smile appeared on Bluewhale's face.

"It has everything to do with you," he said. "Governance has been left to me, and the others, of course. But they are fools. All except Vaniellis, I suppose, but he doesn't have the stomach for intrigue."

"Vaniellis?" Strike asked. When he'd left, Vaniellis was just an upstart Major, the commanding officer of Fort Jaunerrha. How could he have risen so far?

"Yes," Bluewhale said. "He's been elected to fill the vacancy you left, as representative of Jaunerrha province. I think you'll quite like him."

"You still haven't answered my question," Strike said. "What does this have to do with me?"

Bluewhale forced a smile. "Ever enthusiastic, I see," he said condescendingly. "But you are still the same soldier I knew three years ago. Proud. Skilled. Willing to do anything for Arkos. Not like these other fools."

Bluewhale stood and turned. Behind him was a portrait of the five Oligarchs. On one side, he and Vaniellis sat, hands folded in their laps. A table stood between them and the others: Reno was sitting, his receding black hair terminating in a widow's peak as sharp as the rest of his chin. Wingnut stood behind him, wearing a long gray beard. Behind the table in the middle, Ijustread stood with his hands on his hips, his muttonchops extending over the collar of his vestments. Bluewhale turned back to Strike, and he grimaced.

"Ijustread was a yes-man for Zealander, and now he's a yes-man for Reno. Reno wants us to surrender our influence to work with the other nations of the world, always harping on about diplomacy or some such. And Wingnut cowers in his highlands, lecturing us on infrastructure, or stability. Shameful." He slammed his hand down on the desk, rattling the things on it. "Arkos is the most stable it's been in fifty years! We must turn our vision outward."

"Really?" Strike asked. "Stable? Even with all the infighting you just described?"

Bluewhale knit his fingers. "Well, I exaggerate. But I will make sure that my statement becomes reality."

"So tell me," Strike said. "What does this have to do with me?"

Bluewhale sighed and dusted himself off. "I intend to rid Arkos of those who would hold it back," he said. "Men of vision, men of tradition, must be the ones to rule. Vaniellis can be useful, but I know of nobody else who is as devoted to Arkos as he or I am." He turned a sly eye toward Strike. "Except you."

"Me?" Strike asked. He felt his heart rate pick up. "But I'm—"

"A criminal?" Bluewhale asked. He sounded too mischievous for comfort. "A traitor? Maybe. If it were up to the others, they'd have just let you rot here for the rest of your life, but thanks to me, you'll get the chance at a fair trial!"

"A trial!" Strike yelled. "Are you mad? They'll have me hanged?"

"A little gratitude would be nice," Bluewhale said, still wearing a self-assured grin. "Do you know how long I had to jostle them to get them to agree with it? But rest assured, you won't be going to the gallows."

"And how will you manage that?" Strike asked.

"With my help." A voice spoke from behind him. Strike jumped in surprise and turned to see a woman waiting in the corner of the room. She smiled reassuringly and Strike breathed a sigh of relief.

"He's jumpy," the woman said. She furrowed her brow. "What's that in your waistband?"

Strike looked down at his waist. The apple! He had completely forgotten about it. It was a miracle it hadn't fallen out on the way.

"An apple," Strike said. He pulled it out and placed it on the desk. "I…stole it."

"Strike steals?" the woman asked. She smiled playfully. "Has he no dignity?"

"He does what he must to survive. An admirable trait," Bluewhale said, but Strike sensed the disapproval in his eyes.

"Who is this woman, anyway?" Strike asked.

"Melanie," she cooed. "And I'm going to help you. Should you accept the good admiral's offer, of course."

"There is much evidence against you," Bluewhale said. "Documents, letters, and the like. But Melanie can, ah, replace those with letters that suggest you were a spy for our side the whole time. After all, why should Austin be the only one to become a double agent?"

"You would falsify evidence?" Strike asked. "Just to get me off the hook?"

"I have great ambition," Bluewhale said. The smugness in his voice was gone. "I will secure the homeland. I will make Arkos the power it was meant to be! But I can't do that without men who I know share my vision. You can join me, Strike. Be the hero you were always meant to be. If nothing else, you would get the promotion to General that Zealander always denied you.

"Of course," Bluewhale continued. "You don't have to accept. If you want a fair trial, you can get one. Enjoy the gallows at the end. Or perhaps you'd like me to call off the trial entirely if you like this place that much. But why would you spend your time scrounging for scraps—" He gestured to the apple chunk on the desk. "When you could be so much more?"

"Can she pull it off?" he whispered. "Melanie. Can she—"

"I can hear you," she said. "And yes, I'm perfectly capable of replacing a few documents."

"You see?" Bluewhale said. "We're on the path to victory."

"But what about the other Oligarchs?" Strike asked. "Reno, Ijustread, Wingnut. How will you deal with them?"

"Let me worry about that," Bluewhale said, his face grave. "You just worry about your exoneration speech. It'll be a few months, but soon you'll feel the open air of Arkos again, from outside the prison fences. That is," he said, "if you accept."

Strike nodded. "Okay," he said. "Okay. I'll work with you if you can get me out of here."

"Very good," Bluewhale said. "Guards! Take this man back to his cell!"

The guards entered after a few moments. Strike presented his hands to be shackled.

"No," Bluewhale said. "From now on, he gets the best treatment available. No more rotted rations. No more work details. Decent food. Time alone in the yard. And for god's sake, get him some proper clothes. Understood?"

The guards looked to one another. They didn't care enough to ask why.

"Of course, sir," the woman said. As they led him out of the office, Strike managed a backwards glance at Bluewhale. He was studying the apple Strike left on the desk, his face contorted in distaste.

That apple had been ambrosia to him just a few minutes ago, Strike thought. He would've been beaten for having that, but he risked it anyway. But now, with the offer of so much more on the table, the sweet taste of apple in his mouth had become distinctly tart.

May 25, 12 ATC

Rufus House, County of Armed and Ready

The falcon flew in great, broad circles over the house, and Austin could not help but be impressed. The way it moved so gracefully, the way it soared, it made her want to have wings herself. Of course, the bird would be much more impressive if it responded to her commands.

"Come on, come on," she muttered. The bird had been disagreeable since Contramundi first allowed her to take it. But it was reliable, and always returned to her. Eventually.

The bird dove down, but instead of heading for her gauntlet, it swooped down and carried off a squirrel. Austin sighed.

"Fine, be that way," she said. Austin unstrapped the gauntlet and walked over to sit on her front porch. As she sat down, she noticed that someone was coming up the path to her house. She stood, and as the man got closer, recognized the familiar head of unruly black hair she saw poking above the foliage.

As Nitesco rounded the corner and entered her line of sight, she stood from her porch and raised her arms. "What's the matter, prime minister?" she yelled. "No carriage? No horses?"

"You wound me so!" he shot back, but he smiled. His voice dropped to a whisper as he got close. "Is there anyone around here?"

"Not other than, well, you know," she said. She leaned in and kissed him. "I'm sure he's dying to see you."

"Is he now?" Nitesco said. He gave a fake gasp. "Has he been talking about me?"

"It's all nonsense," Austin said. They chuckled. "First room on the right as you head in. I bet he'll be ecstatic to see you. Or he'll already be asleep."

Nitesco grinned and went over to open the front door. Austin smiled and followed him inside, watching with amusement as he carefully opened the door and crept into the room. She leaned on the doorframe as Nitesco moved over to the crib and, for the first time, picked up his son.

The baby stirred ever so slightly, but did not wake up. Nitesco rocked him back and forth, smiling all the while.

"He's quiet," Nitesco said. "Is he always so quiet?"

"Oh, boy," Austin said. "Not all the time." They laughed, but soon sank back into silence.

"I'm sorry I can't be around much," Nitesco said. He gently placed the boy back in the crib. "Duties of state and whatnot. And the uproar if anyone learned about this!"

"I understand," Austin said. "I understand. The Countess was willing to provide me this estate and some loyal couriers, but if it ever gets out that this child is not some adopted orphan, then our work is… well, it'll be harder to finish."

"Speaking of work," Nitesco said. "How has it been coming along?"

Austin groaned. "Time consuming, but I'd still rather be writing and receiving letters than having to talk to all these people in person, especially with the baby."

Nitesco nodded. "Any asking for aid?"

"Some," Austin said. "Most I have to reject, because we don't have room in the budget or it would rub the other Coalition members the wrong way. We can spare some money for a rebuilt village here or some extra soldiers there, but some cases simply need more than we can give. I always feel guilty responding to the sad ones."

"Well, the rebuilding seems to be going quickly overall," Nitesco said. "Most nations have reached some sort of coexistence with the Church converts in their regions. The Church has splintered into regional churches, so they're no threat anymore. And a lot of infrastructure has been replaced, too. In fact, several nations have approved moving the summit up a year."

"So soon?" Austin asked. "I mean, that's good news, but we're far from finished. Who approved this?"

"The Oligarchs of Arkos, Lancaster, Sphinx. They managed to win over Coronam by allowing the summit to happen in Renora, where he can control the situation. All well and good on paper but—" He sighed. "I can't help but feel like something is going to happen there. Somebody's moving behind the scenes, and I don't know who."

"Are you certain?" Austin asked.

Nitesco nodded. "Positive. The Mask has been hired by Taco down in Heroa, and he's putting his logistical networks to good use. There are weird goings-on: strange meetings, money flowing to and from places it shouldn't. And the agents he sends to investigate have an alarming mortality rate."

"Hired by Taco?" Austin wondered aloud. "Why'd he ever agree to that?"

"Well, he insists he's been 'contracted', not 'hired'. But Taco is surrounded by potential enemies now that he's out of our graces. I guess he wanted the Mask to even the odds."

"I think we both know Taco has enough money and allies to dissuade anyone from attacking him," Austin said. "But why would he enlist the Mask? He's using the Mask's information networks. Is he really that afraid?"

"Like I said," Nitesco said, "things have to be moving somewhere. But that's a fact of life." He turned back to his son, placing a hand on the edge of the crib. "I wish it didn't have to be that way."

Austin forced a smile and put her hand on Nitesco's shoulder. "It doesn't have to be, for a little bit," she said. "It's only about noon. You don't have to head back so soon, do you?"

Nitesco's dour expression brightened. "I suppose. What did you have in mind?"

"I hadn't made up my mind yet," Austin said. She closed her arms around Nitesco. "We could have a nice, peaceful lunch. Or we could just go—" She stopped as the falcon landed on the windowsill and screeched. The baby awoke and began crying. Austin groaned.

"Hush now," she said. She picked up the boy and rocked him, whispering and cooing. After a few moments, the baby stopped crying and returned to sleep.

"Well done," Nitesco said.

"I've had three months to practice," Austin said, gently putting her son back in the crib. "He's quiet most of the time, though. No thanks to you," she said, and she stared daggers at the falcon.

"That bird's been with you since it came to us in Lancaster," Nitesco said. "Tell me you didn't take as long to name it as you did the boy."

"No, I decided on it right after the Church's surrender," she said. "Quail." The bird chirped back at her.

Nitesco turned and looked at the falcon. He laughed. "Quail! Now there's a good name. Quite fitting if I do say so myself."

"Just as nippy as his namesake," Austin said. "You want to see if you can do better with him?"

Nitesco smiled. "Challenge accepted. But the baby—"

"I leave the window open so I can hear if he cries," Austin said. "And I never go farther than the front yard."

"You've thought of everything, haven't you?" Nitesco asked.

"I pride myself on it," Austin said. "Do you know how to falcon?"

"Only the basics," he said. "If that. Are you a good teacher?"

"I certainly hope so," Austin said. "But I guess we'll see."

They laughed, and Austin went out to the front porch to retrieve her falconing gauntlet. Nitesco watched her and smiled. A good woman, a good ally, a good partner, he thought. If only some of his political opponents thought the same way.

He turned to the baby in the crib for a second. His son. Still such a strange concept to him. But as he watched the little boy sleep, he felt no regrets.

"Nitesco," Austin said. "Coming?"

"Of course." Nitesco glanced at his boy, still snoring quietly in his crib, once more before he stepped out to join Austin.