Devorah sat in the room in her mind, contemplating the chess game. Somewhere along the way she had made a mistake. She had either gotten distracted or not put her full ability into the game, and now she found herself in a precarious position. There was still a chance to win the game, so long as the white player did as she normally did and put her pieces into a defensive position. There had been many games where Devorah would have had a harder time of it if the white player was willing to sacrifice pieces to win. This time, in a few moves, the white player would have the game, but only if she was willing to put her pieces into dangerous positions.

Devorah decided to gamble on the idea that the white player would continue to make her mistake.

As she contemplated the game, she kept her mind open. The secret thoughts of those in the palace courtyard she often frequented were open to her in the mindspace. She let the secrets wash over her, infidelity, smuggling, insurrection; most of the schemes of the princesses and dignitaries and underlings had little to do with her goals, but knowing secrets always had value.

She noted when Father Vytal approached by the absence of secret thoughts, a void in the eddying whispers.

She moved a knight, then opened her eyes and looked in his direction. She was reaching for her coffee when she noticed he was not alone. Isabel Loreamer was taller than when they’d last met. Her silver hair was bound in a loose braid. She wore breeches and a blouse, both in a soft grey, the Loreamer crest, a purple albatross, prominent upon her left breast. Devorah set her coffee back down. From the men of the Mountain Kingdom, she had requisitioned a few small, slim daggers, and she drew one from a sheath on her right arm, grateful that at least one of her evening dresses had sleeves. She rested her left hand in her lap before taking up her coffee again.

Father Vytal nodded at her. “May we sit, General Kempenny?”

Devorah sipped at her coffee and managed not to grimace. One of the servants had suggested to her a blend of different beans that, when sweetened with honey, was actually palatable.

“Why so formal, Father Vytal?” She gestured magnanimously at the two remaining stools which she had intended for Princesses Gitonga and Jengo.

“Because you seem to prefer it.”

Heir Loremaer sat as well and nodded companionably. “General.”

Devorah looked at the Heir. “When did you get here?”

Heir Loreamer smiled, a secretive little smile, like she was playing at some game. “Recently.”

“Did you arrive by ship? I heard no news of your immanent arrival, which is highly peculiar.”

“Do you hear everything, General Kempenny?”

“I hear most things, Heir Loreamer.”

“Devorah,” Father Vytal cut in, “I'm not here to spar with you. I wanted to thank you for what you did. I owe you a great debt.”

Devorah was surprised. “Oh?”

“When they told me she'd chased after that monster, I thought he was going to kill her.”

“Ah. Well, it was a near thing. And Vahramp is my responsibility. I'm probably the only one who can destroy him safely. And speaking of responsibility, my aunt... employed a young woman who wanted to… leave. Kempenny Province, as you know,” she glanced at Heir Loreamer, “is not entirely safe just now. If you should happen to see to her safety, I'd appreciate it.”

“You want me to look after a former servant of your aunt's? How would I recognize her?”

“She's a woman with purple eyes. You'd be hard pressed not to know her. She seems... out of place somehow.”

“Purple eyes?” The cleric and Heir exchanged a significant look. “And where is she?”

Devorah sighed. “I can't say for certain. I gave her a horse and she went on her way. I'm not sure which way she went.”

“The coast,” said the Heir. “She likes the coast.”

Devorah twitched a frown but hid it quickly. If the purple-eyed woman really had gone to the coast, the closest town would be Upton Port, the target at which she'd just pointed her army. But she couldn't give away that move to the Heir and one of her closest advisors.

“So, Father, Heir, I imagine you didn't come here this evening to exchange favors. I imagine you came here to discuss the war and our mutually exclusive efforts with the Council of Princesses.”

A servant interrupted politely, asking Father Vytal and Heir Isabel what refreshments they wanted. While Father Vytal explained to the Heir what coffee was, Devorah noticed the entrance of Princesses Gitonga and Jengo. She caught their attention and waved them over, asking the servant for two more stools.

“Princess Jengo, you'll be happy to know that my staff includes a man whose sole job was to maintain and improve my household's plumbing systems. He is resting in my chambers just now as he found my method of travel a bit disconcerting, but he has expressed great interest in helping you design a city-wide infrastructure.”

In fact, the plumbing mechanic had been terrified by her shadow teleportation and had required a heavy dose of sleeping draught before he calmed down. But he had assured her that he knew everything there was to know about the engineering and mechanics of indoor plumbing.

Princess Jengo's eyes went wide with unabashed glee and greed. “When will he be ready to consult? I've been drawing up schematics based upon your bare descriptions and the possibilities, for convenience and sanitation are... amazing.”

“Ah,” said Heir Loreamer. “Very good. You're giving the Empire plumbing. A worthy trade.” She looked at Princess Jengo. “I take it you're giving General Kempenny your support on the Council in exchange for the secrets of indoor plumbing?”

Princess Jengo looked from Devorah to Heir Loreamer and back, uncertain and uncomfortable in a discussion of politics. “Um... yes. And who are you?”

Devorah spoke first. “This is Heir Isabel Loreamer of Khulanty.”

“But,” said Princess Jengo “isn't she your enemy?”

Devorah smiled and nodded.

Princess Jengo looked at Princess Gitonga, who looked only mildly less uncomfortable. “I hate politics, Gitonga. You told me that if I did this I didn't have to be involved in the politics.”

“My apologies,” Devorah said. “You're right. Perhaps I was wrong to offer it only in exchange for political support. Take it as a gift. As you said, the convenience and sanitation implications are vast and it should be shared by all.”

“A gift?” Heir Loreamer was incredulous.

Devorah looked at the other woman, like looking at a reflection of herself. “Yes. A gift. I expect nothing in return.”

Princess Gitonga put her hand on Devorah's wrist, her concern evident. “But, I thought you needed our support.”

Devorah nodded. “The fortunes of war are unpredictable. Kempenny Province is not without its advantages.” She looked at Heir Loreamer. “Perhaps we could continue our conversation where we won't disturb the princesses?”

Princess Gitonga's grip tightened. “I wanted to talk to you. The full moon is tomorrow night.”

“I haven't forgotten.” Devorah’s voice softened. “We'll talk later. I promise. But the Heir and I might be able to stop our war. We've tried and failed before, but that's no reason not to try again.” She stood and the Heir and cleric joined her, but Devorah shook her head. “I'd like to talk to Isabel alone, please.”

Heir Loreamer gave Father Vytal a small nod, and the cleric sat back down. Devorah walked toward the darkened edges of the courtyard and Heir Loreamer accompanied her.

They strolled without speaking for a time, the murmurs of the others discussing private matters sneaking around them. Devorah was content to let the Heir speak first. She didn't think that the Heir was prepared to offer any more than she had back when they'd first met in Troutmoth so she didn't feel the need to negotiate.

When Heir Loreamer did speak, it wasn't about the war.

“Who are you, Devorah Kempenny?”

Devorah was nonplussed. “I believe you've answered your own question.”

“But where did you come from? My mother swore she never engaged with another man and I believe her. My father swears the same.”

Devorah quirked a grin. “Your father never engaged with another man?” Heir Loreamer narrowed her eyes, and Devorah raised her hands in a peaceable gesture. “Why do you believe them?”

“Why do you believe the thoughts you hear?”

Devorah nodded. “The truth is, Isabel, I don't know where I came from. My aunt never gave me a straight answer. There were some disjointed images: an old woman, a crib, a nursery...” The babble of images and words had meant nothing to Devorah, but now, standing with the Heir who looked like she might be her sister, older by perhaps three years, she wondered if there might have been more coherence than she'd known. “Why do you ask?”

“Because I believe that you and I and little Piety Churchstep are sisters.”

The pronouncement, an echo of her own thoughts, gave Devorah pause, but only for a moment. “What of it? House Loreamer remains an aggressor in an unjust war. Our relation, whether sisters or cousins or nothing at all, it makes no difference.”

Heir Loreamer swallowed hard and nodded. “I suppose you're right in that it changes nothing about the war. But it means something. It means something to me.”

“What?” Devorah demanded. “What does it mean to you?” When she had carried Sister Churchstep to safety several nights ago, she'd wondered if the girl might be her sister and been overjoyed at the thought. Now that Heir Loreamer voiced the same thought, it made her angry. Heir Loreamer was the one in a position of power, the one who could have made them sisters in truth. Why was she only now pursuing the idea?

“It means that I don't want to fight you. It means that this ill-conceived war is personal. It means that together, you and I, we can stop the whole thing.”

The offer was tempting. Stopping the war was a large part of what Devorah wanted. But she also wanted Kempenny free to run itself as a province rather than an occupied territory. “I'd be happy to negotiate with you, sister, cousin, whatever. But as I understand it, you don't sit on the council. I'm sure your parents are fond of you, but what political power do you really wield?”

Heir Loreamer's expression went rigid. “I fear I'll sit on the Royal Council soon enough.”

“Oh,” said Devorah.

They walked again for several moments without speaking. This time it was Devorah who broke the quiet.

“I don't care about what any previous Governors asked for. Kempenny doesn't need House Loreamer's troops running our towns. And I won't stand for these clerics who use their position to line their own pockets. Indulgences should be outlawed.”

Heir Loreamer nodded. “I can't influence church law, but I'll agree to the rest. However, you have no navy. Khulanty remains a single country made up of several provinces. If you want your ports protected by the navy we'll need permission to dock and certain legal rights and protections.”

A flutter of hope beat at her chest. A true negotiation. She glanced at Princess Gitonga, deep in conversation with Father Vytal and Princess Jengo. If the war was ended here and now, there would be no political reason to rid the Empire of Princess Chausiku, the Night Hunter, leaving Princess Gitonga in the same position she'd been in before Devorah had arrived. Perhaps worse.

“That would be acceptable, so long as those rights and protections aren't outrageous. Now, big sister, let's talk trade. Kempenny mines have useful metals and Kempenny towns have foundries and I meant it when I said that everyone should have access to indoor plumbing. What we don't have is trade connections comparable to those of House Loreamer.”

Isabel smiled. “We’ll need paper, pens, ink, and somewhere to spread out.”

• • •

Devorah sat with Madam Iyabo, meditating. They did not discuss the nature of death or the undead; they did not discuss the Inner Orbiting Abstract Realms; they did not discuss her mistake. They simply meditated, each mind resting companionably with the other. Devorah had told Madam Iyabo of her negotiations with Heir Loreamer, about the treaty they’d written, about how they might not need to haggle over the favor of the Council of Princesses any longer.

“How fortuitous,” Madam Iyabo had said. And then that mischievous twinkle entered her eye. “Will you be pursuing Gitonga only for pleasure then?”

Devorah had inaccurately thrown a pillow at the old woman.

Devorah let the thoughts float though her mind and drift away. The trick to meditating peacefully, she'd learned, was not to fight the thoughts that threatened to intrude, but to accept them when they came and release them when they went. Even the song of the black book was only a distant murmur against the calm of meditation. Now that she and Scribe Johann were nearly finished transcribing it, it bothered her less, allowing her to keep her shield down so secret thoughts could come in.

Something tugged at her power, a sympathetic power tugging on her power to call and control undead. Something on the outskirts of the city. Because it was midday, she could not cast her vision among the shadows to see it, but she could feel it nonetheless. It was a creature of hunger, a creature that thirsted for blood, a creature with a direct tie to her: one of Vahramp’s minions, and it walked in broad daylight.

“Odd,” Devorah whispered. “Since when can they exist outside the shadows?”

“What have you found, Little Shadow?”

“I... I think it's one of mine. But it's changed somehow.”

Devorah felt the old woman stretching her own necromantic senses, using Devorah as a guide. She hissed softly when she felt the creature.

“I smell the blood of its victims,” Madam Iyabo said. She spoke with no hint of rebuke, but Devorah felt the sting of responsibility.

Madam Iyabo continued. “There are no other necromancers of our power in the city. We must go destroy it.”

Devorah nodded, but she hesitated. The sense of the creature was sympathetic to her power, which was to be expected given her responsibility in creating it. But more than that, she felt its essence, the power that allowed it to continue to live after the death of its body. She knew that feeling, it was the same feeling she'd had when she'd grasped the knot of power that held an undead to this world and unraveled it.

“Could it be so easy?”

She took hold of the knot, feeling it, worrying at it, examining it for what made it different from the creatures she'd encountered before. Though it had the feeling of her own power and that of Vahramp, it also felt of another, one she didn't know. Had this creature been created by someone other than Vahramp?

But she could determine nothing else from the creature other than it was hungry, and she wasn't about to allow it to kill again. So, with a tug of her power, like a disarming flick of her wrist, she unraveled its connection to this Realm. She felt its essence evaporate and its body crumple to the street.

“Little Shadow? What did you do?”

Devorah took a slow, deep breath, returning to the calm of meditation. “I destroyed it.”

“From here?” There was undisguised awe in Madam Iyabo's voice.