The room was splendid, that, Dora was ready to admit. The most beautiful hardwood floor, arranged in floral patterns, brass and glass light fixtures, and a bar on which it was still written with the Old Characters: Ball’ ir Bar. Ballroom and Bar, in some dialect of the past, now blended in the melting pot of the common language.

Dora sighed. She had walked back and forth, pondering for almost a minute, which was a long time for her. She turned and looked toward the center of the room. Three men and one woman, kneeled, hands tied behind their back, were guarded by twelve of her best soldiers, the same dodecade that had accompanied her in the Western Autarchy.

She picked her pocket communicator and dialed 11. The twin queens appeared on the screen.

“Problems?” asked Heyra.

“Everything all right?” asked Feyra at the same time.

“No, yes, I mean all is good. We arrived on time, your new dirigible is lighting fast. It was as that evil sorcerer said. We didn’t meet any significant resistance. The Triumvirs had only a few guards, and the Median main force is still hours away from the capital.”

“So why are you calling?” asked both the queens.

Dora hesitated a second.

“Look, don’t laugh at me, but I need advice. I’m having second thoughts about killing the Sultan. When we arrived, there were no barbarian guards at all. He was all alone in the palace waiting for the Triumvirs, pouring rock-oil all over the place. The surrendering offer was a trap; he wanted to lure them here and burn the palace to the ground with everybody inside. A final heroic gesture. Maybe it’s Diago’s influence, but I find it touching.”

“Goodness, Dora, I must sit down. Am I dreaming?” joked Heyra. “You want to spare someone?”

“Let him leave and make him promise to change his name and live an ordinary life from now on,” suggested Feyra. “If he doesn’t keep his word, it would be easy to find him.”

“Sound advice, sister, I agree. And Dora, in the future, do what you feel is best; we trust you.”

And they hanged up.

Looking at the sultan, a middle-aged man with dark hair and beard and golden skin, she made a sign to one of his soldiers to cut him loose.

“You’ve heard it. Go. I’ll burn the palace down in your place, and everyone will think you burned with it. Take some gold or jewels if you want, but make haste.”

The man seemed unconvinced.

“How can I go on living when the birth seed of our culture burns? This - he showed around with a large gesture - is the cruising ship's original ballroom that wrecked on these shores, carrying our ancestors. It is over one thousand ye…”

“Get a grip. It’s just a room. Your people need help, food, medicine, industry, weapons. We will discretely provide them to the Resistance, and hopefully, in a few months, with these three idiots gone, their armies will retreat. I will not repeat this, go. Not many had the chance you have today.”

The man bowed and ran out.

“Un-gag them,” she ordered.

She started walking back and forth, looking at the other three captives. “Well, you know who I am; you know how this ends. It was a terrible idea to renege on the armistice and attack Art City in the Western Autarchy. Any last words?”

“This means war!” menaced the woman. “Some of our guards escaped, and they will talk.”

“We let them escape on purpose. It is a warning: don’t mess with us, or else. I hope your successors, whomever they’ll be, will be wiser. Because if war comes, they will be the first casualties. You don’t mess with us. It’s such a simple rule, and yet you failed to understand it. Gagg them back.”

“Should we give them the coup de grâce?” asked a soldier.

“No. I’ve done enough charity for today,” she replied, lighting a match.