Myrlman looked to Niverna. “It feels very odd to sit on this side of the desk, Niverna,” he said to her lamentingly from what had been his father’s position.

“We will punish those who are responsible,” he stated flatly. Niverna shifted uncomfortably in her seat. She had assumed this day would come, where she would sit opposite the son and not the father in hopes of guiding Tuath and the Quaj to a brighter future.

However, this abrupt transition was not the well-orchestrated and strategically planned process she had hoped it would follow. Still, she felt hope that Tuath might join the other city-states in democratically elected leadership at long last. However, she had also never seen the hard look in the eyes of the typically flippant and overindulgent Myrlman.

“Myrlman, we have no idea who could have carried out this horrific act.”

The old sage visibly jumped as Myrlman reacted, slamming his finger into the pile of letters on what was his father’s desk.

“Oh, but we do!” he shouted, picking up the stack of them and shaking them at her.

“I was up reading these through most of the night last night. They are threatening, nasty letters from that pretentious scum of a governor from Mer.”

He threw the papers, and they drifted to the ground around the room like leaves in the autumn. “We are at war, Niverna, an economic war that Mer is waging to unseat this house from its rightful position ruling Tuath. The threats and words from Governor Edwin Lurras of Mer make it clear!”

Niverna cleared her throat, and Myrlman seemed to pull himself partially from his anger.

“Myrlman, even if that is all true, what benefit would Mer see in such an endeavor with your father dead?” She was not about to indicate that she was fully aware of the ongoing silent war between the two city-states. She also decided not to mention that the words of Governor Lurras paled in comparison to what Seulman had often written and sent to Mer.

The man was unfazed. “Their reason is me, of course. They probably see me as a pawn they can control or push out!”

At this point, he was shouting at the top of his lungs from across the desk. Niverna could not argue his self-criticism, given her own and the Navigator’s intentions with him as ruler.

“Niverna, you must write The College of Elements, with them on our side, we could likely oust the governor and bend Mer to our will!”

She planned to write a letter this afternoon, but not of the topic, nor to the recipient that the young new governor of Tuath had in mind.

For once, Niverna found herself agreeing with the man who used to occupy the office. Myrlman would indeed have benefited from some geopolitical education and knowledge of rulership.

“Myrlman, the college is a non-partial organization when it comes to the city-states and their politics,” she said and paused for a moment to let her next words sink in. “As is The Bard’s Hall in your lands, they will not participate in any feud between Tuath and Mer.”

Myrlman seemed to regain some poise. “We shall see what my cousin the Impresario has to say about that!” he said, admonishing Niverna with self-assumed cleverness.

“Perhaps,” she replied, in hopes of appeasing Myrlman some. Seeing no immediate benefit from her continued presence, she excused herself to her quarters.

*****

Bending her old frame into her writing desk, Niverna hastily wrote on the parchment in front of her. She was finishing her message as the serving girl Eiyna knocked and entered. Latching the door behind her, she set the lunch down next to Niverna’s parchment and pen. Niverna glanced at it before rolling it up and sealing it with wax and ink.

Open Incursion was problematic

Collision potentially unavoidable

Rudder likely damaged

“With haste,” Niverna said, handing the sealed letter to Eiyna.

“So soon?” the girl asked, tucking it into her blouse.

“I fear we may have erred,” the sage said sadly, rubbing her temples. “I fear for Tuath and Mer and all those caught in between.”

*****

“Enter,” replied Myrlman to the soft knock at his door. His favorite model slipped into his room. Stepping past him, she gazed back longingly. Letting her dress fall to the floor, she splayed herself on the bed.

“How do you want me?” she asked flirtingly.

Myrlman sat staring blankly at the canvas in front of him for several awkwardly silent moments. The model pursed her lips and then complained.

“Myrlman…” His eyes shifted off the empty canvas and to the woman, but he did not speak.

“How would the governor have me?” she said seductively, leaning forward and continuing her advances.

Myrlman’s hand holding the paintbrush trembled and then snapped it. He grabbed paint from his easel then threw it as hard as he could at the canvas. It flew partially on the canvas, also splattering the woman and his silk sheets.

“Leave,” he said, so quiet the woman hardly heard him. She was so stunned at his outburst that she did not move a muscle.

“Get out!” he screamed a moment later, kicking over his easel and boring into her with eyes that had traded their customary smiles for burning rage.

*****

After a childhood in a poor fishing village that had starved his intellect, Trilia and Qarn were force-feeding Harpis’ voracious appetite for learning. Each night he was required to read a Navigator assigned book, and each morning he was to write a several sentence letter that only someone who knew what book he was reading would understand.

The reading had been easy and enjoyable enough, though his penmanship was a work in progress. Two weeks on in his stay at the island, he had begun to improve that too, though Qarn still referred to it as drunken chicken scratch.

He had very much enjoyed his last night’s reading, the hundred and some year-old History of Democracy in Kalt, that covered the transition from hereditary rule to an elected government by the people. Essentially, as the second to last state to still embrace the law of inheritance, Kalt did not want to cede to democracy.

It amused him that after hearing of the bloody coup that had taken place in Ravnice, where revolutionaries had butchered the entire Ravnice family, Uberthall Kalt had reconsidered his position. Unlike the Ravnice family, the Kalt family transitioned power on their terms.

That move allowed Uberthall to devise the terms of resignation. Nearly half of the city-state, the woodlands that fed its timber industry, remained in his family. Thus, ensuring his family wealth for generations and guaranteeing the Kalt line held considerable sway and clout in the local economy. Harpis scratched his head in thought and then wrote his message to the Navigators.

Impending storm forced hand

Controlled felling in lieu of certain uprooting

The forester yet wields half the saw

Harpis felt very clever as he folded and sealed the letter just as Arken had shown him. He dribbled some ink into the bowl his thumbprint left in the warm wax and then covered that in more wax.

Once it cooled, he headed to the Navigators, stopping at the kitchens to break his fast along the way with some eggs and bread. Knocking as he entered, Trilia bid him take his seat, and he pulled out the letter and went to hand it to her. Qarn snatched it from his hand before Trilia could take it, and the gnome nearly fell off his chair for the effort.

“This some new watermarking technique, lad?” the gnome grumbled at Harpis. He wiped the drop of egg yolk off the letter with his finger and then stuck it in his mouth.

“That poor drunk chicken you keep paying to write these letters know you’re eating its young?” he asked Harpis with a raised eyebrow.

“Ahh, no sir, I have taken to paying said chicken in corn kernels instead of whiskey, with marked improvement.”

Qarn chuckled despite his attempts at gruffness with the young man.

“We shall see,” he said, cracking open the letter and giving a satisfying nod at the stains from the ink.

Qarn handed the letter to Trilia to read. “Well, the chicken does appear to be partially sober this time. However, I think you may be overly clever with this message.”

Trilia handed the letter back to Harpis. “It is concise and as brief as needed, and the point is well received.” Harpis beamed at the apparent compliment.

She continued her evaluation. “However, the overuse of forestry and timber industry-related terms too obviously indicate the message is of Kalt, and the rest is fairly deducible by anyone living in the context of the times.”

Deflated, Harpis put the letter back in his tunic.

“There will be no lesson this morning. Arken is already expecting you in the courtyard,” Qarn said, dismissing him with a wave. “Best not keep him waiting.”

Harpis left excitedly. On the way to the courtyard, he stopped at the kitchens once more, asking for breakfast on a tray for Master Arken. Harpis made his way into the still shaded courtyard not yet lit by direct sunlight due to the high walls of the volcano crater around them. He spotted Arken leaning against the rack of practice weapons and approached him.

“You won’t mind if I quickly finish this before we begin for the day, will you, Master Arken?” Harpis asked.

As Arken was about to respond, Harpis tripped and fell into him, spilling the food tray and knocking some of the wood weapons off the rack.

Apologizing profusely, Harpis tried to separate himself from the other man. Unfortunately, he found his fingers trapped in Arken’s vest pocket, locked painfully in place by the other man.

“Nice try,” Arken said, squeezing the knuckles of Harpis’ hand together and inducing pain for a few moments before finally releasing him. As they stood and faced each other, Arken flipped a bronze coin with a cooking pan emblem engraved into it to Harpis. With a panicked look, Harpis caught it and immediately slapped his own now empty pocket where the coin had just resided and groaned.

“Still, you’ve stolen a coin three days in a row now without being caught, even if this most recent one belongs to the over-imbibing cook,” Arken said. Crossing his arms, the spymaster continued. “Today, though, your training will change. You will at times be followed and must either evade those pursuing you or force them to reveal their intentions.”

Arken paused for a moment, drew a blank bronze coin from his person, and flipped it to Harpis. “Return the cook his coin and keep that on your person. Folks will be trying to take it from you from now on. Do not let them.”

Harpis caught the second coin and put it in another, smaller pocket he hoped he would notice someone rummaging through. Looking up he noticed a dwarf approaching from the far end of the courtyard.

Arken hailed the dwarf with a salute. “I will be with you less for these last two weeks. Keep practicing the tradecraft I have been teaching you. Remember, you are constantly being tested and evaluated. Most of your time now will be at Braffen’s disposal,” he said, leaving them.

Harpis was excited about the change in pace. He had been practicing espionage and the tradecraft of not getting caught and not dying with Arken for twelve hours a day, every day since his first morning on the island.

“Well met young Harpis, Braffen Frothbrew at your service,” the dwarf said, shaking Harpis’ hand.

Harpis had seen the dwarf in passing but had not been formally introduced. Having heard the voice, he recognized him as the other person present at his initial interrogation upon arriving at the island. Braffen was short for a dwarf, maybe four and a half feet tall. He was also not as plump as the few dwarves Harpis had run into over the years.

Not to say he was not strong, Braffen’s muscles were corded and well-practiced. However, where most dwarves perhaps weighed as much as a large man despite their height, Braffen was maybe two-thirds that.

“I am aiming to teach you a thing or two of combat, young Harpis, if you would step over here with me,” the dwarf said as he walked with him into the circular pit of sand beyond the weapon racks.

“I am not so young,” Harpis said defensively as he turned to face the dwarf.

“Well, I, being two hundred and seventy-eight this year, I’d go ahead and claim you young until you can convince me to call you otherwise,” Braffen retorted and then stretched his arms and twisted his back before grotesquely cracking his neck to each side.

“I won’t be teaching you many things, but the things I learn ya, I intend to beat into you until they’re instinct.”

Harpis stared at the dwarf for a moment, seemingly confused. “Well, where is your ax or hammer?” he asked.

The dwarf now looked equally perplexed. “Me ax or hammer?”

Harpis looked back at the weapons racks. “Right, every picture I have ever seen of a dwarf they were wielding some ridiculously heavy ax or hammer, where is yours and what shall I pick off the rack? I favor the saber.”

The man did not get, but the first hiss of the “s” in saber on his lips before the dwarf was toe to toe with him, his fist exploding into Harpis’ gut so hard he thought he was going to lose his breakfast.

He instead lost his wind and bent, attempting to recover it while holding onto the dwarf’s shoulder.

Braffen gave him a comforting pat on the head as if he was a child. “There, there, lad, racism is the progeny of ignorance.”

As Harpis began to recover his breath, Braffen slid his right foot forward, heel to heel with him. Nudging forward, so they were hip to hip, he tossed Harpis to the sand, holding firmly onto Harpis’ right wrist with a crushingly firm grip.

Braffen’s admonishment continued. “No weapons besides your mind and your body. Remember, you’re supposed to be as innocuous, unsuspicious, and forgettable as possible. Weapons make folk nervous, make them see you as a threat.”

The dwarf fell to his back perpendicular to Harpis, crossed his legs over the arm he still held, sliding his feet under Harpis’ shoulder and back. He straightened and locked Harpis’ arm, tucking it into his own armpit and arching his back to apply pressure, resulting in a howl from Harpis.

“Hey now, focus, lad, look over here.” Harpis turned his head towards the dwarf, who wiggled his hands at him.

“These and the body I can help with. Seeming to me though that the mind may be a lost cause with you.”

He released Harpis arm and rolled to his feet. Harpis was less graceful in his return to a standing position.

“Now, I’ll be letting you go when you say give, but the enemy will not be offering you the same grace.”

Rotating his sore elbow, Harpis grimaced at the dwarf. He was less than enthusiastic at the prospect of spending eight hours a day for the next two weeks being the ragdoll for an overly surly, undersized dwarf.

“Did Wren have to suffer through this same hand-to-hand beating at your dispensing?” Harpis asked sarcastically.

Braffen crossed his arms indignantly. “Master Wren can summon the corpses of his enemies to fight for him, has the favor of The Sleeper herself, and the company of an overly attractive, inappropriately dressed miniature friend that can melt a man’s flesh with her hands.”

Though Harpis could not see his face in a mirror, he was confident it wore an idiotic look.

Braffen gave him a smug look. “Oh, he hadn’t introduced you, eh? In good time I suppose. Xissay is quite the spectacle.”

Harpis was no less confused.

“I worry for your mind lad, maybe try sleeping on some of those books they give ya. Perhaps some of that knowledge might leak into that head of yours,” Braffen said with a feigned look of concern.

“Feel safe to assume that starting with tomorrow, all members of this island will attempt to physically attack you at their convenience. I expect you to make a decent showing of yourself and respect pleas of submission, as will they to you,” Braffen instructed.

Harpis nodded at the dwarf and decided he was terrified for his body.

****

It had only taken Wren three days to ride a ferry down the river from the mouth of Fjall to the sea. There he booked passage on a ship that took only a few hours to reach the port at Ravnice. Typically, he would have taken the time and saved the coin and just journeyed back by land but his need to return was urgent.

By design of The Syndicate, he did not know who the Eye or Hand in Fjall were, so he could not send word to the Navigators until he was back in Ravnice. Wren was also getting sick of working alone. He had thought of selfishly enjoying the company of Xissay. However, a fiery-haired and fiery-tempered undead sprite from the nether regions of the world floating at your side was less than inconspicuous.

Alive

His pen hung over the parchment after writing the singular word. It was odd, he thought, this single word had such an unknown meaning and impact. He paused for more than a moment, wanting badly to ask more questions about who this Sirul Amun was. After sealing the parchment, he made his way from the wooden table and started a fire. Passing the message to the Helmsman would have to wait for morning when the vendors opened at the wharf.

Wren got up and grabbed himself one of the dustier decanters of whiskey from his kitchen shelf and poured himself a glass before settling into his comfy chair and enjoying some thoughts of Harpis entering his second half of indoctrination at the island and getting to suffer through a couple of weeks as Braffen’s plaything.

Smiling to himself, he sighed and snapped his fingers. The smoke and smell of rotten eggs faded, and Xissay walked right into the fire he had made and sat on a log amongst the embers.

“Good to be home,” she said as she closed her eyes for a moment as if to soak in the heat before addressing the gnome again. “What’s got you smirking?” she inquired.

Before he answered, she floated over to the kitchen to grab the shot glass she used for her imbibing. “Hitting the bottle without me got you all smiley?”

Rolling his eyes, Wren poured her cup full of the same dark vintage he was currently sipping,

“No, I was just enjoying the quiet and thought to myself how wonderful it would be to have you ruin it.”