The cart stopped twice as it moved, once at the inner walls of Deterikh Keep, and then again some time later. At each, my master exchanged words with the guards, telling the first the story that he gave to Inika, and the second only that he needed to dispose of the old baron’s pet on the regent’s orders. At both, the sun briefly vanished as someone leaned over the cart, then returned with a vengeance, while I struggled to remain dead without dying. The first set gave only the most cursory inspection before sending my master on his way. The second asked several questions, inquiring about his destination and how long he planned to be gone. After several minutes of stony silence to all of their inquiries, though, they finally sent him on his way.

Soon afterwards, my master cracked the reins, and the cart lurched forward, its wheels bouncing even harder off of the rough road. It occurred to me some time afterwards that we had to be leaving Baris; we were moving too fast and had been for too long. Have I noticed this before? I wondered, but I could recall only lights and pain and motion. I’m sure I must have had the same thought more than once, but each time it seemed a new revelation, a thought worthy of a few moments’ hesitation that then vanished into the haze of pain and efforts at meditation.

When the cart did finally stop, the sun had slid down the horizon and late-afternoon rays streaked across the sky. Dimly, I noticed the autumn evening chill in the air, the blood cooling on my chest and soaking my fur. I heard my master drop from his mount with a grunt and then the heavy thud of a fist against solid wood. He drew in a deep breath and yelled, “Aura!” loudly enough to make me wince and whimper softly. Then hindfalls came over, and a warm paw brushed my right cheek. “Wake up, pet. We’re here. We’ll—’

The heavy thunk of a latch and the creak of a door cut off my master’s words, followed quickly by half a sentence from a familiar voice. “—never bothered with the sign. How can I be expected to have—” The sage’s voice rose into a sharp gasp as my master lifted me from the cart. When she found her tongue again, her voice was soft and faintly trembling. “This way.”

My master cradled me to his chest as he followed the sage into her manor. He was silent until he stepped inside, as if expecting to be heard. He sagged slightly, though his grip never faltered, as the door closed and he leaned back against it. “It’s… it’s my fault, Aura. All of it is. I should’ve stopped it. I—”

“—should take your charge up to the workshop before you drop em,” Miss Aura interrupted. “I’ll have eir charts in a bit. Up the stairs, second on the right, set em in the circle and stand away.” Her voice faded as she walked away, down the cramped hallway towards the back of the manor.

The sergeant-at-arms stood, dumbfounded, for a few moments, then hastily did as the sage ordered, taking the stairs two at a time at a sprint. The scents of rain and sweet smoke filled my nostrils as we stepped over the precipice, and despite the pain I felt myself relax against my master’s chest. He knelt, then carefully lay me on the floor. His pads brushed my cheek lightly. “Easy, pet,” he murmured. “You’re in good paws.” I opened my eyes and gazed up into my master’s, and despite the tears staining his fur, he smiled back. “Just a bit longer.”

Miss Aura entered the room with a scroll in one paw and a bag in the other. “You, what’s your name?”

My master looked up, then rose and adjusted his shirt. “Valentin, son of Dorik, sergeant-at-arms of Barony Deterikh.”

The sage dropped her bag and walked to her work table, then unfurled the papers and started making adjustments. “Tell me everything, sergeant,” she said without inflection. “Spare no detail.”

“It’s….” My master’s ears flattened. “Listen, Aura, there’s a lot and I don’t know how much time we have. I did my best to plant a false trail, but Datsia’s—”

The raccoon raised one paw, the tip of her tail flicking in irritation. “You’re in my home; that means you’re in my protection. If Datsia wants you, all the more reason. Now tell me how this slave got hurt, so I can take care of it.”

The sergeant-at-arms swallowed at that, then looked back down at me. I did my best to smile up to him around my pain, but he turned away, his head low. “The cuts are my doing. The muzzle and bludgeoning were mostly Erik’s.”

Miss Aura did turn at that, her yellow eyes narrowed and her muzzle set in a thin line. “It sounds like quite the evening,” she quipped. “Shared em around, did you?”

“No, I—” my master stammered quickly. “That is, we did, but that’s not how that….” He trailed off, then sighed and drew in a deep breath. “Erik finally broke, and he lashed out at Taneh. When he realized what he’d done….” He paused and shook his head. “I think he tried to run from it. He made it to the border before we could catch him. He’s on his way to Krolik under heavy guard to stand trial.” One paw waved my direction. “Datsia ordered em killed, but I… couldn’t.” He looked up at her and chuffed a weak laugh. “Ey almost died anyway.”

The more my master spoke, the further the sage’s eyes widened. “Great Family,” she muttered when he’d finished. Then she nodded sharply. “I’ll have more to ask, but that can be over tea. Head downstairs in the parlor, I’ll be along with Erik’s pet in a bit.” Once Valentin was out of the room, the sage took up her staff in one paw and a bag in the other. “No time for salves, Taneh,” she murmured as she walked the circle around me, pouring a careful line of salt beside her. “Keep breathing, and this will all be over soon.”

I nodded, then closed my eyes and turned to face the ceiling. As long as I lay perfectly still, I could almost forget how badly I hurt, but every time I moved, fire crawled beneath my skin.

The sage took up her chanting as she worked, tracing lines with the salts. “Chalk to mark and guide, salts to separate. All things are connected in the Great Work, but within the circle, we may tease free a single strand to repair it.” This time, when the circle closed, she knelt beside me within the ring of salt. “Feel the heat rising within, spreading out from your spine to engulf you. Do you remember your training?” I opened my muzzle to respond, but all that escaped was a brief nod and a moan of fresh pain from the sudden shock of genuine heat suffusing my body. “Good. Focus on the witchlight in your mind, little light.”

“I am ready,” I whimpered, panting in response to the sudden shock of pain. Every point that had been hurt before seemed to glow, radiant and aching. The slashing wounds from my master’s speartip, the cracked bone in my cheek, even the gash and burn on the side of my paw where the base of my thumb used to be flared to life in agonizing memory. I saw in my mind an angry red glow beneath my fur, highlighting the places that I hurt.

The sage was silent a moment, then said hastily, “Very good. You’re well-trained, and you do as you’re told. The body seeks balance and restoration as water seeks the lowest point in the riverbed. Where there is heat, there is imbalance, flesh out of order. I bring water to fire to soothe and quench, flesh returning to health.” Where her fingers brushed against my chest, a soothing, liquid chill seeped beneath my fur, washing away the pain. She cupped my cheek, then caressed my paw, and finally drew her fingers between my legs. Everywhere she touched, the fires fled, leaving only cool comfort behind.

“Within the circle, we separate one skein, one single strand of the Great Work, to make changes to it,” Miss Aura said softly. “To weave those changes back within the larger pattern, we carefully part the circle.” She rose onto her knees, then leaned over and cut a line in the circle of salt with her paw. “Salts divided, chalk split.” Her tail tickled my muzzle. “Wake up, Taneh.”

I blinked, then drew in a deep breath. I cringed as I inhaled, but no pain lingered in my chest. I felt nothing in particular, but after so much repressed agony, nothing was a blessed relief. “Ma’am,” I murmured. Experimentally, I brought my paws to my eyes and sighed; the ritual had done nothing to heal them. Apparently, the Great Work was convinced that wasn’t an injury, nor were the emptiness between my legs and the urge to feel it filled.

“Stop admiring yourself, pet, and get up,” Miss Aura said from the doorway. “Valentin’s got a great many more questions to answer, and I’ve got to get a kettle on.”

I inhaled sharply, then sagged. “I think so, sir.” I sank to my knees against the patchy grass, then bowed my head and closed my eyes. Picture the lights, dancing in your mind, I told myself, focusing on the rise and fall of my chest. The leaden warmth and fuzziness spread slowly, but each time I tried to count the lights dancing around me, I felt myself sinking a bit further. The pain and aches subsided, and my heart stilled. My breathing slowed, and my arms fell to my sides. Twelve lights, thirteen, fourteen…. I nodded, my eyes still closed, and I mumbled, “I am ready.”

My master’s voice seemed to come from far above me, soft and distant. “Wow.” Silence lingered for some time, and then he whispered intensely. “Listen, pet, I need you to play dead. Don’t move, don’t talk, don’t even breathe if you can. Just lie there, limp and cold.” I heard the rustle of grasses as I slumped, then felt the touch of my master’s paw against my shoulder. Something hot and slick slid wetly across my chest, and in its wake pain oozed slowly through my fur. It stung fiercely, but I kept my focus on the lights, on keeping my breathing steady, and despite the burning I remained still.

My master hissed through clenched teeth, and a second burn joined the first. A third followed quickly afterwards, and then my master pulled me to a sitting position and hefted me in his arms. He staggered slightly under the weight, then stumbled his way out from behind the building. His hinds fell in heavy steps as he carried me across the courtyard, and then suddenly we were out of the sun again and back in the shade. The scent of dried grasses gave way to the pungent sweat of horses, and the sound of others working nearby. My master tensed, then called out sharply, “Inika!”

The other set of steps stopped, and a young female voice answered, “Valentin!” Inika’s hinds rustled in fast steps, and then stopped sharply. “Thank the Family you’re—Oh, comets, what happened?”

“I’m taking a corpse to Iladin for study,” my master responded, hefting me in his arms. “He expressed interest in Aura’s work.”

“Corpse?” The soldier’s voice rose sharply. “What… but that’s Erik’s slave!”

My master shrugged. “Regent’s orders, and he was mine as soon as Erik disappeared. Hitch me a cart.”

Inika didn’t budge. “Valentin, what’s going on? First you tell us to get Erik back at all costs, then you kill his slave and he’s not even dead yet? What kind of—”

“I gave you an order, soldier,” the lynx interrupted sharply. “Erik’s gone; Datsia’s the regent now. Respect the office, not the holder.” My master’s arms tensed sharply under me as he spoke.

Both parties were silent for a few seconds, before Inika said quietly, “I spoke out of turn, sir.” She turned sharply and stepped away, back into the depths of the stables. Soon I heard the rustling of leather and hay, along with the clanking of straps. “Still, I don’t like it,” she said as she worked. Buckles clanked and straps whispered. “This isn’t like you, Valentin. Something’s wrong. This isn’t just about Erik. Dion took a fresh mount towards the front not half an hour ago. Datsia’s already sending runners to call up more troops.”

The sergeant-at-arms shrugged again. “War is coming, Inika. The regent’s just trying to protect Deterikh.”

“Regent,” Inika scoffed. “Listen to yourself. It’s Datsia. You were never this formal. And maybe we wouldn’t be at war if she hadn’t insisted on that blowhard Dion as a diplomat. He’s got a quicksilver tongue, that one, but I always have to check my purse when he leaves.” The hooves clattered against the ground, and hay rustled behind. “I’m surprised he didn’t pocket the Jazinskis’ good silver.”

Despite the tension in his frame, my master laughed at that. “Dion’s a slippery one.” He walked forward a few steps, then stopped. “Listen, Inika… you’re right. Something is happening, but I… I can’t tell you what it is. I just need you and Chelin to be ready for anything. Speaking of which, where is he?”

“Sleeping off last night’s run and the ride afterwards,” Inika responded. Her hinds approached, and then something warm and soft brushed my shoulder. “Valentin, what’s wrong?”

My master stiffened, then gently hefted me forward into a small pile of hay. As I landed, pain ripped along the wet patches in my fur, as well as all the places that had only just begun to heal, and it took all my focus to the lights inside not to cry out. “More than I can say,” was his only response.

Both held still for a moment, until Inika asked, “What do you think will happen to Erik?”

“I don’t know,” the sergeant-at-arms replied. “I just know that the Jazinskis are just off our border and Erik’s the only reason their troops aren’t on their way to Baris. He bought us some time. I’m hoping Iladin will help us make the most of it. Beyond that, I can’t let myself think about it.” He stepped back and walked a few paces away, then grunted and swung himself up onto his mount.

Clawtips delicately brushed the edge of one of my ears, and my breath caught in my throat. The ear twitched, against my will, and the fingers jerked backwards. Then they scraped against the other, and it responded as well. The air inside me burned as I tried to stay still, but then the paw withdrew. “Poor thing,” Inika said, her voice suddenly too loud and too sharp. “He didn’t deserve this.”

“Ey. It’s… it was ‘ey,’” my master corrected dully. “Not that it matters now.”

“No, no, he’s… ey’s dead,” Inika agreed quickly. “It’s just a shame, that’s all. I hope Erik survives.” She stepped back from the cart. “I know he was your friend.”

It took my master a few seconds to respond to that, and when he did, his voice quavered faintly. “He still will be, I hope. I have to go; I need to drop off a body and see if Iladin has any ideas on how to stop a war.” Then the reins cracked, and the cart began to move.

At first, I had been too stunned to struggle, to scared to run. It was the rattle of my chains, as the sergeant-at-arms reached for them, that had shaken me enough to try to bolt. I made a dash for the door, but Miss Datsia stood in the way, staring down her muzzle at me. She held her arms across her chest, bemusedly watching as I charged at her. She didn’t look angry, or even smug. Her ears stood erect above her and a faint smile sat on her muzzle, and as I stumbled backwards after barreling into her, she only chuckled. “I’ll leave you to clean this, then,” she said to the lynx before giving a salute, which my master’s betrayer returned before grabbing the lead to my collar.

A few of the kitchen help turned to watch as Mister Valentin dragged me past the fires, back to the slaves’ entrance, and then out into the mid-day sun. Between the rear of Deterikh Keep and the wall enclosing it, squash and late-planted peas grew in haphazard rows, along with patches of kale. A weatherbeaten wooden shed leaned against the stone wall, its door ajar to reveal a small cluster of tools. It reminded me, with a shock, of the garden Anya and Nadzia kept under the kitchen window, lovingly tended with Father’s tools and carefully weeded by paw, each week after services. Once, near the end of summer harvest, Justik and I dug up the gourds and took turns throwing them, to see who could reach the furthest or make the biggest mess. By the time we were done, most of their crop was ruined, and the pair were beside themselves with anger. Father, though, didn’t yell; he only sat us down, paced before us, and told us how disappointed he was. I could still hear his voice in his mind, thinking back to that moment. You think you’ve ruined a few crops, but what you’ve really destroyed is all your sisters’ hard work. Look outside, at the mess you’ve made, then look me in the eye and tell me it was worth it. Neither of us could meet his gaze, or each other’s.

A sudden tug on my leash jerked me in front of the lynx and back to the present. Mister Valentin followed up with a shove against the middle of my back, which sent me stumbling into the patch of vegetables. I dropped to all fours among the crops and pressed my paws into the ground. The soil was slightly damp, and it clung in small patches to the fur of my palms. Someone had spent time with this plot, watering the soil and plucking the weeds. I wanted to be afraid. I wanted to beg for my life. I lifted a small ball of dirt to my muzzle and took a deep breath, filling my nostrils with the heavy scent of earth.

“Listen, Ta—Stannis,” Deterikh’s sergeant-at-arms called out from behind me; his tone was completely at odds with his acts, hesitant, uncertain. “I… I’m sorry, for all of what happened to you. You didn’t deserve it.”

I lowered my paws and let the clumps of dirt fall from the stumps of my fingers. A few stubborn grains hung in the fur. “No, I didn’t, sir.” I agreed quietly, not turning around. “It doesn’t matter, though. I’m just a slave.”

“Oh, Koshki,” Mister Valentin swore. “You aren’t just…. that is, you are, but….” He sighed and pinched the bridge of his muzzle. “Listen, Taneh, it’s… complicated. There’s a lot more going on than—”

“Sir,” I interrupted, not lifting my head, “do you remember when I said, not too long ago, that if you were going to pretend I was your equal that you should just do it?” I paused for a moment, but the lynx said nothing. “I know that you didn’t trust my… trust Mister Erik with the throne. I know that he trusted you with his life, and that he wanted you to have me if anything happened to him.”

The sergeant-at-arms returned the smile, but then groaned and put one paw over his eyes, the other’s grip on his spear tightening. “Listen, I just need you to understand that I… I tried to find some other way. That I wish I could have done something to stop it.”

I blinked. “Sir, why are you justifying yourself to me? I’m a slave. The one who bought me first said that I could be killed and that nobody would….” I paused, watching the way the lynx’s ears flattened and his shoulders slumped when I said that. “And that nobody would care. Compared with that, the last half-year has been a dream,” I finished.

The lynx looked even more discomfited. “Yeah, about that. Listen, T… Stannis, I… I’m sorry. I don’t want to do this. You know that, don’t you?”

I shrugged. “Then don’t do it, sir.”

Mister Valentin laughed darkly. “Oh, comets. If only it were that easy.”

I smiled. “It is that easy, sir. I’m a slave; I follow orders because I have no choice. You’re not a slave.”

“That’s not true,” the lynx countered. “You chose to become a slave.”

I nodded. “Yes, and I choose not to run because I made the choice to be what I am, which includes not having the freedom to make other choices. Choices you can make.”

Mister Valentin sighed, his shoulders sagging. “I chose to help Datsia get rid of Erik. You’re the only one left who knows, and she doesn’t trust you not to tell. Given that, my options are to risk letting everything I’ve done collapse in my wake, or….” He fidgeted with his spear in both paws.

I ignored the weapon and focused on the lynx’s muzzle. “Why did you help Miss Datsia?”

That made the lynx chuckle. “You saw Erik’s temper. You heard his aunt. He’d give in and give in and then snap suddenly and we’d end up in a—” He stopped himself suddenly.

I smiled a bit wider. “In a war.”

“Yeah,” Mister Valentin agreed. “Listen, I think I can talk Datsia down from this, once she’s not in the moment.”

I nodded. “Of course. I’m sure the Regent will give up this chance to retake the holdings she thinks her brother gave away too cheaply, given how she’s handled everything else to this point.”

The lynx was silent for several moments more. “I definitely liked you more when you were just a distraction.”

At that, I chuckled softly. “So did I, sir.”

Mister Valentin hung his head. “Listen, I think you’re right. I thought getting Erik off the throne was the right thing to do, but it’s put somebody even worse in his place. What can I do, though? This is the path I’ve already chosen. Can’t you understand that?” He practically snarled the last at me.

I nodded, once. My heart pounded in my chest and my muzzle was sticky and dry, but my mind was painfully clear. Was it worth it?. “I do understand, sir, which is why you should hurry up and dispose of me, before Miss Datsia starts to doubt your loyalty.”

The lynx visibly tensed, shrinking in on himself. “Yes,” he said quietly. “Yes, I should.” He was silent for several moments, then advanced slowly and raised his arms. I tensed and closed my eyes, trying keep my heart calm. I knew this could happen. I knew it probably would. My master’s eyes came back to me, his relaxed and open smile as he stood on the roof overlooking Baris. Seeing his muzzle in my mind, an almost liquid warmth suffused me, spreading up from between my thighs and through my entire body. Yes, yes it was.

The tip of Mister Valentin’s spear whistled as it dropped, and then I heard a wet crunch that shook a cry out of me, but several seconds passed before I realized there was no pain. I opened my eyes and looked down, but my chest was whole and intact. Beside me, one of the squash sat in pieces, smashed by the force of the lynx’s impact. I blinked, then lifted my head, but then suddenly his paws were at the back of my head, his muzzle pressed hotly to mine. His fingers encircled the bases of my ears, and then suddenly bright flares of pain erupted from them as his claws sunk into the tender skin. He forced his tongue into my muzzle, then sucked mine back into his and bit it fiercely, making me gasp against his lips.

As the lynx forced me backwards against the ground, he took one of his paws from my ear and fumbled at his waist, then started to roughly shove his pants and breeches down to free his sheath. As soon as they were at his knees, he shoved me down, then loomed over me and began squirming between my legs, forcing them apart. It felt awkward and wrong and embarrassing, the way the emptiness between my legs throbbed as he ground himself against my nethers. My cheeks burned, but it was nothing compared to the fire rising from within.

Mister Valentin wasn’t gentle. As soon as he was close to positioned, he rose onto his knees and rammed himself forward, hilting himself inside of me in a single thrust. I screamed as his cock slammed into the back of my sex, dropping back to a whimper as he withdrew. Reflexively, I wrapped my arms around him despite myself, then tensed as he drove himself back into me. He snarled as he took me, his claws sunk into my sides, ruining open Master Iladin’s efforts in one and gouging the other. The lynx hissed, then sunk his teeth into my shoulder, sending a wave of hot agony to match the fire that rose from my sex as he claimed me.

I hurt and my cheeks burned, but my body responded despite itself, hips rising to meet the lynx’s with every thrust. The pleasure began to swell deep within me, flashes that ran from the base of my tail up my spine. Each time Mister Valentin took me, a guttural hiss escaped his throat and his jaws clenched down on my shoulder, and I pressed myself more tightly to him. Soon he was gasping, grunting against me as he took me, and I cried out each time he buried himself into my sex. The shocks came faster and faster, and then suddenly stars swarmed behind my eyes and my whole body clenched. The lynx answered with a yowl and a sharp snap of his hips, sinking himself within me, followed by a few short twitches and a fresh flow of heat deep within.

For several seconds, he simply held himself within me, muzzle pressed to my shoulder. He gingerly withdrew his teeth from my skin, then tenderly licked the bite, making me whimper. The lynx slowly pulled himself away, then rose to his hinds. “How do you feel, Stannis?”

The sound of my old name, my birth name, made me grimace. I hurt, both inside and out. My heart sat heavy in my chest, the sense of having cheated death only just sinking in. The bases of my ears burned, as did my shoulder and sides. I felt blood seeping into my fur at points, along with other fluids. I looked down at myself, then back up to the sergeant-at-arms. “Used, master.”

Mister Valentin smiled faintly at that, his ears flat against his head once more. “That’s about as disposed of as I can make you, pet.” He reached down and took one of my paws in his, then pulled me to my hinds. “If we’re lucky, we have an hour before Datsia sends someone around the taverns to find out what I did with your body. I intend to be long gone by then.”

Within every organization, be it an academy, a charter or the Great Council itself, there exists an unspoken hierarchy of talents. Such a ranking bears little resemblance to the rigid structure of who rules over whom. Rather, it is a living but invisible list, kept in the minds of every member, identifying the brightest stars and feeblest candles in the group. One cannot work day in and day out with the same people and not hear tales of heroism and cowardice. This person stays at the charter hall through the weekend tending archival spells, or that person cracks crystals with careless abandon. That overseer demands exacting detail on utter irrelevancies, while this one cares only that spells are cast by their appointed times and doesn’t ask why one never seems to be at one’s desk past high sun on Fridays.

At the top shine the highly skilled, the sought-after, those whose names are known by all for the good work that they do. Beneath them lay the average, the common and mediocre; they inspire neither awe nor terror, and encompass the vast majority of those in any group. Below them lurk those that might most charitably be described as striving for adequacy. Everyone knows, or at least knows of, at least one person from this category. At best, involvement with someone from this last group is proof that the universe has a sense of humor. At worst, a singed desk could be the least of one’s concerns.

Even more ominous, though, are those of whom one has never heard. Those whose reputations precede them are a welcome addition to any group, and while no-one might say the same of the notorious, one does at least have the advantage of knowing where they are and how they will most likely complicate one’s life. One almost always has a far easier time planning around those whose failures are the subject of legend than those who have no history at all. As noted elsewhere, mages do not tend to enjoy ambiguity, and people with no reputation represent ambiguity.

I had my misgivings about this meeting when, of five names on the invitation, I recognized only two besides mine, and I answered to both of them in some fashion. They were not allayed when I saw that Miles seemed conspicuously absent. Barbara—the only familiar face and by far the least friendly—sat at the head of a long table, a thick shard in front of her flickering with glyphs. Next to her sat a boyish redhead with freckled cheeks and eyes that had yet to have the optimism snuffed from them. Beside him sat a dark-haired man staring intently into a small crystal held almost to his face, flickering images reflecting from his thick glasses. In front of everyone sat at least one prism or a sheaf of papers.

“Oh, Carissa, good,” Barbara said as I entered. She smiled too broadly and gestured to the seat beside her. “I’m glad you could make it. Please, join us.”

I pulled back the chair, glancing reflexively at the seat for traps, then sat gingerly and scooted up to the table. Five pairs of eyes turned to me as my manager continued. “Since we’re finally all together, we should probably get started with introductions.” She turned with a smile to the fresh-faced youth beside her. “Theo, since you’re newest here, why don’t you start?”

The red-head swallowed heavily, then turned back to the group. “My name is Theo… dore. Gannis.” He paused, looking around as if expecting us to recognize the name. When no-one at the table moved, he continued. “I’m new to Epistemic Esoterica. I’m here as part of my practicum with Wyvernbight Academy. I’ll be working as the group scribe, helping keep track of tasks, keeping people focused, and this will give me a great chance to learn epistemic magosophy while I’m still studying!” He stopped, then said hastily. “It’s really a pleasure to meet you all.”

I looked at Barbara, then back to the child. “How new did you say you were?”

Theodore swallowed again. “My uncle hired me last week.”

Perhaps it was Barbara’s sudden shake of her head, or my sour look, but at the exchange, the bearded man turned sharply. “Who did you say your uncle was?”

The youth’s eyes went wide. “Fransciscus Gannis?” His tone made it a question, but his intent was anything but.

The man in glasses didn’t look up from his prism. “I’m sure he must have been the most qualified candidate for the position,” he intoned flatly.

Suddenly red-faced, Theo turned to the dark-haired man beside him. “You’re next!” he blurted, obviously eager to have the eyes off of him.

“Oh, I’m just happy to be here,” he replied. Then, after several seconds of silence, he looked up from his personal crystal. “Oh, fine. Jason Galette. It’s my responsibility to convince people that your new spells are actually better than Hypatia.”

“Jason’s the herald assigned to this effort,” Barbara interjected. “His role is to help communicate what we’re doing to others.”

“I thought that’d be my job,” the man with the beard huffed, suddenly. “We’re going to need a great many discussions on how we expect people to cast this new spell, how people talk to Hypatia, what they’re going to—”

Barbara held out her hands. “Faxon, there will be plenty of time in the next six months to discuss the intricacies of the spells themselves, but for now we should focus on meeting each other.”

Faxon audibly harrumphed and leaned back in his chair, then folded his arms across his chest. “Nicodemus always said we needed to know our customers’ wishes before we talked about how to cast a single cantrip.”

“Yes, well, It’s a shame that Nicodemus is no longer with us,” Barbara replied with false pleasantry. “We have the tasks assigned to us from Councilors Maxima and Franciscus, and we can’t even do that until we know each other.” She faced the rest of the group. “No need for him to be modest; Faxon’s one of Esoterica’s brightest illusionists and a journeyman artificer as well.”

The bearded mage nodded in response. “I helped craft the look of Hypatia. She got her eyes from me.” His own lit up as he spoke, and he grinned as he lifted his hands into the air, his fingers slightly curled.

“And other features, no doubt,” I muttered.

Suddenly four sets of eyes were upon me. “Why don’t you introduce yourself, Carissa?” Barbara asked in that same even tone.

I shrugged. “I’m Carissa Deursis; I’ve been part of the translations and divinations group for years, helping our customers cast Hypatia in whatever grove and on whatever crystals they happen to have.”

Faxon let out a whistle. “So you’re Deursis; your name precedes you.”

I held very still for a moment, then forced a smile for the illusionist. “I’m flattered.” The other mage snickered in response, and suddenly I felt all too visible at the table. I turned back to Barbara and asked, “So, you’ve brought together the deceptive arts, aetherics, translations, a scribe, and—” I looked to Jason, then back to Barbara. “Where’s our enchanter? Where’s our wizard? Nicodemus is gone, so who’s going to craft the spells the rest of us are going to tune and embody?”

Barbara’s eyes met mine, but it wasn’t a pleasant meeting. “Oh, that will be your role. We know the state of Esoterica’s crystal groves, and we know we don’t need to worry about the casting requirements For a theurgist of your talents, divining the base incantations and tuning them appropriately should be easy enough, shouldn’t it?”

It is, at this point, worth noting an old saying among gamblers: “At every table sits at least one victim. If none has been found within half an hour, the victim is likely oneself.”

In matters magical, language must be specific, clear, and direct. This is not merely a matter of pedantry, nor of sophistry. The creation of spells involves placing glyphs or making gestures and invoking components in sequence, and the product of any one element of a spell may dramatically change depending on those around it. To demonstrate this, I can think of no more prime example than the one my mentor shared with me in the early stages of my own learning: “Consider the basic case of ‘fire’ and ‘great.’ ‘Great fire’ will ignite a mountain of paper but not cloth; ‘fire great’ will burn one ounce of steel but not two. Be sure you know which you intend.”

Mind you, this is also not to say that either pedantry or sophistry is an inherently negative trait. What one may dismiss as a lust for unnecessary detail, another may defend as passion for precision. What one may protest as wordplay, another may support as an exacting eye for meaning. Given the aforementioned necessity of exacting detail that the field requires, I would say that a bit of obsession is necessary for a mage. Indeed, I would contend that the best mages are possessed of a fine eye for detail work.

No doubt at least some of those who read this will say that this nitpicking of definitions is pedantry and sophistry. However, any discussion of why this is not the case would itself require one or the other. Suffice it to say that magic requires attention to fine detail, and that the degree of intricacy does not diminish as the scope of one’s focus expands. Consider, for example, a spell such as Hypatia. What we have classically decribed as a single spell is really a set of illusions acting in concert, a series of archives of various sorts, and a number of spirits to alter the behavior of both based on the needs of any given invoker. Not only must each of these spells behave in a very specific fashion, but they must all commune with each other, acting as a single casting to any who observes from the outside. Each of these is then comprised of simpler spells which have been cast in unison, and so on for several more layers.

In fact, Hypatia is, to be quite specific, not “a spell” at all, but the sum total of a hundred or more individual spells which all perform according to a set of detailed and intricate rules of behavior with one another. Each of these spells performs some specific task, from remembering which archives a given invoker has permission to read, to determining which facial expression the illusory librarian should use when answering a question, to determining why some other spell collapsed so that the librarian can politely report an issue rather than explode in a fiery blast. The requirements for every invocation, and more specifically how they all work together, must be meticulously detailed to allow such seamless concert. If the simplest cantrips comprising Hypatia’s behavior are cast incorrectly, then the larger rituals may not work at all.

Overseers and councilors, in contrast, dislike specificity, at least in the general case. Specific language becomes an obligation, a point of accountability to which others may refer once payment has been been received. The more precise the details of any given contract, the more effort a merchant must put into ensuring that they’re actually met. The merchant who agrees to “some swords” and delivers two has kept his word; the one who agrees to “three swords” has not. Poor is the merchant who promises more than he can deliver; poorer is the one who delivers what he has not promised.

If anything, detailed language in business is meant to spell out what shall not be done. Most merchants would far prefer to explicitly state what they are under no obligation to do than to ever be caught having to provide something beyond their ability. By explicitly stating what needs not be considered, one gains the freedom of not having to worry about whether one has actually accomplished one’s goal. One becomes free to explore ideas, to attempt unorthodox solutions which may not work, and to demand coin for good-faith efforts regardless of whether one has actually delivered a worthwhile product.

Extending the previous example, the merchant who agrees to “determine whether swords can be delivered” and then produces nothing has still succeeded. One has, in fact, definitively proven that one cannot provide weapons to one’s would-be buyer, which is all one has agreed to do. Had one actually agreed to deliver weapons, one’s buyer would be quite legitimately angry at having not received any. By only agreeing to see whether such a delivery is possible, one has spared oneself the necessity of actually doing so. If one’s client is operating under the unfortunate misunderstanding that one had actually promised a few swords or axes, one has merely to point to the fine print at the bottom of the contract.

In summation, the mage considers fine detail and intricacy of definition to be a necessary factor of spellcraft, and of magic in general. The merchant, by contrast, tends to consider such a degree of specificity to be against good business practices, unless it is to definitively state that which one has no intention of doing. Considering how many labor contracts are written by barristers and other councilors, one may begin to sense how uneasy most mages are in the typical charter setting. Those who may think that they are immune to such vague language need only ask themselves whether or not their contracts of wage-labor contain the phrase, “other duties as required.” If this is insufficient proof, then a quick review of the fine print at the bottom of an exchequer’s notice of payment due for credit offered should suffice.

All of this should be ample explanation for why I felt such unease at the letter I found from Miles beneath my autopen on Monday morning. Initially from Galen and addressed to Barbara and three other people whose names I didn’t recognize, it requested that they identify “members of their support structure who might be suitable to attend a meeting after lunch to begin a discussion regarding what steps might be necessary to affect the creation of the next incarnation of Hypatia and what support might be necessary to craft such a spell.” Barbara had forwarded the note to Miles, asking him who he had identified, and his reply had come to the two of us. By the third review of the note, I had still not determined if anything was actually to be done in this meeting, and so I dashed off a quick note to Miles, asking if he had any more idea.

Miles’ response was quick and, unfortunately, far too comprehensible. “That cabal that Ajanax mentioned at the grand convocation on Friday? The one that’s supposed to save Epistemic Esoterica? I’ve nominated you to be part of it and had your assignments cleared so you could take part! I’m sorry I didn’t tell you at the last gathering, but I was under strict orders to say nothing until his announcement. You’ll be part of the group responsible for the future of the company! Congratulations!”

The vole nodded in response, matching the wolfess’ grin with his own. “The team Valentin sent to retrieve him just returned with the news; he and Inika retrieved the Baron’s horse from the Jazinsk border, along with a spear that Chelin identified as his. They found no sign of young Erik, but forward spotters said they saw a wagon, heavily escorted, headed towards Krolik. Short of word from Baron Jazinsk himself, I would say that we have as much proof as we need, Regent.”

Miss Datsia smiled. “Good, that will make his tale all the stronger.” She sighed and walked to the table, then leaned against it with both paws. “The barony is safe, for the moment, but we still have much to do.”

Mister Valentin nodded in response. “Agreed. I’ll go tell the guard to stand down.” He crossed his arms and turned to the vole. “Chelin won’t be in any state to ride. Dion, go get ready. I know you’ve just returned, but we need to get the Regent’s offer of peace to the Jazinskis before—”

“Cancel that,” The elder wolfess interrupted. “Dion, head to the border and begin the advance as we discussed.” She reached over to one of the many sheafs of paper, then pulled one free and tapped on it with a clawtip. “Keep your pace slow; you won’t be leading veterans this time. I don’t care if you take a week to get to Krolik. Just keep your casualties down until you’re at the city gates. You’re going to need as many spears as you can get inside the walls to deal with their—”

The lynx turned to Miss Datsia with an incredulous stare. “What? You said once Erik was gone that you’d negotiate peace with Jazinsk!”

Deterikh’s captain turned to Mister Valentin, her expression level. “Your point being?”

The sergeant-at-arms narrowed his eyes. “I said I would help you get the throne out from under Erik’s temper. I didn’t say I would help you use it to start a war.”

Miss Datsia’s tone didn’t change, faintly amused and patronizing. “Valentin, you’re a good soldier, but you just don’t have the guile necessary to make a good leader. The Jazinskis declared war on us. They’re hungry from a year of poor crops, so their troops will be weak. They’ve taken Erik into custody, so we have a martyr for the cause. If there’s a better time to expand our borders, I can’t imagine it.”

“So.” Mister Valentin scowled and crossed his arms. “Are you saying all of this… this was just to grab a piece of Jazinsk?”

Miss Datsia’s ears flattened and her tail bristled. “Of course not!” she snapped. “My goal was, and will always be, to ensure the well-being and future of the barony. Every ruler takes that oath. I saw a chance to solve two of her biggest problems at once, and with your help, we solved them.”

The lynx paused for a few seconds, then asked too lightly, “What problems do you mean?”

“Oh, come now, Valentin,” Mister Dion interjected. “Don’t play at being the innocent; that wide-eyed look of confusion doesn’t become you.”

The wolfess favored Mister Valentin with a patronizing smile. “The Jazinskis have been a thorn in Deterikh’s side for over a generation. The southern Ezustia Range is ours by right—”

“Oh, Great Family,” Mister Valentine groaned, putting a paw over his muzzle. “We lost those mines twenty years ago!”

“We gave them away twenty years ago!” Miss Datsia snarled in response, passion showing in her voice since she first heard my master had been captured. “My brother’s second-worst mistake on the throne.”

Mister Valentin’s ears flattened against his head. “Oh, and what was his first, falling in love?”

Miss Datsia turned sharply away from the table. “Valentin!” As soon as she snapped, she drew in a deep breath and visibly composed herself, then held out her paws placatingly. “Please. Do you think me that heartless? Melka and I were never close, but I don’t resent Wilik for loving her. No, it’s what he did afterwards that was unconscionable.”

The lynx was unimpressed. “You mean giving her a son.”

“I mean taking an unimaginable risk with the barony, staking her future on that….” She glanced down at the fist she’d raised in front of her and lowered her arm back to her side. “That unstable whelp.”

“That ‘unstable whelp’ was my friend,” Mister Valentin retorted.

“Oh, of course he was!” Mister Dion laughed. “That was why you stabbed him in the back.”

The sergeant-at-arms rounded on his accuser, one finger pointing accusingly. His fist shook. “Don’t push me, Dion.”

Mister Dion leaned back against the wall, unphased. “Or else… what, precisely?”

“Just…” Mister Valentin stood still for a moment, then turned away, dropping his arms as he slumped. “Don’t.”

“Oh, poor Valentin,” The vole cooed around a smug smile. “Having an attack of conscience? Life is so much easier without one. Still, isn’t it a bit late to grow one? You did volunteer to help with this.”

Mister Valentin tensed but his voice remained weary. “I haven’t forgotten what I agreed to do. I also haven’t forgotten why.”

Miss Datsia stepped towards the lynx and put her paw on his shoulder. “Valentin, you’ve said it yourself. He didn’t have the mettle he needed to be baron.”

Mister Valentin didn’t raise his head or his voice. “You mean he wasn’t ready to go to war with the Jazinskis.”

“I mean he would’ve given into every demand made of him, then lashed out blindly with twelve times the strength he needed.” Miss Datsia’s tone was gentle but firm. She waved her free paw in my direction. “You saw what he did with just his fists. Imagine if he’d had an army at his disposal.”

The lynx turned to look at Miss Datsia, then followed her arm. His eyes met mine, and for the first time since he entered the room, he seemed to see me. “Listen, Datsia… maybe he’d have been fine if he’d actually been allowed to be the baron. I don’t think you ever gave him that chance.”

Miss Datsia shook her head in response. “No, I never did. It wouldn’t have been worth the risk to the barony.”

“And fighting the Jazinskis’ war is?” Mister Valentin asked in response. His eyes remained on mine, weary at the corners but still faintly smiling.

The wolfess’ ears flattened against her head. “Yes, I think it is.” She looked at me, and she smiled again, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “About that slave, though. Dion, as much as your suggestion appalled me, I must admit it worked beautifully. My congratulations to you for that. You have your orders.”

The vole snapped to attention and nodded sharply. “Regent.” Then he turned and walked out of the parlor.

Miss Datsia waited until the door had closed behind her envoy, then turned to face her sergeant-at-arms. “Valentin, Erik was your friend, and I understand that, but your loyalty must be to the office, not the holder of that office. You understand that, correct?”

The lynx’s expression hardened. “I do, yes.”

“Good.” Miss Datsia chuckled mirthlessly and walked over to the door. “You did what was necessary, and you played your part well. Now I need you to help me fill in the last few holes. We need to dispose of that slave.”

My blood ran cold at Miss Datsia’s words, and Mister Valentin’s eyes went wide. “But… Taneh had nothing to do with this!”

The wolfess gave an exaggerated sigh. “I’m aware of that, but again, it’s too much a risk. What if someone compels it to talk? I don’t like it either, but it’s the only way.”

The sergeant-at-arms’ paws went out, pads up, pleading. “Listen, Datsia, it doesn’t have to be like this. I’ll take em to Aura’s, have eir memory wiped. Ey doesn’t—”

“That’s not good enough!” Barony Deterikh’s regent barked. She sighed again, forcing her ears upright. “It’s still too risky, Valentin. Everything we’ve done will be for nothing if word gets out of what happened. The only way to ensure success is to silence anyone who would speak out. We can’t have it running around the keep, and we can’t sell it. That only leaves one option. Can I count on you to finish this… Captain?”

Mister Valentin’s eyes closed, and my blood froze solid when next he spoke. “Yes… Baroness.”

It took some effort—and a fair bit of pain—to get my legs over the side of the bed, but soon I had my hinds on the floor and my paws on the edge of the mattress. Everything spasmed as I pushed myself upright, but I managed to put my weight on my legs without them collapsing. The first steps were difficult; it felt as if things inside me were moving that had no business being able to do so. I wrapped my arms around my waist, though, and I focused on making one step, then another, slowly turning a circle about the room. I felt myself favoring my left leg, which was little surprise; that side had taken the brunt of my master’s kicks.

Once I knew I could walk without toppling, I gathered my chains as best as I could to keep them from swinging and limped carefully to the door. Mister Valentin had left it open, and the witchlights in the parlor remained uncovered. Unfurled scrolls and other sheets of papers lay strewn about the main table, with half-empty teacups around its edges. Plates sat stacked on a wooden plank at one end, still covered in scraps. At the other, the baron’s teapot held a few last cold dregs. One of the chairs sat on its side, another on its back. From the state of the room, the formal council had gone about as poorly as my master’s mood had.

It hurt to bend, to move even the relatively light chairs, but the need to feel useful even in my master’s absence moved me to straighten the room. What made it difficult, though, was the paintings that hung on the walls. From their vantage point on high, six generations of barons past stared down upon me as I did my best to tidy the parlor, righting furniture and gathering cups. I couldn’t bring myself to meet their gaze as I worked, and the longer I walked around, the more uncomfortable I became. My master’s father, Wilik, stood in the last frame. Unlike the portrait in the bedroom, he stood alone in this picture, dressed in full regalia. Painted in his prime, his fur held only a few patches of white, and he stood as straight as the spear at his side. His eyes were the same gold as his son’s, large and bright, with hints of weariness at the corners, as of a soldier who had seen one battle too many. The line of his muzzle was flat, his ears erect; it was hard not to read his expression as a scowl, disapproving and disappointed.

I flinched as I met the portrait’s stare, then lowered my eyes again. “I’m sorry, sir,” I said aloud, addressing my master’s father. “I never knew you, or what you thought of your son, but I can only hope that he’s made you proud.” I swallowed heavily, feeling at once like a fool and a fraud. I hadn’t prayed since my father died, and I didn’t even know if I had permission to speak, but I felt the need to help, somehow. “I don’t know if the Great Family listens to you, sir, but my master… your son… is in a great deal of trouble. He’s probably scared, and lost, and….” I drew in a deep breath and let it out. “I know I’m just a slave, and I have no right to ask, but if you could ask Oshka to protect him until he’s home, sir, it would mean a lot to me.”

“One good thing about the dead,” Mister Dion intoned behind me, “is that they have very little to say.” I spun, ears flattening against my head, to see the vole, dressed in a loose cotton shirt and trousers, leaning against the doorframe. A mace hung from a heavy leather belt around his waist, with a scabbard tucked against the other hip. Bandages encircled his lower left leg. “It makes them better company than brash young slaves who speak altogether too much.”

I blushed, my chest tight. All of my resolve to stand up to the unctuous envoy melted in the hot embarrassment of being called on my misbehavior. “Yes, sir.” My paws shook and I felt a knot in the pit of my stomach.

The envoy smiled and limped into the room. “Much, much better. Have you seen Valentin about? I have news for him.”

My heart skipped a beat. Could my prayers have been answered? “Has my master returned?”

The vole’s ears rose and his eyes shone. “Well, his horse has, at least.” At that, the pit in my stomach yawned wide and my blood ran cold, but Mister Dion continued, heedless of my expression. “Most regrettably, it seems as though the Jazinski have accepted his quite generous offer to exchange himself for a temporary truce.” He doffed his cap and held it to his chest. “A young martyr for his country. His sacrifice will be remembered.”

My jaw rose and fell for several moments, but no sound escaped me. An invisible paw held my chest in a death-grip. I finally managed to whisper, “Is he…?” I couldn’t bring myself to finish.

“Oh, no, no,” the vole replied, still smiling. “They won’t just kill him. They’ll want a full trial, to make an example of him as a warning to others.” He snickered. “What better way to deter others who would spoil their harvests and corrupt their citizens?”

My eyes went wide; the envoy’s words were a jumble in my ears. “Spoil their… but he had—” I stopped and blinked. “Corrupt, sir?”

Mister Dion let out a chuckle. “Oh, my, my, such delicious innocence.” He motioned towards me with his paw. “Just imagine what Baron Jazinsk had to say when he learned of what our teenaged tyrant had done to a Jazinski slave, to say nothing of what he then did with em. And in the middle of court, no less. Scandalous.” His paw went to his muzzle in mock embarrassment.

The implications of the envoy’s statements hit me like a blow to the chest, and my knees went weak. I dropped heavily into one of the chairs I’d just righted. “You… lied to them. None of that is true.”

“None of it?” The vole clucked his tongue as he limped over to the table. “I’d say a fair bit of it is. More than enough to make the rest seem plausible.” He leered as he approached, one paw at the hilt of his short sword. “You were quite lovely at the end of his leash.”

My stomach twisted; his stare felt greasy. My voice rose in a plaintive wail. “But you brought me here! You were the—”

“—the one who took you to Aura’s, on the baron’s orders,” Mister Dion interrupted, his voice oozing smug amusement. “Yes, I was.” He took hold of my chains in his free paw. I tried to shove him away, but without fingers I could only push on his wrists, which made him laugh. “I really must compliment you, Stannis. You’ve played your part in this beautifully, even if you didn’t know it.”

At the mention of the name, the world went grey at the edges of my vision and a chill settled into my paws and hinds. It was as if the sun had risen in my mind, burning away the fog that had settled over my memory. I sank back against the back of the chair and lifted my mutilated paws before my eyes to stare at them. “You… did this to me. All of it.” I looked up at Mister Dion, voice hollow. “Why?”

The vole shrugged. “Would the truth please you? Because I wanted to do it. Because I enjoyed it. Because I could. Do you need more reason than that? You’ll have to ask the others.”

“The others?” I dropped my paws back to my lap, then flinched as they neared my waist. I didn’t want to think about what else had been done to me.

Mister Dion nodded, his grin spreading. “When they arrive, I’ll let them—oh, good, good, they’re here.” Miss Datsia stepped through the doorway, dressed in a tan jacket and dark green skirt, similarly armed to the envoy. Mister Valentin followed close behind her, in a button-down shirt and cotton pants, carrying a spear loosely in his paws. I tried to catch his gaze, but his face was a glass-eyed mask. The longer I stared at him, the deeper my heart sank into the pit of my stomach.

The sergeant-at-arms turned to Mister Dion with a yawn, having given no sign of even seeing me in the room. “You said you had news?”

“Oh, yes, yes.” Dion nodded to the lynx, then turned to Miss Datsia. “Your nephew is in Jazinski custody. As of roughly six hours ago, you are Regent of Barony Deterikh.”

Throughout the night, Mister Valentin remained beside my master’s bed. At times he paced, or he dozed fitfully on my mattress. Most of the times I woke, though, he was where I saw him last, sitting in one of the chairs dragged in from the parlor, his elbows on his knees, his muzzle resting on the backs of his fingers, his eyes half-closed. If ever he caught my eyes, he smiled or offered some reassurance, but then he withdrew back into his thoughts. At one point, as I fell back to sleep, I felt a brush of fingers against my forehead, but then the sensation was gone as I sank into the darkness again.

The sun had risen fully and shone through the high and narrow windows by the time sleep finally left me. My bones ached and I felt weak, but the worst of the throbbing pains had passed. As I struggled to rise, Mister Valentin’s paw was at my shoulder again. “Easy, pet. Listen, I don’t think you should be up until Iladin’s had another look at you. How do you feel?”

I put a paw on my stomach with a grimace. “I’m sorry, sir. I’d like to try to stand.” My words were slurred, my tongue swollen in my muzzle, but I spoke slowly and carefully, trying to make myself clear. “My back is sore from lying still.”

“As sore as the rest of you?” Mister Valentin smiled faintly, then shook his head. “You can sit up, but only for a bit. Are you hungry?” I nodded, and the lynx offered me a mug of lukewarm broth. “Drink slowly, pet.” I took it between my paws and sipped from it carefully, while the sergeant-at-arms sat on the edge of the bed. “Listen, Taneh….” He hung his head and sighed. “I’m sorry about what happened. You didn’t deserve to be treated like that. Don’t.”

For several moments, I balanced the mug in my lap and my words on my tongue. “Sir….” I took a deep breath and bowed my head. “What I deserve doesn’t matter. What my owner wishes, does. He wished to beat me.” I closed my eyes, but my master’s face came back to me, and I shuddered and forced myself to gaze into the murky broth instead. “I don’t know why. It doesn’t matter why.” It wasn’t true, but it wasn’t my place to ask, and likely no-one here could—or would—tell me.

“But it does, Taneh. Listen.” Mister Valentin shifted closer and put a paw on my shoulder, his eyes wide and full of false earnestness. “Erik… the baron… wasn’t well. He hadn’t been for some time. That wasn’t the first time he’s lost his temper. He’s hurt people—”

I lifted my head and narrowed my eyes, cutting off the sergeant-at-arms with a glare. “Sir, with respect, I may be a slave, but I’m neither a dolt nor a kit. You don’t have to tell me anything. You don’t have to even talk to me; just give me orders and I will follow them. If you do wish to treat me like you would a person, though, then please do so.”

The lynx sat, muzzle agape, for several seconds, then broke out in a weary chuckle. “I probably ought to beat you for that, but you’re already injured and I’m too tired to care.”

“Do as you wish to do, sir. ” I replied wearily. “Use me, beat me, ignore me. Just, please, if you want to pretend that I’m your equal, at least do so.”

Mister Valentin’s ears flattened against his head. “You want me to treat you like an equal, then? Then I’ll tell you everything. Erik was an alchemical half-breed, he probably shouldn’t have been trusted with the throne in the first place, and he was becoming too unstable to risk keeping it.” My own ears fell back against my head, but the sergeant-at-arms pressed forward, putting his muzzle a whisker’s breadth from mine. “He was my best friend, he was his father’s only son, and he could’ve been a great leader, but he gave it all up to play with his toys.” His breath was hot, and he hissed his words at me. “From the moment he got you, he was too busy to care about his barony, either the threats from outside or the rumors within. There, is that more to your liking?”

I swallowed hard, my heart pounding, but I didn’t withdraw. I met the lynx’s eyes with my own, my paws pressed tightly against the mug to keep them from shaking. “That may have been Baron Deterikh, but that was not my master. My master was deeply committed to Barony Deterikh’s safety and its future. If he wasn’t the baron his father was, it was because no one gave him a chance to be the baron.” Ice flooded my veins, but I couldn’t stop the flow of words; it felt as if they were being pulled out of me. My master’s litany rang in my ears as I spoke. “He wasn’t too busy to care; no one let him care more. He felt everyone’s eyes on him, all the time: his aunt’s, yours, the court’s. If someone didn’t like something he did, it was the stars or his mother, Great Family keep her. He could have done everything exactly as his father would have, and people would say he still wasn’t good enough. Did he act like a whelp at times? Absolutely, because that’s how he was treated! Hold someone to an impossible standard, measure his steps by a stride he can never match, and see how long it takes him to—”

In a flash, my master’s expression in that last moment of violence came to me, and my heart seized. His lips were curled back in a snarl, but the whites of his eyes were visible all the way around and his ears were pulled flat against his head. He wasn’t enraged; he was terrified. His blows weren’t aimed at me, but at everyone who had forced him into the hole from which he was desperately trying to escape. It was the same expression I must have had, the day I sat at my father’s funeral and felt every frown in the room judging my life by his. I dropped my head and closed my eyes. “To break and run,” I finished, barely above a whisper. My cheeks burned. “Sir.”

I clutched the mug to my chest and braced for the blow, but all I heard was the whisper of the mattress as Mister Valentin rose. His hinds shuffled against the stone floor, then stopped. “I think I liked it better when you were just the Baron’s plaything, Taneh.”

“I did as well, sir,” I murmured after a moment’s pause.

The lynx walked over to the bed and took the mug from my paws. “Listen, pet. I’ve barely slept or eaten since nightfall, Jazinsk’s troops are on their way, Iladin’s supposed to return to work on your muzzle, and Chelin and Inika should be back in a few hours with the Baron. I need a bath, a hot meal, and two hours of sleep. I suggest you get some more rest, while you still can.”

Councillors deal in the strategic, the vast and broad and oft-unanswerable. Theirs is the task of determining what is to be done. Shall we continue to expand Hypatia? Shall we improve our charter hall? Shall we bless a fresh grove for future growth? These are of a kind of question one might expect a councillor to ask; they focus on the general course of the charter, without concern for how any of these might be accomplished. It matters not, at this rarified height, how any of these is to be done. It is not, as it has been remarked, the nature of the councillor to deal in details such as how

This is not to say that a councillor may never question the specifics of a plan. In one area, those who lead the charter are masters of detail: the purse. Rare is the charter with gold that flows as water, and Epistemic Esoterica is no exception. One has only to ask to hire an additional mage or purchase an additional dozen crystals to see how quickly a councillor may get involved with the minutae of a project. This is not to say that a charter will never expand its ranks, but it might be nice were it to happen for circumstances less dire than imminent disaster. Outside of that specific exception, though, it is rare that a councillor becomes involved in the day-to-day activities of a charter. In this, they are much as kings or generals, directing the actions of their legions while divining the progress of the battle from afar. They care not how any particular goal is accomplished, only that they are, in a timely fashion and preferably with fewer coin than they’d expected to spend.

One may lament this fact, or one may embrace it, but one can do little to change it. Speaking of the intricacies of a particular spell with a councilor tasked with ensuring its proper casting will do little but tire one’s voice and frustrate one’s overseer. Explaining why a particular spell fails to function as expected is most often an exercise in frustration, and often ends only with the question, “When may it be re-cast correctly?” Regardless of what one may consider of primary import, the councilor’s focus must remain on the charter, and more to the point, how much coin it loses each minute that the spell for which one is responsible remains miscast. For someone responsible for such a broad sweep of any charter’s existence to invest time in understanding the nuances of specific magosophical details is… almost anathema to the station.

It should thus give one some sense of my dread, when I say that, in front of his councilors and the whole of the mages’ hall, the dragon Ajanax took the stage and said, “I’d like to answer your questions. All of them.” Sprawled out on a raised dais at the front of the auditorium, he dominated the stage, both in sight and word. He seemed relaxed and confident, all-too-comfortable discussing the intricacies of divinations and oracles, of illusions and archives. To be blunt, he sounded much as Nicodemus did, when one could convince Nicodemus to actually come out of his office and hold court on how magic should be cast.

The dragon’s eyes shone as he spoke, and his voice filled the hall, naturally resonant. “Hypatia is the pinnacle of our spellcrafting efforts to date, but the world has changed since we first conceived of her. Pursestrings are tightening. Academies and councils throughout the kingdoms are looking at ways to save money. Hypatia practically demands a grove of her own each time she’s cast, in order to hold the archival spells that make up her library; that’s no small amount of coin to maintain, and with each new season, we add a crystal or more worth of fresh treatises and tomes to each! Plus, some of our customers use runic crystals, and others use ritual; of each, we have multiple dialects to track. One archival spell in the wrong dialect and we’ve cost an academy more than just time or a few weeks in lost wages. We’ve hurt their reputations, and that hurts our bottom line. No, to answer your unasked question, Nicodemus’ predictions were correct.”

Ajanax let the murmurs in the audience build for a few moments before rising and spreading his wings in an experimental flutter. “That doesn’t mean, however, that oracles are never wrong. The future, having been seen, can be changed, and I intend to do so.” That brought a louder ripple from the mages, and a few from the councilors behind him. “What if, rather than casting Hypatia at each academy, we had only our own invocation of the spell to maintain, our own archives to tend? What if any student or sage at any lyceum anywhere could sit before an ordinary crystal and summon forth a projection of Hypatia, manifested from a distance but aware of all the intricacies of that academy’s offerings? What if, instead of selling scrolls and prisms, we had merely to sell access to our own incantations? How much coin could we save our customers, relieving them of the burden of maintaining Hypatia? How much coin could we save ourselves, having only to maintain a single version of the spells that make her possible? How much fatter will all of our purses be, when the barrier to benefit from Hypatia isn’t a grove and a cadre of dedicated mages, but a single crystal tuned to the Great Field?”

The audience’s murmurs broke out into open chatter, and the dragon buffeted the crowd once, rising onto his hind legs. “Nicodemus was more than one of our founders. He was one of my friends. I valued his knowledge in matters arcane, but in matters financial, I have always questioned his wisdom. His calculations were accurate, but his solution was wrong. My friends, in the next six months, we will turn this charter from returning three silver on the gold to returning five or more, mark my words!” Then Ajanax turned to me and asked, “Does that answer your question?”

As my fellow mages broke out into applause, I raised my own voice in reply. “It’s a brilliant idea, sir, but how do you intend to accomplish this… transformation?”

The dragon fell back into all four legs, making the stage tremble. “I’ve tasked Councilor Fransciscus with making it happen, and Councilor Maxima with spreading the news to all who will listen. It’s my understanding that a group of mages have already been pulled from their other assignments to be assembled as a specialist team tasked with solving those challenges. It will be up to them to make this future possible.” As my heart sank in my chest, the dragon looked about the stage. “Are there no other questions? Then I declare this convocation finished! Enjoy your weekend, and be ready on the start of the week to rebuild Epistemic Esoterica!”

As discussed before, mages are, by their nature, solvers of problems and askers of questions that deal in “how”. How can one increase the efficiency of a particular spell without recasting it? How can one shorten the time that spellcraft takes? How does the council plan to address the rumors regarding Nicodemus’ seemingly untimely departure from Epistemic Esoterica? How can one actually make good on one’s resolutions not to ask unanswerable questions of the council? How can one gracefully unask the question that one has just tactlessly put forth? How can one avoid one’s overseer for the length of time it would take to quietly make one’s egress from the main auditorium and back to one’s desk, or preferably out of the charter hall entirely?

These may all seem simple questions, perhaps even trivial ones, and yet each of these reveals a wealth of information that has already been processed. Consider each of these in turn, starting with the first. In asking how one could improve a particular spell, one has already implied the asking and answering of a number of other questions. For instance, it assumes that one has already asked if the spell’s efficiency needs to be improved, and determined that it does. It also assumes that one has asked if the spell can be recast, and been told no. Thus, one has already identified a framework within which to work, a set of input guidelines which must be obeyed, and a set of requirements which must be met: this spell, and no other, must remain in place; it cannot be altered or recast, despite how much one may wish to do so; and it must perform in some increased capacity once one has finished.

This may seem confining, and yet it still leaves a great deal of room to work. It has often been said that, for an artist, one’s limitations are one’s best friends, and epistemic magosophy is as much art as esoterica. For instance, one may be able to do little to effect the spell itself, but one may request that a crystal be polished or minor cracks repaired. One may request that the base enchantments may be recast. One may adjust the crystal’s placement in its lattice, if it rests in such. One may request the artificers and weavers to attempt to more finely tune the fields in which it sits. One may, in fact, if one is feeling particularly bold, throw one’s hands in the air and proclaim that improving a particular spell will involve relocating its crystal to an entirely separate grove, one with fewer stray ghosts and other bedevilments that afflict older crystal-houses.

Of course, these only scratch the surface of the nature of this sort of problem solving. We have not, for instance, asked what sort of enhancements are necessary to ask of this spell. If it is the spell itself which responds sluggishly, then one may ask for a larger crystal on which to cast it. If the spell interacts with an archive which takes full minutes to respond, one may ask the archivists if their retrieval spells have been retaught of late. If it is simply that the spell cannot handle the work asked of it&8212;say, to answer more than a dozen questions at once when hundreds need its attention—one may in fact cast the spell multiple times across a number of crystals, then summon some imp or daemon to handle the task of asking a particular question of a particular spell and returning the answer to the correct querent. All of these may be considered valid solutions to the question, and none has violated a constraint upon the initial problem.

It should be noted that, at no point, has one attempted to ask why the spell cannot be recast. “Why” is not traditionally within the realm of mages to answer; we may and typically do ask “why,” often incessantly, but expecting an answer is often fruitless. In this case, it does not matter why this particular spell cannot be recast. The charter has decreed it; that is sufficient. Perhaps that decision may change in the future; perhaps it may not. Regardless, the whim and whimsy of one’s overseer, and the charter in general, must also be considered as part of the constraints of any particular problem.

For solutions to the second, one would be better served by seeking out an instance of Hypatia cast at one’s local academy. It’s quite a clever spell, really; it contains an archive of sages’ treatises from around the world, with an illusory librarian that can help identify which particular papers might contain the information you seek based on a few simple questions. Inquire about the document titled, “Glyphs Within Glyphs Within Glyphs: a Practical Introduction to Metamagical Spellcraft”, by Carissa Deursis, written some time within the last decade prior to the Millennium. I’ve been told it’s quite a comprehensive analysis of the subject, and thus I see little need to discuss it further here. If one’s local academy hasn’t had Hypatia cast there, one would do well to suggest to their librarians that they do so; it’s quite worth the coin.

As for the third question, it is important to note that, while it appears to be a question in search of an answer, it is, in fact, not practically answerable. This is not an unknown phenomenon; a great many questions cannot be answered in any realistic sense. One of the classics of this form is, “How many angels can dance on the head of a pin?” It seems quite straightforward to solve, at least in generalities; one needs only to determine the amount of space an average angel requires to dance and the average size of a pinhead, divide one into the other, and ignore the remainder as experimental error. Or, if one were feeling more precise, one solve it in a more calculating fashion by identifying the minimum amount of space necessary for an angel to dance by determining the smallest possible angel’s footprint, determining the largest possible amount of space free on the head of a pin, performing the division, and then expressing the answer as a range from zero to that number. Both of these approaches would be correct, and yet they would utterly miss the point.

When one is asked how many angels can dance on the head of a pin, one is not actually being asked for a number, or even a range. One is not actually being asked a question at all. One is, in fact, being explicitly told that the question one has just asked has no answer, or at least not one which is meaningful in any way. It may be that one’s question lacks sufficient information to provide a reasonable response. It may be that it holds too much detail to provide a proper breadth of answer. It could be that one has made an assumption in one’s question that is incorrect, or that one has failed to realize some vital piece of information. It may be actually that the person of whom one has asked the question simply has no intention of answering it, but wishes to say so in a fashion that does not leave both questioner and questioned looking worse for the attempt.

In the case of the council’s response—or more accurately, their lack theirof—to Nicodemus’ departure and his reasons for so doing, Councillor Franciscus quite obviously intended the last. I even knew it wouldn’t be worth my time to ask such a question in advance, hence my decision not to speak up, which lasted up until the moment the floor was opened for questions. Further analysis of the remaining questions, including possible options for not making the same mistake, shall be left as an exercise to the reader.

Unfortunately, Councillor Franciscus was not the only one with an answer to my question. As I moved back to my seat, Ajanax’s voice called out from seemingly nowhere, “Actually, I can answer that question, but I’ll save that until everyone else’s questions have been answered.” Then he went silent again, leaving far too many eyes upon me for either my or the council’s comfort.