Foreign Affairs: Chapter 13

Temptation. Temptation told Rowan he was entirely justified in avoiding yet another miserably awkward situation with his deputy. At least when the incident in Rhiannon’s tower happened, they had an excuse. That was just a quasi-forced event neither of them fully consented to, but yesterday? There was no Queen to blame, just her tempting body leading him to make a mistake which tempted her to make her own, then it looped around again. It would be so easy to tell the maid who came to dress him that he wanted the day’s work delivered to his room. He wouldn’t need to endure the stares from the diplomats, nor the seething anger from Sophia, nor the inevitable lecture which would come in waves throughout the day. Surely the whole incident was his fault and he set her up and probably put something strange in her tea, after all.

Habit alone made Rowan say ‘no’ when the maid asked if he needed anything else. Lofty talk of maturity and facing one’s problems head-on was lovely. It was even the script he would follow if anyone asked his personal philosophy on how he would handle a situation like this. That was the sort of wisdom the high and mighty were supposed to provide when you asked. The entire concept of noblesse oblige and the great rising to the top fell apart if any of them were willing to admit they had doubts. Even as a fake nobleman with an invented title and a joke knighthood, Rowan couldn’t admit he was actually just pacing in the general direction of the office. Would he turn back? Would he pop in, read the room and leave after he collected his papers? Would he sit down, take the abuse and try to build a bridge she would burn down again?

One part of himself was still muttering excuses and trying to stop his legs when he walked into the ministry and waved to his staff. Turning back was out now. “Morning, everyone.”

A scan of the staff was inconclusive. Nobody rose from their seats this time—good. Neither did anyone’s gaze rise from their desks—bad. A few mumbled greetings meant they thought they couldn’t get away with not acknowledging him at all, but still couldn’t bear to meet his eye. That could mean Sophia peeked her head out of the office to hurl threats every few minutes, but it could just as well mean that rumours had spread and office romance was now on their minds. Rowan certainly wouldn’t know what to do if he suspected his superiors were naked in front of each other regularly enough to comment on it and bring their play to work.

Well, aside from Rhiannon.

Life was complicated enough without consideration for the delicate balance of women he slept with, women he said that he slept with, women he was supposed to sleep with, women he said he wouldn’t sleep with and women who were still up in the air. Concentrate just on Sophia—one of the women he shouldn’t have slept with. She would need a good explanation as to why she shouldn’t hire an assassin to fix this interpersonal problem.

There wasn’t some magic combination of words to work this out. They would just muddle through as usual and he would make sure to avoid asking any questions that might be difficult to answer. Simple enough. He opened the door with a lungful of air in preparation for the opening volley.

“Good morning,” Rowan said to their office.

The mechanisms of the cabinet-clock whirred and ticked their quiet song of dwarven ingenuity in response. A pigeon perched on the windowsill turned its head and cooed its displeasure at the disturbance. Two empty chairs stood silently, as was their wont.

“M- um… Minister?”

A shy impression of an aristocratic voice ringed with hints of a rural upbringing came from behind him. The deer woman. “Ah, it was Miss… Dhubhaig, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, sir.” She stared at his chest as if his third tunic button had an artistic masterpiece engraved upon it. At least it was in his direction.

“…Did you want to say something?”

“Oh. Er, yes sir. It’s about Lady Greenglass. Lady Penelope that is. Our Greenglass.”

Another pause. Rowan didn’t think he was towering over her or letting stress tug the corners of his mouth down. Perhaps she was just the nervous sort.  “Would you like to sit down?”

“I wouldn’t mind, sir.”

They walked over to her desk—the one nearest to the central table the junior diplomats used to organise their own piles of to-do documents. Rowan took a free chair and…

His hand froze on the backrest. What was the best way to sit for this situation? Directly facing her was a no-go with how reticent she was already, but how casual should he be? There was a delicate balance to be played between ‘respect me’ and ‘no, not that much’ to be handled. Eventually, he settled on a sort of half-incline where he could credibly be looking at her or the desk in front of him. Once he was settled, her tentative approval was provided when she sat next to him.

“Better?” Rowan asked.

“I think so.” Dhubhaig lifted a sculpted brass paperweight off her desk and cradled it in her lap like a kitten.

“That’s a nice sculpture you have. Is it the Green Man?” It was just a guess based on the general shape. The paperweight depicted a bearded man adorned with a wreath of ivy, the right side of his face bereft of patina. He could guess why, since Dhubhaig was stroking that side as though she could straighten out the metallic beard.

“It is, Sir Rowan, yes.” How a nervous woman like her could stand a sculpture staring at her all day was beyond him. Even Rowan preferred his desk ornamentation eyeless so as not to distract him.

“You can drop the ‘sir’ if you’d like. I’m not particularly attached to my titles, especially when we’re speaking privately as two professionals.”

“I don’t know if that’s… somethin’ that’d be appreciated.”

Thank goodness. He would worry about her professional development if she didn’t at least try to steer the conversation away from perfect honesty about her discomfort. “I think it gets in the way of normal discussions if you expend energy on formal address. Lord this and Sir that are all well and good when I want to hear a herald run out of breath, but I was a brat changing bedsheets at the family inn some fifteen years ago. If anything I should be the one respecting all of you.”

“Please don’t.”

He chuckled. “My sentiments exactly. Now what was this about Ms. Greenglass?”

“Er… Said she wasn’t comin’ in for a few days. Wanted some papers delivered to her room but to leave her alone.”

“Did she say why?”

“I didn’t dare ask. Questions seemed unwelcome.”

Well, there was a chance that some kind of important situation had come up. Perhaps a family matter or a meeting of the All-Dunmuir Anti-Spy Society. But… he knew. The real question laid in whether she was so angry she removed herself from the situation, or…? No, no. Bashfulness was unlike her. Rowan’s impression was that she had the subtlety and delicate feelings of a battleaxe outside the negotiation table.

…That was a cruel estimation of his closest coworker now that he collected the loose instincts into real words.

Time was supposed to heal all wounds, wasn’t it? She needed time to process—and with her disappearance, all his mature bravado and intentions to solve the issue at once dried up. He needed time to process and this was a golden opportunity from the other party. In fact, for all he knew, she was sitting calmly in her room and waiting for him to consider his actions. Sophia was the older one in this situation by far and might have a perfectly level head at the moment.

Rowan was happy to take Sophia’s lead when she came to a decision, whether that meant pretending it never happened or being scolded. Should he even try to push along their relationship to something else in the men-led way Gisland was, or wait and let her move at her own pace? Women led everything from dancing to courting here. He didn’t know if they even bothered with something familiar like waiting for the man to impress them before signalling obvious interest. In Gisland this would be a clear sign she wanted to be pursued, wooed and so on, but…

Suppose it really was the mistake she would paint it as and there was really no attraction there? If he and Rhiannon alike misread the situation and-

Dhubhaig’s body tensed and eyelashes flickered ever-so-subtly every time he drummed his fingers on the table. He was at it again, and in front of a nervous woman he wanted to calm down, no less. “Sorry. I end up with that face when I’m thinking. Nothing to do with you or the situation.”

“I… understand.” There was no chance she believed that.

“Anyway,” Rowan pressed, “you were going out on the inspection with the Ministry of Agriculture tomorrow, were you not?”

“Yes, Minister.”

“Why don’t I go for you? It’ll get me out of the office and the rest of you can handle business as usual.”

“Well I don’t know if-”

“Tell everyone I insisted and make sure Ms. Greenglass knows I’m gone. I’ll take a few files and handle them on the road so we don’t get too far behind. I should be back in time for the Queen’s birthday.”

❈❈❈

Since it was intended for a junior diplomat and not the Minister himself, the plan was simple. Ms. Dhubhaig and some unnamed civil servant from the Ministry of Agriculture were intended to visit the countess known around both offices as ‘the apple woman.’ She had an infinite variety of minor quibbles regarding a monopoly she was granted on the ‘Setting Sun’ cultivar of apple. Though her sole stewardship had long since ended, the Countess succeeded in annoying both ministries into dispatching someone to take a look in person.

They would take samples, promise to compare them in a laboratory—then smooth over the relationship with both the countess and the local clan growing what she insisted were ‘her’ apples.

Though when the Minister of Agriculture heard that Rowan intended to go personally, she decided to join him. The retinue stayed small at least—just the two of them and an armed coachwoman to fend off any trouble on the road. With carriages becoming a shrinking rarity in his life, Rowan was surprised to be taking one. Sacks of apples were judged too heavy and unwieldy to be flown by broom, not to mention the addition of a passenger who couldn’t operate a broom himself.

The group spent a few days flying most of the way out. An appropriate carriage waited for them in a town outside the territory of the arguing parties, so as to not show preference for one side or the other. Rowan could see the value in appearing to be unbiased, but in their discussions at inns along the way, Eryl made it clear she took the apple woman’s complaints seriously.

Countess Ceirt, he corrected himself. The last thing Rowan wanted to do was call her ‘the apple woman’ to her face.

There wasn’t much to do on the flight other than take in the beauty of Dunmuir in early autumn. The fields were turning golden and the trees everywhere followed suit. They cut East across the great, lonely crags Dun Peak was nestled against, and slowly the foothills gave way to vast cattle ranches, overgrown ruins, fields of ancient mounds grazed over by sheep, and deep forests with the towers of hermit-witches tucked into their centres.

With reading or dozing inadvisable on brooms, they ended up chatting. Not so much with their carriage driver, who was the one picked to carry Rowan on her broom, but more with Agriculture. She flew almost knee-to-knee with them so they could pass the time between their frequent breaks.

Rowan learned a remarkable amount about the woman over the many days of their trip. For nearly two centuries she held a minister’s seat, with her list of achievements even older still. Of course, her lineage was just as interesting. Eibhlin Ysbail Eryl Fairehorn was her full name, though the current head of the house was her (several times) great-nephew. They were, in fact, sort of cousins of Rhiannon’s. What numbers were which Queen quickly escaped Rowan’s head, but the gist was they were a branch family of the previous dynasty of Dunmuir’s Queens. Since Rhiannon’s grandmother was adopted by them, they were legal relatives.

Not much difference when Eryl herself served the court for so long that she watched the nearly century-old current Queen grow up. That made her aunt material regardless of legal status.

Once they picked up their carriage, Rowan dozed. Now and then he would open his eyes long enough to read a few more pages of a briefing or Tara’s schedule or a book on Dunmuir’s geopolitics. Those were enough to convince him to close them again. He wanted to be well-rested for the endless monologuing both sides would probably subject them to in order to prove their correctness.

The last hour in, Eryl was part of the way into a tangent elaborating upon a different tangent as they approached their destination.

“And I always knew there was something off about that Wickton character, and I’m not just pointing out her strange customs, if you’ll excuse me as a Gislander yourself. I told Moira—our dear little Luna’s mother, if you’ve forgotten— ‘there’s a traitorous glint in those eyes,’ but of course nobody believed me until it was too late.”

“Mhm,” indicated enough attention for her yarn-spinning to continue.

“And really, you’ve done me a favour, disposing of that trash. The gall to think a group of such low pedigree as Wickton’s treasonous little backstabbers had any business running a realm as old and storied as Dunmuir was enough to make the first Rhiannon blanch. In fact, I had a little betting ring going from the very first day Wickton introduced herself. I said, ‘Your Majesty, I’ll throw my cane off the Dun Peak and into the river to wash up and enrich some poor urchin’s life if she dies peacefully here at the end of a long, useful career.’ This cane.” She tapped her stick on the floor of the carriage, a blackthorn affair with every sharp edge worn off from use. “Of course I don’t need it to walk now and certainly not then. I, and most people, simply used them to cast in lieu of a wand or staff. Which was the style at the time, you understand-”

The carriage rolled to a halt and the horses nickered nervously outside. Odd, considering that there was nothing but forest outside the windows.

“Oh, for the Lady’s sake. Carry on! I was just illustrating a point, you ridiculous woman!”

Their guard knocked on the top of the carriage and whispered to them. “Ministers, please stay inside until I tell you everything is sa-”

A horse screamed, the carriage jolted and a sword was drawn. That marked when Rowan and Eryl’s dread metamorphosed into panic. They both dove for the doors and latched them shut as if a finger’s breadth of wood could insulate them completely from the outside world.

What could it even be? Highwaymen was the only answer Rowan could think of. Best not take his little utility knife out then. He might be stabbed for holding it.

Like their guard just was, if the scream was anything to go by. Or bludgeoned. Or shot with a bow or a thousand other unpleasant things. What could they do? Surrender all their money and try to convince these brigands that assaulting two members of the Queen’s court was a remarkably poor idea, he supposed. If Rhiannon considered Eryl family, the Queen might come after them herself. Credible and terrifying. He had a plan.

“Agriculture, do you know how to heal people?”

“I… what?” Eryl’s death-grip on her ancient cane advertised that she hadn’t concluded how to process the situation.

“Magic?” He made a wobbly hand gesture which was rather unhelpful, in retrospect.

“A bit, but-”

“Good.”

Rowan poked his head out the door to make some sense of the scene. Their guard? On the ground and bleeding. The horses drawing the carriage were gone and in their place some massive, white animal tamped down the ground with its hooves. A unicorn? It had a horn, that was for certain, though it was spattered with red. They were supposed to be nice, weren’t they?

Ah. He spotted the real problem, crouched in the brush. A band of five… six… at least seven tall, green figures in the undergrowth. Ogres. Each pair of tall, upward-jutting horns on their foreheads made him sure of it. His stomach churned. He’d only ever met one—who would probably have snapped his neck like a twig if it wasn’t for Tara’s rescue at the last minute. Could he even negotiate with them? They had nets, spears and clubs in hand.

Nothing he could do but continue. The guard needed help and that was his starting point. Rowan kept his body turned toward the sinewy bandit in the front of the group and shuffled over to his fallen compatriot. Pained groans meant breathing. That was good—but her jaw was most certainly broken and a concerning amount of blood dripped onto her clothes.

At least it wasn’t a zombie, he chanted under his breath. The repetition kept his mind off it. Just a hurt, living person. She didn’t smell of decay or leak black ichor onto his hands or stare at him with ghostly, unseeing eyes. Damage to her head, but none of her limbs seemed at risk of detaching. The blood dripping onto his sleeves as he wrapped his arms around her was burning hot, not cold. At least it wasn’t a zombie.

The ogres hadn’t moved by the time he dragged her over to the door of the carriage. Probably just as stunned by his lunacy as Eryl—and she gave him the business even as she helped him lift their escort inside. Between the stress and Eryl’s old-fashioned Dunmuirian, he couldn’t make sense of what she was saying.

A shout. It came from the head of the bandits.

They moved in. Worse, the unicorn had lowered its horn and began charging him. Good. Murderous bandit horse. Why not? If he listened to old man Alan he would be on a fishing boat off the coast of Waterton right now. Stupid witch country. Stupid fairytale creatures.

No use bemoaning his fate. The horse planned to kill him and there was no talking to magical beasts. What would his mother think? ‘Idiot’ probably. Old Alan would say that part out loud. And Rhiannon or Arlene, Tara or Torsten? Sophia would call him an idiot regardless of what he did. The best he’d ever get was having everyone else glare at her when she said it over his coffin.

Well.

What could he do? Stab a large animal with a knife meant for quills? The best he could do was take the heat off Eryl while she healed the guard and hope the two witches survived. They could glare at Sophia on his behalf.

So Rowan ran. Into the woods was the only direction a horse wouldn’t immediately outpace him, so he slipped onto a winding game trail to lose the beast. It was just as likely to sprain an ankle as a human, and only the most desperate of equines would risk a gallop. The path wobbled to and fro, between what the deer judged the tastiest clumps of vegetation with little regard paid to roots or stones.

The energy which sheer panic lent Rowan began to wear off and his racing mind finally caught up with the rest of him. What would he do once—if—he lost this thing? The bandits couldn’t have been foolish enough to leave the carriage unguarded. Where did that leave Eryl and their injured carriagewoman? Where in both hells would he be when the chase concluded? Even with a full set of armour and weapons, he wasn’t a match for a single ogre without one of Tara’s dirty tricks. The one who mugged him months ago would have still beaten him into a pulp if she’d known he would be able to hit her quite so hard.

Oh-!

He nearly tripped over a root and went stumbling sideways. Luck must have been on his side, since the unicorn’s horn thunked into a tree when it made the same misstep. It extracted itself without much difficulty, but Rowan had time enough to recover and put some more distance between them.

Alright. What would he do? All he could think of was finding the nearest settlement. They were on… damn it. What road were they driven down? Main one. They’d flown as far as the town of Loch Glas before they borrowed their carriage from the local noblewoman, then went north toward Glagh’s Crook and Dal Orla. If that was north, he was running… northwest? His erratic movement made it hard to-

The trees suddenly receded into an open pasture, scattered with rough mountain stone that was piled waist-high in places. The rocks weren’t the problem. Rowan surprised himself with his ease in finding just the right steps to hop, skip and leap over the more treacherous terrain. The problem was the open ground they were headed into.

Flat. The kind of place where there was a fish’s chance on land of outrunning a horse. To hide in these rocks or up a tree would just mean the bandits would find him when they caught up even if he succeeded. Shouldn’t Justice be taking care of debacles like this instead of harassing him about stealing letters that went missing before he was born?

No. That wasn’t fair and he didn’t want to die with cruel thoughts in his mind. It was the sort of thing which might have repercussions when his soul reached the Scales. Uh, what else? He forgave the bandits, they had probably fallen on hard times like Gwen and didn’t have someone who sorted out their problems. And Sophia. Strange as their relationship might be, she was fundamentally a good person under-

He tripped. How? All he did was weave back and forth to give the horse a harder time. A glance back saw it lower its horn.

❈❈❈

“I can’t say nought but he’s fuckin’ bonkers, Da.”

“Language,” her father reminded.

“Right, beggin’ yer pardon, Sir Rowan. So I’m out with the lads tryin’ to catch the beastie again an’ what do I see but this cart on the road, what wi’ the fancy wee house on it to sit in, ken? One horse is dead, other one’s boltin’ and I poke my head out a bush just in time to see their guard gettin’ kicked in the head, yeah? And I thinks to meself, ‘aw shite, here we go. Just what we need to have that countess come round again an’ she gets killed by a thrice-damned unicorn.’” She banged her fist on the table for emphasis, paused and scratched her cheek. “Was thinkin’ wi’ swears at the time, if you’ll pardon the expressions.”

“…Better.”

“So this thing starts snufflin’ around the dead horse a minute and I try to figure out where it’s goin’, since I want tae surround it this time so we don’t lose it again. Told the boys to spread out and when we’re doin’ it all quiet-like, this fancy fella pokes his head out the door. Was thinkin’ about yellin’ for him to get back in, but that’s gonna spook it and I reckon he’s smart enough to figure out the ‘get to safety’ part on his own. Well he sees the beastie, looks right at me, back at the unicorn and he steps out!”

Rowan cleared his throat. “I… wasn’t exactly sure of the situation. Between a band of ogres hiding in a bush and a horse, I thought I knew which would be knocking my guard unconscious.”

“Y’don’t know how nasty them little blighters are then, Sir.”

“I do now.”

A hearty laugh filtered through the audience before the ogre began again. “So anyway, he keeps his eye on me—since I guess I look shady in my huntin’ clothes—an’ scoops this poor gal up off the ground. Kinda drags her over to the door and starts pushin’ her in.”

“And thank goodness he did,” Eryl added. “I’m the only one who could have saved her all the way out here.”

Their storyteller nodded. “So he’s got her most’a the way in when tall, white an’ pointy finally notices ‘im. No weapons, no armour, no nothin’. I got more’n a dozen good lads wi’ nets an’ cudgels and I’m still not sure I can take this thing, so I tells ‘em to move in an’ save the poor bastard. You know what he does? Unicorn starts chargin’ at him—might ‘a been my fault, sorry—and he just bolts!”

The swing of her hand to illustrate was so violent and quick that she nearly smacked her father in the face.

“So I start chasin’ after him, aye? Ol’ corn don’t care for nothin’ but killin’ this rich fella what was ignorin’ him and I reckon I gotta swoop in and save the day. I hope you’ll take no offence at me thinkin’ you were one’a them poncey city types at first, since I know better now.”

“None taken.” Rowan did spend all of his professional life in cities, but some quiet part of his rural pride did rankle a bit.

“So I’m barely keepin’ pace wi’ the unicorn, ken? I figure it’s all over for mister fancy-robe so I look up to check—the mad bastard is outrunnin’ a quadruped the size of a fuckin’ draught horse!”

There was a roar of laughter from the crowd which drowned out her father’s halfhearted attempt at reminding her to mind her manners.

“He’s dartin’ this way an’ that, makes the great shit stick its horn in a tree, springs over the ruins of those old shielings like they ain’t even there! So this pisses the thing off an’ it starts sprintin’, aye? Gettin’ stupid ‘cause some lad dressed like he’s goin’ to get married is outrunnin’ it.”

So those rocks were ruins. Not that Rowan took them in much, but the sudden change of terrain made sense now.

“I’m not sure who to cheer for any more, ken? I feel bad watchin’ this mad beastie gettin’ embarrassed this much, but he’s gettin’ close to them traps we laid last week and I figure, ‘all right, the fella’s fast, but this’n might be the end of ‘im. Watch, he’ll fall right in an’ that’ll be the end.’ Best I’m hopin’ for is ol’ pointy falls in after him and I’m too winded to yell out a warnin’. You know what happens?”

A dramatic pause let her make eye contact with her audience of a few dozen, all in breathless silence.

“He sees the pit. I don’t know how this man sees a covered pit thirty steps ahead of ‘im but he does. Aye, Angus, I see ye openin’ yer mouth, they ain’t perfectly camouflaged now the grass is a little dryer, but I’d like to see you do that while beatin’ somethin’ with twice as many legs as ye in a footrace. So Sir Rowan’s a little clever about it, see? Veers just enough to get real close to the edge. One foot kinda hits the lip and he goes tumblin’. So that’s it, right? Fell over in front of a unicorn an’ it’s gonna skewer ye so hard your mum’s gonna feel it. The beastie sure thinks so. Puts its head down, goes in for the kill and—”

The table wobbled with the strain when the young ogre pounded it for emphasis.

“BAM! Falls right down the fuckin’ hole ‘cause it weren’t lookin’! Spikes go straight through it! I look back up to Sir Rowan and he’s already on his feet, spattered in unicorn blood and just lookin’ down at the thing like ‘right, aye, got what ye deserved ye wee shit.’ I take another minute to get over to ask if he’s alright, yeah?”

A cheer went up and several mugs were raised in Rowan’s direction.

“So picture this. I get there, man’s outrun the fastest land animal I can think of, sprinted over rough ground like it ain’t even more’n cobblestones, killed a unicorn unarmed—an’ ye know the first words the mad bastard says to me? ‘Ough. Oy’me surry, wazzat your horse?’”

The audience howled in laughter at the punchline.

At least hearing what somebody else saw helped along Rowan’s understanding. Apparently the ogres he ran from were a hunting party from Clan Glagh, who were the first group they would speak to about this apple business. The storyteller and his most dogged pursuer was Areximacha Glagh, the daughter of the current chief.

The horned, green-skinned man who stood head and shoulders taller than Rowan and sat to his left was the chief in question. It was almost comical for a man of his size to fuss over appearances and his daughter’s habit of cursing when she got excited. When they arrived, he begged Rowan and Eryl to stay outside while he arranged the inside of his manor to his satisfaction.

‘Manor’ might have been a stretch. It was the largest structure in the wattle-and-daub village, made of stone and sported a… tower of sorts. Three stories topped with crenellations made it look a bit like a chapel when combined with the one-room great hall slapped onto the side. All it needed was a stained glass window depicting the Scales of Balance and a black-and-white motif.

The residences at the palace were slightly taller and more than twice as long, but the building was cosy in its familiarity to Rowan’s upbringing. Fresh straw strewn over local granite flagstones lent their own scent to a room that smelled of smoke, meat and the lanolin musk of sheep. This far out in the country, a building this large would be used as a storeroom and/or barn for most of the year.

Rustic as it was, Rowan had to push down the knot in his stomach around this many ogres. They weren’t all ogres, he corrected himself. The clansmen arranged before them included humans and a smattering of goblins as well. That didn’t help much.

These people had nothing to do with street muggers in Dun Peak. All he had to do was keep chanting that assertion in his mind as he tried to engage their leader. “We really must thank you and your daughter again, Chief Azan.”

“I wish I’d given a better welcome than lettin’ you get chased through hill and dale.”

“It’s hardly your fault that the wildlife didn’t cooperate.”

“Still. We should have caught it or driven it off weeks ago.”

“I’m only surprised you didn’t ambush it off brooms.”

“Not many witches in this area. My wife’s two counties over tutoring a baroness’ daughter and gran’s in no shape to fly no more.” He gestured to the head of one of the lower tables, where an ancient ogress struggled to keep herself awake in spite of the ruckus.

“Really?” Unicorns aside, Rowan didn’t expect anywhere in Dunmuir to approach normal.

A nod. “I expect Areximacha will want to leave for the capital by the time she can fly on her own. Not that we’re opposed. I met my wife in the army and we’ve agreed she needs to see the world before she settles down into the chief’s seat.”

“Ah. Dun Peak is certainly a different environment. Magic everywhere, brooms almost mandatory and all that kind of thing.”

“Oh aye?” The young ogre bounced back from a sidebar with keen eyes. “What’s it like? Livin’ in a braw ol’ city?”

He hardly blamed her. Rowan was much the same when he lived in Waterton. Small-town living imparted a burning curiosity for the outside world that only a lifetime of adult stubbornness tamped down.

So he did his best. He told her of the long river to the firth, studded with docks all up and down, of the three great bridges covered with houses and shops, about the seaport and its warren of warehouses and back alleys. Eryl helped him fill in spots he missed, like the bustle of the market and the palatial glory of the villas which ran along the wide boulevard that lay before the palace. By the time they reached the chaotic grounds of the Magical Institute, the room crowded around the high table for a chance to hear.

The palace itself was a hit. He and Eryl knew it the best, so it was easy to provide plenty of detail on the concentric rings, gardens, residences and great halls. They asked about every detail from the columns in the throne room to Rhiannon’s great bronze door and were awed by a dozen small things that had receded into the back of both ministers’ minds.

Talk of home was nice. It helped Rowan cool down after running for his life and being taken in for dinner by a group that made him nervous to be around.

Home. What a strange word to describe the palace with.

❈❈❈

They were fed a simple but wholesome meal of haggis, bread and soup, with assorted apple pastries for dessert. Rowan turned down the wine and ale for obvious personal reasons, despite his hosts’ insistence.

Rowan took a pastry for himself and snuck outside for a break from the action. Since Eryl continued to regale the crowd with the gusto of a woman centuries her junior, he felt confident in disappearing. He leaned against the wall some distance from the door to watch the dusk and a fine mist creep over the thatched roofs of the village.

Excitement aside, they were here to do a job. They would collect samples of the particular apple cultivar from here and the estate of the countess across the river—at her request—and more importantly, bring a representative of Clan Glagh to her so Rowan could mediate.

That was the difficulty in dealing with peers of the realm. They were perfectly within their rights to be annoying as long as they didn’t cross any lines.

A few solutions swirled in his head. If the Countess was dead-set on Setting Sun apples not existing outside her estate, they might agree on a price per tree and have Glagh cut them down. The less enticing alternative was to have Glagh agree to only sell their apples to the Countess—but that would require diplomatic heavy lifting to agree on a fair price, then they would have to agree to renegotiations if prices fluctuated, et cetera, et cetera.

Maybe Eryl could offer the Countess some kind of incentive to breed a different variety?

His train of thought was interrupted by Azan and his daughter sneaking out of the building to follow him. Well, perhaps sneak was an exaggeration. The girl was as tall as Rhiannon and her father half a head taller still. There was far too much mass between them to catch him off-guard on the gravel of the path outside.

“Didja like everythin’, Sir Rowan?”

“Very much, thank you, Awrixi… sorry, I think I got mixed up somewhere.”

“Jus’ call me Macha, Sir. Everyone does.”

“Macha. We’re very grateful for your hospitality. I only wish Minister Eryl and I had the time to spend a few more days in the country.”

“Aw, city folk are always rushin’ everywhere. I get it.”

Azan elbowed his daughter in the ribs. “She means to say we appreciate you coming out so far to mediate for us. The Queen’s birthday is any day now, isn’t it?”

Rowan wrapped his robe a little tighter around himself. The autumn chill and damp was creeping in, not that Macha seemed to notice in her sleeveless shirt. “We underestimated the travel time, so we’ll likely miss it. Our deputies have things under control and I thought it was important to put an end to Countess Ceirt’s issue with you. Now, how did you come to have these trees to begin with? She doesn’t seem the type to let anyone take saplings.”

“Well, we changed allegiances. She was our clan’s liege until about five years ago, when we swore oaths to the Mormaer of Glas. She’s an orc, you see, and always been happy to lend a hand to our clan. It made more sense to be under her vassalage, rather than someone we have to ford the river and spend over a day to get to.”

“Ah. She wasn’t happy with that?”

He gestured to a dense stand of trees surrounded by a stone fence. “It got worse when she realised we stewarded one of her more productive orchards. I’d turn the lot into firewood if it wasn’t how I got the money to take care of my people.”

“My hope is for us to take care of that. If we spend five or ten years to transition you over to something else, we won’t empty your treasury and all parties can wash our hands of this mess.” An exhale created a cloud of condensation in front of his face. “I don’t suppose you have any bright ideas or skilled labourers?”

Azan hummed and began walking toward the trees. “We do raise sheep and a few cattle. Fields for vegetables, oats and hay keep them and us fed, but it’s not much over subsistence work.”

“Hm. I’d want the Minister of Agriculture’s position on your options, frankly. All I can think of expanding there is the wool market.”

“Possible.” He leaned on the stone fence and stared out into the dark of the grove.

“If she’s goin’ tae accept it.” Macha spoke up.

“Macha,” her father threatened. Idle chat with the girl was out of the question until he was sure of Rowan’s intentions.

Something simmered just below the surface, and Rowan wanted- no, needed to see what it was to see this through. He positioned himself between the two of them, his back against the fence to watch for anyone approaching.

“I’d prefer not to appear biassed in how I handle this, of course. Reaching a settlement acceptable to all sides is my job.” It wasn’t quite as good as a pair of gloves, but hiding his hands inside his robe sleeves did a reasonable job at keeping them warm. “But if I may give my opinion as Rowan the stranger and not as minister, I believe you’re in the right if you haven’t broken any law.”

“We would never.” Azan was firm. “Not even a custom. We were assured every point was exactly as it should have been.”

“Was this with the change of vassalage?”

The ogre gritted his teeth when he realised Rowan had found his sore spot. “Yes. She called out a lawyer and they looked it over a thousand times.”

“May I know who ‘she’ is?”

“…Da, ya always told me I ought tae warn ya if ye got old n’ stubborn.”

A rock on the top of the fence cracked when Azan brought his fist down on it. What a reminder of who and what his host was. “Fine. Our new liege, the Mormaer of Glas. She handled all the changes and I don’t know enough about the law to know if it was all fine. But she’s a good woman and she’s always helped us.”

Rowan held up a hand, if only so it would be ready to cushion a blow to his face. “And I don’t question that. But what did Macha mean when she said ‘accept it?’”

“She n’ the Countess are always tryin’ to get one over on each other,” the young ogress said.

“The Mormaer is the one who’s championed for us to keep the orchard. She buys up all the apples and brings them to market under her name.”

Ah, a tale as old as time: feudal feuds feuding. The change of lord, the Countess’ anger, and the stubbornness of Clan Glagh all made more sense now. Normally a Countess should have been able to bully them into compliance in short order.

“Azan, let me put it to you this way. Do you think Countess Ceirt wouldn’t look for every possible part of your new oath she could attack? The contract must be unassailable if she’s down to complaining to the palace about the apples.”

“Do you really think so?”

“Neither Agriculture nor I have heard a peep about the law surrounding your clan. I’m sure she’d take you back if she could, but every complaint is how you’ve got something she considers her property. You’re not the property.”

Azan blew out a deep breath and his shoulders dropped like a bowstring holding them up was cut. “You can’t believe how long I’ve wanted to hear those words.”

“Now, I’d like to put this problem to bed and have these two fine ladies stop using you as a proxy to annoy each other. The Mormaer’s had her fun and I don’t want this escalating. I’d even rather they both come to Dun Peak and fight each other in person over making you kill your neighbours or vice versa.”

Macha laughed. “Now I’d pay tae see that!”

“If it was so easy, I’d be out of a job.” Rowan chuckled and stared out into the night. His eyes finally found something to rest on when the flicker of torchlight appeared on the road out of town. “More dinner guests?”

“None I invited.” Azan peered down the road and watched for a minute as the light bloomed larger in the hazy fog. There were at least a dozen people in the party. “Macha, inside.”

“But-!”

“No buts. If I don’t come back, it’s your responsibility to defend the manor and everyone inside.”

The young ogre gritted her teeth, but turned and ran back inside without further argument.

“Now Sir Rowan, I can’t command you to do anything, but…”

Perhaps it was the pained look in Azan’s eyes. It might have been his people all hailing Rowan as a hero of far more intestinal fortitude than he really had. Pride, potentially. The likeliest reason of all was that Rowan was dropped on his head as a child and was never quite right afterwards.

“I’ll join you, Chief. If there’s trouble, I have a little more weight I can throw around.”

“I can’t decide if I’m relieved or terrified. Please tell me you’ll run at the first sign of trouble? You don’t even have a sword.”

“Would it be a bad time to tell you that I don’t know how to use one anyway?” Every man of a certain age in Gisland was supposed to at least train to use the crossbow, but he’d only got as far as loading and pointing it in a general direction. Even that was only from when he didn’t weasel his way out of practice.

Rowan smiled and Azan wheezed out something between a chuckle and a sigh.

“Let’s hope we can scare them off, then.”

Azan strode up to the group just as some split off. He radiated far more of the confidence Rowan had expected of a tribe of ogres.

“Announce yourselves,” he commanded the group in general.

For his trouble, he was met with the tip of a spear. “Piss off, green thing. Run if you don’t want to die.”

The stranger was a foreign man. That much was sure from his voice. Some aspect of his struggle with vowels reminded Rowan of Tredour. But here?

No, it made sense when he thought about it. They’d say they were bandits, but at this stage, they couldn’t be anything but mercenaries who Countess Ceirt hired. Foreigners would do the dirty, underhanded work a local wouldn’t.

But—and it was a critical but—Rowan heard enough complaints from Gisland’s nobility to know that mercenaries usually came with a minder. Especially when passing through friendly territory. Only one of their company was mounted on a broom. She would be the person with enough authority to make them withdraw.

Rowan didn’t have to worry about how the plan would start, thanks to the ogre at his side. In gambling terms, the mercenary’s bluff was called.

Azan pinched the head of the spear with two fingers, then punched the haft with enough force to break the wood. “Run!”

That stirred up the bees’ nest. The mercenaries charged toward the settlement and orchard with their torches, while their witch began to throw fireballs toward outbuildings which looked like storage.

Run Rowan did. About ten steps sideways and into the ditch was enough. If he wasn’t in the way, the mercenaries seemed to have no interest in him and dashed toward their real targets. The man who faced Azan hurried on his way and the rest steered clear of him. He was safe, but even in the half-light the dissatisfaction showed on his face. When he drew his sword, the mercenaries scurried so far around him that one jostled Rowan in his hurry to get to the far side.

A roar of anger cut through the evening air. Not Azan’s…

Ah. A crowd stood outside the manor, led by… yes. Macha was the only person Rowan could think of wearing a red hood tonight. She waved a cudgel with gusto and led a charge toward the mercenaries.

“Sir Rowan…!” Azan was torn between protecting the Minister and going to his daughter’s side.

“I’ll be fine! Go!”

The chief rushed into the fray and slammed the back of one mercenary’s head with the flat of his blade before he’d even gotten far. Frankly, Rowan was only worried that members of Clan Glagh would get some nasty wounds. Two dozen human mercenaries stood no chance of victory against a concerted force of ogres twice their number. Bad luck they chose to attack when everyone was assembled.

The witch above the action watched the battle unfold with horror and didn’t notice Rowan close in. She hesitantly tossed a few more fireballs, but looked over her shoulder at the escape route more than her fair share of times. He needed to clear his throat before she even took notice of him on the ground.

“Ahem. I think we can both see this is over,” he called up.

She didn’t answer, but looked back the way she came again. Some type of animal’s ear twitched on the top of her head. Would there be trouble if she fled? Or… Maybe she was just wondering if she could kill him.

“I’ve already seen your face, so you might as well come down now!” Was it true? Yes, sort of. He was about 75% confident that he could pick her out of a lineup of feline (canine?) women right now, with declining chances by the time they got back to Dun Peak. Fundamentally it was just bluster. He didn’t recognise her and knew she could melt the flesh off his bones with one well-aimed spell, should the option occur to her. Perhaps he should hedge his bets a bit better. “Unless you’d like to be the woman who nearly killed two of Her Majesty’s ministers?”

That got her attention. She squirmed on the top of her broom and cleared her throat before she shot down a response. “You’re lyin’ through your teeth! I met that diplomacy guy once, so don’t think you can pull one over on me!”

“Rowan of Waterton? That’s me, here with Agriculture.”

“You’re supposed to be Rowan?”

“Why do you think I have this outrageous accent?” He sounded normal to himself, but he was keenly aware his mother tongue shone through when he spoke Dunmuirian. With the difference coming in handy so often, he wondered if he should practise making it stronger.

The witch floated down without another word. Perhaps she still held hope that he really wasn’t Rowan, but the desperate prayer evaporated into a grimace once she could see clearly.

As for her? He had no idea who she was. Grey, black-tipped hair with tufted cat’s ears, a long leather jerkin, riding boots and fashionably slashed sleeves. That told him she probably wasn’t poor, but her clothes weren’t new or in remarkable condition. Stolen, perhaps? Fallen on hard times, just as likely.

“Thank you,” Rowan said. There was no sense in antagonising her now.

“Don’t suppose I can tell you this is all a misunderstanding?”

“You’re accidentally leading a group of men to burn down a village? I saw you toss a few fireballs yourself and you seemed to be giving directions.”

“…Take that as a no.”

He inclined his head ever so slightly.

“And I’m a prisoner now?”

“In the absence of other options.” And Rowan would have really preferred another option. How was one even supposed to take a prisoner? He just stood as tall as he could with crossed arms and prayed his new captive knew how this all went.

“Alright. Alright.” She blew out a long breath that formed a jet of condensation between them in the cold night air. When it cleared, she dismounted and gave him her broom. “This’ll take a minute.”

Thank Order. She unstrapped her sword baldric and handed it to him. Then a wand. A knife from her boot after one hidden under her jerkin. Another wand came out of the opposite boot and by the time she took out a dirk from the small of her back, she needed to set it atop of the towering pile of weaponry Rowan juggled.

“Any- shoot.” One of the wands slipped through his fingers and embedded itself in the damp ground. “Anything else?”

“Uh… Oh!” She fished around in one of the pouches on her belt and hooked some kind of iron ring onto the guard of the sword.

“What even is that?”

“You put it over your knuckles and it helps you punch harder. My necklace is kinda pointy, if you want it too?”

The ring and two of the daggers were on the verge of joining the wand on the ground. “Why don’t you just hold onto it?”

“And er… You’re not going to ask me to strip, right?”

Rowan glanced up from his attempt to shove as many weapons into his belt as he could. “I can’t say I planned on it. Why do you ask?”

“Well, like the first time. You were there when the Queen had all of us do it.”

The first time… Wait, was this one of Gwen’s lancers? He knew they did mercenary work now, but this felt more than a bit below them. Perhaps now wasn’t the time. He had his suspicions, but they would have to get her story in writing, cross-reference with any of the bandits who were alive and conscious, call the sheriff and potentially even have them brought back to Dun Peak.

“Her Majesty and I have a difference of opinion in that regard. If you could follow me?”

“This’ll sound stupid, but uh…”

He missed something critical, didn’t he? ‘What do you think I would do next?’ could only accomplish so much. She was disarmed, fairly cowed and cooperative. What else could even remain?

“Could we make it look like I put up a fight? I don’t want your friends or the boys I came with to find out I gave myself up.”

“I was surprised that a woman this heavily armed didn’t try to resist.”

The sentiment was enough, it seemed. She slapped herself across the face a few times to make a red mark that could be seen in the dying twilight, fussed with her hair until it was a mess, then held out her hands.

In lieu of any kind of shackles, Rowan wrapped the sword’s baldric around her wrists and dragged her to the tower with a reorganised bundle of weaponry.

Clan Glagh made short work of the attacking force and many were already fighting the scattered fires in the orchard and sheds. Evidently it was safe enough for Eryl to be out of the longhouse and directing some of the bucket carriers.

The raiders were… less alright. None seemed dead, though it was only the groans which tipped Rowan off to that fact. Bloody noses and broken bones kept most of them on the ground as the ogres dragged them into more of a pile than a line.

A cheer went up from Rowan’s hosts when they caught sight of him. Macha tossed her bandit by the ankle in her hurry to jog over and her father wasn’t far behind.

“…Please don’t tell me you’re injured, Sir Rowan?” Azan wrung the same hands he snapped a spear with just minutes before.

Ah. He was supposed to make a show about the leader here fighting back. “None, fortunately. I’m afraid I might have embarrassed my prisoner here by overpowering her unarmed.”

Macha smacked the big, strong hero on the back. Hard. Really hard. “Man’s done it again, Da! Prob’ly woulda wrestled the unicorn into submission if he had half a mind.”

“Aha. You give me too much credit.” There was probably a red handprint, even underneath all Rowan’s clothes. “Would you mind showing me to somewhere private? I’d like to have a chat with our bandit chief here.”

“Oh. Y’sure you don’t want tae wait for the Sheriff? I sent out a runner.”

“I hope it won’t be necessary.”

Azan ground his teeth while he came to a decision. “If that’s what you require, perhaps the toolshed would be best.”

The toolshed in question was in rough shape. The roof was in reasonable condition, but the walls were weathered to grey and gaps in the siding appeared from the warped boards. Well, it would do. Only Azan and Macha stood outside, to deter any curious onlookers or rescue attempts.

In the lamplight inside, Rowan stood in front of his prisoner, who had been seated on a rickety milking stool.

“So.”

She stayed quiet, to his annoyance. Where Rowan came from, ‘interrogation’ was only a euphemism for a conversation where you got more useful information than your conversational partner. The silent treatment simply wasn’t a done thing in the diplomatic field.

“We’re alone now, so I want you to know we can talk freely.”

Still nothing.

“Why don’t we start with introductions? I’m Rowan, as I said. And you?”

…

He barely thwarted an escape attempt by the ball of irritation which sat in his throat, though the old boards of the building groaned in his stead. ‘Let’s not wait for the sheriff,’ he thought, ‘Maybe I can get this wrapped up right away since she surrendered so quickly.’ What a fool.

“Alright, let’s start with what I know about you. You’re the leader of the men outside?”

A shrug. That was something.

“You were a lancer with the army.”

A nod.

“And you’re with Captain Gwen Reid?”

“…Not any more.”

“Any reason for that?”

“Had enough Reids in my life.”

“Fair enough. I expect the pay dispute could sour an opinion or two.”

Quiet again. At least he wouldn’t have to track down Gwen and give her a talking-to.

“Can you give me your name, at least?”

She shook her head and locked her gaze firmly on his chest. Perhaps a different line of attack?

“Is there a reason you can’t tell me anything? Clearly whatever happened outside is over, so you might as well come clean.”

Silence without even a twitch. That was a ‘yes and if I even say why I’ll be in trouble.’ Better still, it was an angle he could work.

“I’ll talk about what happened, then. We can play true or false.”

She leaned in, attention finally caught. Nods were quiet and Rowan piecing together a story himself generated plausible deniability. That’s what she needed.

“This looks, on its surface, to be a bandit raid. Is that fair to say?”

She nodded, more carefully this time. She was thinking about the exact wording of the question.

“Now, I come from an area known to experience a few raids from the sea, so I’ve seen this all before.” Once. When he was rather young, but she didn’t know that. “What interested me was your use of fire. It certainly causes some confusion to set a few unimportant structures ablaze, but you would have your main force subduing the locals and taking what loot you could.”

The prisoner followed him with her eyes as he paced back and forth. Walking helped stimulate his mind and would help sell the idea of an interrogation. More for her than the imagined ever-watchful eyes she was afraid of.

“What you did seemed more like arson. You all had torches, tried to light everything up on the sly and so on. It caught my attention when you lit the storehouse on fire. That’s where you’d be stealing out of, normally.” He paused for a beat, then searched for a reaction on her face. “Would it be unreasonable for me to think you aren’t bandits, then?”

She crossed her ankles and leaned back. “Believe what you please.”

Soft yes? Probably a yes, but the theatricality of the whole situation was ramping up. This might be the important part.

“So with that in mind, I’d like to move on to my next question. I have access to the Queen and can shield you against any retribution which might come your way. If you cooperate.”

She grimaced and shook her head. Instant payback? Or was this more of a hostage situation?

“I have to ask the question regardless. What were you doing here and for whom?”

“I’m not answerin’ that. Doesn’t matter what you say,” she projected at a volume to give any actor’s stage voice a run for its money.

“So what am I supposed to do, then? Send you and your band of merry men off to the torturer to see if any of you feel more talkative?”

“Pft. Search me.”

She made eye contact when she said it. Not ‘how should I know’ or ‘beats me.’ Search her.

Rowan took the loud, theatrical voice as a hint and did the same. “Do you know what? Maybe I will. Let’s see how you like it.”

Nothing important in her pouches or in her leather jerkin. Boots? No.

Rowan was starting to run out of places this mystery object could be. What did-

She glanced down at her chest. Jacket?

“Sorry,” he whispered as he leaned in and unfastened it. Nothing?

No. There was the outline of a letter under her shirt.

“Please don’t make me get that myself,” he muttered through gritted teeth.

“Get what?”

Why? The location was perfectly secure. She could just hand it to him and they could pretend he found it himself, if she was so worried about one of her many unconscious colleagues listening at the door.

He worked with the precision of a surgeon. Pull the shirt away from her body—don’t look down it—then fish out the letter with two fingers and try not to touch any bare skin. The poor girl was in a tight enough situation. The last thing she needed was a man who said he was trustworthy taking the opportunity to grope her.

A gasp. Her cheeks turned pink. Damn it.

“Sorry,” he whispered. The brush of skin on skin was small, but he was ashamed it happened in the first place. Clumsy.

He refastened her collar and waited a beat for the embarrassment to fade from her face. Then the theatrics began again. “Well, well. What have we here?”

“…Nothin’. Shopping list for my gran.”

“Oh, I suppose there’s no problem with me reading it, then.”

“No, don’t do it.” The volume was alright, but the line’s delivery was flat enough to kill her burgeoning career in theatre.

“Let’s see…”

Ms. Kelley,

You’ve tried it your way. If you care about your family’s farm (MY property on which are MY tenants to do with as I please) then get it done. I’ll even forgive the debt you owe me for providing equipment you couldn’t afford. Burn the following:

A small map was drawn of the Glagh estate, with the orchard and storehouses circled.

If you step out of line, don’t think I won’t find out. I have eyes and ears EVERYWHERE. And not just with the mercenaries (who have been ordered to kill you if you try to give away my secrets.)

Countess ‘C’

This was… amateur. Not even amateur. An amateur’s child playing pretend. So much was spelled out—it was signed (a mistake Rowan was very sensitive to)—and what little suspicion Rowan had that this was a setup died on the vine when he noticed the Countess’ coat of arms in the broken wax seal. She’d never blackmailed anyone before, had she? You didn’t put this kind of thing into writing if you had.

Ms. Kelley cleared her throat when he finished his third reading. Oh. Right.

“So… Ms. Kelley, is it?”

“Can’t prove it’s me.”

“Mhm. I’m going to tell you what happens next then, Ms. Maybe-Kelley.” Rowan leaned forward to the side of her head, realised his mistake and whispered into the cat’s ear perched on the top. “I’ll do what I can for your family. I have enough evidence here to make sure that the Countess stops being a problem, but I still have to hand you over to the Sheriff. I might be able to get you a light sentence.”

Kelley just nodded. “Put me away as long as you like. I’m not sayin’ another damn word to you.”

“So be it.”

❈❈❈

Rowan left the small shed, exhausted.

He was, to say the least, startled to find nearly half of Clan Glagh peeking through gaps in the siding or otherwise with their ears pressed to the walls. A pair of goblins had even found their way onto the roof.

There were far too many to quickly withdraw from their positions and pretend they just all happened to be in the area. Perhaps Ms. Almost-certainly-Kelley’s reservations weren’t unfounded. If the Countess’ comment about having eyes and ears everywhere was more than just bluster, a spy could be among them right now.

If. Rowan’s current opinion of the woman was now so low that he was torn. Was she too amateurish to have an agent in Clan Glagh, or was she too amateurish to employ deception? He shouldn’t have verbally acknowledged the contents of the letter, either way.

The crowd grew restless, so he rubbed the scruff on his chin to signal his sour expression meant he was thinking. That loosened up a number of them right away, as though they thought he could overpower dozens of ogres by sheer force of frown.

The Chief and his daughter, however, were slower with their relief. Macha got her question out before her father finished wringing his hands.

“Eh… That it, Sir Rowan?”

“She means to ask if we could take it from here, Sir Rowan.”

“Oh, of course.” There was little else to be gleaned from any set of questions. Rowan’s picture of the situation was crystal-clear, though he needed to tell the story without the risk of being overheard. “Actually, it occurs to me that we should look for stragglers.”

“Very wise, Sir Rowan. Macha can-”

Rowan flicked his eyes over to the toolshed and tilted his head toward the road. Hopefully that was subtle enough to be missed by the spectators, but still caught by Azan.

A Mistheimer he was not. The Chief caught his intent effortlessly. “On second thought, perhaps she should stay here with the defence force.  We’ll play the hunting hounds and drive any remaining toward the tower.”

“That sounds reasonable to me. Has anyone seen Agriculture?”

“Yes, Diplomacy?” She was just around the side of the toolshed. Even if she walked over with her chin high, she must have listened  just as intently as the locals.

“A witch tagging along in our little scouting mission would do us a world of good.”

“I suppose I would be the most qualified here. I intervened quickly enough to put out the fires.”

A few horses were brought out, though they were hardly comfortable. Being fit for ogres meant that Rowan’s posture was strained, barely getting his legs around the small draught horse. They didn’t need to go far, at least. A knoll marked by a rune-inscribed standing stone was far enough from eyes and ears to be convenient.

Azan took the cue and dismounted when Rowan did. “You’re really done with her, Sir Rowan?”

“Who?”

“Your prisoner.”

“She’s given me more than I could have asked for. Is there a reason I shouldn’t be?”

“We all just… had concerns.”

“Is this about us being from the capital?”

Azan scratched his head, fussed with his hair and looked back toward the manor. “…Partly.”

What could he say to that? No, that was the wrong approach entirely. Words couldn’t mend eighty years of broken trust. Even if they could, a Gislander couldn’t say them believably. “I understand. Everyone who works on Her Majesty’s behalf has a lot of trust to earn back.”

A silence hung in the air before Agriculture formulated her response. “Those traitors ruined our legitimacy, but we’re still committed to putting this country back together. You can trust me.”

Eryl had every reason to be bitter. Whatever cabal of ministers ran things behind the scenes, she would have been isolated and dancing to their tune for nearly a century.

“We did all tense up for a moment when you went digging around in her clothes,” Azan said.

The awkward, mirthless chuckle of a man caught with his breeches down was Rowan’s only defense. They all watched, hadn’t they? “I wish I didn’t need to do that. But the letter gives us the ammunition we need to put a plan together.”

“Incriminating?” Eryl asked.

“Very. I’m sure we all knew she was behind these ‘bandits’ already, but now we have her.” Rowan read the contents to them, then met their eyes. Azan looked furious. “First of all, I’d like Ms. Kelley brought to Dun Peak for trial. I’m hoping-”

“‘Scuse me, Sir Rowan, I canna- can’t see why she should get off without punishment!” The ogre’s mild-mannered persona and genteel accent began to show cracks under the weight of the situation.

“Frankly, I don’t think I could convince Justice of that if I wanted to. I hope to get her a light sentence in view of the circumstances, extract her family somewhere the Countess can’t touch them, then keep her around as an insurance policy.”

Agriculture got off her broom, finally interested in the conversation. “An insura- what are you up to, Diplomacy?”

“I, for one, have had enough of this situation. I assume you have as well, Azan?”

“More than,” the ogre grunted.

“Agriculture?”

“The best news I could possibly receive is that nothing ever happens this far east in Dunmuir. I don’t want squabbles to destabilise the political situation and give the nobility a bad name.”

“I’m sure you have a better grasp of the law than I, but here’s my thinking. At this stage, we have enough for a slap on the Countess’ wrist at most. She would be under tight supervision, but it would likely make her more bitter in the long term.” Rowan held up a finger on each hand. “So we attack this from both sides.”

“Meaning?”

One finger went toward Eryl. “We start with what we came here to do. I’d like to give our dear Countess something else to focus on—whether that’s a subsidy on a different crop, a monopoly on some good or another solution would be best handled by you, Agriculture.”

“Of course. The most important factor is keeping it out of the fruit category. The less competition, the better.”

“You’ve already proved me right. It wouldn’t have crossed my mind.”

She turned up her nose to hide a growing smirk. If only Sophia was so easy to handle. “Hm. Smart boy.”

“That’s our carrot. The stick—” He lowered his other finger toward Azan. “Is us. The more she harasses you, the plainer the case can become if we need to prosecute it. If Clan Glagh keeps good records, it becomes less and less enticing to keep going if she knows about them. I don’t know if she really has a spy, but if these records become common knowledge among your people, she’ll hear about them eventually. And of course, we’ll have Ms. Kelley as a witness to a large mistake and unclean dealings.”

“Will she take us seriously?”

“I’ll talk with her and make it painfully obvious what will happen if things get this out of hand again.”

“Your plan is to blackmail a countess.”

“I would never, Chief Azan. The Queen’s position will be that we believe Countess Ceirt’s account and will be unshakably committed to finding the truth about who is besmirching her good name if another incident happens to be connected to her. A full military deployment to defend the innocent parties and the Ministry of Justice’s finest will search every dusty corner for clues.”

“Hm.”

“Which leaves her a few very good reasons to give up. If those aren’t enough, Clan Glagh will have a very strong court case on their hands.”

Eryl was already mentally tabulating her part, tapping her broom on the ground in thought.

Azan, however, let a ball of lingering doubts show on his face. “I can’t tell if this is clever or underhanded.”

“Cleverness is about all I can do. ”

“Funny thing to say when you run faster than horses and don’t need swords to fight. And that’s just today.”

The little voice in the back of Rowan’s mind reminded him not to spoil someone’s positive opinion, even if it was wrong. “If every problem could be beaten into submission, the Queen wouldn’t need us at all. I don’t want this to even come to a court battle, which is head and shoulders above spilt blood. It’s hard to negotiate fairly when you’ve both had people die for you.”

The Chief rapped his fingers on his arm. He cast his eyes around, then sighed. “Sir Rowan, I’ve grown to hate apples, but I have no reward appropriate for your help beside them. Would you do me the honour of accepting a gift?”

“I would be happy to ferry them along to Her Majesty with your compliments.”

Azan bowed deeply and Rowan returned the gesture.

“Given that unicorns are protected animals owned by the Witch-Queen, I hope you’ll take your trophy back with you? I couldn’t possibly afford the fine killing one would incur.”

❈❈❈

For quite a while, the creak of wooden axles and the tramp of two fresh horses’ hooves was the only sound accompanying their journey. Agriculture stared pensively out the window for some time, and not just to check on the ice magic which kept the unicorn on the roof frozen for the journey.

Perhaps she wasn’t sure of the replacement coach-ogre Clan Glagh supplied them with, though it could be that she was thinking of the poor woman who stayed behind—her head still wrapped in bandages to help her jaw set straight. It seemed unlikely that she was as invested in the Sheriff who picked up Ms. Kelley in the early hours of the morning. She and Rowan shared a private word where she simultaneously congratulated him on his strength of character and called the necessity of a light punishment for Kelley into question.

The quiet was fine. Most likely of all, Eryl was plotting out her moves like he was. This was the environment bureaucrats thrived in, not mad sprints or skirmishes. Rowan was nearly done with his consideration of what to write in his politely-worded letter to the Countess’ opponent (something to the tune of ‘Dear Mormaer of Glas; please, please quit it. We’re letting you get away with it this time but everyone will be quite frustrated if you break the law next.’) when the silence finally broke.

“You’ve proven more helpful than I would have thought, Diplomacy. To think we almost sent minor officials to handle this.”

Rowan chuckled and spat out a half-truth on instinct. “There was just a feeling in the back of my mind telling me Dun Peak wasn’t where I needed to be.”

“Ah, and the gift of prophecy, too. I have a few acquaintances able to do that, but they have to travel such a long way to meet me.”

“I wouldn’t go that far.” The idea that a boy from the furthest backwater could be magical was a concept only a writer of fairy-tales or a witch of Dunmuir could dream up. “Instinct can simply take a man further than he expects on occasion.”

“And yet you seem to find the occasion quite frequently. Little wonder our young Luna trusts you so. I doubt even she would have so cleanly wrapped up the situation as we just did.”

Luna. Rhiannon’s very first name and a rather personal one to use. From the aunt, it wasn’t all that surprising, but he’d scarcely heard the name on its own before. “…Nearly. The Countess should cause us no end of trouble, Fortune willing.”

Eryl knitted her brows, then scoffed when she found the relevant memory in her mental library. “Such a queer little habit you Gislanders have. Reverse-prayer.”

“I thought Dunmuir had some myth about pernicious embodiments of fate, didn’t you?” The exact context escaped him, but it was the one detail in a partly-factual account of Dunmuir’s early history that he remembered—mostly due to its familiarity. The rest of the theology was too alien to the careful cultivation of a Balanced soul.

She waved the idea off like a pesky fly. “Ancient superstition. Unfortunately our last two Arch-Crones have been far too lenient with religious dissent. Luna’s mother was never a good model for the business of leadership.”

“My own church would call it superstition as well. Though they don’t have to run the temporal realm on top of enforcing doctrine.”

“It’s all connected. Let religious morals slip and you’ll have heretics crawling out of the woodwork to sacrifice every third child to keep the sun running, or whatever it is they do.” Her sharp green eyes met Rowan’s for a heartbeat before her gaze returned to the window. “A problem for another time, perhaps. You and I make an excellent team for this kind of work.”

“I’m honoured you think so.” Rowan followed her lead and peeked outside. The yellow-speckled hedgerows were thinning out in favour of larger clusters of buildings as they approached the half-dozen towers of Dal Orla which loomed in the distance.

“And in keeping with that, I do have a suggestion, if you don’t mind the imposition.”

“Listening to a colleague is no imposition.” Except Sophia on her bad days, but even then she had a clever tidbit or two to say.

“You’re a fine negotiator, and I have no doubt you’d be more knowledgeable than I if you reached my age. Have you heard of the ‘fair and foul’ strategy?”

“Is this ‘kind guard, cruel guard?’”

“The… former, lesser Diplomacy did call it that, now that you mention it. The point being—” She folded her hands just so and laid them open like she was revealing a run of cards. “—it would make the best use of two representatives of royal power in the same place.”

“Certainly a reasonable conclusion.” Rowan’s script went along those lines, though he didn’t bother to label the tactic. Team strategy was at the forefront of his mind since Sophia’s crack about his unhelpfulness in the Mistheim debacle.

“Good. Best you play our cruel man. A frustrated bureaucrat cross at wasting his time coming to the middle of nowhere wouldn’t be far from the truth.”

“And you our fair lady?”

“I’m in a position to give her counsel and actionable suggestions, not just threaten punishment. A noblewoman of the realm still warrants respect, if she is to continue serving the crown.”

“Then we have a plan. Let me just prepare for a few eventualities.” First of all, hiding the real letter she sent. Written evidence was better than spoken, should it come to a court case. Rowan couldn’t guarantee the carriage wouldn’t be searched or switched, so he took off his boot. Under the insole would have to-

Eryl raised an eyebrow. “Why don’t you give me that?”

“They might search you as well, if they don’t like our approach.”

“Oh, please. She won’t hear much more than flattery from me. She’ll be so enthralled with my presence that it wouldn’t even cross her mind.”

“You’re that confident in your negotiating skill?”

She slapped her brown-tufted tail against the seat. “Yes. Just hand it here so you don’t tear the blackmail from stepping the wrong way.”

“Alright, fair enough.”

As soon as he handed the folded paper to her, Eryl withdrew a mirror case from its pouch on her belt, folded it twice more and stuck it inside for safekeeping. Not the most hidden, but that was only the opinion of a spy who’d been saved from discovery by Arlene more times than he knew.

“If she asks to see it, we sent it along to Dun Peak with the prisoner.” She took the opportunity to rearrange her hair in the mirror before she snapped it shut and returned it to its pouch. “It’s important to have our story straight.”

Rowan rubbed the scruff on his chin. Certainly what he would have done if he was alone. But… this was an opportunity for an extra twist of the arm to push the Countess into accepting any suggestion Eryl gave her. He snatched a sheet of note paper from his stack of completed reports and scribbled out a message between the carriage’s jolts.

“What’s that?” Eryl gestured with the end of her cane.

He folded the paper into about the same shape as the real one and held it up. “Our letter, if she asks for it.”

The carriage rolled to a brief stop at the town’s gate while the watchman talked to their new driver. Rowan couldn’t make it all out, but it sounded friendly until the word ‘bandits’ crossed the ogre’s lips. The guard’s captain came out, tersely assured Rowan and Eryl that they would be up day and night getting to the bottom of it, then sent her underling as a runner to inform the Countess of the ministers’ arrival.

Perhaps not everyone knew, but clearly her plan had as many potential leaks as a sieve. His plan to cast doubt on people other than helpful Ms. Kelley just got easier.

They began rolling again and Rowan absorbed the sights of the town as they closed in on the castle in the centre of it all. It was a funny thing to be accustomed enough to Dun Peak that the more expensive tower homes didn’t much impress him. They were just piddly three- or four-storey constructions, often with the last level or two timber-framed to save on cost. Besides the tower, the ground floor was a lengthened vestibule built out of a heavy arch to support a flat top. In unmistakably Dunmuirian form, their back door was at street level, while the front entrance to impress guests was above and accessible only by broom.

The townhouses were a fascinating middle stage between Glagh’s cottages and the small towers, however. Not many of them, given the size of the settlement, but a few clusters at the foot of the hill the castle was built on. There was often a shop on the bottom—one on a choice corner displayed a sign which read ‘Niall Dal Morag * Chartered Alchemist’ with a phial and sunburst design—and a top floor backed off from the edge by about a man’s height to make a porch like the wealthier houses. Given the variety of plants, laundry and other storage strewn about on the narrow space, the little gate built into their handrails to allow someone on a broom access was just a decorative flourish. And the flourishes seemed to be the main point in the absence of height. Round bay windows, embellished overhangs on windows and doors, and especially tower-shaped chimneys.

The Countess’ castle matched her town in that it was little more than it needed to be. Modest, with a single tower dominating the compact circle of a shell-style wall. The only item of particular note was a tent camp outside her moat. Plenty of supplies and nervous camp followers, but few of the brightly-dressed mercenaries strutted around the area. They did a rather poor job at concealing their anxiety about nearly thirty disappeared comrades as the carriage passed.

Once they rattled across the drawbridge, they finally rolled to a stop inside the small courtyard formed by the round walls of the castle. Their new host rushed out personally, easily identified by the vibrant green-and-red-trimmed robe and golden tiara. It was a shame to see the hem of her dress and beaver’s tail dragging in the damp soil caused by last night’s mist, but the woman herself didn’t appear to notice.

“There you are! And Ministers? You weren’t— I didn’t expect anyone for another week!”

Eryl took her time to dismount the carriage, allowing their ogre driver to help her down. “And a warm greeting to you as well, Countess Ceirt. Both of us have corresponded with you so long that we thought it wise to arrive in person.”

“Yes, of course!” The countess spoke quickly and nodded every syllable. “Did you run into any trouble on the road?”

“Nothing major.”

Rowan was impressed by Eryl’s casual brush-off. Even their carriageman could see the noblewoman’s fists clench and unclench as she tried to divine what ‘major’ meant.

“Yes. Yes, good.” Ceirt whipped her head around and shouted to the doorman. “Get the good table out! And tell them to restart dinner!”

The man straightened up and hurried inside to relay the orders. A bit of a shame, really. From one of the open windows, he could smell the wholesome aroma of simmering vegetables and fresh butter pastry. A chicken pie, perhaps? Rowan hadn’t had one since the last time he visited his mother.

Eryl simply inclined her head at the same time the clattering in the kitchen turned to restrained cursing. “Very kind. Thank you.”

“I would prefer you leave your servant outside, however. I know a member of that damned clan I’ve been complaining about when I see him and he’d just get in the way of business.”

“He’s simply a driver. No need to save him a spot at the…” Eryl scoffed. “…Good table?”

They were led inside before long and sat around a ruddy table with a carved floral border in its remarkably straight grain. Apple wood, if Rowan was pressed to guess. The hall it sat in was better-kept than Glagh’s, though not especially impressive in comparison to the Witch-Queen’s palace complex. Simply a room of the same mid-grey stone as the rest of the castle, whitewashed halfway up the high walls, with only the wall behind the Countess’ seat decorated with wood panelling.

The Countess seated herself on one end, and Rowan naturally sat opposite. He supposed Eryl wanted to make her negotiating position physically clear when she sat on the Countess’ side.

“If we’re all settled, I would rather like to protest any bias in this case before we start!”

“You’ll have to be more specific, my dear Lady.”

“It’s obvious they know they’re wrong and they’re cozying up to you with bribes! Arriving in that stupid carriage from Loch Glas its pitiful little ruler always brags about is proof. And a Glagh driver!”

“Now, now.” Eryl took the Countess’ hand and patted it. “Our own carriage driver is recovering and you made it seem as though this was a personal issue between you and one rural clan.”

“Well it is, but that stupid Mormaer Elliw has always been trying to ruin me! I was hardly thirty before she had designs on my fiancé!”

“Oh, you poor dear. Did she succeed?”

“Yes! And having her husband cheat with me wasn’t nearly as satisfying as it should have been, let me tell you!”

“Entirely justified, I’m sure.” Eryl accepted the outrageous comment as if it were business as usual. “But best not to take that into consideration. Little spats like these are taken very seriously in the capital. Imagine if you were the last with your hand in the cookie jar and it was all blamed on you. Legally speaking.”

“Well the important part for now is that miserable man Azan has gotten too big for his boots and is stealing from me! I’m sure I told you it’s fifty-”

“It’s what we’re here about, dear. We’ll take our samples, double-check everywhere and make sure any breach of the law is found and punished.”

“And why has it taken so long?!” The conciliatory tone emboldened her enough to wave a finger at the two ministers. “This is my county’s lifeblood!”

Now was the time. Rowan cleared his throat. “Oh, we noticed. I would never have guessed Dunmuir’s apple business was so serious that there were roving bands of apple bandits.”

The Countess broke into a bout of coughing as her superior attitude caught in her throat. ‘Nothing major,’ Eryl told her. She probably thought the curt reply indicated the mercenaries put some thought into their timing and waited until the very important people left. Ah, naivete.

“No need to trouble our dear Countess Ceirt about trivialities, Diplomacy. Incidents of little weight have taken place in the countryside since time immemorial.”

“Indeed. Were it not for the letter, it would hardly be worth bringing up to anyone but low-level authorities in the Mormaer’s domain.”

Panic. Countess Ceirt’s brown eyes flew open so wide that he could see white all around her iris. She began to half-coherently stammer out an excuse, but Eryl responded as though the sound were just the tittering of some bird outside.

“A transparent frame job, and not even a particularly convincing one. I don’t believe it for a moment.”

“The Queen would be very interested to find out who is besmirching our Countess’ good name, Agriculture.” Rowan watched the Countess’ face contort with every word and made no secret of it. “Whoever did it knew that it would be very harmful for a member of the peerage to be caught engaging in petty banditry.”

“A-and they must have! I wouldn’t write such an incriminating letter and I certainly wouldn’t let it be traced back to me!” A sheen of sweat was forming on her brow. “I wouldn’t have anything to gain from arson when I’m trying to get my apples back!”

Ah, but she wasn’t told about any fire yet. Foolish, foolish, foolish. She wouldn’t be dispelling Rowan’s unkind assertion she was an amateur.

“Exactly! Listen to your elders. You might learn something,” Eryl said.

“Yes! Well, it’s simple reasoning, you see.”

“I can appreciate some healthy skepticism has gotten you rather far, Diplomacy, but this is getting out of hand. We caught our besmircher already, haven’t we?”

Rowan rested his chin on a fist like a tired interrogator who knew it was only a matter of time. “Simple preparation, Agriculture. The villain didn’t talk, but I’m attached to the peace we have now and I would like to crush the problem quickly if we haven’t seen the end of this.”

“Thank you. But… er… as your fellow-minister-”

“Eryl Fairhorne. You can call me Aunt Eryl, if you like.”

“Right. Aunt-Minister-Eryl said incidents like this happen all the time here. You just don’t understand how we do things in Dunmuir!” The Countess flapped her hands in front of her as though the palpable guilt was a dust she could blow away.

She could not.

“I’m beginning to learn exactly how things are done, don’t you worry.” He let the ice of irritation creep into his voice. This was sort of fun. He was typically the weasel in this situation and hammering a woman without a strong position or any experience not getting what she wanted was simple and gratifying. “In any case, I fully intend to use my administrative power to defend the honour of the realm’s nobility. The Minister of Justice would be happy to send as many agents as it took to examine the handwriting on this letter and trace it back to its source. Failing that, they would search under every stone for even a whiff of criminal misdeeds.”

“Ah, I—Funny you mention it. Might I see the letter? You might be surprised at my ability to discern handwriting, were you to give me an hour or so alone. Lots of, er… records to cross-reference. Or better yet, give it to my butler! Very reliable, if occasionally clumsy.”

“It concerns you, so perhaps you should see it first, Countess Ceirt.” Rowan withdrew his slip of note-paper and slid it across the table.

The reaction was what he hoped for. Her eyes danced over the page as if she were reading an entire volume of text, while one trembling hand rose to her mouth to gnaw at her fingernail, short ears flat against her head. Sweat poured down her face and she jolted to turn away from Eryl so that she might not read the contents of the page.

It was a simple enough message, written on a bumpy carriage in charcoal. ‘Save face and give up with some dignity. We have you.’

His highest compliments went to Ms. L.R.F. Cavallari’s school of threat writing.

Eryl waved off the tension with carefully-feigned ignorance, though the ghost of a smile showed on her face. “Enough talk about all that nastiness. Let’s get down to actual business. I’m sure you know there’s a limited amount I can do if this trouble with your Setting Sun apples turns out to be above-board, dear.”

The Countess whimpered an incoherent response to Eryl, unable to tear her eyes from the paper.

“Times are moving on, regardless. We’ll return to the way Dunmuir should be, which provides those with the right connections a chance at a great deal of profit.”

“But…”

She rested a hand on the Countess’ shoulder. “And it is my personal feeling that the sooner both parties in this issue diversify, the better. We can wash our hands of this… difficult little affair and put everyone where they deserve to be. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“…Mhm…”

“I have an opportunity for you, if you care to take it.” She massaged the Countess’ shoulder gently and cooed the deal in her ear. “The Alchemy Association has just been begging me for some skilled arborealists out on the coast. Some problem with foreign trees. I’d be in your debt if you could spare a few.”

“Well…”

“Think about it. A snippet—just for consideration—is that the Association intends to set up a distillery somewhere in Eastern Dunmuir. Just supplying allied guilds with aqua vita for potions and such, you see. They would need a stable supply of the basics like grain, peat, charcoal and so on. Once all the jobs were in place, it would be quite a boon for the quality of alchemy training in the hinterlands of Dunmuir. Wouldn’t it be nice to see a little more bustle in… What was your city called again?”

“Er… Dal Orla, but-”

“Dal Orla! That was it.” Eryl slapped her shoulder like an old friend chatting about nothing important. A negotiator this adept felt wasted outside a diplomacy office. “It was the other thing they were hounding me about. Where, who, the local resources and so on. I do happen to know your county has a forest, peat bog and plenty of arable land, so you did occur to me as I looked over my files.”

“While it sounds very nice, Au- Minister Eryl, it’s difficult and expensive to switch on a dime. I would need, oh…”

“Four hundred rhins a year or so to pad out the coffers?”

The Countess choked on her own spit and was sent into a coughing fit at the sheer magnitude of the number. Rowan had little conception of what so much money would look like, but the (likely inflated) number Countess Ceirt banged on about losing due to Clan Glagh’s meddling had been ‘Fifty! Fifty rhins a year!’

“Of course, it’s simply a round estimate they gave me. It might go up or down, depending. Of course, once the facility was established, between the directly taxable revenue and the knock-on effects of more skilled labour would prove invaluable for keeping your family fed and homage paid.”

“Yes. Er… yes. I do mean that. It sounds… well, as you said, my family and serfs and whatnot need to be taken care of. And… noblesse oblige, of course. If it would be alright with you, Aunt Eryl, I…”

Agriculture grinned and held out her hand. “To fresh starts and clean hands, then.”

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