Crow of the Ocean - PART 1 OF 3

The following is a book I've been writing on the train for the past four months or so. I believe it's about a third of the way done right now. At the very least, the first act is done. Please enjoy.

CROW OF THE OCEAN

PART 1

It was a common refrain in the poetry of the time: the ephemeral sands of time or life or some such thing, consumed by the gentle swell of the lapping ocean. The idea was sound and the point poignant; the slow slipping of one regularity into another, always knowing that something had been lost, never knowing what.

The idea must've seemed plausible to all those young romantics, cooped up in the smoky rooms of high artistic culture, a zeitgeist of weary youth dragging heavily on long wooden pipes. They struck an image in the public mind, courted celebrity as they openly decried its pursuit and fruits. In Anneli's mind, their foibles sparked thoughts and metaphors of such vivacity that the ocean was cast as the large puddle it truly was. She thought it regrettable then that her lot was to walk the sands of the Nakotebo shore while the poets pined away in the coffee houses and nabach rooms of dreary Extabon.

Not that anyone could call Extabon dreary. In her many correspondences with the city folk, not once had criticism of the city gone by unchallenged. She'd receive letters filled with complaints, reams of paper packing mocking disdain in their every line.

But mention the corruption or the culture of detachment, and another refrain would be heard: 'We do things our way. It's not easy and of course we're not perfect, but nowhere else is as the city!'

This attitude tinged correspondence with city folk with a certain trepidation. Swathes of thought and discourse shut out by default, untouchable and inviolable. Any argument or connection discarded out of hand for the grave crime of criticizing city ways. Other people could be touchy, even patriotic about their homes, but none were as sarcastically vehement as the people of Extabon.




Which was why it was such a relief to find in her remote mailbox a stack of letters not from the capital, but from the Codan highlands. There was the usual mound of hopefuls, of every variety: the needlessly eloquent, the overbearingly sanitized, the hopelessly honest and straightforward. Most of them would expect a reply back, but only in the sense that they looked forward to it - all knew that not one in two hundred could hope for even a reply of courtesy. Shoving through the glut for two messages she actually wanted to read, she promised herself she'd get round to the rest. Though the temptation to leave the box open and let the parakeets and shellclimbers have their way with the letters was hard to resist.

There were two she was looking for, one of which stuck out like the Chadin spire's diamond light on a misty morning - the careful lamination and heavy wax seal clear indications of the sender's identity. Anneli drew the letter out and held it to the day's brilliant light. The seal was always a delight, blue and orange and gold, all the colors of home and family and grand tradition. Sometimes she'd feel the intricate curves of the embossed tiger, or pencil the neat calligraphic letters onto a sheet of paper. On this occasion though, she put the letter atop the mailbox and kept rummaging. Her next target was not so easy a mark, and almost she despaired of finding it by any method but an exhaustive manual search of the contents. But persistence has its rewards, and the telltale shape of a commercial envelope was all she had hoped for. These two letters in hand, she briefly glanced at the mess she had made, paper and packing spilled across sands and pebbles. Then she opened the first letter.




To my most dignified sister, I hope to find you healthy and well. I hope to find you happy, but there can be no happiness so far from your rightful home. My studies have had no time to progress, and well you know they may never be all I'd want them to be - we are not destined for such abstractions. Still, my education persists. I have learned much of the ways of the highlands - their sense of honor, loud affection, and awful food. In truth I envy you at times; distant Ricongeraka with its easy hospitality and passive snideness seem a dream. The lords here still insist on calling themselves chiefs, and take great offence should you confuse their clan with another. The more I learn of these clans, the less I can distinguish them. Just this past week, old baron DuPlait wrangled together a dinner party of four clans. I am told there was some ancient rivalry between two of these, the other two notorious for switching sides. It was early in the meal when innocently I asked about what one of their banners symbolized. There was a beetle in the center, some stripes and swirls across its back. I'd draw it for you had I any talent for such things. Proudly, the man across from me talked about the insectoid ecosystem of his clan's particular mountain pass. Only he didn't call it an ecosystem, he called it 'the roaring crowd', and he said it rather grandly each time, as if this was such a refined turn of phrase that all should burst into applause. This went on well enough, until he mentioned a particular lake apparently known for its abundance of frogs and frog based delicacies. The man to my right muttered something about the lake being well outside beetle clan's purview. Mr. beetle clan took great offence at being called beetle clan, and remarked that if the lake was so rightfully someone else's, why hadn't anyone done anything about it? Shockingly to us all, a maid serving soup, in her heavy mountain accent, yelled that something had been done, and the lake had only 'been beetled' in her words, since the previous chief had been friends with the royal commissioner in charge of drawing electoral boundaries. As these are of course matters of constitution, and I was the constitutional representative, all eyes turned to me. I gave the standard speech about ancient traditions and modern difficulties, which seemed to placate them somewhat. But soon enough they'd found something else to argue about, the status of some old sword we had hanging above the fireplace. I couldn't follow the details and didn't want to either; the highland drawl is strange at the best of times, and in a fervor it's little better than my horse's whinny. Worse, perhaps. Though I was relieved when the meal was over and I could turn back to my studies, something of their luster seemed lost to me. I shall never be truly adept at such things, for I've neither the time, the talent, nor the responsibility. I have been tasked instead with knowing such constitutional matters as came up that night: What are the boundaries of the various clan holdings? How are the electoral boundaries drawn? How much power should the old clans exert? How much freedom do I have in dismissing the backwards sensibilities of country aristocrats? Is the same system of regional autonomy fit for Ricongeraka and Codan and Extabon and the colonies on Life? I was born and raised to handle these issues, to know the laws as they are. To learn what the laws should be. But oh dear sister, how I hate it. There is no truth to be found anywhere in the whole mess. Anytime I think I've pinpointed a problem and a solution, some new expert comes and announces that my idea is actually the worst possible. Then another dismisses that, with no one any the wiser for it. I've the creeping suspicion I'm not truly meant to understand anything. That I'm meant to find the right people and let them do the hard work of government while I fritter away the days in idle pleasure. But oh sister! How do I know which are the right people? You'd be so much better than me at this whole business. Perhaps I shall petition Grandmother for your relocation, one last time.

Always with love,

Prince Shinag Guilon of the House of Apogee.




p.s - Writing this I realize I never actually got an answer to my question. What did the banner represent? Maybe Mr. Beetle didn't know.




Anneli chuckled throughout the reading, her mind's eye crystalizing the scene into exaggerated comic shape: long sagging chins for the dignitaries, furry hats and wooly cloaks dribbling soup and spittle from the furious row. Her brother, morosely naive, unwittingly keeping all in line with his large frame and bullyish look. She tried picturing the exact clothing they'd all been wearing, and noticed with amusement that she couldn't - her brother hadn't mentioned anyone's rank. They could've been prime dog men for all he knew. Anneli snickered at the thought. And even as she set about to gathering the scattered letters in a sack, in her head she was already composing a reply.




There had been only one other letter Anneli had cared about. She'd slipped it into her coat pocket, alongside Shinag's. Then she heaved the sack over her shoulder and started the long walk back to the school. The treeline retreated, slowly then suddenly, gently sloping before cutting off where a paved brick road had been set into the sands. A thick iron fence stretched from one side to the other, barbed wire coating its top. A quick tapping of a passcode, and the way was clear for the brick road to continue. The bricks too, like the sands and rocks before them, faded into the dull gray that characterized most streets Anneli had seen in her life. The Canper of Nakotebo was waiting at the intersection of brick and asphalt, leaning against the last of the trees. He greeted her with a wave, though not a simple one - the fingers of his hand danced back and forth, snapping together and drawing apart so rapidly that Anneli could hear the clicks above the regular din of the jungle. A message could be hidden in those intricacies, but this time he was just showing off. Anneli thought his clothing was plenty show already, cape and bracelets all lined with brilliant red feathers from the rarely hunted Talotau bird. He smiled as she approached, though he was always smiling. Thoughts of evasion crossed her mind, but it'd do her no good - she couldn't outrun him, heavy laden as she was. He fell in lockstep with her, and began the usual assault:

"Have a pleasant walk, lady Apogee?" he asked. "Oh yes, very pleasant. As pleasant as a lady could wish" Anneli answered. "With such a heavy burden to bear? Surely the effort spoils your calm" he persisted. "I think that's for the best, really. There is much to be excited and wary about. I'd hate to lose sight of that. It'd be very irresponsible on my part" was Anneli's reply. The Canper sighed and brought a finger to his forehead as he tried to continue. "Always with the strange remarks. Some people would really struggle to parse them, and that's definitely irresponsible on your part. Still, wouldn't it be better to have your mail delivered along with the rest? If it's a distracted walk on the beach you want, just go during a storm. You'll have plenty to think about" he waited for Anneli to respond. Quick glances revealed empty streets, and she paced along the crossing as she answered, skipping from one colored line to the next. "There are never enough storms for all the distraction I need. And the springtime gales are far too much for me to be let outside, let alone out of town" she paused in her stride, though not long enough for the Canper to interject. "Somehow the mail is always there, so I suppose someone braves the storm" here she did pause long enough for an interjection, which was swift in coming. "Your personal correspondence is one thing, it'd do no harm to miss some. But you've sworn to at least read all those missives from the people. There is great comfort in knowing you are heard. Quite apart from whatever personal honor you may feel towards your own word, your promise is constitutionally sacred. And we have the highest duty to facilitate that, rain or shine, gale or snowstorm" he said this with a great passion, not a tinge of cynicism touched his voice. Anneli was taken aback, taking care not to stumble as she answered. "Yes yes, quite right, I did make that promise during my twelfth birthday broadcast. It's just that after nearly four years of this it's getting exhausting" she realized he hadn't criticized her diligence yet and tried to backtrack. "It's not your responsibility though, is it? You're just the Canper, and I know your role well enough - marriages, property disputes, funeral rites, and communal health. And that sounds like enough of a burden! The Sauhove can take care of royal commitments, and the elected should take care of whatever infrastructure or development is needed in general. Why should you bother about it?" she looked away from him at that, at the green mountains pinning Nakotebo into a remote crescent corner of Ricongeraka. She hadn't expected the conversation to continue, yet she held back alarm at the sound of his voice droning on. "What are you afraid of? That your mail will be stolen? That someone will read it and laugh at you? That you'll grow comfortable in town, learn our speech and enjoy it?" she wasn't surprised at the sentiment, though she was mildly perturbed at its expression. She replied instinctively, the words unrehearsed yet set in stone. "As you said, I have my duties. I have my role, and it is not to be everyone's friend. It is not to be a celebrity or performer, a pretty face to gawk at. And that's all I could ever really be here in Nakotebo, in all of Ricongeraka really. You understand?" she said it with such conviction that the Canper was stopped in his tracks. She continued onwards before adding: "And why dismiss my privacy? Busybodies would be ecstatic to read my correspondence. The only reason I'm pretty sure they haven't is that I reset the passcode twice a week and going through the jungle is suicide" and with that, the conversation was over. The Canper followed, but only for a little while. They parted at the survey tower, him loitering around the milling researchers, her following the line of observation probes towards the town center. She was more than familiar enough with Nakotebo so as not to need the guidance, but she liked the solid certainty of the probes, their shining modernity in this place that seemed to lag the world by a century. She thought of the probes as a hundred eyes, viewing that which human eyes never could. The researchers had tried explaining to her when she'd asked, all sorts of things about cosmic lights and whispers of storms to come, but it had only confused her more. She was certain the issue was not her intelligence but the scientists' pedagogical acumen in regards to laymen. Thoughts of the probes, suspended in the air from tens to hundreds of meters high occupied her all the way back to the school. Thinking back on Shinag's letter, it occured to her that he'd be a good source of information on the issue. Almost she marvelled at her oblivion, at having missed such an obvious resource for so long.

The imposing wood doors of the school heaved open with groans of long overuse and under maintenance. School hours were over, and the usual team of washerwomen was pouring over the building in vain hope of imposing order onto the halls of youthful mischief. This dichotomy, between rambunctious youth and stolid adult sensibility captured Anneli's mind. She'd write a hundred poems on the subject! She'd shed light on the human tragedy of aging, and the joy of maturation. And she'd have someone publish them for her, probably cousin Candor. So dreaming, she passed by the washerwomen and the intricate wooden statuettes they were desperately trying to fix and polish. Splinters and shards were tossed about, the results of a good day's play. The washerwomen muttered angry things, though always careful not to mutter them so much at Anneli as around her. They muttered about the new education, every boy and every girl for the book - an impossible notion! No wonder there was no respect towards the teachers, towards the parents, towards the Canper or the council. They clucked about the glut of books on all subjects, about the poor temperament of the new musicians, about new proprieties they'd never known in their youth. There were times when Anneli cared to listen to these complaints, times even when they seemed to have merit. But there was simply too much to do to bother. Past the regular dormitories, a small side door led to a spiraling staircase. Although safe, it was sure to scare away the unprepared, with its sickening drop and regular shake. Reaching her room at the top, a practiced motion unlocked a series of combination locks. These were combinations she didn't bother changing - figuring out the right sequence to unlock the various padlocks was more of a puzzle than figuring out the individual codes. Gathering them all, she opened the door and set them aside for when she next left her rooms. Though there were still some hours of daylight and long twilight left, it seemed likely her next step outside would be taken tomorrow. A gaze of desperate longing was cast towards her bookshelf, packed near to failure with novels old and new, compendiums of poetry, histories both academic and popular, even introductory scientific texts forced upon her by Shinag. She entertained the notion that even those would be preferable to her current work, but the sentiment rang hollow - she knew herself too well. She unfolded her desk from the wall, pulled up a chair, made sure there was respite fruit in the bowl, and pulled the first letter from the sack.




"Our dearest princess Anneli. That's how these stupid letters always open. It's in print, see? This is stupid. No one's going to read this." Below which were drawn a series of rude and lurid scribbles, a game of dots and boxes which the sender seemed to have won, and a series of ideas on how best to get the principal's car in the pond. It ended "best regards, Joner Bastan, Lanckal school for boys"

Anneli tossed the letter away. She had at first replied to many letters such as these, though the students that got these back inevitably took her for their teachers in disguise and only ever doubled down with more obscenity. She couldn't blame them for the assumption - the letters were conveyed through the schools, the cheap square envelopes and uniform line paper were proof enough of that. Temptation to open the one exceptional letter was quickly suppressed - she'd need the boost later. The next letter read "Our dearest princess Anneli. If a circular stone of mass m and radius r is falling through treacle with viscosity twice that of water, how much longer will it take the stome to reach the bottom of a tank of depth h than if it was dropped in water? Express your answer in terms of the viscosity of water" Anneli was disappointed but not shocked to read the letter. She couldn't have answered if she'd wanted to, and something about the phrasing seemed wrong - surely the ratio of times was a convenient result, not the difference? The next letter was only a little better. "Our dearest princess Anneli. Bill and Eplieye were dreadfully mean to me yesterday, calling me names and breaking my glasses. They seemed so nice before, oh I can hear them snickering about me now! I didn't cry, but I wanted to. Please send help, or a squad of your bodyguards to break their legs. Bill lives on 6b Ashdown street. I know that because I was at his birthday party, not because I followed him home like some kind of criminal. Love, Tagro Band" Did he think the letters were read by his teachers? But then, he had added the address, so maybe he genuinely hoped she'd send special forces. It was funny, but four years into the job, nothing was unique. Next broadcast, she'd call the whole project a great success and announce it done. If only there'd be a next broadcast! A more typical one was next, the kind she hated the most. "Our dearest princess Anneli. The pepperlan fair is passing through town tomorrow and it's just so exciting! I never saw a fair before, and Etka tells me it passes through here every year! I was so bored in small Nabby hamlet, and now that I'm at the Dacoole boarding school the wonders of the world all come to me. What wonders have you seen in your life? From Penba Cango” Anneli ripped through a dozen more such banal letters, most short and obviously by very young children, some few filling the standard two sided sheet to the brim with thoughts and experiences. These worried her the most - didn't these children have friends to share their ramblings with? Despite her growing distaste, she read every word written to her. On very rare occasions, she'd be presented with an issue she could do something about: cases of abusive custodianship, miscarriages of justice, governmental overreach. Sometimes she wished these were more common, though she felt scummy for wishing it. Still, letters from the Codan Highlands were by default interesting, and her joy at having received letters from there was replinished as she opened a neatly written letter, clearly by an older hand. "Dearest princess Anneli. I've had much time to consider your offer of a royal ear. It seemed disingenuous - a ploy to get schoolchildren to do some writing. Why else only accept letters from those under 19? But my mind was changed by a story I heard. Gatterby and his troupe were charting the Enxua, one swampy valley at a time. At every turn there was another threat, each encounter with the natives another chance to be hated. There had been skirmishes and disputes, and most recently a duel with a chieftain, only barely scraped by. But when next they made camp, a delegation approached them. For rumors had spread of the strange foreigners, with their snapping tools and malformed speech. These men and women were outcasts, shunned from village and moiety for some petty deviance, either of action or appearance. Gatterby, ever shrewd, kept the group at arm's length throughout the expedition. When finally he was back ashore, his troupe thinned to breaking, his bags full with maps, his paper overflowing with descriptions of custom, culture, and history, the outcasts made their plea - take us with you. Grant us asylum. Teach us your ways, your justice, your light. Gatterby first excused himself responsibility, but the outcasts insisted. They argued, but finally he claimed most powerfully of all: 'There are poor and starving in Hetland, how are we to take on the burden of the poor and starving of the world?' But soon he got his reply. 'There are poor and starving by your king's feet, and yet he set aside riches for your expedition. Shall no higher call be pursued until none are hungry? Shall you build no statues? Write no histories? Explore no horizons? Pursue no profit? Shall greatness be scorned until all are equally miserable? There shall be no more poor and starving in Extabon for our presence, for we are wise in the ways of the world and have known much hardship already. Surely, if commerce and knowledge are as precious as you claim, we shall prosper, and so bring prosperity to those around us'. Gatterby had no recourse but to accept. It is a charming tale, a founding myth of Extabon's small and wealthy Enxuan community. Surely, you may know it already, but Extabon alone is home to a hundred strange nations, let alone Hetland, Codan, and Ricongeraka as a whole, even the princess of the people would not know each and every story. I beseech you, Anneli, take mind of the tale and hear my plea. My father is Aldelord of Kaltera, lands of the Baedeal valley and Conieata lakes. I will not sugarcoat, our family has not been the most eager of subjects. In the Paulden wars, Dillsong's uprising, and the wars of the reconciliation, each time we sought liberty from the Hetland yoke. And each time, we have come crawling back like beaten dogs. The century of peace has found us much reduced from the warriors of old, squabbles now in the courts and custom houses of Extabon and Saejen rather than the field of battle. Perhaps no blood is shed, but the sands of the hours are. It is in the name of such a dispute that I call upon you. The royal commission of electoral boundaries has recently taken survey of our lands and those to the south. In a report most detailed, they outline how the current boundaries 'fail to reflect the citizen body, in its geographic distribution and its cultural sensibilities' to quote the document. The new boundaries seem most strange to me, and most frightening as well. Kaltera is to be split between north Paulden and Sabour, along Turngeo road. When, as was his right, my father called assembly of the Mayors and Aldefathers of Kaltera, most refused to show up - in terms more or less severe, we were told that although some old treaty might claim that Aldelords might call an assembly to overrule royal decreee, in fact this had never been done, and that no one would vote with us anyways. That we are galled is an understatement! When our arms were laid down, we were assured of two things: Our status as Aldelords, and the integrity of our holdings. But these are now flouted to the wind! The holdings have become beholden to the electoral districts, and our authority as Aldelord undermined by the Mayors. These perhaps are not the grave injustices you care for. But is there less justice in the world for having our grievence heard, for having our rights respected? The royal sword is for all its subjects, not merely the meek. If Gatterby could hear the pleas of Enxuan muck, the Princess of Hetland can hear the pleas of a Codan noble.

Ildelord BauLong, First son of Aldelord Nincao of Kaltera." Anneli didn't know what to feel, other than gratified at having taken up the mantle of state. Here she was, still years from her majority, and matters of constitutional right were petitioned towards her! Did this make sense? Shouldn't such matters be brought before Shinag so long as he was the Royal representative in Codan? Surely he'd mention such a hilarious case had it come before him. And hilarious it was, at least to Anneli; a Codan noble boy, the most arrogant of the great-father's creations, whining about losing his ancient privileges? And to the elected assemblies no less! Anneli didn't know the history of his specific hole in the ground, as proud of it as he may have been, but she knew the larger story of the reconciliation, as it was euphemistically called. She picked something orange out of her fruit basket and opened another letter, the words sliding off her like so much water off a whale's back, her thoughts still on the Ildelord's plea. It had been a well written letter, that was all the clearer for having read more of the usual drivel. Were his rights truly being impinged upon? No property was changing hands by the updating of electoral boundaries. Surely whatever treaty had given the Aldelords certain rights had been updated, revised? Local representatives, even the most reactionary, were ever clawing away at the old nobles and their rights. And now thoughts were swirling, and just a shadow of a doubt - was the grievance legitimate? Was some law being flouted? Had there truly been a promise to keep the Aldelords and their holdongs in place? Had this promise been forgotten? For that was the highest this Ildelord could hope for - an update. A hasty vote in the popular assembly to allow the council of local representatives to overrule whatever treaty had been signed. Or perhaps the assembly would just call the treaty null and void. Both had happened before, upon matters of much graver consequence and greater controversy; no one would weep for this cause. A hasty note was scribbled, reminding her to look further into the matter. It went alongside (and atop) a hundred more such notes from over the years; she just couldn't being herself to throw them away. She found herself with a pit in her hand - evidently, the fruit had been something edible, though she couldn't even remember the taste. She read more letters, their meaning blurring as the hours dragged on. She pondered her options, ultimately deciding that there was some daylight left in her, even if none was left outside.




Locking the door was more work than unlocking it, but long practice made even this automatic. The school was abandoned. To the untrained eye many a monster might form in the shadows. Anneli could see only the amusing foibles of her agemates, etched into every stray scribble of pen and splatter of paint. Just before the entrance, a strange native tapestry was nailed into the ceiling. Memories of the escapde that had resulted in this placement of the cultural treasure amused Anneli as her roaming began. Soon enough though, she found herself walking a familiar alley, and a purpose became desirable. Short contemplation led her back to the letter from the Ildelord, with his story of the Gatterby expedition. Where had he gotten it from? She knew of the expedition by name only, was not even sure she recalled the century. Her ignorance irking her, she set foot towards the library. Perhaps unsurprisingly, the main route followed the observation probes. Anneli liked to think this meant something, about the confluence between new science and old wisdom, but she hadn't quite formed this into anything coherent. The sounds of the night grew ever louder as the town center retreated behind her; nocturnal bugs and birds were the main culprits, what sounded like high shrills of murderous rage emanating from their nests and dens. That they were actually mating calls made them no more pleasant, not least for the frequent intrusion of the lizards who enjoyed devouring the mating birds. The sounds of that sort of encounter added to the cacophony. The strange thing was just how loud the sounds were growing, as if emanating from the library. It struck Anneli that though she expected the library to be open, the streets were empty, and Nakotebo was not so sleepy a town. But before she knew it she had turned the bend, and before her stood the library in its mountain shelter, a tunnel dug deep into the sheer cliff face. It was the kind of cliff to send an Extabon poet into a fit of apoplectic soliloquy, but in Nakotebo it was just a nuisance; another feature of the geography for city hall to deal with in the quest to provide the citizens with adequate services. And it had been dealt with: a tunnel two armspans in diameter and fifty meters in length came off the street to lead into a cave deep within the rock. Said cave had been converted into a library, respectable by the standard of a useful library, though perhaps not by Anneli's. Still, she was sure it'd have something about the Gatterby expedition. But it had now become clear that the nights cacophony was somehow emanating from the library as much as from the surrounding jungle. A delighted shiver ran its was down Anneli's back, wonder at the novelty overwhelming whatever fear the strangeness might've sparked. Pacing down the tunnel, the sounds of chanting, drums, the snapping of bells, and the low whistle of the parallel pipes joined the din. She climbed the steps before the entrance, and the warm glow of roaring fire hit her with as much heat as surprise. A look about the cavern gave rise to far more questions than answers: men and women, masked and cloaked, danced about the flames. From the second storey, books and bookshelves were flung into the flames. All around sprinted teppendos, dog-like creatures with no tail and the uncanny tendency to run upright like a roadrunner. Almost more shocking than the destruction were the brilliant Talotau birds, resplendent in violent hues of red and gold. Three of them circled the fire, carried by the warm updraft. As natural as the birds looked above the fire, colors matching those of the flames, the cave was barely ten of their wingspans in height; Anneli was sure they must be at least uncomfortable, if not roasting. She gathered her wits, the rhythm of the dance a terrifying refrain against which to steel herself. She inched further inwards, in search of a corner from which to view the proceedings; surely she'd be noticed sooner or later, standing in the entrance? It was only as she searched for such a cranny that she began to contemplate calling for some kind of intervention. But what would be appropriate? The direct route was the first to come to mind: Announce who she was. Demand an explanation. Mete out preliminary justice, then call upon royal agents and local officials to conduct a full investigation. More subtle options were also available: Locate the Canper and have him shut the whole thing down. Send an anonymous tip to law enforcement. Lay low, observe, perhaps let the whole thing slide. She couldn't let herself do that, not quite - she still wanted a book on the Gatterby expedition. With head held high, she stepped away from the wall and strode towards those bookshelves still unburned. Perhaps she was thrown strange glances, but as the people were masked she couldn't really tell. Cookbooks and textbooks, novels and technical manuals, all lay strewn across the stone floor, carpets and padding having been stripped away earlier in the night. Some vestigal semblance of order remained; outdated encyclopedias and esoteric mysticisim lay orderly in their dark corners. Biographies too were in their place, though some few had already met their fate. Order had not been preserved however, and Anneli couldn't see herself working through a full academic biography, not with uer schedule. A scantly dressed man in a multicolor mask ran towards her, his lumbering gait betraying his sedentary habits. Anneli took the initiative. "Where are the histories? The popular ones, or at least the readable ones. I want the story of an event, not a debate over the details of grain financing in antiquity" she asked, as if he were a librarian. He came to a stop, sweating and heaving, though whether from the exertion of the jog or simply from the flames was impossible to tell. Huffing, he angrily rebuked her in his heavily accented tone. "And have you come to steal this too? To make a mockery of the struggle? Burn and drown, imp" with which he picked up a biography of Shandejek the second and ran back towards the flames. Anneli kept searching for a little while, but more and more people came to ogle and jeer at her. Clearly they knew who she was, though they didn't quite dare doing anything. She tried to pick up details, though mostly it became clear that the people of Nakotebo weren't in the best shape; fatty and pudgy, their scandalous clothing and masks made for a comical sight. Head held high, Anneli crossed the room, towards the central flame. At first there was a bit of a hush, but soon the noise picked up again. And it formed into shouts and cries, anguish and rage. Most was shouted in a ceremonial tongue, though some in the vernacular. As if phase changed in a crystal, the shouts unified - cries of 'Thief!' and 'Pillager!' resounding over all others, surprisingly even those shouts of 'Tyrant!'. She stood before the fire, and scanned the room for someone to meet her eyes. Then she raised her hands for attention, though she did not wait for silence before speaking. "Today I have talked to your Canper. He assured me that the people of Ricongeraka were eager to please, waiting for a chance to prove themselves. Well, what have you proved? That you're a superstitious mess of anger? Burning books, burning knowledge, joining the frenzy of the wild? Shout out your demands, your complaints, your grievances! I am the fourth child of the third generation of the house of Apogee, first of the greatest of nations in two worlds, and I shall judge your claims!" the shouting had faded into murmurs as she spoke, and almost she thought they'd been cowed into shame. But it was not to be, for a thin man, gray of hair and scarred of body, painted in swirls of paint and mud, took the lead. "You have stolen away our skies. The Tianyug have faded, their lesser siblings and bitter rivals now claim sole dominion of the night. Queen of demons, thief of stars, your words ring hollow! Peace, my fellows, we wanted peace!" he shouted the last sentence, as if the added volume would somehow negate the blatant lie in his words. Shouts in ancient tongues echoed throughout the cavern. Anneli suspected that he did not quite mean peace, that this was just the best translation he could come up with for a more sinister term in the old native languages. "Peace! See that you leave, see you are unwelcome. No longer shall we countenance a tiger in our midst! But no, you demand an account of us? The tyrant demands justice from her prey!" he spoke for the crowd, above and below, and all around, voice cast like the best stage actors. Alongside the earlier call for peace, his strange phrasing confirmed to Anneli that he was uncomfortable with Hettel, the common language not just of the empire but the world. "And so you burn books? Will that bring back the Tianyug? Is destruction the most you can dream to do? What does that make you, and what does that make your forefathers? They handed us the grand scepter, the jewels of the sea, the light of the holy flame. And what did they ask of us, in return for everything? To build Ricongeraka, and to protect the Talotau birds. They were wise, wise beyond our greatest minds - who'd think a species could go extinct? But they saw the danger. Who'd think Enxua would burn the Paernidies? And Golay? Only Ricongeraka was spared, for even the mad revolutionaries in Enxua would not dare cross the house of Apogee. And you're unhappy with us for not burning your books and cities, eo you do it yourselves! Yes, your forefathers would be very proud" Anneli shouted to the room, a venemous anger in her manner. As most people, the mob struggled with embracing the lesser evil, and their anger burned brighter, now focused against her. With a mental kick, Anneli realized that the people of Ricongeraka, whilst as patriotic as any other, were not particularly filialy inclined; their ancestors' wisdom was more likely to enrage than shame them. The way out wasn't yet blocked, but the mass of people drew thicker around her. If she didnt bolt soon, she'd truly be trapped. A bird screeched, breaking her contemplation. And the scarred man had found his tongue. "See her duplicity! She tries to cow us into the quivering fears of our grandfathers, and of what danger does she claim to protect us? From Enxua and their ancestor worship! She tells us stories? I'll tell you the truth! Walk outside, and what will you see? A dark night, a blank sky, an orange glow from every direction but the sea. And you'll see some false lights: probes to pervert knowledge, hulks of dead metal hurtling through just beyond air's grasp. And the pretenders now rule the sky unchallenged, unblemished by the slaying of the stars!" He shouted. And now the danger seemed ever more real. No longer did she stand in place, now she was pacing the shrinking clearing her aura still commanded. And she wanted to scream that what the man was saying was stupid and wrong, on every level and from every angle. But even had she been heard out, she thought it unlikely any would be swayed by an angry tirade. She cast her gaze for an opening, for movement irregular or contrary to the crowd's rhythm. She realized that panic was seizing hold, and took stock. Donning her most imperious face and standing straight, she looked out to assess the very real danger. But the danger was only as real as it would be allowed to get, and she could decide part of that. She spoke calmly, or at least hoped she did. "Well, you've said all you have to say, and I must say I'm very disappointed in you. But it is you city, and your library, and you'll pay for a new one. Good evening to you all" she turned to go, her path a wide arc round the fire, still roaring with its gluttonous meal of knowledge. There was some resistance, some stubborn walls of masked men that would not budge at first. Instead of walking around, she stared them down. There wasn't quite a silence in the room; the activity continued, birds crying and books shoveled into the fire from further and further recesses. But it was not the sound of vitriol and violence, it was a background thing: the frantic chatter of a classroom, the excited babble of a sporting event, the tuneless parrot of the street. All eventually gave way to her, and Anneli found herself back at the wide yawning tunnel. Some of the crowd were still trying to work their way towards her, but they mysteriously dropped flat each time. Anneli was relieved - agents of the crown had somehow found a way to blend into this crowd. How they'd gotten past her and into the crowd was a mystery, though she supposed it was possible there were simply agents spread everywhere in Nakotebo, and these happened to be the ones around her. Some few people still stared at her, anger obvious despite the masks. Glancing around for some symbol of defiance, she spotted a small featureless brown leatherbound book at her feet. She lifted the book from the ground, and made a show of dusting it off. Then she turned back towards town, and her rooms.




There were a hundred tasks before her and none seemed adequate. A hundred options, and yet she couldn't think of anything she wanted to do. There were still letters to read and write, still schoolwork and statecraft to study, and there were still booklets of poetry from Extabon, gleaming in their foil covers, tantalizing. And there was the leatherbound book, her symbol, her silent battle cry, her banner that proclaimed 'This is what the house of Apogee stands for!'. But she didn't actually want to read it. She knew she was tired, knew she should sleep, and knew she couldn't. Almost on instinct, the second letter from Codan was withdrawn. The tension melted away in the face of the familiar script, neatly typewritten, words crossed out by pen every other sentence; replaced by tighter adverbs or nothing at all.

"Anneli it's been far too long! Your missives have been few and their contents sorely short! And complaining about pageantry and custom? It's quite unlike you! I know you love my plays. More, you love the theater: the lights and stage, the orchestra! All the little rituals of preparation - from dress and perfume to gossip and rumor, you've always been the truest friend. And your family always prattles on and on about the equal peoples of the empire, their ancient and dignified custom, surely you don't mean to tell me that Ricongeraka fire dances don't stack up against highland theater? That would be exquisitely unpolitic of you! And at a time like this, with all the losses and clammering in the markets, a cultural scandle could be disastrous! As for your poems, I daresay they're of a poor sort; all disconsolate and lachrymose. Every Nabach chewer can (and does!) bemoan the dismal world they inhabit. It's nice that you've chosen history as your muse, (romantic pining is all too dull these days,) but I'm afraid it comes off as all too similiar when you pine for 'impossible visions of glory in service, to win the first kill, fall in line with great heroes; the men and the gods, the sun and the rains'. It's all just good feelings you wish you'd had, right? Naturally, the Extabon Tankerette wants to publish all five of your poems. But I know you can do better Anneli! You've seen more human woe than the most lucratively employed therapist, there must be so much to draw on! Like this story about a lost racehorse you told me last winter, that's something really special! Write a poem about it dearie, in the old epic style, I'm sure you can. It's the circuit you'll really want, high class theater and operatic performance. And they do this for the most artificial drivel! Just this week I was out on stage at the Roaring Arc theater, performing 'Savion's Hurrah', and the whole thing was bookended on both sides by readings from Bucheller! It was the most marvelous juxtaposition - the sad weepy string accompaniment hadn't even died down when the sweeping orchestra of the first scene began! And so I'm on stage, bawling out my melodramatic longing for the duke of Eister, and no one is sympathizing with the character! They've just heard a heart wrenching lament for the transience of romance and joy! And it's worse than detached amusement, its not even insouciant! They pity the character! So the whole great romantic arc seems to them just the opening act of a greater tragedy, wherein slowly all the lust and zest is worn away by monotony, and any new dreams seem as pointlessly unsatisfying as the old. Anneli, is this the mood you want for a tale of swashbuckling adventure? And it's all even worse with all the admirers and their letters. Oh Anneli, don't you miss our contemptuous laughter? Don't you yearn for those long evenings, letter after letter of gushing praise for us to mock? Your prepubescent voice always stuck with me, it sounded so much funnier coming from you; we weren't very nice girls at all, but you were positively mean. Do tell me if you're being mean, Anneli dearest! I wouldn't want Ricongeraka to dim your lucent wit. From what you tell me they're a sarcastic lot, they don't take themselves too seriously. Well, you must take yourself seriously on the stage, but outside it? I tell you, people here take themselves far too seriously. The men of business, the men of industry, they're all in a tizzy each time a ship sinks or a factory burns. You'd think they need the money, to hear them natter on at balls and receptions. But they don't! Just the other day the manager cajoled me into yet another meeting with old Gharin. He's a decent coot, but I fear he's also a decent lawyer - and he's always worried about money. It's not pleasant to see him at the best of times, thanks to his dreadful office in Extabon. He's such a cheapskate he bought an old attic on the West side! It's positively falling apart; the wooden walls are rotten through, rats scurry through the ventilation, and the water out of the pipes is always tinged yellowy-green. So there I was, pulled up as a luminary, gracing the unwashed masses, thinking about the theaters I perform in and the company I keep. I told myself that the pungent smell of the wet market was the last straw, but I've thought that every time. I've asked the manager about firing Gharin, but he insists he's the best. I suppose I could fire the manager, but then I'd need to call him right back to find me another one! Gharin the Gaunt was pleased to see me, but he's always happy before he gets down to business. I wonder why he keeps at it when it inevitably gets him down. Talking of my contracts for the coming season was a joy, and in my soul I could already see the audience at each great stage: The Amberjack, the Castaway, the Salt Flat, and the Boulmay. But midway through he got distracted, I forget why. Probably some stray comment I made about the chatter back at a reception. It set Gharin the ghost alight! With more passion than I imagined his old skin could contain, he ranted and tiraded against the speculators and skeptics. Anneli, you have been keeping up with politics, haven't you? What a silly thing to say, what are you if not political culture incarnate? But I don't, so I had no idea what he was on about when he kept using the terms 'Skeptic' and 'Speculator' as if they were proper nouns. He had a shocking amount to say, I fear he hasn't another audience for which to tirade. Eventually it became clear his energy was coming from a place of youthful hope, but don't credit me with an abundance of deductive power - he said as much himself. Spoke of some great broadcast, one of the first. I'd have gotten a better sense for his excitement if he'd talked about its contents, but instead he harped on about the aesthetic of the event and I quite lost him. That isn't to say he wasn't rather eloquent, just that said eloquence wasn't building up to anything: he talked of the state of the city, the rapid construction of a special display outside Parliament. He talked of the winter air, the stinging cold, the blinking and sniffling, and the crowd unperturbed by the discomfort. And he talked of his friends and teachers, each too caught up in the excitement to discuss or do anything else. He described it as a sort of mass hysteria, one he was utterly drowned in himself. And then he looked at me, as if expecting to see the same fervor in my eyes as well. When he failed to find it, his face gesticulated sadness in a way I don't think faces ought to. Perhaps it comes with age. Everyone is growing restless, Anneli, even Gharin, and I really ought to stay out of it. But if whatever is going on is exciting even old Gharin, then it might be worth turning our gaze outwards a bit; past our sadness and introspection, past melancholy longing, and towards that which can move even old fossils to tears.

Do come back soon, for I'm sure you could write letters and hear complaints from my tour just as well as you can from Nakotebo.

Ever your friend, Cantiza the black"

As she read, Anneli's heartbeat raced just a little slower, her errant thoughts grew just a bit calmer, and the frantic edge of panic receded just out of reach. Her friend's ignorance of even the most basic of history was a source of eternal amusement, her semi-ironic obsession with prestige a mark of the child Anneli knew she still was. She gazed about the room, a thousand memories shared popping to the front of her mind: reading obsessive fan mail, putting on shows with the servant girls, memorizing great speeches from history and play, sharing wild rumor from balls and galas, planning pranks upon the royal siblings, conspiring to cheat at cards, and getting caught immediately since they weren't any good at it. And a preponderance of those shared joys were had at just such hours, and in just such circumstances: nearing midnight, in the dim lights of lamplight, sleep put off despite the urgent demands of tomorrow. The heavy blanket of nostalgia donned, Anneli couldn't have retained consciousness had she wanted to.




The circulation of her body was the only alarm clock Anneli needed. Mind and muscles pined for action, sure in the knowledge of youth and good health. The kidney's reminder was a starker thing, overnight persistence forging a blade of urgency impossible to ignore. Urgency, and hygiene, and lastly routine, and Anneli's day was well underway at an hour most of her indolent peers yet slumbered. Each day posed demands of its own, though none were unique: royal missives to review, languages to practice, classics to memorize, culture to absorb, legal precedent to study, and the ever growing pile of letters to be kept in check. Anneli had once complained that those near the succession were not nearly so taxed, a complaint her aged grandmother had not taken kindly to. Her grandmother never bothered explaining herself. Anneli supposed that after decades of ultimate authority, one stopped bothering justifying their actions. That morning though, the many regular tasks were in a state to be ignored for just a little longer. They'd never be finished, after all - learning would be a lifelong task for Anneli. Instead, Anneli picked out a newspaper from the Codan delivery and skimmed the headlines. She'd long since learned that newspapers had the lowest knowledge to investment ratio of all media, though somewhat less for the regional papers that occasionally let genuinely important knowledge through. Besides, avid readers that they might be, most people only remembered the headlines. There was all the usual headline guff - from stars and celebrities committing faux pas to transnational corporations getting sued by obscure statelets in the middle of the ocean. Anneli browsed for something to connect to Cantiza’s story, a catalyst to inflame tension long simmering. Nothing much stood out, though she did chuckle at finding mention of the Kaltera debacle. In a strange twist of fate, the typically populist paper agitated rather strongly against the planned redistricting. Skimming through more headlines, it became clear the paper opposed whatever the government happened to be doing, ideology be damned. Of all the possible biases, Anneli supposed this was a rather tame one. At last she came upon a short article, not a third of a page in length, and all was clear - there had been a disaster. Something terrible had happened to one of the trading ports on Life, though what exactly? Some people were dead and some infrastructure destroyed, but was that all? It was clear that there would be no large shipment back from the sister moon, but beyond that the article knew nothing. That the article was so well hidden and so short on speculation was a show of uncharacteristic journalistic integrity on the part of the editors, though less charitable explanations were also quick at hand. But speculation would do no good, and other tasks reared their head, the strict regiment of schooling almost the least among them. She headed down towards the mess hall, the previous night's events finally regaining her interest, and her horror. Every glance at the cooks and staff in their usual gaudy dress was a reminder of where she was. Every stray curse or mutter in the native tongue was a flash of fire. Long practice forced her thoughts back to her duties: know the people. Know their problems. Know their temperament, and know their values. Well, they valued old superstitions and deranged lunacy. Anneli shivered at the thought of reporting such findings to her grandmother, but still the thought comforted her. For their part, the staff’s glances towards her were elevated in tension, some small confirmation that they'd either taken part in or heard of last night's debacle. The thought of her very presence commanding fear was a most pleasing one, and she carried that air of divine authority right out of the mess hall and into the classroom. The teacher Mr Copal was there, as punctual as Anneli: he too was hours into the work day, though his duties were routine in a way Anneli's would never be. There were tests to grade and faculty politics to wrangle, and perhaps a pet project that'd go nowhere - the school’s history was replete with them. Music clubs and theater productions, research programs and excellence programs, but none of them stuck around for long. There was an entropy to Nakotebo, the air conducting ambition out of the people and into the ether. As if to prove her point, the ornate clock inset over the blackboard had been broken since before Anneli had come, most of a year prior. Anneli wasn't in the habit of fussing over such minutiae, but the other students seemed to think a broken clock meant broken time, the timetable a mere suggestion. Modulating her tone to careful nonjudgmental firmness, Anneli asked her teacher “are lessons going to take place today?” Then, with a bit more authority “if not, I'd like your help finding materials on the Gatterby expedition” Mr Copal raised a thin eyebrow at the request, a small shake of his head indicating all Anneli needed to know. With a sigh, Anneli took her place at the back of the class and opened the top of her desk. Like everything else in Nakotebo in any way connected to her, a puzzle of locks guarded it, though a less elaborate one than her room. After all, her schoolmates were the sole threat to it, and nothing of much import was ever stored there. The books of poetry were like to take offence at this, but the truth was that only Anneli cared for them. These compendiums had already lain in her desk for months, and frequent use had taken its toll - the cover’s black shine had faded to the muted dark gray of an advanced math textbook, the binding worn near to failure. Still, she had not finished reading the full contents, let alone ruminated upon each line as if it were of a holy text. So she read, turning the words upon themselves, marvelling at the turns of phrase and linguistic sophistication. Mouthing the words, she searched for clever twists of the tongue, syllables matching not just their assigned word, but a grander flowing structure. Her fellow students were arriving by the time she'd worked her way through a single page, and she once again mourned the care which she gave each word. Clad in a sleeveless dress, baubles of all kinds swaying from her striply dyed hair, Vanenuell took her seat in front of Anneli. Instead of apologizing for her tardiness or abashedly shrinking in on herself, the girl turned to her right and loudly declared something dumb to her classmate. Anneli wanted to groan, wanted to smack the girl upside the head, and wanted to nail her mouth shut. Considering how ill disposed she was towards the citizenry that day, the contempt was mild. Her concentration broken, Anneli put the magazine away and set about reading more letters. She hadn't the mind to write any replies, but that was fine - she just had to read them all. For that purpose, she always had a stack in her desk, constantly cycled. The first few were generic tosh, and other pursuits tempted her, when a unique letter, dated almost two months prior, came up. It read:

“I stand between two hills of flame,

The rage is my father's eternal shame.

At times I wish to stand calm, to stand tall,

To see the sky, see anything at all.

I trek across the unburned land, my stride is lame,

Of green forests and white mountains, I answer the call.

Racing ahead for the night's embrace and its shocking words - heave to, save your souls, pride cometh before the fall.




There is a blight afar, upon the life of the night.

Sand falls and the sun shines bright, melting the sand and the glass it beholds, until sand is now glass and glass is now cold.

So weep from afar, princess of two worlds. Weep, and whoop, and make your spittle pearls”

Anneli had no idea what it meant, other than it didn't seem to be written from a school. That bothered her - the school system was meant to limit her obligation to the youth, and if anyone could send a letter, her workload might just double, or worse. And besides, adults were always so sad, their problems all the same monotonous aches and ennui. So, this letter had found its way into her stacks, despite no sign of school or government upon it. That meant it was some form of personal correspondence, such as that from Shinag and Cantiza. Plenty of old friends knew her location, but they were mostly a self obsessed lot; she couldn't imagine them tracking down the shipping address, obtaining paper and envelope, and bothering to write something, even if it was just to mess with her. Their taste in humor was a good bit more juvenile, kept so by a self imposed shelteredness. Anneli had been unable to interest them in politics, in history, even innuendo seemed to go over their heads. In a more thoughtful lot, this proclivity would've made them monkish. As they were, monkeyish was more appropriate. By process of elimination, a classmate or staff member was responsible. Various suspects crossed her mind, but the deductive thread was broken by Vanenuell’s excited howls: “Did you see that Anneli? Such a klutz! Fell from the mango tree and hit her head. And now what'll she do? Go to the nurse, beg for the day off? Wail and howl, cry for sympathy? Then she'll show up to the Grove as if nothing ever happened” said Vanenuell, all the while indicating a tall skinny girl clutching her head, dazedly glancing about for witnesses. Anneli had once chided her classmates for their wanton cruelty to each other. But as the tides of social favor shifted, it became clear that the main difference between victim and perpetrator was relative power - the bullied were not kind, they were simply powerless. Vanenuell went on, Anneli's vacant stare evidently taken for rapt attention: “she'll say all sorts of horrible things, you know, my mother told me so. Scentalo had just served the fried bananas, and my mother had gathered the whole circle for a stand. You wouldn't know how awfully dull they are, but the circle always keeps things fresh.” Anneli reluctantly listened to the prattle, and noted to herself that Vanenuell was already wrong on one count: Anneli indeed knew how dull Ricongerakan standings were, partially from personal experience, but mostly from her classmates’ incessant whining. Anneli suspected that Ricongeraka's reputation for sarcasm was in large part fuelled by their prideful contempt for their own traditions. “The circle whispered some dreadful hilarity, no one was standing up straight from the laughter. Usually my mother would interrupt by glaring at me and reading some old aphorism out loud, but instead she let our laughter run its course. My mother is never quiet, especially not when I'm loud at the standing! She had our attention, and she warned us that some awful rumors were going to be spread by some people tomorrow. Well, today, by now. T’eketia is one of them, Bau another, Lipen…” Vanenuell rattled off names with gusto, but Anneli had already lost interest. It was such a vague threat; rumor is universal, one more shouldn't be noteworthy. The swell of conversation filled the classroom, and though a plurality of seats still stood empty, Mr Copal had begun scratching into the blackboard. Final stragglers hurried through the door, their haste marking a temperament of an unhappy medium between timeless frivolity and calendarial concern. “Morning! All at the ready?” Mr Copal announced, the clipped sound of his north Hetland accent a whip to attention. Vanenuell stretched, the bells and beads adorning her clattering like a wind chime. Below Mr Copal’s nose, Bau clicked away at a puzzle cube. Desks lining the room's edge hummed with the buzz of overlapping whispers. Only the center was silent, mostly thanks to an absence of troublemakers. Sure in the knowledge that further reprimand would do no good, Mr Copal, wise beyond his years (though he was in his forties), began instructing. Anneli recognized the style, and more so she recognized the contents - it was the standard history curriculum, the broad strokes so familiar they bordered on folklore. Despite the weary demeanor, there was real energy in Mr Copal’s instruction. “Everyone has read Aldelord Coltaire’s ‘Conrad’s reign’, it's the most read history this side of the ember ages” he didn't pause, though students snickered that the book was only so read thanks to its mandatory place in school curriculums. Anneli thought his use of the term ‘ember ages’ was a tad amateurish - they were called ‘late premodern’ in academic circles. “But even at its first publication, critics were vicious. Today, we'll read a scathing review from the time, by then representative for Gadcastle and Faln, Capton Schoupermin. Remember the journal excerpts and parliamentary minutes we've gone over in class, and consider - where is the criticism correct? Where is it only incidentally so? Has newly discovered evidence supported Coltaire's thesis? If not, has it necessarily strengthened Capton’s? Keep these questions in mind as we read, and I shall call upon you all in turn to read a part” Mr Copal indicated that the material was somewhere in the textbooks, and waited silently for each student to locate it. Vanenuell opened her desk and glanced around, then closed it with as much grace as she could manage. She glanced back at Anneli and gave a conspiratorial wink, then turned back to arguing some triviality with her friend. Delays and complaints followed each time a new student was called upon, and so not half the material had been read when the bell rang. Anneli's heart went out to her teacher, though that didn't mean she herself was particularly attentive - she already knew the material, and there was much to occupy her. Walking down dilapidated wooden stairs, it occurred to her that the Canper hadn't been present last night. Perhaps there was some rift, a sane faction to counterbalance the loons. Politicians in Extabon loved appealing to the moderate majority, perhaps they existed in Nakotebo as well? Anneli was hesitant to pursue such explicitly political action - soon enough her year would be up, and her education would continue in some other exotic corner of the world. As she was wont to do, her pondering had slowed her to a crawl. The sound of clattering chatter forced her senses back to the forefront of her mind, and she hurried her steps. She’d reached ground level, the sports ground in sight, when the wave hit her: more truly a gaggle than ever geese made, Vanenuell and her gang engulfed Anneli into their fold. And the clamor was awful, the utterer of each banality lost in the noise: “Oh yes, Dien dragged Gale’s cape through the mud yesterday” “Stupid twits!” “Did I show you the love letters I got last week?” “How many? More than T’eketia?” “Vanny, where did you put that bracelet I got you? You wouldn't have left it anywhere but the most glowingly visible spot, would you?” “Gale had whatever he got coming. Remember how he punched Sponti after he tripped at the open run? As if they'd have a chance of winning without him!” Anneli was engulfed, but not bewildered. It wasn't rare for her peers to associate with her forcibly, in hopes of some higher status. What was strange was that the group around her was in the ascendency - their numbers and audacity were proof enough. By the sheer weight of the stream, Anneli deduced the group couldn't possibly originate from a single class. Whilst the classes intermingled, they were split by ability, and those higher tended to rightfully disdain those lower. All this was to say, something extraordinary was happening. She was jostled along towards the lower corridors, a labyrinth connecting classrooms to storerooms, and paramores to each other's dormitories. All the while, Anneli cooperated, mostly from condescension: these layabouts and morons couldn't coordinate a kidnapping if their sorry lives depended on it. As daylight faded to lamplight, the chatter grew as dim as the light. Sparse jabs and rye retorts were bandied, but without the hubbub of a hundred conversations, they fell upon too wide an audience to be appreciated. Finally they stopped in one of the wider corridors, and Anneli had the chance to judge the character of the assembly. Spread about from wall to wall, girls from all classes and all years milled about looking for friends. A cadre of girls at the head of the pack, Vanenuell chief among them, stood as a wall to keep the herd in line. It appeared she was not the only one swept up, though how many were core members of the conspiracy was unclear. No boys were in sight, and above all this oddity stood out to Anneli; even if the plan had been to sweep up the girls, surely a boy or two would've noticed, and followed out of curiosity if nothing else? As she mulled over the explanations, Vanenuell stood to speak. “Have you what to say? Have I what to say? I speak from the heart and I speak from the mind, so stand with me or stand behind!” Anneli's eyebrows shot up at the opening and the tone - Vanenuell was mimicking a standing! “Vanenuell thinks we're children!” Someone shouted from the crowd. Other shouts followed: “Standings are done in Shanbila! Hettel is for foreigners!” “Classical Shanbila!” “You couldn't tell classical Shanbila from Enxua Pygmy!” Vanenuell motioned for silence, and though she didn't get it, her voice soon shaped the shouts back into murmurs. “We’ll have no stuffy standing, but everyone need pay attention. Those with neglectful parents and those from foreign lands, they too have their part to play” Vanenuell’s speech seemed somewhat stilted to Anneli's trained ear; the words were clearly not hers, or perhaps simply rehearsed. “Foreign lands?” Anneli muttered to the girl next to her, a tall yet chubby native of Ricongeraka; beads hung from bracelets round her exposed forearms, a strange choice even for a Ricongerakan. Anneli hoped the girl's eccentricity would prove an asset. The girl turned to Anneli, no light of realization in her eyes. “Yah, like, transfer students from Codan and Hetland and Extabon? They dress up with these funny long sleeves, no jewelry at all, and don't speak a word of Shanbila - just Hettel. Funny!” The girl said, seemingly unaware that Anneli was dressed in just such a fashion, and was speaking Hettel even as the corridor erupted into incomprehensible shouts of Shanbila. “Do you think Extabon is somehow a separate country to Hetland?” Anneli couldn't contain her indignation, letting the thought slip into speech. The girl seemed unoffended: “Of course it's a separate country! There's Extabon fashion, Extabon food, Extabon culture, Extabon politics, everything. I mean, there's four countries in the empire, right?” Anneli thought on this a moment: in a way, the girl was right. Extabon was an island unto itself, as she'd had occasion to lament. From another, this would've been a shrewd insight into the rift between the still genteel and reactionary masses of the Hetland plains to the growing entrepreneurial and expansionist city folk across the breadth of empire. This had obviously not been the girl's impression though; she genuinely thought Extabon was the fourth country of the empire. She hadn't the time to process her thoughts into cogency before Vanenuell was once more in control of the room. “We are all victims of powers greater than ourselves. Our Canper and our teachers, our parents and our mayor, put on a brave face. But things are not right! You all know it, you all feel it, be you what you may!” Vanenuell paused, for shouts had erupted once more, though not entirely unsupportive ones. Ancient instinct stirring within her, Anneli angled for a space from which to grandstand. The acoustics were awful and the ground mostly level, but a slight upward slope lay in the direction of the mass’s back. Anneli worked her way through, never jostling, never pushing, simply displacing those who wanted the forward position. And all the while, Vanenuell spoke. “Nakotebo has never been a large town, and our lives have always been harsh. We are small people with small ambitions: to be left alone, to live and love and worship and die in peace” now resistance was fading, misplaced civic pride temporarily capturing all but the most obstinate and prideful. The speech would not have gone down nearly so well with the boys, which still didn't explain their absence: just why Vanenuell might not have wanted them around. Anneli couldn't believe it was merely parsimonious luck behind the gender filter. “And ever have we been a welcoming people! When the Enxua explorers sought refuge from storm and beast, who but us provided hospitality? When good king S’kentot needed the unanimous assent of the outland to unify Ricongeraka, who but us led the charge in submission? And now too, we welcome without resistance people from a land stranger still - soft pale kings and their hard subordinates, representatives of chilly farmers who couldn't fathom the Ricongerakan sky” Anneli had reached the back, where a line of burly girls held ranks. It seemed likely such a line existed at the other end as well. They didn't seem like students, but Anneli hadn't memorized each of the hundreds of faces of the school body. “How tough were the times that this is your resort? Surely you don't believe this drivel, whatever it is - you're being paid. Who in wealthy Nakotebo needs money with such urgency?” Anneli was out on a limb, and the possibility remained the girls were imported from elsewhere on the island. But they were from the island, their light brown skin and low eyebrows were proof enough of that. The girls merely stared, unfazed by Anneli's appeal. Vanenuell turned to face other parts of the crowd, her voice carrying strangely through the low ceilinged corridor. “But these foreigners have taken a step too far. We cannot lay our lives and souls at the feet of people determined to erase us. We are sharp! We are attentive! We see the signs, but are we brave enough to act upon them?” Anneli was now convinced the speech wasn't Vanenuell’s. Vanenuell wouldn't have noticed the signs an Enxua exiling corps left behind, much less the evidence of insidious cultural suppression. And the crowd seemed to agree, for there were not a few chuckles: “What have you noticed Vanny?” “What are you on about? Didn't you say something had happened?” “Great speech, you'll win the city seat, let's go back up now - I want to watch the boys’ game” “Standings are always boring!” The guards at the crowd’s edge were shifting, sensing that a stampede might come. To Anneli, it seemed a moment of opportunity - now that the crowd was discontent, surely she could forge them into some useful form. Her voice that of imperial command, she spoke to the room. The acoustics were poor, and the hubbub considerable - surely, the more distant girls heard nothing of her speech. “What yoke has so heavily burdened Ricongeraka? A Ricongerakan is born into the wealthiest state in two worlds, probably three. A Ricongerakan is free from the arbitrary rule of a tyrant. He is free under a unified system of law, a system he has a voice in! A system where he is protected from injustice, where he may walk the streets at midnight and fear for neither his life nor his wallet! Where else in two worlds is that true? In Ashkev, where foreigners mustn't stray from the approved streets or risk arrest? In great Saldeli, where the smoke and soot of the factories choke babes and sicken the hearty? Or do you long that Nakotebo be like superstitious Waydaub, animal and blood sacrifices putrefying the streets? I know of legitimate grievances; for heavy is the weight of unity, and great is the burden of peace. But better these than the alternative! Lodge your complaints with the Canper, petition your representatives for change, snidely sneer at Hettish culture. But do not take it upon yourselves to force the needle - when it snaps, no one will be the better for it.” Anneli once again found herself given a wide berth, the guards having stepped back and the crowd having stepped forwards. A rectangle of control, Anneli gauged it - its size signaled her influence. Some of the girls had the grace to seem shamed or even swayed by Anneli's words, and once more Anneli wondered at the boys' absence - intuition hinted they'd be a more receptive audience, though she couldn't nail down the source of this intuition. Vanenuell gaped, as if she hadn't realized Anneli was present. And perhaps she hadn't, and was truly unprepared. Vanenuell was pushed aside by a short black haired girl in a dress so modest it was nearly Hettish. She spoke to the crowd in the bland tone of an announcer, clear and booming, but only perfunctorily emotional. “Anneli has graced us with the royal presence. How rare and noble! Do you all know who Anneli is, why she speaks such strange words? Anneli is the fourth daughter of Prince Dalshu, second son of the most imperial Highnesses. And she has graced us! She has come! To our ramshackle town, nowhere’s dogeared corner, to sleepy Nakotebo. Truly we are honored. And what care we for comfort and pride? We welcome her, of course! She attends our classes and our services, she observes our habits and our hobbies. We could only wish for such thoughtful rulers! And she has observed. And she has seen. And she'll run back to the SQF and the CSD, and she'll say only the nicest things about us. As we're always told, it's the attention of a dutiful parent - and who’d want to hide anything from her parents?” The crowd was shifting again, taken in with the suave bland tones. But though the words were snide, they rang hollow in Anneli's trained ear. So far, she'd been as vague as Vanenuell had been - surely the girls could see that? Anneli let her speak, surely this newcomer was full of fluff. “What determines how well we live? Our fortune and our actions. But our masters are kind! Neither misfortune nor inaction impede us now. And our masters are wise and generous - do we not vote and elect the lawmakers? Those of the nation, and those of Ricongeraka? And of course, as willful participants, how could we object to these laws? Are we not their architects?” Anneli scoffed, happy to let the girl ramble - surely, no one here cared about the delicate balance of local and central power in the empire? “And yet, there is a certain asymmetry to our proud alliance. When Hetland levies a tax on the lands, Ricongeraka pays. We don't complain: our representatives must've thought it best. When Hetland needs a flat coastal plain for its spaceport, it flattens southern Ricongeraka for it. And though it burns the sky and sears the land, it passed by a vote of ⅗ths in the council of representatives - surely it is just. When Hetland needs to scare all those villains of the world, where does that start but with the great ports of Ricongeraka? But surely, we can protest if we dislike these things! And so great are our masters, that Anneli herself graced our protests with her presence. In her great wisdom, she took it upon herself to upbraid us for our foolish, primitive sensibilities - for caring that the sky was dead, for defying our meek ancestors. How shall we thank Anneli?” The girl's tone remained steadily neutral, no more impassioned than a salesman exhorting his wares. Despite Anneli's dismissiveness, the crowd shifted to glare at her. Anneli refused to glare back - it was beneath her. Her words could do the glaring for her. “What righteous complaint could anyone here possibly have? Marginal, ignored, exploited Nakotebo? My very presence belies it! Nakotebo is wealthy, so prosperous you can't imagine! Whether you walk to school or were sent here from halfway across the island, your parents are wealthy beyond the greatest imagination of kings but a century or two past. Some few are titans of industry or wielders of the sword of state. Those who are not are comfortably middle class at the very least - no one else can afford Nakotebo! What institution has the house of Apogee oppressed, what crime have we let go unpunished, who starves in Ricongeraka since the union? No one starves in Ricongeraka! No one starves in the empire! What peaceful protest have you lodged, which clause of the uniting act has been violated? Have I disrespected the Canper, imposed upon his authority? All I’ve seen are book burnings! All I've seen are mobs, all I've seen are threats: primitive mobs intent on lynching me. Will you do so again?” She'd intended diplomacy, intended her words to the crowd. But it was the short black haired girl to whom she'd addressed her speech. As the room stirred against her, Anneli briefly contemplated her opponents: Vanenuell seemed a muddle, and apart from her vague talk of rumors earlier in the day, she seemed ignorant of the previous night's events. Evidently, she'd come with a preprepared speech, probably from her mother, a woman Anneli hadn't the faintest notion of - Anneli had simply never heard of Vanenuell having anything other than a mother and servants. The short girl was a mystery: Anneli failed to recall her, which wasn't strange - her classmates seldom piqued her curiosity. The girl spoke, this time directly to Anneli, the curious eyes of a crow gleaming in the overly bright overhead light. “Violence? Do you see any guards, any weapons, any men at all? Surely, the flower of Ricongerakan youth poses no threat?” Anneli turned to gesture at the burly girls behind her. They tried to make themselves scarce, and when that failed they instead struck a casual air. The path remained blocked. Anneli saw her opponent's lip curl in disgust, and her eyes roll in condescension. Anneli refused to let the matter slide. “Is it crass to mention this coercion? Would you prefer I meekly submitted, made no note of your hypocrisy? Tough! Would you deny that this gathering is involuntary? That we are here, if not quite by force of arms, at the very least not of our free will? Who here would wish to be present, to spout criminal nonsense, to engage in sedition?” The crowd was milling about, pushing at the boundaries. Some were leaking through, headed back upstairs for classes or for teachers to quell the flames. It was a critical moment - Anneli could either stay to counter whatever the girl said, or she could try dismissing the whole ordeal - deny it legitimacy, deny it credence. Anneli raised her hand into a fist pumping the air, shouted a battle cry for all to hear. “It's time we get back to our lessons!” The crowd broke apart, headed in every direction down every corridor. Anneli turned to face the bullies, but they were gone, melted away into the mass of femininity. As she led a smaller group up the dim corridors towards their classrooms, one last time she wondered at the male absence, and how it had been achieved.




As is the nature of days, that one was transient. Giddy excitement and grand conspiracy gave way to the routine drudgery of duty. There were lessons half observed, letters hastily skimmed, poems to fawn over and original works to sketch - hastily abandoned as inspiration fled and flitted. Set school hours faded into the foggy mass of afternoon, the sheer weight of obligation upon obligation threatening a smothering depression. Freer souls could’ve forgotten themselves and pursued their fancies. Whether this was Anneli's natural inclination was a mystery, for she'd been cast into the mold of office for so long as to override any draw towards laxity. The only solution was work, the question merely boiled down to “which?”

Her grandmother insisted on a regimented list, and Anneli kept one as a fallback. But she preferred the natural draw of one task over another, and one unexpectedly floated to the top of the list: Shinag. She hadn't given his letter much thought, but it had been a warming highlight before the harrowing backwardness of Ricongeraka showed its ugly face. Leafing through letters and books, Anneli found there was more and more to say to Shinag: at the very least she could express interest in his offer to get her out of Ricongeraka early. She doubted he'd succeed, but Anneli was unafraid of failure. Her grandmother’s voice nattered on in her head, blithely denying the correspondence was work. Anneli considered this viewpoint as she folded the mound of discarded letters into paper cranes. There were many hundreds of them, scattered about her room in a flagrant display of disorder she'd usually be ashamed of. She stacked the cranes into a haphazard pyramid, as if in response to her grandmother - this was play. This was a waste of time. Shinag, on the other hand, was fellow royalty, a potential centerpiece of any number of plots or conspiracies. Staying up to date on his activities was basic political savvy, not a flagrant personal indulgence. Carrying this logic to its conclusion, Anneli ought first to inform herself upon the activities of her uncle the heir and her cousin the heir eventual. Anneli would then counter that delineating authority throughout the royal family was a large part of the house of Apogee’s success. Any royal who wanted a taste of power would get it, and those who wanted nothing but to indulge in debauchery or solitude would get even more. Her grandmother would of course reply that since this was the case, why wasn't she taking part in her delineated responsibilities of monitoring public sentiment? And the whole thing would start again, the arguments eating each other in cyclical stalemate. Anneli knew this was the case since she'd had many such arguments with her grandmother, each more frustrating than the last. So, even if it was frivolity, Anneli would write to Shinag. Fishing a hard black pencil and a stack of fine paper out of a draw, Anneli set to writing. As always, what she wrote and what she'd planned to write never quite ended up being the same thing.




“To my most dignified brother, I know this letter finds you well. For you are always well, dear brother, at least in my heart. You are towering and imposing, a true emblem of royal oversight. You might despair of your situation, dear brother, but at the very least you command respect - the situation is yours to despair of. That I should be so lucky! It would be no surprise should you receive this letter following strange news from Nakotebo. It'll probably reach the less reputable papers first, partisan hacks with a bone to pick against anything official. Perhaps a century ago we'd send government thugs to intimidate the printing houses. Perhaps half a century ago we'd merely censure the publishers and cut their funding. But even if we tried, it'd do no good nowadays, and whatever attempt was made would become a bigger scandal than the original story. I know you sometimes panic, dear brother, so let me assure you that I am unharmed. Let me also assure you that I am entirely innocent! You might think it strange that I complain about this, but the people of Nakotebo are far too privileged for their own good. A royal, claiming others are over privileged? But it's true! For we are not only powerful, but responsible, and the two are flat out uncorrelated: a single mother carries a heavy burden of responsibility, but she is powerless. Our lordly peers yet claim vast comfort and influence, but what duties do they have? None! Thanks to grandmother, there hasn't been a truly embarrassing royal scion since aunt Feshoa.




For all of your confusion, you don't seem to dislike Codan. It's as Chapton says:

‘How fare those dunder hills?

Lands of ancient stirring song.

Ancient flame to kiss and fan -

Mighty and wondrous,

Our bride Codan’

The mountains, their rolling greatness, surely it's as if you're but a step from the great lord? Nakotebo is a hole within a hole, a swamp surrounded by dull cliff faces - if starting tomorrow I never see Ricongeraka again it can't be too soon! Codan respects itself, even your squabbling chieftains. Or maybe they prefer to be called Aldelords these days?




I received a fun letter alongside yours, from the Ildelord of Kaltera. The boy was remarkably well spoken, though who knows if he was truly the sole author - I've heard there are tools to analyze these things nowadays, I'm sure you know all about them. Is the matter great enough for you to have taken notice? Electoral boundaries are being redrawn, dismantling some old holding or fiefdom or whatever Kaltera is. And the Ildelord petitions me for help! I wonder what he thinks I can do about it? There, I've brought the matter to your attention, I don't know the details myself anyways, so you'll have to do the investigation yourself. Still, a couple centuries back this kid would be either begging to marry me or praying for an opportunity to gouge my eyes out. And now he's meekly asking me to intervene on his behalf! Against his own mayors no less! I know you are a sober scholar Shinag, but even you must appreciate the irony, the reversal - it's poetic, if nothing else.




I got another message alongside yours, one from Cantiza. I know she always frightened you when we were little, but by now you must admit she's a bit of a ditz. She's so ditzy that she hasn't found a way to rid herself of Gharin. She must find him rusticly charming, because he's certainly not pleasant or fun. His office is still above the wet market, disgusting as you always told me it'd be. Cantiza got him talking about a broadcast, and judging by the timing it must have been for the launch of Skyleap 1. And Cantiza was clueless! Shinag, to be afraid of someone who can't even remember the first Skyleap? Then again, I doubt ‘The Friar’ takes much note of wonders of humanity either, and even I'm a bit afraid of him. If what Cantiza says is true, the Skyleap company is in some grave danger or scandal now, I hope it's nothing too great - it's fun to think there's something adventurous on the government's ledgers.




You are aware of the observation probes about Nakotebo, aren't you? I've tried and tried, but I can't seem to find anything relevant about their operation. I ask both out of curiosity, as silver orbs dotting the crowded daylight rouse natural interest, and out of obligation: I fear they shall meet some grizzly end. I have danced around the issue, but I shall dance no longer: the people of Nakotebo are on the verge of a Fabid outbreak. All old Hethu Fab had to riot against were presses, looms, and the drudges for those awful old mines. And he stirred up all of Codan and half of Hetland! These Nakotebans have railways to ruin, banking databases to burn, chemical foundries to crack, and science to scour. They might just march across the island to besiege the spaceport!




Except you know they won't do anything so difficult. They'll only hit what's close at hand, and even that under the shroud of anonymity and tribal security. And it's pathetic: these people are rich, and they know it. They are secure, and they know it. And because life is too easy for them, they have to invent something to be mad about, they have to convince themselves they're victims of some great injustice. And every year Enxua sinks another island of a hundred thousand souls into the sea. And these Nakotebans just. Don't. Care.




If there's one thing I've heard resented, it's Hettish culture. I suppose it's understandable, everyone likes their traditions. At the very least, everyone but a few delusionals like their traditions better than they like everyone else's traditions. I have always assumed this would translate into resentment of Hettish rule and Hettish rulers, and I seem to be proven correct. But only so far - leading the charge at the last outbreak I've witnessed was a girl dressed nearly properly, her accent halfway between central Extabon and east Ricongeraka. If you're struggling to imagine what that might sound like, imagine a speech in the representative chamber, but the speaker says tz instead of th, and every vowel is either ‘uh’ or ‘ee’. I don't know why it's like that, maybe you have a big book of linguistics with a lot of theory about dental fricatives or uvular trills that can properly map the dialect.




Ever your friend,

Princess Anneli Endonter, of the house of Apogee.”




It was not the letter Anneli had intended to write, but it covered base with what was foremost on her mind. Her grandmother's voice found purchase once more, whiling away at her willpower alongside her conscience. Petulance retreated in the face of responsibility. Reluctantly, she turned to her list of tasks, a second draft of her letter less than a distant hope.




Schoolwork complete and many mewling letters read, Anneli checked her list for a break from the monotony, but nothing as audacious as taking a true break crossed her mind. An item near the bottom of her list caught her eye, and her amusement: “Monitor the sentiment of the common people towards Hetland”. That one was easy! Right below it another freebie: “Maintain relations with respected or admired cultural figures”. Anneli had successfully argued that attending Cantiza’s shows fulfilled this criteria, but her grandmother had simply doubled down: pop concerts, sporting events, scientific conferences, Anneli had been forced to attend and approve of them all. Nakotebo, being an idyllic retreat for the wealthy, had few of these. At first Anneli was delighted in her relative freedom to ignore those few events that did occur. Lately however she had come to view it as a form of infantilization. As she locked her door behind her, she found herself wishing there was a way to assure herself of safety - a secret phone to a covert security detail, for example. Pattering down the stairs, the merits of requesting such a tool warred with her previous plans to beg leave of Ricongeraka. For if she requested both, her grandmother would surely grant the former and eschew the latter, and excuse the latter as a consequence of the former. At first this seemed a drawback, until Anneli was struck by the sight of a shiny bluebird, darting from its nest upon the low branches of the shade trees. Anneli gazed back at the branch to ascertain the cause of the flight. There she saw one of the wild cats of Ricongeraka, joyously feasting upon the bluebird’s eggs. Anneli tried to fit the pieces into something more - the bluebird, a luxury import from the Codan Highlands, beloved by Ricongerakans rich and poor alike. The cat, welcoming in so much as that it relished the prey. What could the bird represent? Hetland? Anneli? Order and good government? And the cat, did it represent Ricongeraka entire? A small, vicious minority, intent on derailing the popular union with Hetland? Or did it represent the true heart of the island, short-sighted and vicious? Or maybe it meant a hundred other things, for no metaphor stuck, and no picture coalesced. What stuck with Anneli was that the bird took flight, maternal instincts be damned. It knew it couldn't hope to save its eggs, and so took what little it could - its life. Anneli thought it a fine analogy to her situation; she couldn't hope to escape Ricongeraka, not really. Her grandmother would see her serve the sentence one way or another. She might as well salvage what she might, and if that meant strict confirmation that Ricongeraka was for the year entire, so be it. This confusing metaphor nearly tucked away, Anneli found she had reached the cliff face surrounding Nakotebo. A number of daredevils were climbing the cliff, some way to her right. To her left, the silver observation probes hung reassuringly. She turned to view the climbers with disinterest. She'd seen many such ascents, and they never provided much entertainment - harnesses and safety protocols prevented a truly exciting spectacle. Success is only as exciting as the failure it is in lieu of, after all. As much as it galled her to admit it, the public appearances were the most prone to failure and therefore the most exciting. Exciting in a distant way, where every disaster was someone else's fault and someone else's problem. Cheerfully distracted by memories of past debacles, Anneli found herself at the Canper’s doorstep. The charming one story building lay nestled between trees bearing savoury fruit, and bushes laden with illegally poisonous leaves. No one could prove the Canper had planted those, and even if they could, the board of culture would never approve an investigation into a figure as religiously important as the Canper. Anneli stepped off the street and onto the porch, and made her presence known with four precise knocks. Anneli had expected a prompt reply, for it was the Canper's duty to be ever available to the many whims and woes of Nakotebo’s temperamental residents. Instead, sounds of shifting and shuffling escaped through the thin foil door. Her mind drifted as she waited - to Shinag and Cantiza, her mother and grandmother, to Extabon and Kaldera. Glancing, grazing, flitting from one thing to another, it was not a very productive process. This unproductiveness had no sooner begun to niggle when the door finally opened. The Canper seemed strangely haggard, eyes wild and decorations tattered. He stood silently for what seemed an hour, as if Anneli were some strange alien specimen liable to bite off a digit should he mishandle her. For her part, Anneli tried to glance past the Canper, though with no clear purpose in mind. Chairs and tables were strewn about, alongside sturdy cabinets and heavy wood instruments, no doubt tuned to the traditional six notes of the south islands scale. The Canper shook out of his reverie, and saw Anneli as if for the first time. “Anneli! You've come! What's been done to you? No, what have you done?” Anneli considered the questions, then considered whether she should be answering them whilst standing in full view of the street, empty though it may have seemed that evening. “Nothing much has been done to me, and I've done nothing much in return. I could ask you the same! Seems you've at least trashed your house.” Anneli shifted from foot to foot as she spoke. The Canper stared at Anneli again, finally beckoning her in with a wave. He slammed the door shut behind them and pondered the chairs strewn about. “Were you barricading your door? Why then did you clear the blockage when you heard a knock? Seems to defeat the purpose.” Anneli remarked glibly, eyes and hands already flitting to the decorations lining the walls of the small entryway just beyond the door. There were circles of bright blue feathers, snake leather talismans set with silver and amber, hand whittled flutes and whistles pining to make a sound, and a menagerie of other trinkets and baubles - from where exactly Anneli didn't much care. “What would you have me do, Anneli? Ignore my people's pleas?” The Canper replied in weary tones. “Don't barricade yourself? Or should I guess why you've done that? I'm not the best at guessing games but I'm sure I'll get it eventually.” Anneli said, still intent on a certain trinket. The Canper cast a mournful look at his disarrayed furniture, then beckoned Anneli to follow him further inside the house. The house was of a design peculiar to Ricongeraka: there was a large central room of no clear purpose, with hallways running in five directions. Four hallways branched off into rooms, whilst the fifth simply ran to the front. There was no exit towards the backyard, though in this case it wasn't a bother; the backyard consisted mostly of poisonous wild things, unpruned and untamed - no one much wanted to go there. Whilst the central room wasn't large enough for a proper dining hall, it had been purposed into a lobby of sorts, fit for those problem cases that required the Canper summon someone to his abode. He sat Anneli down on a cushion whilst he strode to the other side of the room, an arrangement she'd have protested had she thought protest would do any good. He turned to face her, though he refrained from staring. Long moments later, he asked: “Why are you here, Anneli?” Anneli thought it a rude way to greet a guest, and Ricongeraka generally took pride in its outward hospitality. “I’m here on important state business: to monitor the sentiments of the people, and to uphold relations with the subject of their affections. You! Yesterday you proclaimed that Nakotebo was only too eager to obey our every whim. Well, in my expert opinion, your judgement was in error.” Anneli told the Canper, gesturing to the visible clutter in the hallway leading to the door. “But it seems you've already realized this, or maybe Nakotebo has done the realization for you; what did they do? Was there a mob? Was your life in danger?” Anneli asked. The Canper grew paler, and even his hair seemed a shade whiter than its usual black sheen. He drew a letter from a glass cabinet affixed to the wall. His voice was steady though he seemed to wobble as he read in a neutral business-like tone. Anneli couldn't quite make out the intended punctuation through the recitation.




“We are the voice of Ricongeraka, the wind in twilight sails, the grey eyes of winter wolves. Here we stand, united as never before, to proclaim the doctrine of disobeyance. The land screams and the night sky fails, for we have failed them in turn. When last was the Tianyug seen?




It is our right to be free. It is our right to live well under unblemished skies. Is it not our right to be heard, to be seen? When last was a wild Talotau seen?




Never has so much been endured for so long. Never in the long history of Love have a people been so desecrated. So much given, and so little given back. When last were free sailors seen?




Our Canpers have failed us, from Nakotebo to Elpki. Every day they do more than meekly obey - they prostrate themselves. They demand more be given to our occupiers, to our desecraters. Their hearts are elsewhere, but who is shocked? For who appoints Canpers, who decides what is built, who decides what is destroyed? The house of Apogee alone decides. And they have decided to destroy all Ricongeraka holds dear, to remake the Island in its own image - prim and tidy, shallow and meek. When last were offerings made?




Ricongeraka stands at a precipice. Demand justice. Demand truth. Remove the Canpers and remove the house of Apogee. Else these be the last days of Ricongeraka.”




Anneli was unimpressed, and made sure the Canper knew it. “It's all quite vague, don't you think? Who are these people, they don't even give a name! No one follows a movement without a good name and slogan! Offerings, really, surely no one misses those much?” Anneli said in relief, alarmed by the Canper’s cagey reticence and strange paranoia. The Canper shook his head, evidently unassured. “I've never seen anything like this before” he said as he fidgeted with the letter. “Anneli you must know why this is happening! You must know some way to stop this! I've read about the reconciliation, heard the stories told by old warriors from Codan come to Ricongeraka to retire in the sun: a well placed word and the most implacable of foes surrenders to a scion of Apogee. Can you do that? Has greatness passed through the paternal line?” he pleaded in desperation. Anneli screwed her nose at the insinuation that her mother's side was unfit for the task. It was a strange demand to hear from the Canper, an especially uncharacteristic one for a holy man of Ricongeraka, and Anneli said so. “Since when do Canpers believe in familial destiny? Are you an Enxua intellectual, pushing some theory of racial dominance? I thought the skies and the suns and the winds imparted each man’s character, and parentage is but a coincidence” Anneli said, though she regretted saying it. Not so much for the disrespectful content or tone, nor even for the ignorance; she regretted driving the conversation off topic, perhaps irrevocably. Holy men liked nothing more than to preach after all. She was pleasantly shocked when the Canper all but ignored what she'd said: “the winds seem to favor the words of the house of Apogee generation after generation. I can acknowledge that much and retain my dignity. You can do it then, can't you? That's why you read all those letters, that's why you've been sent here - you have the gift, whatever it may be. We'll organize an assembly, maybe a community standing, and you can quieten them all down” the Canper said with budding confidence. As Anneli was flattered and bewildered by the Canper's ideas, she tried to voice her trepidation. “I’m not my father or my grandmother. Besides, yet half a child as I am, my toolbox is sadly limited” Anneli thought back to times her Father had bullied crime lords and entrenched bureaucrats into submission. He was not an imposing figure, and his opponents had known his official authority could do them no harm. Instead, he'd drawn on his graying hair and long record of service to imply vast unofficial power, and long experience using it against just such ruffians. So soft was his voice and so calm his manner that Anneli was allowed into the discussions. That he'd brought his young daughter along was another display of confidence, as if to say he was so sure of success that he had no need to rely on tools too vulgar for the young Anneli to be exposed to. Anneli had seldom heard an implied threat, let alone an explicit one. Intelligent as these villains were, they had a powerful imagination to boot, one only amplified by her father's calm and assured vagueness. Anneli could not hope to rely on any such tactics, and she tried to explain: “I cannot hope to match my ancestors, not just yet. And riled up as they are, a standing is unlikely to go very well. At best I'll be heckled by some and supported by others, and if I'm lucky I'll get a word in edgeways. More likely I'll be shouted down, and more likely still no one will attend anything with our names on it” Anneli stated, she hoped without letting too much of her frustration show. The effort was undercut by the aggressive squeezing she applied to the leather trinket she'd grabbed onto. Though he could've argued the point, it'd have defeated the Canper's thesis to do so. He drooped in resignation, adornments extenuating the gesture to a comical degree. “Then all is lost!” He mourned “we'll have to run away. Lock the gate behind us, find a ship on the shore. Or maybe see if the scientists have a direct line to Extabon, maybe they can send a rescue vessel. Where will we hide then-” the Canper flailed in misery, all pride forgotten. Anneli strode towards the Canper, hand rising to slap him to his senses. The difference in stature was apparent, and Anneli decided that the risk of antagonizing her only sure ally wasn't worth the marginal benefit. Her hand fell, her feet remained planted a mere three paces from the Canper, as he rambled on in desperation. “Ricongerakans are rowdy youths, too much responsibility, too quickly. For a single wise decision! As if to let a child run free in the jungle because he had the good sense to refrain from pulling a tiger’s tail. History repeats, that's what historians say. Will there be another reconciliation then, the old distraction now the new bleeding heart? But the new distraction is in disarray, there'll be no dispatch regiment to plug the gaps if it comes to violence near the heartland. Only we're not even near the heartland, but an ocean away. What if we're abandoned?” Anneli found the hysteria grating and unwarranted. “All this from one letter? Surely you've been threatened before? It's like the poem goes:” she began reciting with practiced diction, deliberate in her enunciation of syllables, musical in the rhythm of the rhyming scheme. Correctly repeated, each line but the last would have a syllabic length corresponding to its place in the verse. Anneli wasn't that careful when she spoke though.




“‘Rising and falling in sharp accent,

was the fairweather sound of a Parliament.

They clamored and begged for funds evermore,

grasped at anything, from cedar to straw,

obstructed by the crowd's rowdy roar,

they sent threats of death to the king.




Bounded by honor, beset by fair rage,

The king called members to debate or engage.

Challenged so boldly by the man to behold,

fair drama was seen to unfold,

cowards and heroes, evermore bold,

they demanded so much from the king.




Princes and angels, heavenly sent,

argued prudence, compromise, seek wide consent.

Smallest of all were sounds of the queen:

‘Run to a place you'll never be seen,

that all should believe you'd never been’,

they thought to dictate to the king.




Quiet, order! So was the king’s claim.

Good order and sense had suffered some awful maim.

Great beyond-’” Anneli’s recitation was interrupted by the Canper's shrill shriek, its cause unclear. Pausing for breath, Anneli heard a light tapping at the door, evidently the culprit. Anneli wanted to express her exasperation, but nothing politic came to mind. Surely, with her present, a plain clothes security detail was on covert standby? Anneli couldn't imagine otherwise. Anyone tapping at the door was most likely one of them. Smoothing his feathers and regaining some composure, the Canper looked to Anneli for reassurance. Anneli smiled non-committally, but led the way to the door. Instead of opening the door, the Canper unscrewed a cap from the wall, revealing a short bore into the structure, a mirror at its end. Anneli recognized the construction, a series of angled mirrors terminating in an aptly placed mirror with a good view of the door's other side. Properly lit, it could reveal far more than a peephole ever could. The Canper bent to observe, and though he didn't relax at what he saw, he didn't tense either. With a final glance at Anneli, who was by this point no longer brimming with confidence, the Canper unlocked the door and faced the newcomer. He was a short man, shorter even than Anneli, with long hair painted bright green. Anneli had once remarked upon Ricongeraka’s strange custom of coloring hair. The Canper had insisted the hair was not colored nor even dyed, but somehow mystically infused with the desired color. He'd cagily avoided discoursing upon the exact method, though he'd insisted that the only way to change the color back was to undergo the same mystic ritual. Anneli didn't know what to think, but was sure Shinag would know some plausible scientific theory. Somehow, she hadn't thought to ask him. “Wise Canper, esteemed guest” the man began, noting Anneli's presence with unnecessary courtesy “I am Bejkali, of Amaseida city, jewel of the northern jungle. There is much to discuss, is there not? Perhaps your guest could leave us a while as we discourse?” His face was strangely ageless, anywhere from 18 to 50 might fit. The effect was compounded by the unnatural hair color and a thick overcoat of Enxuan style that shrouded his body, an incredible oddity in the Ricongerakan spring. He wasn't sweating though, which was still odder. The little man stared intently at the Canper, willing him to banish Anneli. “Princess Anneli will stay” said the Canper with a conviction he'd lacked so far that day. Anneli gaped at the Canper, in shock at his imprudence in naming her. Bejkali’s thin white eyebrows rose and fell, the expression less than comical on such a grave face. “Well, a princess of Apogee, how could I refuse? Marvelous! This is marvelous, yes, blessed even. Surely it is late and you do not wish for me to remain outside?” Said Bejkali, his quick-spoken Hettel tinged with vaguely elongated vowels. Anneli, accustomed to the privileged and integrated children of the wealthy, struggled with even so mild a regional accent. The Canper turned and strode back towards his house's center, with Bejkali hot at his heels. Anneli followed at a distance, making sure to lock the door behind them. The house was lit by densely scattered skylights, each more window than skylight in truth. It was a strange quirk of the architectural style, and one Anneli disapproved of. She couldn't imagine who preferred them to regular windows. The house was rather dark in the early evening sunset. To her amused horror, Anneli noticed gas lamps scattered about the walls at irregular intervals. “This place is as good as any, yes?” Bejkali’s voice echoed as they reached the lobby. “Good thinking with the furniture” he said sheepishly. He cleared his throat and cast his gaze in search of a place to sit. Finding none, he sat cross legged on the floor between an orange and purple lava lamp as tall as he was, and a two foot tall bronze statue of the Codan cap squirrel. “You know why I'm here already, right? Safagarella told you the password I'd need to use to identify myself, right? ‘Scantly clad by the Weirken tree, softly wrapped in anonymity, the moon girl invited the kid to tea’. Correct, right?” Bejkali searched their faces for confirmation. Anneli looked at the Canper as expectantly as Bejkali. The Canper in turn looked up at the sky, but whether in exasperation, recognition, or confusion, Anneli couldn't tell. “Why are you here then, Bejkali of Amaseida? What do gambling houses need from a humble Canper?” The Canper asked. “That didn't confirm anything…” muttered Anneli, gravely disappointed in Bejkali for failing to ask for a password in return. “Gambling? In Amaseida? A thousand heavens, no!” Bejkali said, his accent stretching the Hettel word for ‘heaven’ to ludicrous proportions. Anneli suspected he'd meant to say something ruder, or at least more directly relevant to Ricongerakan religion. Perhaps he didn't know the words. “But your slur at least confirms you know who I am. Very good, very good, very good indeed. Canper, Princess, what do you know of Pelfry Short?” The Canper furrowed his brow, evidently unsure whether the question was rhetorical or not. “He’s some executive in Tlafanyug investments, right? I've heard the name thrown around, mostly by the children of financiers, mostly complaints” Anneli said, her smugness at her proper Hettel pronunciation put down by the unfamiliar Shanbila title for the company. She thought the name had something to do with ‘Tianyug’, but the insertion of the cleft syllables tripped her up. She hoped neither man had noticed. “Yes yes, that's old Pelfry with his ironic name. Complaints? Valid, valid complaints, surely!” Bejkali spoke without excitement, though his hands fidgeted something mad. Anneli thought him a very strange man to send as messenger. “Ironic? So, what, he's an optimist?” Anneli asked, sure that the Canper was following her line of thought. “An optimist, yes, exactly, exactly! Do you know what kind of optimist?” Again, it was unclear whether or not Bejkali's question was rhetorical or not. This time Anneli guessed it was. Evidently the Canper agreed, for he retained his uncharacteristically stony silence. “Anything big, anything important, and you can be sure Short’s got his grubby little fingers deep inside. I suppose no one cared, no one at all, not until last year” Bejkali said, his tone and manner that of a matron sharing salacious gossip. He went on in this manner, rapidly grating on Anneli's tolerant pluralism. “The Pfabada dam, the Jarchek company, Grassman’s fund, Short backed them all. Backs them all still, still he believes in them! Strange, strange, I know: believe? What does belief have to do with the making of money? But he is that kind of man, a man who believes, a man who trusts. Very strange, for a man of his generation, very strange indeed!” Bejkali raised his hands in mock surrender, as if Anneli and the Canper were pelting him with frequent objections, though they'd both let him speak. Anneli was finding the little man a most disagreeable figure. She decided to interject, if only to throw him off balance. “What's his generation to do with anything? Surely everyone enjoys making money?” Anneli pointedly looked past Bejkali as she spoke, or rather above him - as if he was a man of proper stature. “He is very old…” the Canper mused, as if this were enough explanation. “Decades! Decades and decades!” Bejkali agreed, hands swooping in and out of swirls in great excitement. A vigorous nod of the head would've been more indicative, but Anneli had started to understand the strange little man. “Yes yes, very old. Soft, perhaps, you think he's gone soft? But he's always been like this, truly, he has been! The third Skyleap, he was an investor! One of very few, who'd invest in such a scheme after the disaster of Skyleap 2? But to all our shock, he staked his future on the launch!” Bejkali's speech was once more somewhat ambiguous - was he claiming to have been involved in the third Skyleap, to have known its investors? That'd put his age at about Gharin’s, an inconceivable notion. “You still haven't answered my question, Bejkali. What about his generation makes this so strange? Were they particularly cautious investors? Is that common knowledge? It is my duty to know as much as possible about the lives of the empire. Even so, I cannot be expected to know the habits and inclinations of each and every generation in each and every sector of commerce!” Anneli sounded whiny even to her own ears. It was the Canper who answered, eyes fixed on Bejkali even as he addressed Anneli’s question. “Pelfry Short is a son of the petition generation. I don't know if pessimism captures that generation’s scathing contempt for their parents. Perhaps you don't know about it because nothing similar to the reconciliation ever arose” scorn pervaded his voice, genuine contempt for his grandparents, or at least their cohort. “Far from investing in the Skyleap project, they protested it. They didn't protest very efficiently though, mostly irrelevant strikes and marches. They couldn't even isolate old Pelfry, couldn't block him from buying a tract of the ancient flame wood and leveling it for a launch site. And even after he'd done this, his competition simply sulked! No lawsuits, no undercuts, no dirty laundry aired, no riotous rumor spread. Far from it, they left him to reap the rewards of all the great programs of the age, public and private. And he's still kicking! Still today, if there's a dam or a power plant, a satellite or a survey, Pelfry is first in the door” there was anger mixed in with respect in the Canper's treatment of the man. “Seems you know him well…” murmured Anneli. It began to seem that the Canper had been hiding his knowledge of the subject. Perhaps it only amounted to obfuscation, but Anneli hadn't quite figured it out before Bejkali picked up the thread of the thought the Canper had begun. “Yes yes, and now there's this business, this awful business of the company’s tragedy! And here we are in Nakotebo, and here I am, and good old Safagarella would really appreciate the help, yes he would” said Bejkali. “What are you getting at Bejkali? Why the caginess? Who's Safagarella, what could he possibly want from the Canper?” Anneli had begun pacing back and forth between the two men, hoping it'd somehow either set them at ease or pressure them into increased honesty; she wasn't sure which. “Oh Safagarella is of no consequence, no consequence at all” Bejkali backtracked, figuratively and literally - he'd retreated a couple of steps in response to Anneli's pacing. “It's simply that, well, well… it's be better if Pelfry took a break. Of the permanent variety. He's getting very old, older than most, older than is perhaps safe for one in his position…” Bejkali said, but without conviction: his words were mumbled, his eyes shifted, and his hands were clenched and static. That, more than anything, stood out to Anneli. “What'd be unsafe about it? If he's senile or somehow incapable, he'll make a mistake and lose everything all on his own. And if he remains wise, why should age matter? He's not in the public sector, failure ought to be self correcting” said Anneli. “Oh, alright, alright, I'm sorry!” Bejkali said as he suddenly threw up his arms in a gesture of surrender. “Safagarella’s known Pelfry since he was a boy, he loves him dearly, he does. Only now, what with the unrest and the withdrawal of deposits, and the higher interest rates of the money houses and the government… it's all a mess, yes it's all a real mess. And Pelfry won't see it, or he won't do anything about it, and we don't know why! Why further leverage his position? Why the uncovered calls? Don't you two have a duty to people? Don't you guard against ruin? Ruin is coming, it's coming fast, and I tried to breach it delicately but I couldn't, I simply couldn't: you, Canper of Nakotebo, must sign our petition. It's binding, you know, if the Canpers representing two thirds of Ricongeraka sign on, it's in the privileges. Nakotebo won't turn the needle, but we're close, and with you we’ll be closer. And even Pelfry can't refuse a petition backed by the royal seal, and we'll get that royal seal if only the Canpers sign!” Bejkali had drawn a tablet from somewhere, Anneli couldn't tell. Upon it were affixed the wax seals of Canpers far and wide. Each was shiny and embossed, a Ricongerakan emblem center stage in each - here a tiger, there an open fire pit, and many many constellations. One had even had the audacity to place a gibbous Life, basking in the light of War. It was something out of a science communique, standing out all the more for the lack of artistic license. Each shone in a hundred colors, the light diffracting strangely off the many layers of security carved into the seals to ensure authenticity. Anneli had heard that despite all attempts, forgeries were still all too common, though she'd never known how. The Canper licked his lips in nervous hesitation. “You're considering it?” Asked Anneli, her tone warily neutral. “Why? What's convinced you?” Her eyebrows slowly climbed her face in curiosity. The Canper strode towards Bejkali. The little man cast his eyes towards the heavens in response, as if overcome by some rapturous zeal. “Tell me, Bejkali of Amaseida, what do you think will happen if Pelfry isn't removed?” The Canper asked with confidence, his feathers somehow standing on end. Bejkali breathed deeply before replying, though it was not the deep sigh of once composing his thoughts. Rather it was the dramatic intake of breath an actor takes before a climactic monologue. “All that has been simmering shall spill over. The masses of Ricongeraka, from the desperately poor in the industrial cities, to the integrated elites of wealthy towns like Nakotebo, even to the tribes deep in the jungle still adamant in their primitivity - in one way or another, they'll all rise up. No, not rise up, not quite that, not quite yet. Each in their own way, each will begin taking it out on you, all at once, yes. The middle classes will boycott all manner of goods from Hetland: toasters and coasters, coffee mugs and long silken dresses. The rich will divest, choosing alternative sinks for their wealth. Codan, if they're cynical. Enxua, if they're vicious. And the lower classes, the urban poor, they'll give up in spectacular fashion once granted tacit approval from the local tools of state. Smashed windows and vandalized tracks, robbed stores and mugged civilians. Oh yes, Ricongerakans will suffer most of all for these transgressions. And when crack troops or merely additional police pour in from Hetland, with only the best intentions in mind, resistance will flare all the brighter, as bright as a second War in the night sky. And those Canpers, approved by the hated oppressors, do you think their fate will be a happy one? Or will those heretics, strange shamans half nude in the distant jungles, reclaim their thrones of public adoration?” The similarities with the letter the Canper had received were not lost on Anneli. Only Bejkali seemed genuinely upset at the thought of upheaval and violence. “And removing Pelfry will somehow alleviate resentments?” Anneli tried to sound scornful. “That's what Safagarella thinks. And he'd never dream of harming Pelfry, oh you must believe me, there is no ill will between them!” Bejkali insisted with a repetition that Anneli found grating. The Canper looked at the tablet with grave determination. Then he looked to Anneli for confirmation she refused to give. “I wouldn't be too scared of a little letter, nor would I sanction the interference in civil matters not your own. However, I cannot instruct or coerce you, for that would undermine your authority as a representative of Ricongeraka in the grand union of nations” Anneli said with an archetypically royal flourish. The Canper cowed, and even Bejkali flinched. She continued: “In this specific matter I would advise prudence at the very least, if not outright hostility towards those behind this petition. The dealings of stock brokers is no business of a Canper of Ricongeraka, it is no business of a priest of Codan, or even of Hetland. These authorities granted you are for the gravest of matters, and though you've been told a dramatic tale of possible woe, I remain unconvinced of its core tenants” Anneli stopped herself before she gave an intricate spiel on the separation of the religious from the secular, the royal from the elected, the common from the noble, and all those other distinctions that made the empire what it was - her audience doubtless had heard it all before. Instead, she contented herself to fold her arms and stroll pointedly towards the door. The Canper ran up to her, a feather catching on something and ripping clean off. He didn't seem to care as he spoke nearly in tears. “No! Then what are we to do? Sit idly by as we we're lynched and burned? You'll be sacrificed to the Tianyug, or to a great fire spirit, and then where will Ricongeraka be?” Anneli's opinion of the Canper had dropped that day, though now that his motivations became clear she revised her estimation upwards. “The house of Apogee won't forgive a nail on your finger being harmed. Whatever vengeance they wreak, the perpetrators will be far from the only victims of it. I don't know the outcome, I truly don't - but it won't be good. And whatever you may gain by standing your ground, surely it can't be worth the risk?” He pleaded with genuine emotion, and Anneli was tempted to relent. Then she spotted Bejkali, staring at them blankly from within the bare lobby. His eyes were cold, the gaze piercing. Whatever concerns the Canper had, Anneli couldn't believe Bejkali shared them. Strangely, she found herself recalling something Shinag had once said. Something about risk and reward. And though Anneli couldn't remember the term he used, she remembered the idea. “Always, you can invent an unlikely catastrophe. I could tell you a story about your cape or your staff, that if you won't hang them from the cliff tonight it'll lead to a grand cataclysm, the destruction of Nakotebo. It's such a risk, how can you refrain from taking action? Only that story is massively unlikely, and so is the one Bejkali is telling you. Perhaps not in his oracular prediction; I'm quite willing to believe Ricongeraka is ready to boil over into some form of unrest. But the deep seeded causes of strife will be neither overturned nor abayed by shuffling around executives in a wealthy investment firm. Agitators in streets and standings have plenty of complaints, and if anything the removal of an independently wealthy Ricongerakan businessman will only further the perception of abuse from on high” Anneli had said what she'd intended, but still she felt unsatisfied without Shinag’s technical term. She felt sure her point had gotten muddled somewhere along the way. For the first time in a long while, she found herself wishing she’d read up on some of her brother's suggestions. The Canper, miserable and dejected, collapsed into a heap of red feathers and light silken clothing. Bejkali remained silent, though he had begun pacing back and forth, his hands weaving in simple patterns. As she stepped through the strewn furniture still blocking the hallway, Anneli felt compelled to give some form of comfort, however artificial. “And just because I think it is possible, that doesn't make it likely. Everyone gets death threats, everyone who is anyone in any case. I'd know, I have to read all the ones I get!” She said with a forced smile that turned genuine, pleased at her own wit. And she found herself comforted despite herself - it had been easy enough to diffuse that situation at school. Perhaps nothing would come of the whole situation, and life would simply go on as it had. She nourished this hope as she returned to her rooms, Life and War smiling upon her from the night sky, even if the Tianyug couldn't.




Once she had the opportunity to peruse Shinag's books, Anneli found she no longer wanted to. Safely content that there was other more important work to do, she blissfully neglected her education. That she was right to do so makes it no less galling. She composed the dual request for her grandmother, hesitation and care poured into every syllable. The letter was formal and terse, which was what worked best with her grandmother. As she was already at it, Anneli wrote letters all through the night. When she was done, they formed three pleasing solid stacks fit to form the foundation of a model skyscraper. Alongside the letter she'd written to Shinag, there were numerous shorter messages for tentative new correspondents, hopefuls whose initial offering was interesting enough to merit further investigation. The Ildelord of Kaltera merited a proper reply, one she felt she couldn't give at such short notice. Content and self satisfied, Anneli slept.

END OF PART 1