According to Niccolò Machiavelli, any leader worth his or her salt must paradoxically be the fox and the lion; because the lion cannot defend himself against snares and the fox cannot wrangle wolves. Therefore, it took a fox to trigger the traps and a lion to terrorise the wolves; else a prince would only be prey.

For this reason, Gwen did not despise her reputation as the "Devourer of Shenyang". She even worked to cultivate her infamy, for Nick also said that fear was better than love, and given enough profit; every advantage to break faith would be pursued. In contrast, the threat of bankruptcy preserved loyalty like no other.

Ergo, in her mind, Zairic and Zethoag, octopus-bearded or otherwise, were fools to think they could compete with her and Hilda's gospel of progress. As frogs in the same well, Zairic and Zethoag's factionalism offered nothing of note to the folk who held up Dwarven society's base.

As she approached the inflated Brugal, Gwen passed the sweltering Ollie and patted his shoulder. "Take a seat, Oz, I got this. There'll be accolades and rewards once you deliver the good news, trust me."

Bathed under the gaze of hostile Dwarves, Gwen slow-strutted up to the dais, then made a stand with her legs slightly apart and her off-hand aggressively resting on her hip. Gazing down on the smug noble, she then raised a reprimanding finger, imitating a headmistress chiding misbehaving schoolboys.

The theatricality was enough to make her party members cringe, but the Dwarves appeared enthralled, for they were simple folk not usually given to grandstanding.

"Scarcely a word comes out of your mouth without it being a lie," she stated openly, weaving in a spell of Clarion Call so that her confidence filled the vaulted hall. "Since when do Dwarves deceive so readily and without embarrassment? Are you in actuality an Aberrant dressed in Dwarf-skin, or has one of those Murk-Squids replaced the real Brugal Brumdahr?"

The Council Chamber expectantly erupted with collective protest, though Gwen's focus was on the two Deepdowners behind the Guildmaster.

She sensed the Dwarves' elevated vitals and knew her choice words had struck a nerve.

"Yer defence is ter accuse me of lying?" Brugal spluttered in disbelief. "ME! BRUGAL! The theme of honour's tongue since the time of Haj-Zül Brumdahr—"

"Brummy, I thought we're already over that Honour of Theme's Tongue crud." Gwen waved her hand dismissively. "Look, you have a recording. So what? It's 'hearsay', a word on the wind! Why are you so confident? Were you there, Brugal? Did you see me murder the Iron Guards of the Third Legion with your own eyes? If so, why didn't you make a Lumen-recording? Why didn't Farron?"

The Dwarf snorted at her weaselling. "Farron is the Captain of the Murk Divers! She has served the upper spire for sixty cycles, never failing in her tasks! Guildmaster Whurforlüm— perhaps yer could inform this clueless Human that a lying usurper cannot doubt Captain Gahrol's report!"

"Magus Song." Whurforlüm's voice remained neutral. "That was indeed Farron's voice, and if that IS her— Captain Farron is as trustworthy as Brugal proclaims. If you insist that Lord Brumdahr is deceiving the High Council, the onus of proof shall fall on you."

"Fine, where is Farron?" Gwen whipped around to face Brugal once more. "If I am accused, I want it told to my face. I did not expend mana, vitality and my one-of-a-kind suit fighting Aberrants for twelve hours just so that a faceless Message recording can twist the truth and paint me as a turncoat."

"Farron Gahrol has not returned." Brugal's voice grew low. "A highly unusual prospect. Perhaps ye can tell us where she went?"

"Me?" Gwen smiled. "What makes you think I would know?"

"Her last communication was of ye, Magus Song. If yer pacified the Third Legion, what's to say yer Wyrm hasn't discovered Farron?"

"So now you're accusing me of murdering Farron?" Gwen reared back with a look of disgust. "Why not accuse me of nixing your Deepdowners as well? By reputation, I rarely leave witnesses."

"HA!" Brugal's eyes lit up. The precarious "gotcha" she had allowed him was making even his moustache erect. "The Human confesses! Yer the reason we lost Mistress Hildenbrandt and Keeper Ebren! Woe betides the Kin of Eth Rjoth Kjangtoth who art cheated for so long, Kinslayer!"

"BRUGAL!" A bark erupted from the warrior faction. Hanmoul was not having it. Gwen blinked, she had told the Dwarf to act the best he could, but improv-club champion he was not. "YER SCUMMY MURK RAT!"

Gwen pretended to stop the Commandrumm. Hanmoul strode on stage in his Dwarven plates and performed the only rebuttal he knew— by grabbing the startled Brugal by the silken collars and—

_CLANG!_

Hanmoul must have an iron plate embedded in his forehead, Gwen thought, for the Dwarf head-butted the nobleman with the force of an oaken beam striking a brass temple bell.

"ARRRGGGH—!" Brugal fell back, tripping over his own feet as his brain rattled against his skull. "B-brute! Yer a brute, Hanmoul! How can yer defend a Kingslayer?"

Hanmoul wasn't done yet.
Maybe it was the lack of sleep, or perhaps it was the pressure from their obfuscated Deepdowners clad in Golem plating below the dais, Hanmoul's eyes glowed with mana like a miniature Balefire. The Commandrumm, Gwen suspected, was living out his fantasy of pummelling the slippery noble to death before their big reveal, knowing he may never get a chance like this again.

"STOP— help!" Brugal rolled left and right when Hanmoul tried to stomp his guts out. Dwarves were uncomplicated people; if Brugal had any martial merit, he would have defended himself— if not, a beating wasn't unreasonable. For this reason, the High Council watched impassively. On their side, Hanmoul's men did not move for obvious reasons, and from what Gwen could see, the opposition lacked enough love for Brugal to jump in.

"The Commandrumm's gone berserk!"
"Barbarity! Strip him of his title!"
"This isn't the pre-Sundering…" A Whitebeard rolled his milky eyes. "Fool young un's..."

To Gwen's bemusement and amusement, the nobles yammered and shouted— yet no one stood up for Brugal.

Her heart grew strangely sympathetic.

"ENOUGH!" A booming command halted the Commandrumm in-between his impassioned gutter stomps. "SON OF DWOMRUL! WHURFORLÜM! THOU KIN OVERSTEP TOO FAR!"

The Deepdowners were smart, Gwen observed, to place the onus of fault on Whurforlüm.

Catching a glance from the Guildmaster, Gwen placed a hand on Hanmoul's shoulder, appearing not unlike a cruel mistress holding back a deranged attack dog. Underneath his armour, Gwen could feel Hanmoul's body smoulder with wrath, the heat of his burning blood transferring across the dermal cladding to warm her fingers.

"Peace, Commandrumm," she said loud enough for all to hear. "We know you're not the traitor here. Have faith, those who put their interests over that of Eth Rjoth Kjangtoth will receive their just desserts quicker than you think."

Not far, Brugal picked up his torn body, fixed his jacket with a dignified air, then wiped the blood from his bloodied nose.

"Yer'll pay for that." The noble swallowed what must be a set of teeth.

Gwen ignored Brugal and instead looked up toward the Deepdowner behind Whurforlüm. "Milords Zairic and Zethoag— You're Dwarves underneath that Klad, yes? What should one say to a Noble who peddles lies as easily as he breathes?"

"THOU DARE—" Both began.

"Tone down your vox mods," Gwen barked back dismissively. "What's there to hide?"

Her abrasiveness possessed such high grit that the two bit-back their next words. When they replied again, their roaring accusation was proceeded by rippling Earthen mana.

"VADAM WITCH!" Zairic or maybe Zethoag declared. "GUARDS! EJECT THIS HUMAN FROM THE COUNCIL HALLS."

From the noble faction's quadrant came the clanking of armour. Unfortunately, the guards' progress ended at the base of the speaker's dais, where Hanmoul's men stood in their way with crossed arms.

The move was enough to trigger a flurry of additional guards with gleaming impractical Golem armours polished to perfection.

That particular reaction catalysed a roar of protest from the Craftsmen's section, causing more Hammer Guards to rise, some clad in Golem plating and others materialising spellhammers and spellswords.

In a matter of minutes, the Chamber had split in twain, with the nobles of the upper spire taking the west wing with a faction of the commoners' aldermen. The neutral Iron Borns native to the Citadel formed a barrier toward the east wing, joined by Craftsmen with weaponised tools.

Ollie stood with the rest of the diplomatic cabal behind Gwen, joined by her party members, who appeared entirely relaxed and in need of exploded corn covered in crystallised caramel.

The atmosphere grew gradually thick enough to slice as the ambient mana clashed.

"THOU WOULD DEFY HEARTH AND STONE?" The deeper of the two voices that Gwen anointed as Zethoag ran short of patience. With a grunt and a series of hisses and clicks, he shifted the enormous bulk of his Dive Klad and made his clanking way down to the lectern platform, followed by his brother. "SHALL THIS ONE REMOVE HER HIMSELF?"

Hanmoul moved to intercept and was in turn blocked by Gwen, who stood without a change in stance or expression, waiting to call the Deepdowner's buff.

"UN-DWARVEN!" Zairic declared. "PITH VADARAM!"

The declaration caused some consternation among the Dwarves still unsure of which side to join.

"Milords." Gwen circulated the Essence she had since mustered, pushing herself through the haze of clashing mana. "Pray, answer my enquiry— what makes you think that these Dwarves, your warriors and craftsmen, are 'un-Dwarven'? What makes you think you're 'Dwarven' when overt deceit is Vadam by nature?"

"THOU ART AN OUTSIDER," Zethoag declared. "WE ART THE LEARNED KEEPERS OF UMGOR ÈRON VARÈKAN! OUR WORD IS LAW!"

"Aye! The Keeper's words art backed by lore," Brugal retorted now that there was a Deepdowner by his side. "Give up the lode, Human. Yer cannot win without despoiling the city yer need to profit. Yer path to the Dyar Morkk art blocked, Usurper!"

Gwen laughed in Brugal's face.
It wasn't every day that one got to skin a cat hedging multiple lives.

"Magus Song!" Gwen's simple, honest fun was interrupted by a call of clarity from the Santa-Dwarf seated above the pitched battle below. "We are igneous folk, Gwen. Please get on with it."

"Very well." Gwen swiftly returned to the meowing Deepdowners and their cat-in-heat, Brugal.

"Friends, Kin, good masters of Eth Rjoth Kjangtoth," she announced to the hall. "I am innocent, as are my companions of these accusations— because I have irrefutable evidence that the demise of Ser Ebren and Lady Hilda came from within the Citadel itself. Commandrumm Hamoul and I did our best, but our effort was overwhelmed by treachery and deceit. I didn't initially mention this, because who would want to doubt our allies' veracity? Yet, never would I imagine that your esteemed Keepers would attempt to lay the fault on me."

"LIES!" Brugal spluttered.
"DISHONESTY!"
"VARADAM!" the trio called out as if in sync.

"If ye has evidence, then illuminate our minds!" Brugal's voice rose in volume, though his tone dipped from confidence to doubt. With the two Deepdowners behind him, however, the noble was entirely committed. "That or accept expulsion, Human! Yer art a Calamity upon our Citadel, yer very presence soils the sacred stones of our domain."

Gwen ignored Brugal and turned instead to the Deepdowners. "How about a round of Ankrumm?"

The room collectively paused at her unexpected demand.

"… Gwen." Ollie's silent Message bloomed beside her ear. "Ankrumm means er… 'contested wager', yes, but the implication is that the loser quaffs enough beverage to pass out, so I am not sure what you intend here…"

"… Oh." Gwen's cheeks grew rosy. She had genuinely intended Ankrumm to imply honour-bound acquiescence or ante.

Nonetheless, Brugal's perplexed expression and the stunned silence from the Deepdowners was pleasing enough.

"… Also." Ollie's voice filtered across once more. "Some Deepdowners abstain from alcohol. It's a part of their monastic preservation. Umgor èron Varèkan is one of those places."

Gwen felt light-headed. A little knowledge was a troublesome thing.

"Ankrumm!" Hanmoul dismissed her consternation, joined a split-second later by Yossari and Bumrorlim. Following their examples, the warriors and the craftsmen roared. Of all the Dwarves, their castes' delight in destroying ethanol-processing organs were most widespread.

"Ankrumm! Ankrumm! Ankrumm! Ankrumm!" Gwen concluded the peanut-crunching crowd also did not care for such a thing as snobbish Keepers from the Cavern of Enlightenment. Even across races, the division of class was an easy sentiment to underestimate. If a group of Darjeeling-drinking Magisters in Cambridge showed up in Leeds to lecture the local labourers, they should also expect awe to sour into loathing.

"Ankrumm! Ankrumm!" Even the conservative aldermen appeared affected.

Gwen took another step forward, bolstered by the jeering. Even if her Ankrumm was a faux pas, it was Brugal and the Deepdowner's problem now.

"Ankrumm?" she cheekily made another attempt at butchering Dwarven cultural conventions.

"This isn't a tavern." Brugal's retort was pure venom, an effect exaggerated by his bruised face. "If you desire Ankrumm, Magus Song, then let us up the ante. By mine honour and my Clan, I call for Bëldarak!"

The crunching peanut gallery quietened.

"You'll have to enlighten me." Gwen spread her hands and shrugged her shoulders. "What's Bëldarak?"

"The Trial of Truth, as told by Byllelynn Møsvian in warning to the Dusk Kin of Fulroth-Däl, traitors to Deepholm," their Guildmaster delivered his impartial advice from above. "If you have faith that your words will illuminate the lies of your foe, then speak the vow."

"And if one breaks the Vow?"

"For us Dwarves, it means having one's Clan name stricken from the Ancestor's Halls. It would mean our Core would never rejoin the Elemental Plane of Earth, never to be reborn or remembered, no matter one's achievement." Brugal's voice rose several octaves. "Do yer dare, Magus Song?"

_Ah,_ Gwen nodded. _Collective punishment. Very good._ "I am not a Dwarf."

"—I'll swear in her stead." Hanmoul raised a Brugal-stained gauntlet.

"—And I'll accept exile, including pulling all of London's forces out of the Murk." Gwen grinned wolfishly.

The colour drained from Brugal's face.
Opposite, Ollie lost all colour as his diplomatic corp scrambled.

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Her party munched on ration bars in place of exploded corn.

"I double-dare you..." Gwen's taunt lay ticking at the Deepdowners iron-clad feet. "As the Guildmaster says, let us all abide by this Bëldarak. Let truth light the way."

Perhaps not expecting her to call their bluff, the silence form Zairic and Zethoag Gul-Zūh was deafening.

"Well?" Gwen wasn't about to give her enemies time to balance the risks and rewards. "I thought you folk were from Umgor èron Varèkan, the cavern of Enlightenment. Isn't that where Varekan-Kül sang that 'The lumen in the dark always lights the way'?"

The aphorism had been taught to her by Ebren, who suggested that a few well-known psalms could sway the mood of the Council.

Brugal's eyes flittered from her to the Deepdowners, but Gwen could see the poor sod was at a loss for words. Maybe he thought she had misunderstood the implications of betting on the Bëldarak, or perhaps he thought she was bluffing as well. Either way, the noblemen's blackened-eyes hardened like burnt honeycomb.

"House Brumdahr accepts the trial of Bëldarak."

The Council Hall collectively inhaled.

"Brummy, I don't give a Murk squid's entrails about you or your Clan." Gwen's next words made their exhalation catch in their throat. "I want those behind you to stand trial. I want their apology or their commitment to this Bëldarak. If you speak for them, tell them to shut their beaks and return to their swamp, or Bëldarak. We don't need librarians steering the business of the Citadel, especially liars who can't take a Jäger Bombe."

Following her multi-pronged assault, Brugal's complexion polymorphed into Ollie's when he delivered Farron's Message. With his flushed lips forming a severe line like a slit-wound, the pallid noble turned to his masters for direction. Gwen knew the Dwarf did not dare speak for the Deepdowners, but that was the point. Her deal with Hilda was to hammer Zairic and Zethoag Gul-Zūh into the Void. Without pushing them against the wall, how could she rip off their masks? Only with the pair permanently removed could Hilda and Whurforlüm bulldoze the conservative faction and move their people toward cosmopolitan globalisation.

"THOU—" Zairic the younger wound up but was cut off by Zethoag the older with a swipe of a gauntlet-clad hand.

"WE ART KEEPERS OF LORE. LORE CANNOT BE DENIED," the older made his case. "HUMAN, IF THOU HAST PROOF, CLAN BRUMDAHR SHALL ACT AS SURETY. THOU ART NOT DESERVING OF MORE."

Gwen tsked. The old codgers are trickier than she had imagined.
Then again, if they were smart enough to trap Hilda and Ebren and try to make her cop the responsibility for their death, she shouldn't be surprised.

Brugal Brumdahr took on the look of someone who in his very bones knew he was looking into a depthless abyss and that Hanmoul was about to shout "This is Eth Rjoth Kjangtoth!" and give him a final stomp.

Gwen subtly looked up at Whurforlüm, whose beard twitched affirmatively. As a people, the Dwarves were too honourable to endure.

"I swear by this Bëldarak of yours," Gwen decided to maker her move before Brugal grew any softer and slipped out. "If my evidence fails to satisfy, then I shall remove myself and all Human presence from not only the Murk but the city itself. Furthermore, I shall pursue no further the death of our Mages."

Brugal's breath came hard and fast. He glanced once more at the Deepdowners, then puffed out his chest like an unapologetic bushranger wearing a noose. "I accept. I, Brugal of Clan Brumdahr, swear by my Ancestors. By Bëldarak, I speak the truth and seek not to deceive mine Kin. If there is deceit, then I shall accept exile from Clan and Kin in Deepholm, seeking forgiveness in the Hall of the Eternal Cog."

As the Dwarf spoke, his spine straightened and his voice grew firm. Such was the power of desperation, Gwen observed with a mote of empathic sadness. How strong was Brugal's hope? Did he not see that his masters had refused to back his sacrifice with their own?

"Good, are we now witnessed?" She turned to the Deepdowners, glanced at her co-conspirators, then toward Whurforlüm.

"Thou art witnessed," Whurforlüm delivered his verdict, speaking for the otherwise silent High Council. "Proceed."

"Good. Here's the truth." Gwen passed a hand over the dais, releasing her cargo with a clang. "Let's hope you can handle it."

The crowd of Dwarves leaned in, some physically, others with remote-viewing devices.

"Farron Gahrol!" One of the Dwarves from the noble quadrant confirmed their suspicions. "She killed Farron Gahrol!"

Gwen rolled her eyes, then pointed to the facial portion of Farron Gahrol, Captain of the Murk Divers.

"… What is that?" An alderman had to step back from revulsion. "Has it mated with her head?"
"That's… a _Sinneslukare_!" a helpful and more knowledgeable voice declared from the Craftsmen's wing. "I am sure of it! I've seen the diagrams in the bestiary! A Mind Eater!"
"Impossible! They're a myth!"
"What do yer call that then?"

While the crowd argued, Gwen studied the Deepdowners Zairic and Zethoag. Once more, she could sense their disquiet through their fluctuating vitals. For someone with her hyper-attuned senses, focusing on a particular detail like the sound of fluids pumping through tubing wasn't as tricky as it would seem.

"Earlier, you said—" Brugal appeared lost for words, his face ashen. "That's—"

There was no question that the body belonged to Farron. Any Dwarf worth their salt in any capacity could check what remained of the Glyphs embedded into the Captain's body to declare without a shadow of a doubt that the flesh was Farron's, even if the head was not.

"Are you allied with the Sinneslukare, Brugal? Are you bartering Kin to the brain-calamari for power and profit?" Gwen prodded the panicking noble to see if he would jump into the abyss of his own accord.

"NO!" Brugal's refutation came as a scream. "Never! How dare—"

"If not you, then is it them?" Gwen pointed a finger toward Zairic and Zethoag. "You swore, Brugal. You imputed that I was killing Iron Guards and may have murdered Hilda and Ebren, but your proof hinged on this thing? An Aberrant that has taken over the mind of your precious Captain? The theme of Honour's Tongue, indeed!"

"I didn't know…" Brugal moaned. "How could I know?"

"I think you mean they didn't tell you," Gwen addressed the Deepdowners once more. "Well? Are you guilty of alliance with the Aberrants, milords?"

"WE ART DECEIVED AS WELL." The pair did not relent but stood taller instead. "HUMOUR US, HUMAN. WHAT HAS THOU DONE WITH THE ESTEEMED ENGINESEER THALMAR?"

"Thalmar?" Gwen raised her chin. "Who or what is that?"

"DOTH THOU THINK US FOOLS?" came the retort from a pair of hissing suits. "WE FEARED THY TREACHERY, HUMAN. WE ASKED THE ETERNAL THALMAR TO RETRIEVE OUR SISTER. HE DID NOT RETURN NOR DID HE REPORT— THEREFORE HE MUST HAVE PERISHED BY THY HAND."

The murmuring Council Chamber grew quiet once more.
All who entered the Soulforge had their names engraved upon the Ancestor's Hall's hallowed plaques, and so all knew of Thalmar, once Engineseer and now an eternal engine. Gwen could see that the knowledge they lacked was that Thalmar been sent on a secretive and seditious mission.

"I don't know who Thalmar is," Gwen lied as effortlessly as she breathed, confessing that she didn't know anything about Thalmar other than the echoing agony of his dispersing soul as she pulled its Essence from the Golem's Creature Core, a detail she omitted. "But if you're going to accuse me without evidence, then I've got a good one, just for you."

She moved her hand across the dais once more.

Three more bodies appeared, all preserved by Caliban.
One was intact, the rest were mostly digested but for the head.

All possessed the inert brain-attachments of the Sinneslukare for all to see.

"Here's an accusation," she said to Brugal. "Your precious Murk Divers were trying to set the Aberrants onto us. They were mind-controlling the Crawlers, Centaurs, Hulks and making them attack us relentlessly. How else do you think Hilda failed to hold Khorok Umgor? She had a LEGION with her, Brummy. Twenty Rock Smashers, forty men and women in Golem plating, forty engineers and auxiliary staff AND she had a Fabricator Engine digging up minerals to manufacture fuel and ammunition. How do you lose with a setup like that if not for infiltration?"

The Council Chamber exploded at her revelation, causing Brugal to shrink.

"Now, now." Gwen gestured for the members of the crowd to approach and inspect the bodies at their leisure. She addressed her primary targets once more. "Milord Deepdowners— where were we?"

Zairic and Zethoag Gul-Zūh both raised their gauntlets. "MAGUS SONG, THOU TREAD A DANGEROUS PATH."

"Yeah—Nah." Gwen shook her head. "I don't think so. You know what? I think that under those armours of yours, we might find some suckers..."

If the High Council had acted prior like the audience of a tragic opera, now came the moment when all the devils of hell spiralled into being around Dante Alighieri, descending into the abyss whilst a sea of strings screeched on the minor scale.

"Care to remove your helmets?" Gwen placed a hand on either side of her hip. "Show me I am wrong. Else there's no reason for us to return to the question of my guilt."

"YER DARE?!" Brugal inflated like a blow-up noodle man. "T-these are our sacred Deepdowners!"

"These are your _sacred_ _Sinneslukare_!" Gwen bit back with a snarl. "Guildmaster! As an ally of the Citadel and friend of Hilda, I ask for the Council to take action in the interest of the city's security! These two, honoured as they are, have acted to obstruct every attempt at contacting Deepholm, going so far as to endanger Kin, if not outright result in their demise. Until we have confirmation, no justice can stand!"

As she spoke, electricity sparked, for such was her delight in vengeance.
Of course, she had no evidence that the Deepdowners were Sinneslukare. She was bluffing. Her outright accusation of the Deepdowners was a Hail Mary pass, one that as far as Gwen could see, had no setbacks. With Hilda and Ebren hidden among Hanmoul's Iron Guards in the second round, a game-winning touchdown was a matter of time.

If so, there was no reason NOT to attempt such sensible manipulations.
What if she guessed correctly and accidentally saved the whole Citadel from Sinneslukare subversion? The Saviour of Eth Rjoth Kjangtoth as a title would surely turn some heads, especially Dickie's, who she needed to rat-fuck the Militants out of her Isle of Dogs.

Which was why she felt no need to respond to Brugal but instead stood and awaited the Deepdowner's response.

To her surprise, the Deepdowners were slipperier than Murk eels.

"WE ART DISAPPOINTED," the pair spoke in twain to their perplexed audience. "DOTH THOU BELIEVE THAT THE ABERRANT MINDS OF THE FAR PLANES WOULD KNOW THE LEGACY OF NÖRN-ZUR'S ALCHEMICAL CREATIONS? OR OF GUL-ZÜH'S OIL-BEGETTING FORMULAE?"

Zairic pointed an iron-clad digit at someone in the noble faction. "WOULD A SINNESLUKARE BE ABLE TO ATTUNE THE FROST-FLAME GLYPHS OF HOUSE VADOR?"

Zethoag addressed the aldermen from the commons. "CAN A SINNESLURKARE DISMANTLE AND REASSEMBLE A THREE-CENTURY TIEFWASSERFILTRATION UNIT MADE BY ENGINESEER KASTOR KORRUUM?"

Gwen sighed as the audience murmured their approval. As the Deepdowners said, the peanut-crunching audience did not think that a squid-brained Dwarf could employ apex-tier Dwarven blood-runes, and even if they did, the real knowledge of Deepholm isn't something so quickly usurped without accumulated effort over centuries.

In only a few sentences, the pair had turned the silence against her. Such was the boon of having home ground.

"You do not wish to remove your visor and prove your innocence?" Gwen said. "Then at best, infiltrators you are not, but traitors you still are. Your Klads are not off the hook yet, milords. Why did you prevent Hamoul from receiving resupplies? Why was Hilda left to her own device for months on end in Khorok Umgor? Why are you blaming us, who fought side-by-side with Hilda and Ebren, and not yourselves for her demise when you confessedly did 'nothing'?"

"WE REFUTE THY ACCUSATIONS." Their twin iron bodies appeared immovable. "IN THESE HALLOWED HALLS, ONLY DEEPKIN MAY QUESTION DEEPKIN. AND NEVER A HUMAN. WHERE ART THOU EVIDENCE? OR ART THOU BUT PEDDLING HEARSAY AND DECEIT? ART THOU A PAWN OF THE SINNESLUKARE?"

The nobles lent the Deepdowners their greedy ears, with more than a few broadcasting their open agreement. Their hopeful faces said that having Gwen's accusation turned against her was a breath of fresh air.

Conversely, Gwen was happy that finally, she had gotten the Deepdowners to invest.

"I think." She approached the pair but stopped short of facing them directly. "That even if you're unwilling to show your true faces, you should be willing to enter into our Bëldarak contract. Did you forget that I fought the Aberrants, purged their nests, rescued my men and secured Khorok Umgor only six hours ago? And you say I am a liar? If you're so guiltless, shouldn't you at least have the honour and the gall to commit to a vow? Even Brugal gave his name— what makes you better than anyone else here? Do they not deserve you? You who hail from the Cavern of Enlightenment?"

Once more, the silence turned against her foes.
Gwen knew that the Deepdowners would not take the oath. They were too slippery for that, and their natural position ensured that no Dwarf, not even the Guildmaster, could force them into such a contract of truth.

With the stalemate dragging out, she figured prolonging the agony had lost all profitability. It was now time to strike for the jugular and put an end to the charade.

"I see," she said. "Tentacles might have caught your tongues, but here's someone who does wish to have their grievances heard— Hanmoul? Bring forth our witnesses."

Hanmoul ordered his Iron Born to spread out.
From their number, two stepped forward, clanging onto the stage in their damaged Golem plates. At the Hammer Guards' behest, the crowd was forced back, leaving only Gwen, the Deepdowners, Whurforlüm and their two newcomers in the middle of the dais.

Pssssssht—
The first Golem armour released its torso and helmet, revealing the face of a youthful Dwarven woman still dressed in the dermal-layer of her Klad. The second armour showcased an older Dwarf, a venerable-looking fellow with white hair and a knotted beard in a shabby, loosely-hanging dermal-suit.

The crowd was not familiar with either of their faces, but there was no mistaking their identity. Each Deepdowner, Gwen supposed, had their unique auras, ones that were unmistakable when put on full display.

The fairer of the pair opened her hand and produced a Glyph for all to see.

"Lady Hilda Kül-Hildenbrandt!" Brugal's orbs appeared almost to remove themselves from his skull. "Lord Ebren!"

Sounds of rushing fluid erupted from Zairic and Zethoag's Klads.

"Milords Gul-Zūh," Hilda's tone hailed from the glacial caverns close to the Para-Elemental Plane of Ice. "Engineseer Thalmar sends his regards. Hanmoul!"

_CLUNK—!_

Without delay, Hanmoul released the "corpse" of the Guardian Balefire, filling half the dais with the enormity of the unmoving Golem.

The grand hall ceiling was a dozen meters in height, even so, the five-meter form of the dead Balefire appeared to fill the place from granite nadir to lumen-runed zenith.

_Phsssst—Phsssst—Phsssst—_

From the sound of their hyperventilating suits, the brothers had finally lost their composure. Beside them, Brugal appeared as though he had lost his mind.

"Clan and Kin!" Hilda refrained from using her vox-caster, relying instead on her sweet and feminine voice. "You know me— as I have been among you for the last three decades and more, stoking the crystals in the Hall of the Eternal Cog so that our glorious city burns as a bright beacon against the endless Murk."

Hilda waited for her audience to quieten.
Already, Gwen could see bodies belonging to vocal objectors attempting to retreat. A few even tried to exit the High Council Chamber, though the Guildmaster had given express orders to let none leave. When they hissed at the guards to move, the Hammer Guards' Spellblades hissed back.

"Lord Thalmar…" Hilda's voice reverberated. "... Came for us. Valiant as he was in life, he fought with every mote of mana against the Aberrant horde. Yet, even with his indomitable spirit, the combined might of the swarm, together with the wicked mind sorcery of the Sinneslukare, proved too much. Even with the arrival of our Human friends and Commandrumm Hanmoul, the Murk Divers infected by the Aberrant brain-worms proved too wily and disruptive. While Ebren and I were besieged by their pallid bodies, the swarm was driven into an unholy frenzy, exhausting the hastily-forged Thalmar with their unholy sorcery."

"What she said," Gwen finished up for her companion. "I am sorry I couldn't have done more, Hilda."

Hilda shook her head, touched Gwen's gloved hand, then looked up to the brothers Gul-Zūh. "I do not know if both of thee art still Dwarves, Lord Keepers, but I know that you withheld my resources. I know that you delayed Hanmoul and that you're the reason this— all of this—"

The female Deepdowner's voice grew suddenly firm and vengeful. "A HUNDRED DWARVES! Keepers Gul-Zūh! One HUNDRED gold-blooded Hammer Guards born of iron! Gone! Perished! Reduced to Murk meat by the Aberrants because two errant scholars coveted influence and power they should not have wielded to begin with!"

The brothers' Klads continued to ventilate.
They were in a room full of angry Dwarves, Gwen observed. Most importantly, they were in a room with her. Surely these Gul-Zūh folk weren't thinking of making a break for it? What would be the point?

"THOU HAST NO PROOF…" came their vox-warped retort full of incoherence, grasping at Murk reeds to battle the sucking mud of despair.

"Are my absent Hammer Guards not proof enough?" Hilda's voice was almost a feral snarl. "Is your support for this—"

She pointed to Farron's rotting squid face. "— not enough?"

She pointed to her and Ebren's Klad, even now sitting empty. "THEY KNEW THE RUNE GLYPHS TO UNLOCK OUR KLADS, GUL-ZŪH! Do you expect to tell me SOMEONE ELSE present could access the Hall of Records?! That there exists another Dwarf in Eth Rjoth Kjangtoth, a Deepdowner Keeper, who comes from Umgor èron Varèkan?"

And that was it.
Gwen unclenched her mind.
That was the Maximised Lava Bomb.
She had no idea how Hilda became un-Klad in the first place— but this tale they concocted was as good as a mithril-clad biblical revelation delivered straight from Hilda's mouth.

"Ironførge!" Hilda turned to Whurforlüm, who had been awaiting this moment for the last hour. When finally she called on him, the old Dwarf visibly glowed with pleasure. "By the Lumen and the Runes of my Ancestors Hildenbrandt, Varekan and Kül, I proclaim a Decree of Exile against these two shameless ingrates, these unDwarven bookworms that may even now be calamari!"

Whurforlüm rose to his full height, which wasn't very tall, albeit the Earthen mana radiating from the Guildmaster could probably levitate a nimble-bodied Àlf. "I CALL FOR A VOTE—"

"NO NEED," Zethoag's voice cut across the Guildmaster's command. "WE CAN SEE THAT THOU HAST PLANNED THIS, LASS OF THE LUMEN. THOU SENIORS ART MOST DISAPPOINTED."

"IF WE ART NOT WELCOME, THEN THE KEEPERS OF LORE SHALL LEAVE THE CITADEL AND RETURN TO UMGOR ÈRON VARÈKAN," spoke the other. "THERE NEED NOT BE BLOOD SPILT, FOR THE BLOOD OF KIN IS GOLD."

The atmosphere visibly relaxed.

Gwen sighed.
So much for nixing the bud in-house.
She looked to Hilda, whose expression remained unmoved and acknowledged that they would soon proceed to her auxiliary backup plan. It was an outcome she loathed— but that didn't mean she would shy away. Long ago, in as a dark and claustrophobic a place as the Murk, she had learned a hard lesson from Gunther. Her late Master as well had demonstrated the consequences of allowing sentimentality to fester until sepsis took his life.

"BRUGAL." The brother did not abandon their fool. "MAKE WAY."

Gwen watched, pregnant with hope that someone would throw a spell or stab one of the Deepdowners in an attempt to pry open their helmets.

She was to be disappointed, for these were Dwarves.
They were honourable, foolish and romantic, with reverence for the elderly and the wise hardwired like nerve stems into their cast-iron brains.

Instead of anger, the mob watched in silence, their eyes full of shame. Notably, it wasn't shame heaped upon the Deepdowners and Brugal— but that they fell for lies and powerplays. In the aftermath, a hundred Dwarves or more were dead, as was an Eternal Soul, and if not for Humans, Eth Rjoth Kjangtoth would have lost Hilda and Ebren too.

From the dais to the cog-driven doors, there was a path of a hundred metres.

Gwen could imagine that for Brugal and his Clan, the slow-retreat must have felt like an eternity.

Across from her, Hilda too sunk into her Golem armour, too emotional to speak, unable to swallow the self-loathing of lying to her people. Besides her, a kind Whurforlüm wisely repeated ancestral anecdotes in his calming radio operator's voice to soothe her toiling mind.

_CLAK—CLAK—CLAK—CLAK—_

The exit doors rolled to either side.
A troop of Iron Guards, soon to be joined by others, marched out in their Golem plates, Spellswords raised to expel the disgraced deceivers of Kin. Ebren stepped from the dais, said his peace, then left with the Hammer Guards, for somewhere out there was a Balefire Dreadnaught that needed coxing.

Silently, Gwen retreated to stand beside her Human counterparts.

"… That was…" Ollie licked his lips nervously. "Did you just start a coup?"

"In China, we call it 'The People's Will'," Gwen drily replied. "Dickie would likely need to know all the details, after all, and you're the bringer of the good news."

Ollie looked into her eyes then furrowed his brows. He was reading her, Gwen could see, and from the twisting grimace now distorting his face from relief to horror, she could see Second Secretary Edwards's hair-roots cry out in pain. "What? What is it? What else are you going to do? Please, Gwennie— not more trouble…"

"No, not more trouble." Gwen looked at her crew, who stood and nodded. They were rested now, meditated and restored and ready to rumble.

She patted the future Sir Oliver Edwards on the shoulder.

"For Christ's sake, Gwen," Ollie pleaded. "What are you planning now? Where are you all going? Can we talk about this first?"

"Don't worry. We're nixing trouble." Gwen's smile did not reach her eyes. "I am closing the deal I made with Hildy, Ollie. Tell Dickie to post Quests for survey teams and guards. After today, the Shard will have unfettered access to the Dyar Mokk from John o' Groats to Southsea."


Eth Rjoth Kjangtoth.
The Low Ways.

In every Dwarven fortification, auxiliary pathways existed as a part of the Demi-human's philosophy of construction.

Ironically, Gwen and her companions' route to reach the dim-Murk on the outskirts was the same one Thalmar had taken at the brothers Gul-Zūhs' behest, a transit involving rapid Teleportation Stations that resembled Dimension Doors, each with a range of a kilometre, and each hardwired through Glyph-wrought Runic nodes.

"I can see where we got our ISTC inspirations," Gwen remarked to Hanmoul's cousin.

"Ha! Yer Humans are good at 'borrowing' Spellcraft fer sure." Bumrorlim, who had volunteered as their guide, kept up a forced cheer. Though originally Gwen had wanted to perform her final act of cleansing alone, only Dwarves of a specific bloodline, possessing Glyphs of particular Clans, could utilise the auxiliary trail. As Hilda and Ebren had to wash their hands clean for what was to come and Hanmoul's position was too sensitive, Rori offered herself as their Judas goat.

Once the party buffed up, summoned their Hounds and settled their Familiars, they waited for their guests.

Gwen looked down the passageway, her eyes piercing the Murk until the tunnel angled away.

The brothers Gul-Zūh would soon arrive— that was her gut feeling.

Their ambush point was the only node by which they could safely access the Low-ways parallel to the now-defunct Dyar Morkk. An alternative for returning to the Caverns of Enlightenment would involve trudging through the Murk without an entourage, an unimaginable prospect for two scholars and a few exiled nobles.

A quarter of an hour later, her victims lumbered into view.

Together with the Gul-Zūh siblings walked the dejected form of Brugal Brumdahr and a small entourage of his relatives cast off by the Clan like a Murk lizard severing a bitten tail. None wore Golem plates, though almost all held onto Spellswords with their sweat-stained hands. The men's fine clothes, which they wore to the High Council meeting, were stained with dust and debris. Their flawless beards, which had been oiled and impeccably trimmed, struck out randomly, rebelling from the golden bands that kept thick strands in check.

The Deepdowners among them hissed and clanked, moving with an air of exertion. The brothers' Klads, Hilda had specified, must be returned to her people or consigned to the Void; in either case, Rori would witness the act and report back as necessary.

While the exiles approached, Gwen stifled her deep-seated feelings of discomfort for committing what any jury would agree to be premeditated murder.

Each time a little worm of doubt began to gnaw at her conscience, she danced on the seedling to stymie her natural compassion. These are the monsters who would murder legions of their own for a little power, Gwen reminded herself. If she were a regular Evoker, like those Adventurer-Mages, she would now either be dead or brained via Mon Calamari. In a kinder world, the defeated may deserve compassion; presently, no good governed her actions, only pragmatism.

Down in the dip under the tunnel's snaking ceiling, her victims stopped.

Above them, burrowed in the transmuted stone, Caliban coiled its serpentine body, ready to strike.

Gwen stood in the middle of the path, awaiting their arrival, a pale spectre of death, a lithe reaper in blue-white and blood-caked Shen-teī armour.

"… Magus Song," Brugal's voice croaked.

Gwen boldly measured each of her targets, her Void-tinged aura licking their Astral Souls with bouts of vertigo as invisible tentacle-tongues.

Earlier, she had asked Rori if the Dwarves could avoid the Dyar Morkk.

Rori replied that the Deepdowners could flee by turning the stone in any direction they liked, but how long could their mana last? Their Klads' offered powerful sorcerous effects unmatched even by Rock Smasher Golems, but that didn't mean they ignored the equivalent exchange of energy. Ten kilometres— twenty— that's how far they could dig. But then what? Break into the natural caverns in the Murk to battle flora and fauna? Dwarven expeditions rarely ventured from the Citadel without a resupply train and a Fabricator Engine with good reasons. That and Deepholm never lacked for Deepdowners, but that didn't prevent them from losing access to the Dyar Morkk.

_Psssht—_
 _Pssssssht—_
The sound of deep-breathing respirators filled the quiet air of the passage.

Gwen steeled her resolve.

"This can be quick." She splayed both hands, praying that the Dwarves would resign themselves to their fate. At the very least, she could give them painless dignity. "And you can return to the earth. Or this can be complicated."

She felt sick hearing the words come out of her mouth.
How was it that Gunther and Alesia did their duties untouched by weaknesses of the mind? Even with cause, her skull swarmed like a nest of duelling scorpions busting out of a rotten, fungi-infested log.

Brugal's face grew three shades paler, as did the complexions of his Kin. With some desperation, he turned to Hanmoul's cousin. "Bumrorlim… yer—"

The newly minted Captain of the Murk Divers shook her head. "Perish with honour, cousin Brugal. What ye and yer Kin has precipitated is Varadam. Why does yer expect compassion when yer little better than a howling Aberrant? When yer chose to stand with Zairic and Zethoag Gul-Zūh, were yer not reminded that the lumen will always light the way?"

How simple and how faultless, Gwen thought. Varadam— Un-Dwarven. Brugal and the Keepers were in the eyes of their Kin no longer "Dwarves", for a Dwarf would have known better than to send an Eternal Soul and a hundred Iron Born to a purposeless death, then lie to the High Council, then swear by the Ancestors.

And if these are no longer Dwarves, then slaying them bore no more moral cost than crushing a Murk rat found thieving from the granary.

Opposite, the Keepers appeared to have made up their minds.
When faced with certain death, some chose acceptance.
Others fought to the bitter end.
Some acted only when it was too late.
Such paradoxes marked the nature of higher-thinking beings.

"OUR ALLIES WILT—" Zairic and Zethoag Gul-Zūh made Brugal's choice for him. Before their final taunt even finished, an eruption of Void sorcery smothered the Dwarves.

Phantasmal Forces from Gracie materialised as stabbing shadows to send the casters reeling, ignoring armour and defence, bypassing the Klads.
Hold Monsters spells freed from Spellcubes by Petra reinforced the psyche-devouring illusions, holding the Deepdowners in place.
Usurp ate up the ambient Earthen mana and half-manifested defence spells triggered from the Klads and the Spellswords.

And from Gwen came a merciless, wide-area suppression—

"Enervating Orb!"

A miniature black sun dawned overhead amidst the Dwarves, draining away all life and vitality.

Brugal and the unarmored nobles were the first to be reduced to pale cadavers.

Comparatively, Zairic and Zethoag Gul-Zūh stood in place, unable to move, fighting the spell with their Klads.

Gwen ignored the mana sparking off their grotesque silhouettes and instead focused on increasing potency. When the unarmoured Dwarves died, she had felt a surge of vitality, but now her output far outpaced the drain. As anticipated, Enervating Orb was best against clumped, high-vital targets rather than against small numbers of elite units. Likewise, the penetrative impact of Enervating Orb against upper-tier targets was lacking.

That said—

"Enervating Orb!"

A second black sun materialised beside the first.

The vital drain remained unsatisfactory.

"Enervating Orb!"

A third joined the hovering twins.

She could cast as many spheres of enervation as her mana and vitality allowed. Simultaneously, so long as the orbs remained in orbit, they were self-feeding or relied on her vital pool but otherwise required no concentration to control and manipulate. With three in place, the flow of life energies doubled. That's how magical resistance worked. Rather than a percentile diminishment, a creature's spell resistance was a linear reduction like armour. Once superseded, the target may as well be defenceless.

The effort to maintain three orbs, however, was significant.

"Duck." Richard patted her back after she had counted to twenty. "I am pretty sure they're dead. You pour any more Negative Energy onto them. The corpses are going to rise…"

Gwen ceased her spell casting. She felt gutted and hollow, a symptom of overdrawn vitality, or so she told herself.

Not far, Brugal and his fellows were now dry husks, so dry that Gwen wondered if their remains were brittle enough to break from toppling over.

As for the Klads.

"Richard, can you do it?" she coaxed Ariel near, then slumped against the Kirin, not wanting to look at her handy work any more than she needed. "I am a bit tired."

"Sure." Richard took the lead.

Petra arrived beside her and placed her arms around Gwen. "Let's go home after this, Gwennie. I think we all need to see some sun. Else we're going to go mad. I bet Dede misses you."

Her other teammates agreed.

Gwen buried her face in Ariel. She wanted to fall into her Kirin's fur and sleep like the dead until she was back in London.

Whatever cleanup was left in Eth Rjoth Kjangtoth would be the domain of Ollie.

Richard approached the Klads with Bumrorlim, tasked to retrieve Klads once their occupants perished. After a few Glyph sequences, Zethoag's "unoccupied" Klad hissed open, spilling out its guts of tubing and white vital fluids.

Inside the oversized Dive Klad, the shrivelled body of the Keeper appeared like a giant infant with an immensely disproportioned head, his limbs almost entirely atrophied by disuse. Tubing connecting to the dermal suit kept his torso suspended in the runny, embryonic liquid while mechanical components protruded from plugs railed into the shrivelled flesh.

"… Jesus Christ." Richard gagged at the smell. "How come Hilda and Ebren aren't like this?"

"They're not relying on the Klad to stay alive." Bumrorlim put on a rebreather unit.

"You want to do the honours?"

The Dwarf obliged. That was her duty.

_Phsssssst!_
Bumrorlim pried open the helmet with a hiss, releasing the pressure and revealing the Deepdowner whole hog.

"… Unexpected." Richard now felt glad that Gwen hadn't succeeded in making the Deepdowners show their faces back in the Citadel, for though Zethoag still had his head, with his beard either shaven or fallen out thanks to the liquid, the Dwarf resembled a pale Aberrant more so than his stout Kin.

The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

"No Sinneslukare…" Hanmoul's cousin emerged half-drenched in the milk-white gloop, one hand red with fresh gore from the corpse-husk. "Does this mean…"

"That they're WILLINGLY working with the Sinneslukare?" Richard marvelled with a whistle and then placed a sympathetic hand on the Dwarf, holding the Iron Born steady. "Goodness. If this is the standard with your upper crust, then Deepholm— is fucked."

Westminister.
Norfolk's Office.

"Mori" shivered with pleasure as she processed the reports flooding in from the Dwarf-controlled Murk. The majority of the missives were passed on from the Diplomacy Corp working under her Master. Others were from the Adventurers and the merchants operating in the Murk, detailing juicy tidbits about Cambridge's Void vixen, the limitless profit potential of the Dyar Morkk, and the grand meeting of the Citadels currently being planned in Bavaria.

Suffice it to say, the Devourer of Shenyang had done it again.

A dozen times, Morrigan had watched the lumen-recording Oliver Edwards had sent over, analysing every word, savouring every move the young woman made to corner the Dwarven nobility and their Deepdowner allies.

What a fiery catalyst the girl continued to be! If Morrigan had met the sorceress a millennia ago, she would have desired the girl to be her Champion, and she, her Goddess of victory!

The plots Gwen had revealed, exposed, kept for another day, and had yet to uncover were enough to make the Patroness of Secrets salivate. The Dwarves as well, though they were a race Morrigan had known since the dawn of Anno Domini, had demonstrated as much malicious political intrigue as their habitual abstractly hoarding of knowledge.

And the Sinneslukare! A whole race shrouded in secrecy! What delicious morsels might they provide if they were to escape onto the surface? Not even Morrigan had a holistic understanding of the Far Planes.

She wished that Gwen would remain in the Murk to oversee the final push into the Dyar Morkk, but Ravenport had capitulated to Lady Grey's wishes that Gwen returned to finish the trimester.

It was a shame, but then again, on the other talon, the girl's return meant "Mori" the crow could once more woo the sorceress for her Essence, though she had to take care so that Ravenport wouldn't grow rebellious to her little experiment.

Last time, when a simple "Mori" danced past the tip of Gwen's tongue, her Master had delved into a deep bout of suspicion, going as far as to invoke the old rites to make her speak.

Under such astral bindings, Morrigan was incapable of lying and so confessed to all.

"Mori" was contacting the girl to better spy on her.
"Mori" knew the girl had a habit of talking to animals, particularly avians.
"Mori" figured Gwen knew she was a Tower raven, so they may as well exercise transparency.
"Mori" stated that a tiny droplet of Essence for a being like Morrigan was nothing, a gift less substantial than a tuft of hair plucked from a herd of oxen.

That and she had other murders stalking Gwen in the dark, while "Mori" was merely a distraction. The more critical to the Mageocracy the girl became, the more eyes they needed on her, not so much to guard the girl but for preventing others from crossing her path. Likewise, if any agent with foreign designs would tempt their precious sorceress, Ravenport would be the first to receive a collection of freshly-plucked eyeballs.

Did "Dickie" believe her? "Mori" decided on yes.

Both her and Ravenport understood that while Morrigan was incapable of deceiving her contractor, their Faith-bond could not prevent her from withholding information on a contextual level, else the millions of messages entering the catacombs each year would explode a reigning Duke's head.

Sighing, her Master allowed the matter to lapse, promising to review the case pending the usefulness of "Mori's" contact with Gwen. To invoke a modern idiom, the Duke of Norfolk had bigger fish to fry, such as the fact that the Devourer of Shenyang had once more changed the whole dynamic of a battlefront.
In four days, she had soothed the Dwarves' protests, rescued the trapped Adventurers, rallied the Craftsmen and the Warrior Caste in supporting the Shard and opened up the Citadel's crafts to London's Grey Market.
Most importantly, she had rescued the "good" Deepdowners.

Then, she shucked two more out of their Klads like Oysters, not to mention lay waste to the Soul Core of a Balefire.

Morrigan recalled that the Duke of Norfolk had become so shocked that his mana momentarily escaped his control, making his favourite porcelain cup so brittle as to shatter, spilling Earl Grey all over his documents. The cup was one of four in a Royal Albert set gifted to him by the Queen, and now the collection's flawless symmetry had gone the way of the Deepdowners.

Compared to her overworked Master, Morrigan had sadistically savoured the colours flashing across Ravenport's stone-faced mien. Having known Mycroft since boyhood, she knew it wasn't every day that the unflappable Lord Marshall had to stop processing documents and pour himself a stiff tumbler of Macallan Highland single malt. The last time her Master had inhaled a glass alone in the dark was when the Red Dragon tore through Paddington after ripping a troop of Griffin Guards to shreds.

As for now, a hundred and one things required his attention.

"Morrigan—" Across the table, the Duke flourished his confirmation signatures over and over again across a dozen levitating data slates. "Send these to the Shard. Tell Simmons to prime the Teleportation Circle."

"Where to, milord?" Morrigan was very obedient these days.

"Buckingham," her Master replied. "Ser Douglas and I have an appointment."

"Is this about Magus Song?" Morrigan asked.

"It is." The Duke did not withhold his thoughts. "The reward this time will be substantial."

Morrigan pursed her lips.

_Bind the girl?_ The Ex-Goddess of Secrets chortled. Could London afford a second Isle of Dogs to give?

While divinely ordained forces debated the nature of suitable rewards, the svelte source of the city's hypertension lounged on the Duck Pond lawn, enjoying the evergreen enchantment built into its surroundings. Presently, the Devourer-in-residence rested against the feathered breast of a docile Dede defenceless on the dew-laden turf, watching Lumen recordings.

Whenever students passed, they would politely skirt the domain of the indomitable duck. Freshmen would ask, "who is that?" To which College Seniors would tsk and say, "This is she! The Master of the Duck! Newly returned from the Murk!"

The newer students would then gulp and acknowledge their place in the food chain, leaving their HDM tithe under a glimmering bush already laden with crystals.

As for Gwen, she had decided to delve into work and education to banish her lingering feelings about murdering in the Murk. In another world, she might have managed with an electronic miracle of a device, watching minute-long videos of men and women making a fool of themselves in hopes of becoming "viral".

In this world, she alleviated her disquiet by budgeting for the Isle of Dogs and revising her end-of-Michaelmas examinations. Not that she needed it, for three of her first-year Magisterial courses were a cake-walk.

For Foundations of Politics and International Relations, all she had to do was compose essays based on real-world exemplars of dilemmas currently facing the Mageocracy. As the whole paper favoured speculation, she should have no issues bullshitting her way through to a High Distinction.

Likewise, Contemporary Issues in Government and Frontier Governance, and Politics, Peace and Persistent Prosperity required students to give in-person presentations, a skill that she already mastered. For her work, she chose to exercise a proposal for developing the Dwarven Frontier— unsurprisingly the definitive "Hot Topic" in London's Mage circles.

The one subject she lacked in confidence in was Advanced Astral Theory and History, the foundational course for Stage II Metamagical Dynamics and Advanced Metaphysical Manifestations, both compulsory courses she needed to complete her higher learning next year, after which a "normal" Magus or Magister candidate had to pick a specialisation.

From Maxwell's informative blabbering, Gwen gathered that upper-tier Mages slipped into specialisation based on the number of Schools of Magic they mastered, as well as their Affinity with each School.

Evokers specialising in Thermodynamic Mana Theory, for example, had the choice of joining rare Cabals attempting to master Climate Control.

Abjurers with Schools in Transmutation and investments in either Enchantment, Evocation or Divination gravitated toward Planar-Spatial Engineering.

Conjurers who wanted to fortify a complete understanding of transposing matter took up Astral Trans-Planar Dynamics.

Enchanters tapped into Transmutation, Evocation or Abjurations could alternatively take up civil and industrial applications in Civil Sorcery and Quasi-Magical Materials. Ones with interest in Heavy Industry such as Golem-crafting took up programs like Dwarven Magi-tech and Mechatronic Applications.

With her powerful Omni-Magic and her proportionally woeful knowledge of Spellcraft theory, Gwen was suitable for precisely none of those limit-testing courseworks. As each mastery consumed between one and three decades.

Compared to career scholars, she just wanted her qualifications to make substantial changes to the world around her.

For a "Political Candidate" like herself, Maxwell Brown, her career advisor and Supervisor, suggested participation in real-world excursions.

With her successful subversion of the Dwarven situation, the Shard, Ravenport's Department of Foreign Affairs and Oxbridge had officially recognised her uncanny ability to swing stalemates into stunning successes for the Mageocracy.

Hers was a talent that ventured beyond conventional Spellcraft, they said; the Tower Master who wastes nothing wants not. To misapply such a sorceress on Spellcraft that any Magister with enough time, talent, and resource could obtain would be a tremendous waste.

Instead, in the quoted praise of Lord Magister Seamus Burbank Hammond, Tower Master of London, Gwen was, "A lass with a true talent for the push and pull of diplomatic tango, leading the Mageocracy and its allies toward mutual profit." As there existed no higher praise from a man with so much sway in London's academic circles, the statement had graced the front page of every paper from the Sun to the METRO, framing an image of Gwen in her blood-stained Shen-Teī.

In Oxbridge's opinion, therefore, there was no better test for Gwen's subsequent years than experience and practice so that she could attain her self-professed goals faster. The girl's spell-damage potential was already at an eye-watering tier; what they desired now the mental fortitude to apply faultless governance.

"A year ago, we had all thought your adventure in Burma was a fluke." Maxwell had been very enthused by her return and her growing infamy. "And later, the Dwarven city as well. But now, you've tapped us into the Murk! Bloody hell! I, for one, will be the first to sign any application for extracurricular excursions, assuming you complete your accelerated theory work, of course."

When she asked, Maxwell implied that Gwen would be invited to participate in Frontier governance, pending her accolades from the Lent and Easter terms. Since the Spellcraft revolution, Oxbridge and Royal Imperial's affiliated Magisters had operated on a tenure system where Magister candidates travelled to various Frontiers to gather data, train local Mages, act as government auditors, or perform civil or military maintenance. To volunteer on such "Quests" marked the beginning of the "Magister's Path".

"Enlighten me," she had asked her guidance counsellor. "What's on the menu?"

"There's an ongoing civil war in the Niger Delta the Shard is struggling to mediate," Maxwell had said after taking a minute to tally the Shard's latest international atrocities. "As per the Mageocracy's foreign policy, we're on the side of the losing side."

"Ah—" Gwen nodded, for this was nothing but history repeating. "I take it the losers are losing a little too hard?"

"… very astute." Maxwell smiled, appearing to affirm his bias of her innate gift for foreign relations. "Indeed. We're pushing more resources in than we're getting out."

"Sounds straightforward enough. What else?"

"Mermen problems. This one's stuck around like rotting fish. I heard you were involved in one of the reports? There's talk they worship the 'Pale Priestess'."

"You mean the freighter Gunther returned?"

"Yes, in the South China Sea." Maxwell nodded. "Interesting pot of trouble brewing over there. Singapore's fleets are suffering a not-insignificant loss of transports, meaning they're forced to hire superstructural vessels from Denmark at reduced margins. Meanwhile, whatever this cult is, it's developing quietly out of control. We're seeing the Shoals as far as the Australian west coast and up to the Sea of Okhotsk. I don't know if there's any correlation, but the entire South-East Asian region has a SPAM shortage. The world's getting stranger, that's for sure."

Gwen considered her likeness that the Mermen privateers had pirated.
Ruì had continued the contract with Homel Foods to use her likeness for SPAM. Supposedly, this year's IIUC for China had straight-away returned to the dark days of grinding through the preliminaries via tears and blood. The pyrrhic victory was such agony to watch that citizens preferred propaganda reruns, bringing a new bout of recognition to the team and especially Lulan, who had all but disappeared from the public eye.

"Alternatively, if you want to try your hand at governance, Meister Bekker over at London Imperial will be taking Mage Flights to the Northern Steppes with your friend Jean-Paul," Maxwell spoke with sudden recollection. "There's a whole string of chaos whipping up within the southern Elementals Sultanates that's driving the Hoof-folk nuts. Very foreboding, even if we have no idea what they're up to or what the Americans stirred up this time."

"I thought Centaur-folk ran the Steppes?" Gwen recalled Richard had written a paper on the continued chaos in the region. In the Mongol days, the Demi-human Centaurs had an iron-age empire spanning continents. Pre-beast tide, the Mageocracy that replaced it possessed Protectorates stretching from the Red Sea to the Elemental Sea and from the Mediterranean to the Bay of Frost and Fire. Post-Tide, the Mageocracy was left with only trading stations eking out a living collecting whatever the Elemental Sultans of the Fire Sea were willing to trade. Were it not for the Djinns' preferences for warring among "worthy" threats such as their Kin; their sudden emergence would have cowed every terrestrial race.

" _Neigh_ , the glory days of their Khaganate are centuries past." Maxwell had bitten back a smile. "Back then, they fought their own, they fought us, and they fought the Wildlands. Considering how reliant we were on physical walls and a handful of Mages holding up each city, it's no surprise their empire stretched from the South China Sea to the holy seat of Istanbul. These days, not much has changed— better food and water, more resilient animal husbandry and magical arms perhaps, but think about the foes they now face: Undead spilling through from Northern China, Bloodsuckers filtering through Lower Eastern Europe, Elementals flooding over from the Fire Sea, AND us, pulling their hind legs."

"Did you just..." Gwen could have sworn the cheeky Magister had tried to Dad-pun her.

"Their entire region's full of untapped Crystal veins, precious gems and minerals, rare earth metals, magical flora and fauna and everything in between," Maxwell explained. "Our success, Magus Song, implies enough materials to build a second London."

"Well then..." Gwen recalled grinning at her instructor, the tip of her pink tongue quickly dabbing her lips. "That sounds like a good place to start a Tower Fund…"

"Ha!" Her Supervisor had laughed. "So, which one do you fancy?"

"You forget who you're talking to—" Gwen recalled snorting hot air at her instructor. "If this is a multiple-choice question, Max, then I choose D."


"Our Drakaina has returned to her cavern." Eric Walken's smarmy grin made Gwen briefly think of the man she had initially encountered in Sydney. These days though, her Executive Officer's smugness was a part of his confidence and charm.

Besides them, the always handsome Dominic Lorenzo chortled, nursing his Maotai.

This late at the "Bunker", most of the employees had left, leaving Gwen with her two most trusted lieutenants to traffic in her study of London's intrigues. With the loan on their Fabricator unit and its crew now extended for at least two more years, Gwen grew once more confident of Phase III's profitability.

As for the request she had prior left with Walken, evidence gathering and sly testimonials from assured NoMs took time, especially if the IoDRP desired to excavate a slippery Sarlacc pit of litigation for their opponents.

That said, the Militants' thieving vermin claws had dug more than skin deep into her fundraising project, breaking the skin and tapping into her golden veins. As a famed financier who usually did the marrow-sucking herself, she felt personally assaulted.

"They've accumulated properties worth 247,231 HDMs?" Gwen's teeth felt like she had tried to bite Golos, especially after reading the interim report. "You know, regimes have fallen for far less."

"I am worried less about money and more about open opposition to the Exeters," Walken said. "A quarter of the METRO's annual turnover should cover our losses. That or since the Dwarves are staying with us, we can expect to cut construction costs by one-third."

"The total tally involves seventy-eight parties with various leases and holdings," Lorenzo explained. "There ARE legitimate sales mixed in with the bad faith trades. Block 21-C to 27-D had leaseholds belonging to a lesser aristocrat. 44E and 11C, respectively, are owned by family members of the House of Lords. It's the smaller, single-block leaseholds that are most under threat. The ones that have been here for generations."

Gwen scanned the map behind Walken. "That's a huge lot. Enough for a shopping mall or six multi-storey apartment-hotels. Is it those Barlow fellers again?"

"Yes," Walken said. "Or the Barlow Trade Consortium, if we go by the Grey Market."

Gwen furrowed her brows. "I assume that's the same schmucks who own Canary Wharf upstream? The ones refusing to dough out the METRO at their outdated trade hub? The same one who expelled our NoM paper-handlers?"

"The very same." Walken tapped the table. "They're an old nemesis— particularly if we assume they started paying attention to you from the incident at Lady Astors. Whether intentionally or otherwise, you've stiletto-heeled their toes more than once."

"Enlighten me." Gwen crossed her legs.

"They're in the property business, the newspaper business, the train and tram business, the transport business, the print business..."

"... Fair enough," Gwen concurred. "So, we're mortal enemies. But Le Guevel never mentioned a Barlow Group in her lectures."

Lorenzo was ready for her enquiry. "The executors of the 'The Barlow Consortium' is a collective formed by London's militant-inclined industrialists. Magus Le Guevel didn't mention them because their officers are not aristocracy; some aren't even Mages. They service their betters, who provide them with backing and muscle. The Duke of Exeter and his ilk act as a figurehead, among others. As for their origin— Gwen, are you familiar with Henry of Monmouth?"

A year ago, Gwen would have known nothing. Thanks to Le Guevel and Lady Grey, her tier of royal trivia was now on par, with supplementary rumours, insights, analysis and evaluations to boot.

"The 'Argent' King," Gwen repeated from Holinshed's Chronicles of English Propaganda. "England's Gloria, the 15th-century predecessor of Gloriana, He of all Humours, Hal the Omni-Mage, Fifth of his Name, King of France and England, Wales and Scotland."

"Just Henry V will do." Lorenzo gave her a thumbs up. "Do you like titles? O MVP of the IIUC, Devourer of Shenyang, CEO of the IoDRP, She who Rides the Beast of Many Heads, the Woman who is the Great city, which reigns over the Kings of the Earth..."

Walken burst out in laughter, after which Gwen got the joke. "Oi! You're bruising for a cruising, mate!"

Lorenzo didn't dodge her punch. Luckily, Gwen was no longer possessed of her Draconic strength; else, he would have made a Lorenzo-shaped exit through the rune-reinforced concrete.

"If there's one thing that links the Militants, it's the Lancastrian line," Lorenzo continued, controlling his mirth. "As you should know, Her Majesty hails from the Saxe-Coburg and Gotha bloodline, a fact that has irked the purists since the Hanovers took the Crown during the beginning of the 18th century, ending with Eternal Victoriana."

"Ah yes, the three surviving Royal families." Gwen nodded. "I've heard of this. But what does this have to do with the Barlows?"

"The Lancastrians are historically the purist branch of true 'English' Monarchs, at least in their eyes. They hail from the Plantagenet's mystically potent blood. They claim all heirs hitherto from Monmouth to Elizabeth, the formative period of England's pacification of the Demi-humans Wildlands. For the Barlow Consortium, membership is exclusive to those with blood-ties. To us commoners, the very idea is absurd, but the Lancastrians possess both the sorcery and means to take advantage of the Mageocracy's long recovery. Their encroaching on the Isle is one such example."

"Ah—" Gwen understood the underlying politics between the nobles' faction-within-factions immediately. "Do they have anyone worth their salt in a fight?"

"At least a dozen," Lorenzo warned her. "You know your Exeters, and they are closely tied to Scotland's Tower of the Magi as well."

"Your talent gives them all the more reason to hate your guts." Walken laughed. "Henry of Monmouth was an Omni-Mage, so the Lancastrians boast. One would imagine they've been breeding like Lady Grey's bloodhounds to try and reproduce the right combination passed on by their progenitor. Imagine the existential chaos in their Cabal's upper ranks when you showed up wielding every School of Magic, Lightning and Void and the ability to rally Dwarves and whisper Elves."

"... you forget investing with Dragons," Gwen added.

Walken and Lorenzo shot her disgusted looks, deriding her smug Lightning Affinity.

She shrugged. "So what's their stake? Sounds to me like they want in on the developer's buffet?"

"Who wouldn't?" Walken walked over to the map behind Lorenzo. "See here— Canary Wharf, C21, D34, F23, G22... they've acquired ownership over these portions."

"Minor Image!" Gwen helpfully tossed up a few Illusions to overlay the map, aiding Lorenzo's fingers.

"… Well done," Lorenzo praised her. "Yes, the red parts. While we're here, these portions, including Mudchute and the lower portion of Cubitt Town, belong to Lady Grey as freeholds, while the IoDRP owns these."

Gwen added the shades of blue. Cobalt freeholds meant the title-owner possessed the land. It differed from the teal leaseholds, where the tenant owned an apartment or a serviced unit, but not the land.

"Thanks to Lady Grey's good governance, these are all her leaseholds." Lorenzo pointed to the gaps. "But here and there, D12, D17, E12, B12-21 are leaseholds owned by independents, among others."

Gwen added purple and green.

The resultant quilt-work of ownership made their foe's plans self-evident. "Ah— so that's what our industrious little rats are after..."

She could see that if the Barlow Group had taken Millharbour and South Quay. With these properties, they could add secondary overland rail and ferry stations to rival the IoDRP and occupy one-third of the waterfront space to become a commercial centre within her commercial district. In another world, this would be the free market doing its thing. In this world, she alone was responsible for terraforming upended river dredgings into HDMs. Thereby, every percentile of return from now and into the future belonged to herself and her investors, more so if she wanted to attract more than one local-lizard to serve on her Board of Directors.

That final detail was pivotal for Legion.

How dare they steal from a Dragon's maw? Gwen fumed. Did the Barlow Group not know that pilfering profit was no less than slaying one's lover? They might as well try to murder Evee!

"I think I understand your position." Walken read her like a young adult light-RPG fiction. "We will figure out how to best prevent their next phase from taking place."

Prevention?
Gwen shook her head.
Fuck prevention. You can stop a thief for a day, but how do you mitigate the risk forever? There was bound to be ways to screw over the IoDRP if their foes kept trying.

What she coveted was their thieving hand on a silver platter.

Gwen pondered the map, her mind furiously brewing up the economic equivalent of Void-induced ultraviolence. When her brain brushed over the miniature-scale models of their phase III apartments, malicious and maleficient thoughts of malpractice materialised.

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

"What were our phase II construction stage outgoings? How about III?"

"On paper? Mid Six-hundred thousand HDMs," Walken said. "But that's with support from the Great London Metropolitan Office. Phase III's gamble is our own, early estimates, even with the Fabricators in place, is close to two million."

"Any debts on our balance sheets?"

"None. Lady Astor, Lady Grey, Duchess Rothwell, and the Duke of Norfolk have all chosen to reinvest their dividends."

Gwen rolled her eyes. Dickie was making money off her sweat and blood, and he still wanted her to tour the Elves? The man had better give her the show of a lifetime when the time came to fleece the Lancastrian nobles.

"Just for the afflicted area, what's our projected five-year return?"

"Including rentals, taking into account inflation and land speculation, about nine to twelve million HDMs," Walken replied with relish. "Enough to keep a fully-staffed Siege Tower fighting for a month. You're not thinking of sponsoring the Shard for an invasion, are you?"

Gwen's eyes grew cold. "If the Barlow Group takes that shoreline and builds cheap apartments, they're going to undercut our prices. Conversely, if they built high, our leases will see stiff competition. All that is going to hit our bottom line, hard. That means we might have to delay phase IV."

Phase IV being "Legion", a bottomless Crystal pit, but one she knew would bring tangible change to the life of Humans and Demi-humans everywhere.
And goodwill.
And endless, boundless profit.
Unlike Gunther, if she was to have a Tower, she had no desire to be short-changed by politics, funding, and lack of talent. All of her Tower's future obstacles would be solved by bashing HDMs at problems until they begged for mercy.

In this world, she would be Carlos Slim, Mukesh Ambani and or Masayoshi Son. None began in telecommunication, but their golden billions would have been unachievable without investing in an industry with explosive growth. But for her gamble to succeed, she had to have secondary industries feeding her primary monopoly, a stratagem well proven by companies like Samsung, Viacom and Intel.

For primary infrastructure, the rules of investment were inversed.
More capital.
Greater scale.
Less risk. For "the masses" mitigated the potential of catastrophic collapse. The more coverage, the more customers, the more clients, the more assured the company's capital base. And likewise, the more likely the government had to step in.

As for the IoDRP's landholdings— she didn't expect to become a real estate Baron. "Land" was always a tricky investment. There were too many competitors, and someone was bound to be willing to bet their life while she wasn't.

And like she discussed with Mia, Marong and Ruxin, "Legion" needed obscene volumes of HDMs, enough to pay for research and development, land acquisition, hardware and software, storefronts, multiple headquarters on par with Frontier Towers sans offensive capabilities, and thousands of staff in every region they conquered.

Or at the very least, she needed enough collateral to borrow that much money from mutually-interested parties, such as the Shard, or the Crown, or the city of "insert metropolis here", or the Mageocracy.

And the Barlow Group was standing in her way.
Which meant it was standing in the way of history.

"I recall you said the Militants are short on funds," Gwen said. "Is that still true?"

"With the Niger Delta and the Steppes as they are," Walken answered. "I doubt they are shipping back anything worthwhile."

Upon hearing such familiar places, Gwen told Walken of Maxwell's suggestion that she furthered her studies through practicals and fieldwork, further fortifying her credibility.

"Magister Brown's not wrong." Her executive officer rubbed his chin. "We know you're an Omni-Mage, but I doubt anyone's expecting you to be the variant whose academic depth could bring about advances like Superstructural Mandalas. You're on good terms with Jean-Paul as well— I don't see why Meister Bekker would refuse to tutor you together with her pet. If anything, I can see her being very keen on it."

Angie's father wiggled his brows. "The boy's not a looker, but..."

"I don't think Jean-Paul and I are going to be like that," Gwen cautioned her Magister. "He's even given up on Gracie, now that she's not going to expire anytime soon."

"Why so controlling if you're not keen?" Walken gave her a strange look. "What does it matter to you what they do?"

"Did we forget Sobel?" Gwen huffed. "Why she went mad?"

Walken said nothing else and instead drank his tea. "So, the Lancastrians. Shall I take care of them while you gallop around the world, saving the Mageocracy from one financial disaster after another?"

"That's my curse," Gwen returned to their original topic. "So how are the Lancastrians sourcing their funds? State banks, private entities? Stealing from the treasury?"

"All of the above. The Royal Reserve holds a certain volume that it issues as military bonds. The Bank of England under the Crown is generous to its frontline aristocracy. And many of the Lancastrians sit on the board of old companies. Their liquidity comes from the Hong Kong Shanghai Banking Conglomerate, who also acts as the central currency exchequer for the Frontiers."

She pondered the new information.

"Assuming we catch them red-handed and Dickie puts his weight behind us," she said. "How many contracts can be voided?"

"About forty thousand. Enough to hurt."

A negligible volume that wasn't enough to even bruise.
Gwen returned her eyes to the multi-coloured map.

"How about…" she paused. "I don't know about the legality here, but the Barlow Group borrowing money means they have to return interest. This month, the Royal Reserve is at 4.72%, correct?"

"That's right."

"Naturally, they're not going to need to borrow to buy properties from the NoMs but to demolish, rebuild and furnish these waterfront properties. They'll need at least as much HDMs as us, if not more."

"Certainly, since they lack both Fabricators and Dwarven engineers. Even if they tap into the Royal Engineers, that's still Human-made equipment. Their Mages and Golems will eventually get the job done, but they won't be as swift or efficient as our construction team. At best, it's a seven-year project for them."

Gwen rested her eyes while crunching the numbers. When she opened her eyes again, her compatriots shivered at the inner light of greed glimmering within her amber-green orbs.

"Right. Here's what we'll do." She turned to Lorenzo. "Keep gathering evidence. Leak a headline now and then between the next phase of our plan. As long as you've got the facts straight, snitch like a mad bitch. They're sure to come knocking, then keep evidence of their coercion of the METRO as well. If they cross the line, get the Dwarves to hold the fort. I'd love to see what Her Majesty and her Shard has to say if greedy merchants try to destabilise a major infrastructural project that'll bring back the glory days of the Mageocracy's trade channels. If they even bruise one of our Demi-human allies, then we've profited."

"Right."

She turned to Walken. "Eric, find out as much as you can of the Barlow folks' financial situation. Most importantly, who they borrowed from and how much."

"Alright, and?"

Gwen grinned. "I'll speak to Lady Grey and Lady Astor. After phase III, we'll play it safe and keep a high volume of liquid capital, at least around a million HDMs of float. I can draw from my Dragon bank if the IoDRP reserves fall short."

"Why delay?" Walken furrowed his browns. "Don't you want to race the Barlow group? If we can sell our units before their's complete…"

"Hee hee hee." Gwen's teeth glinted in the dusky light of Walken's ornate office. "They're building with borrowed funds, meaning there's an obligation to reimburse HSBC after a specified period. If they're unable to, there's not only the usual usury but compounded additional interest for breach of contract. Correct?"

"One may assume so. Business is business."

"Good. Then what if the Barlow Group purchases the land, demolishes the homes and the workshops, invest north of a million HDMs into their new project, only to be exposed that they robbed the poor and tried to destabilise the Mageocracy?"

Both Lorenzo and Walken opened their mouths.

"I don't think that'll stop them," Lorenzo replied with an eye on reality.

"Who said I want to stop them?" Gwen snorted. "I want to DELAY the construction. The folk they ripped off deserve justice!"

"Justice?" Walken did not believe a single word passing between her pouty lips. "Of course. I almost forgot your primary motivation."

"Who am I to argue with the METRO that will print the same developing story week after week and with evidence? Not only that, I want you to look into their other business dealings. Ask the Cabal if you have to; God knows they owe us one."

Lorenzo's breath grew heavy.

"I want you to put down headlines like 'Barlow Bankrupt yet another Victim' and accuse their vertical corporations of the same double-dealing. Delay their construction schedule for six months, a year, as long as you're able."

"That's going to drive the Lancastrians up the wall for sure." Walken touched a hand to his heart. "Good God, Gwen, you're a piece of work."

"We're not even in the first circle of hell!" Gwen gave Walken a look that said she was disappointed by his lack of vicious ambition.

The two men fell silent once more as cold sweat drenched their backs.

"Once there's enough fear and instability and delay," she continued with complete confidence. "I want you to approach HSBC and whoever holds Barlow's trading identities."

Walken's eyes grew glassy. "Jesus…"

"Jesus might not save them," Gwen said. "But I will. When their investors start to sweat, I want you to buy their bad debts at a discount. Push the price down as far as you can. If they're desperate, I think half-price for insolvent loans that are unlikely ever to see returns would satisfy their lenders. If the Barlow Consortium panics beforehand and their members pull out— we might be able to buy-in at one-tenth the cost."

".. and then?" Lorenzo was slower than Walken to comprehend her economic buccaneering.

"… and then we litigate to put down the Barlow Group like Atticus Magic Missiling a rabid Corpse Hound." She carelessly let loose an allusion to her novel. "After which we'll drink up all their holdings in the Isle of Dogs, or depending on their corporate structure, force them to declare bankruptcy. If they're smart, they'll trade their controlling shares— not that their shares will be worth anything by then. Once we have enough to subvert the Board of Directors, we'll strip them for parts, dissolve the unprofitable divisions and vortex up the rest. I don't mind shares in the Sun Herald. Do you?"

Walken pursed his lips in thought. "If you get to that point, they're bound to come for blood. Will you be ready?"

"I am the Devourer of Shenyang. I brought the Dyar Morkk to Dickie. He's going to be my shield, or I tell Hildy and Ebs they should think twice about the reliability of their allies. Tell you what, we'll extend an olive branch to HSBC or whomever when the time comes as well. That'll put the stake in their coffin."

"Fair enough." Lorenzo scratched his stubble-strewn chin; the man's eyes scanned their crystal-mad witch from her bouncing hair to her dainty little heels.

"… just like that?" he said after a moment, still in shock. "This is the Barlow Group! The money bag for the Militants! A Lancastrian Consortium!"

"Yeah. Just like that," Gwen said without hesitation. "When you mess with the Devourer, you get the Caliban up your snoot."

Walken winced. Somewhere, a Wyvern clenched his cheeks. "Isn't all this a bit too…easy?"

"Why should it be hard?" Gwen retorted. "We spent time and money and capital to develop the Isle of Dogs. Then we reinvested our profit. Thanks to our Dwarven engineers, we're as stable as a Pyramidal Necropolis. They're borrowing money to steal from our citizens, to snatch the meat from our jaws! Why shouldn't we bite back? When they have no foundation to fall back on, why shouldn't they fall like a troop of Gobs trying to block a Rock Smasher?"

"Alright, alright." Walken backed away defensively. "Lorenzo, never anger our Void Drakaina."

Lorenzo disguised his discomfort with empty laughter.

"One more thing." Gwen figured she might as well save some time.

"Yes?"

"You said the Exeters and the Barlow folk are invested in this Elemental Fire Sea Sultanate Northen Steppe Centaur ordeal, right?"

"The Militant Faction is." Both men drew back a cold breath of suddenly chilling air, though Walken understood her immediately. "Gwen, you're not thinking..."

"Of course I am." Gwen skulled her glass with one swig, then exhaled fragrantly in the direction of their faces. "Haven't you heard the adage? Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned; nor hell a fury like profits pilfered…"