Penny

Grim Galaxy: Shots and Chances

Sayeeda and Neil moved through the line of mercenaries. They were a scruffy looking bunch up close. A few had the look of hardened killers, the sort of men who Andor’s Armored might have recruited to fill combat losses, but just as many seemed to be locals. These men seemed to be drawn from desert tribes rather than the more cosmopolitan inhabitants of the city. Their eyes shone with the eerie light of fanatics and they fingered their weapons as Neil and Junebug passed by. They snarled curses and growled like animals.

“Boy he sure can pick them,” Neil observed as they climbed a set of carven stone steps towards the fourth floor. Sven’s men had secured each landing of the stairs, their weapons pointed down the long corridors. Sayeeda tried to think of what she would do if she were the commander of the palace guard. Probably ascend to the room and push down the stairwell to secure the top floor then hold what she had until backup arrived. It was vanishingly unlikely there was anyone in the Pasha’s guard who would be either willing or able to execute such a tactic.

A trio of mercenaries stood before a large door on the forth floor. The doorway itself was of a desert stone with veins that ran from gold to almost purple, the slabs had been polished until they shone with a jewel like radience that was far more beautiful than anything Sayeeda had yet seen within the luxurious palace. Aiden could take lessons. Beautiful though the door was Junebug had to admit that it was somewhat marred by the nights events. A large golden door handle had been blasted aside with a shaped charge which had cracked the stone and crazed the surface leaving the door hanging open. From inside a stream of invictive issues forth in an unbroken torrent. The curses were creative but appeared to be running down to a core message of ‘fuck you’ and ‘I’ll kill her”.

“You should not be here slut!” one of the mercenaries, one of the desert nomads, snarled in barely understandable galactic. He took a step forward and raised his weapon. The butt of Junebug’s rifle caught him across the temple with an audible crack. It wasn’t a matter of strength, not really, merely momentum and precision. The rag clad guerrilla let out a weird mewling sound and dropped to the floor, blood running from his nose.

“Any further questions?” Junebug asked acidly. Another of the mercenaries, armored in gray ceramic and sporting an impressive mustache began to laugh. That unlooked for sound stilled the stream of cursing from beyond the shattered portal. The other mercenary, of a type with the one Junebug had just brained, looked simultaneously furious and impotent. Junebug strode past him and pointed her freehand at the man, finger extended and thumb raised like a childs impression of a pistol. She winked at the furiours looking dervish and mouthed the word ‘bang’ without actually making a noise. The mustachioed mercenary, clearly with a similar opinion of the lower class hirelings as Junebug, redoubled his laughter.

A room was a cyborgs clinical description, but the chamber beyond the portal was vast. Thirty meters atleas and easily half that wide with high ceilings that hung with intricately worked brass lanterns that housed modern illuminators. The floor was made of tiles of polished stone similar to the door save where large plush looking rugs lay over it. Expensive artworks and sculptures were scattered about along with numerous divans and couches. At the far end of the room stood a large bed that stood before a balcony which looked out over the starlight city. A slight shimmer of a static displacer danced in the portal, expensive tech on a backworld like this one even if all it did was keep dust out of your bedroom.

“If you take one more step ill kill her!” shrieked a man half crouched behind the foot of the bed. He was half dressed in silk robes though his turban hung comically from his head and his tunic had been buttoned up out of alignment. The pasha was not a impressive man, he might have been handsome once but age and dissipation had swollen his face and his fingers to the point that the many jeweled rings that bedecked them probably couldn’t be taken off. He held a modern looking pistol into the back of a weeping slave girl. As Sven had stated she was chained at wrist and ankle and around her neck. Even in the moonlight she was physically impressive, a voluptuous goddess who appeared to have stepped from an erotic holo through her eyes and face were stained with tears. Given the intricacy of the chains she had clearly been restrained when the attack started, though the reasons why weren’t something that Junebug wanted to pursue.

“Go ahead then,” Junebug invited, arching an eyebrow in contempt at the ruler of the city. The Pasha appeared momentarily nonplused. He jammed the pistol hard against the womans ribs, eliciting a pained squeal.

“What?!” he gaped.

“Shoot her then, if you are going to,” Junebug invited, hefting her rifle to indicate the woman.

“We only have a few minutes and Id rather not waste it on threats.”

WoT: The Dark One's Own Luck.

As soon as Ali had gone Mave carefully began to lay wards around the camp, settling spider thin weaves of spirit and earth in a protective circle that would be difficult for Shadowspawn to cross. It wasn’t certain that the wards would hold and the assault of a fist of trollocs but it should make them difficult to find. Even the White Tower wasn’t certain of the full capabilities of Myrdraall but these wards had worked the other night at the farm.

She lit the fire with a flick of fire which set the kindling crackling. Mave wasn’t sure a fire was a good idea, there might be more than trollocs in the woods, but according to Ali and her map there were few if any settlements between here and the outskirts of Gheldan. She stared into the fire, enjoying the warmth as she pondered the situation. Crossing the wilderness was likely to take alot of time, time that her enemies, the Tower’s enemies would be using to try to decipher Velma’s research. But what could she do? Risk the ways again? She might end up even further from her goal. Perhaps the pattern had bought her here. If Ali really was a Tav’aern might it be fate that they had met?

Ali returned almost an hour later, slipping out of the forest with three dead rabbits strung from a stick by twine he must have been carrying. Each of the hares was dabbed with blood where the arrow had found its mark. If he was nervous from wandering a trolloc haunted forest he didn’t show it. He seemed like a tall and handsome hero out of legend. Well if heros out of legend had greenery stuffed through their belt.

“Wild onions,” Ali said as he lopped into the camp and noticed her looking. Mave nodded her head and covered her bush by pulling a pot from the saddlebags of the bedraggled mule. She had no skill at field craft or hunting but she should have imagined it was something like that.

“You didn’t see anything to worry about?” she asked quickly. Ali shook his head as he set the rabbits down on a rock. Their throat had already been cut and the blood drained. She carried the pot down to the stream that flowed between the mossy rocks and filled the pot half full with clear stream water before placing it on the fire to boil. Ali skinned the rabbits with practiced ease and in a few minutes they had rabbit and wild onions boiling in the pot.

“I’m afraid the more I think about it the more I think those trollocs were here to block just the kind of flight we tried,” she said as she settled back on a stone, eyes scanning the woods.

“That means they are here for you and not for me,” she went on turning the problem over in her mind.

“Until we figure our why, you wont be safe anywhere, trollocs might not attack a city but the Shadow has other agents that might find you.”

Damned to the Depths

“Ah Kirafa,” the Sultan said in a genial tone.

“I am glad you were able to join us.” The Vizer bowed at the waist the many gold chains he wore clinking softly as he did so. It was a surprisingly graceful movement for a man of his weight. Calliope had the impression that he had once been a hard man, but that years of life at caught had softened him. The eyes remained sharp and penetrating though. Acmed for his part was doing his best not to glare at Markus whose impression on the would be Sultana had evidently not been missed.

“Merely dispensing of a few of the more unpleasant tasks of my office honored Sultan,” the Vizer said his tone apologetic, like a man who works himself to the bone and then berates himself for not working harder.

“I came as soon as I heard we had visitors… and the prince Achmed had returned to us safely, Hayashim be praised!” the Vizier turned and offered another bow to the prince this one deeper even than that he had offered the Sultan. Acmed’s face was stony having correctly read the slight in being mentioned after Markus and Calliope. The bow was a mockery, one of many which was being heaped on the prince tonight. Calliope made a mental note to warn Markus to sleep with a dagger, not that she imagined that was an unusual state of him. Quick as a cobra the Vizer wheeled around.

“A thousand thanks Captain,” he said with an oily smile, “All of Dalib Sahara rejoices that you have returned our prince to us.” His viper like gaze shifted to Calliope.

“And you my lady, tell me, are you the Calliope that rules in Calaverde?” he asked with theatrical innocence. The dark haired witch nodded guardedly.

“Formerly, I fear that jealous courtiers have conspired to drive me from the city for a time.” she admitted, certain that both he and the Sultan already knew of her overthrow. Indeed, the sultan was stroking his beard and watching they by play with interest.

“The same Calliope who was said to be intriguing with the Erratri to overthrow our brothers in Hayashim?” he asked with every appearnce of shock. Calliope waved a dismissive hand.

“Lies spread about me by the usurper Sebastian Del Mondo,” she declared airly, although the accusations were completely true, there was little chance there was anything approaching proof of her schemes. The Vizer nodded, clearly expecting such a defense.

“Ah well it is said that a witch has cursed Calaverde and that a great wind blows across the harbor night and day, more lies I assume?” he asked arching a dark eyebrow. Calliope thought very fast, surely her spell could not still be functioning could it? But why would anyone make up so strange an accusation, and it had been a spell from the Codex, unlike any she had ever attempted before.

“Such magic is beyond mere mortals,” she said allowing her face to curl into a smile. The Vizer smirked but before he could skew her with whatever game he had in mind she went on.

“But I am responsible in a way,” she admitted before picking up her wine and taking a sip. Deliberately she made no move to elaborate until the Sultan grew impatient enough to speak.

“And how are you responsible my lady?” he asked.

“Umberlee, the goddess of storms, has cursed Sebastian and Calaverde for betraying me, so long as I am absent from my throne, the arctic wind will howl her displeasure,” Calliope allowed her voice to swell to fill the hall, a trick of oratory she had learned in the many speeches she had made during her rise to power. Audible gasps rose from the guests at the dramatic proclamation.

“Nonsense,” broke in the Vizer, looking none to pleased at being upstaged.

“Why would a Goddess do such a thing?” Achmed broke in, ignoring the princess who sat beside him to look across the table to Calliope.

“Well who can say why my moth..the goddess does anything,” she muttered, her voice quiet enough that only those on the dias could hear her, the apparent slip of the tongue seeming as natural as the desert wind. Legends had to be nurtures afterall. Her eyes slid of the Vizer contemptuously.

“Would you pass me a pomegranate Captain?” she asked Markus politely.

Star Crossed: The Duke's Rebellion

@Syrenrei
Pain woke Rene into darkness. The air was close and muggy and tinged with some acrid chemical residue. It took him a moment to realise he was laying on his back and he pushed himself up, ignoring the dull throbbing that spread across his chest. The front of his tunic was crusted with dried blood which had oozed from the punctures the needles had made. Something, probably electrical wire, bound his hands behind his back and bound his feet together. Some attempt had been made to gag him, but by working his jaw he was able to clear his mouth. The darkness was absolute enough that even Rene’s genetically enhanced vision couldn’t pierce it. There was a thumping sound somewhere nearby, unmistakabley that of a body hitting a hard surface.

“Thycon?” Rene croaked, his voice unexpectedly hoarse and raw from breathing in whatever chemical laced the air here.

“Rene?” came back Thycon’s voice, similarly cracked and croaking, “Seas, I thought he had killed you.”

“Can’t say I am feeling great but I’m still alive,” Rene said, tugging uselessly at the bonds that held his arms.

“Do you know where we are?” he asked, flexing his calves to try and pull his boots apart. While the bonds were tight, the combat boots he had wearing were dense enough to prevent the wired from digging into his flesh.

“We are in a fluorine transport container,” Thycon responded. That explained the chemical stink of the place.The containers made excellent improvised prisons, there was one exit, the main door, and they were sealed from the outside. They also had ventilation systems to prevent a build up of pressurised gas that would otherwise burst them open. At least they didn’t have to worry about suffocating.

“Rene, or whatever your name is, I think its time you told me what is going on,” Thycon commanded, his fear beginning to transmute to anger.

“Vitger had pictures of you and Solae, claiming you were some sort of rebels. Is that how you came to be hiding out on the island?” Thycon demanded. Rene couldn’t see him but he sensed the man had turned from his futile pounding to glare in his direction.

“We aren’t rebels,” Rene responded distractedly. He needed to get out of here. Whoever was in charge on New Concordia had obviously pulled his image from official files. That implied an impressive intelligence capability, he didn’t think he had been seen with Solae by anyone who was still alive, safe for the Shyshin whom he was sure wouldn’t have talked. They must have gone back to the Rat Trap and figured it out by process of elimination. Fear kindled in his heart, not for himself but for Solae, he couldn’t leave her out there alone. Flexing his legs he strained his muscles, pressing the soles of his feet together. Blood thundered in his temples as he heaved at the wire and, at last it parted with a twang.

“Who are you then?” Thycon pressed. Rene stood up, ignoring the sudden wave of nausea that washed over him and moved towards Thycon’s voice. Rather to his surprise Rene told him. Starting with the attack on New Concordia he told the fisherman everything that had happened, the attack at the Rat Trap and the Embassy, meeting Solae, their time with the Syshin and their arrival on Panopontus. He wasn’t precisely sure why he told the other man the truth, perhaps he felt guilty for getting him into this situation, perhaps it merely felt good to get it all out in the open. When he was done Tychon was left in stunned silence.

“So its true then, what Damaris said, she really is a princess,” Tycon said wonderingly. Rene nodded though the gesture was invisible in the darkness.

“That she is,” Rene responded. He had to get out of here, he couldn’t leave Solae out there alone with the whole planet looking for her. There was no way to know how long he had been unconcious. Suddenly he felt Thycon’s fingers on his they moved questingly up to the wire that bound his wrist and began to search for the knot that secured it.

“We work at night, you have to be able to handle a rope in the dark,” Thycon explained, “How did you get your feet free?”

“My boots,” Rene explained, “he really should have taken them off or at least bound me above them.” Thycon grunted in reply, his fingers finding something, the wire around Rene’s wrist tightened painfully as the fisherman’s tugging used up what little slack there was but he didn’t complain.

“Vitger is a real spawn of a sewer pipe,” Thycon said, cursing as he lost his grip and began the task anew.

“He is Palack’s worthless son-in-law.” Rene tried to shrug his shoulders but Tycon’s firm grip on the wire prevented the geusture.

“Palack is the man who I told you owed me,” Tychon went on, as though it had occurred to Rene to wonder. Now that he bought it up Rene recalled that Tychon said he had pulled the owners brother from the rubble. Belatedly he realised that this was Tychons way of apologizing for having gotten them caught.

“Look I’m sorry I got you into this,” he said. The wire parted with a sudden twang and blood rushed painfully back into Rene’s fingers.

“If it wasn’t for the two of you my daughter would be lost or dead,” Tychon said simply. Rene felt a lump form in his throat at the simple force of the statement. Few men would be so blase about danger or so apparently uncaring about reward, mentally he promised himself that he wouldn’t let anything happen to Tychon or his family. With his hands free Rene began to free his companions feet.

“So you were a soldier,” Tychon said after a moment, “Do you have a plan for getting out of here?”

Rene unwound the wire and began to work on Tychon’s hands. He considered the question thinking back to his escape and evasion training. It was unlikely the door could be broken down and certainly not without attracting attention. That meant waiting for the door to open and then jumping whoever opened it. If it was Vitger alone, they had a chance, if it was a squad of Gids or police, it wasn’t going to go well. Rene figured he would try it anyway, better to be shot attempting an escape than to be taken alive.

“Not much of one,” Rene admitted, “But I’m working on it.”

Grim Galaxy: Shots and Chances

In her military career Junebug had occasionally been credited with good tactical instincts, some pieces of work had verged on brilliant, but at core her philosophy was a very simple one. Move fast, keep shooting and hope that when the smoke cleared you were still alive. It had been an excellent MO for armored unit commander and it was equally effective in the nasty close quarters fighting in the Pasha’s palace. In the confusions and tight quarters she shot at everyone. Even if she were on a particular side there was no time to identify who was who. A figure in what might have been a uniform staggered out of a doorway trying to pull up his pants. Junebug shot him twice in the chest sending him spinning into a wall with a thud before leaping over his slumping body. Another man rounded a coner in at a blind run. Sayeeda cut him down without hesitation on realising as she passed that he had no weapon. Well worse things happened in war time. You didn’t worry about what you couldn’t change.

After a few minutes she found herself in a deserted corridor though she could still hear the screaming and gunfire at other points in the palace. She ducked into a deserted room and found it to be filled with huming banks of data storage equipment. Fumbling, she reloaded the stolen weapon with one of the box like magazines. It was unfamiliar but there were only so many ways that it made sense to assemble a gun.

“Captain,” Niel’s voice sounded in her ears.

“Sven’s told his mercenaries to hold their fire,” the pilot spoke over the comlink.

“You think they are going to listen to him?” she asked.

“I think so, these are some tough looking bastards but they are all shit scared of Sven,” Neil returned. Sayeeda thought she could hear a mirthless chuckle in the background.

“You think he is after the same thing we are?” she asked, wondering if this was Sven’s way of seizing the same document Canek was looking for.

“I don’t think so,” Neil responded with a touch of hesitation.

“Seems to be interested in a power grab.” Junebug doubted the two things were mutually exclusive but it was going to be difficult to search while under fire. She pulled her intrusion kit out and slid it into the nearest computer.

“Can you access the system Taya?” she asked.

“Can do Junebug,” Taya’s voice responde.

“Alright, tell them I’m coming out,” Junebug responded to Neil.

Star Crossed: The Duke's Rebellion

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Pulp Adventure

Looking for someone to write an awesome pulp adventure ala Indiana Jones, Atlantis, Call of Cthulhu.

All other details are negotiable!

WoT: The Dark One's Own Luck.

Trollocs? Here? Mave’s horse whickered and neighed as she drove her heels into its ribs forcing it at a gallop. The former peddlers nag was no warhorse but the animal’s atavistic fear of the trollocs was more than sufficient to give speed to its flight. Ali took the lead, guiding his horse downhill towards a water course that afforded at least some clearance from the encroaching trees. She focused on weaving casting bars of air at thigh level that tripped and confused the monsters.

“Can’t you call up fire or something?” Ali yelled as the raced down the loamy bank of the stream, branches catching at them as the went. Mave nodded her head though he couldn’t see the guesture.

“I could but the point is to be chased remember? We are trying to lure them away from your home,” she yelled.

“Ware ahead!” Ali shouted and she turned in time to see a half dozen trollocs leaping from concealment, apparently having been waiting in ambush. Two of them errupted into greasy flames of burning flesh as Mave took Ali’s advice. The others shied back and Ali brained one with a blow of his staff and broke the arm of a second. Hands grasped for Mave but she was moving to quickly and they were through the ambush and racing down the stream bed. The Mule, still tied to ALi’s horse was blowing hard trying to keep up.

After five minutes of galloping they slowed to a brick walk. There was no sign of the trollocs behind them, save for the slight stink of burning flesh which clung to them. Mave glanced around, completely lost and the horses rapidly approaching exhaustion. She lay her hand on top of her own steed and wove an intricate mesh of water and spirit. The beast perked up immediately as she washed away its fatigue, before repeating the process with the other animals.

“They can go on aways,” she said quietly.

“Though they have not truely rested, if we keep pushing them…. Well… Its a long walk to Illian.”

Grim Galaxy: Shots and Chances

Junebugs stomach lurched the way it always did right before things really dropped in the pot. A number of possible scenarios ran through her mind at once, none of them good. She quickly finished pulling on the outfit that she found in the chambers she had been assigned. A gauzy band of gossamer silk, that wrapped around her chest, and a knee length skirt of similar material that was girdled by a belt of woven gold thread clenched with a ruby. The garments didn’t provide much in the way of modesty but they at least provided the psychological comfort that clothing of any kind affords.

“Taya can you reach Sven on any net you have set up?” she asked.

“Break. Neil better gear me up.” Across the street Neil unlimbered an awkward looking plastic tube. He hefted it to his shoulder and pushed the rude trigger switch that he had installed earlier. There was an audible chuff of compressed air as it launched its payload across the street, arcing only a little faster than a man could through to land in the courtyard where it bounced end over end before coming to rest against a decorative wall. Junebug scooped it up and tore the packing tape that secured it, inside was a towel in which had been wrapped a small pistol, a datapad and some rudimentary intrusion kit. She tucked the small pistol into the girdle bought the datapad live, adding its visual capacity.

“No… ummm I mean negative, I can’t reach him,” Taya responded a moment later.

“I cant find him anywhere,” she said a moment later.

“Oh we know where he is,” Junebug responded.

“Break. Neil, unless I’m very much mistaken Sven is about to launch a coup…” It was also possible that it was a robbery, though very much of the smash first grab later variety, that didn’t really seem like Sven’s style. It hardly mattered at the moment. An automatic weapon opened up as one of the guards Sven hadn’t managed to bribe opened fire. A moment later the gauss cannons on the air cars ripped the night with a sleet of iridium pellets, blowing apart men in the watchtowers and tearing guards of the parapet in showers of bloody gristle.

Screaming harem girls rushed from the courtyard in various states of undress. Junebug had a moment to contemplate that most of them were younger and softer than she was before a grenade bounced into the courtyard. Junebug kicked the small golf ball sized bomb into one of the empty rooms and shoved the nearest girl to the floor a second before the glass fiber shrapnel blasted from the room, though robbed of its lethal force several women screamed. A moment later a door burst open and a pair of armored mercenaries with assault rifles rushed into the mass of women. Sayeeda’s little pistol cracked twice snapping the lead gunman’s head back in a spray of blood and brains. The second man, lucky but good also, dived behind one of the carven wooden panels. Junebug spat a sulfurous oath and fired into the heavy teak but succeeded only in spraying splinters with the small calibre gun. The wood cratered inward and the man behind it flopped bonelessly to the ground as Neil took him out from his elevated position, the report of the heavy weapon lost in the din. Sayeeda blew a lock of hair out of her face.

“Taya, seal the ship,” she commanded, pressing the release stud to drop the half empty clip to the mosaic floor and replacing it with her one and only reload.

“You got it,” came back along with the sound of the Highlanders emergency hatches slamming shut. Hopefully that wasn’t necessary but taking unnecessary chances was a good way to get your people killed. She belated wondered if Saxon were on the ship and what role, if any, he was playing in all this. It was too late to worry about it and probably beyond Taya’s power to eject the Hex from the ship if it became an issue

She was alone in the courtyard now, the rest of the harem having scattered back to the dubious safety of their quarters. Blood ran down an incline not apparent to the naked eye from the merc Neil’s shot had all but decapitated. Sven’s men, if that was what was going on, weren’t necessarily their enemies, but experience taught Junebug that you shot first and asked questions only if you absolutely had to when you were writing the after action report. The fact that Sven had not tried to hire them was suggestive, as was the fact he had obviously gone to some length to be incommunicado but that could just be a determination not to let Neil fuck up his latest venture. What was important now was that she get to the library and get the data the needed before the whole place went up in proverbial, and perhaps literal, flames.

“This is going to get really messy Junebug,” Neil said, his transmission stepping on something Taya had been about to say by virtue of his seniority. Sayeeda scooped up the fallen mercenaries weapon and thrust the pistol into the girdle before taking a bandolier of reload and looping it over her shoulder.

“You are telling me,” she agreed, imagining how she appeared in the silks with the brutal looking rifle and the bandolier.

“I already look completely ridiculous.”

Damned to the Depths

Calliope followed the servant into the courtyard where Prince Achmed waited. Gone was the unwashed captive she had rescued from the corsair galley. Instead Achmed stood in shining white silks. A vest of sky blue cotton was slashed by a brilliant crimson sash, generously embroidered with gold thread. A turban of pure white silk was bound around his head and gold and jewels seemed to drip from him. Each finger contained a different ring and a chain of gold links hung from his neck. He was immaculately clean and groomed and a jewel encrusted scimitar hung from the sash. It didn’t look to Calliope like it was anything more than an ornament.

“You look absolutely stunning,” Achmed said and held out his hand. Calliope was unsure whether she was supposed to kiss it or take it but she opted for the latter and the prince gave no objection.

“Let us to dinner,” he declared.

The dining room, like every other room Calliope had seen, was luxuriously appointed. A long table ran most of the length of the room and the walls were covered with mosaic scenes. Calliope wasn’t familiar enough with Arad art to recognise the scenes depicted but they seemed to be of a religious nature. Numerous plants grew in shallow troughs by the walls, giving the room a greenery which was a luxury in this barren place and filling the room with the odors of their various flowers. The pollen tickled Calliope’s sinuses but she resisted the urge to sneeze. Somewhere out of sight a harp played, filling the room with gentle music. People stood as they entered and each bowed from the waist as the prince passed by. They were the great and the good of Dalib Sahara, come to eat with the Sultan.

At the end of the hall was a raised dais where the Sultan sat in resplendent glory on a throne draped with gorgeous leopard pelts behind which a hundred peacock feathers rose to form a spectacular fringe. Four guards stood sentinel like about the ruler of Dalib Sahara each holding a large round shield of polishes silver in which a palm tree was embossed in gold. Though they wore helmets, their faces were smooth and perfect. Calliope wondered whether they were real soldiers or merely ornamentation.

To Calliope’s considerable surprise Markus sat at the Sultan’s right hand in a place of honor that normally would have been reserved for the Prince. Achmed also noticed this and tensed in anger, though nothing showed on his face or in his gait. From the look of satisfaction on the Sultan’s face she wasn’t the only one who noticed the reaction. The Sultan was clearly using Markus to deliver a none to0 subtle lesson to the prince about who ruled in Dalib Sahara.

The reached the step of the dais and Achmed prostrated himself before the throne. Calliope was fairly certain she was supposed to do something similar but, trusting to her supposed ignorance, settled for a slight curtsey instead.

“Father, by the grace of Hayashim, praised be his name, I have returned to serve you,” Achmed said formally. The Sultan waited several long heart beats before speaking.

“Rise my Son and take the place to my left, the city rejoices in your safe return, and in the gallantry of your ‘allies’ who secured your freedom.”