Gwen's original plan was to have an old-fashioned girls' sleepover in the spacious extra-king-sized bed of the master suite, where all four won could lay beside one another and yet have room to spare.
After Richard convinced the party of the possibility that the Cottage may inspire spontaneous orgies of debauchery, Gwen's companions slept on the couch, the floor, and behind pillow forts on the bed.
The next day, the crew took a ferry up the Thas, stepped onto quaint old docks while enviously watched by passersby and shopped to their hearts' content from Maidenhead to dnham. At night, a traditional farmhouse feast was abruptly demolished by the always-famished Void Mages, leaving the others to ring the main house for replenishnts and snacks.
After a second night of listening to Gwen and Elvia exchange horror stories of War and destruction, the party's female mbers grew close. Gracie especially found an ally in Elvia, who overflowed with vitality and magnanimity, particularly after the woman confessed to being Gwen's soul-subordinate. Gwen replied that Gracie's humbled obedience was wrongly attributed and that she was a free Void Sorceress soon to gain her footing. In response, Gracie grew red-eyed with heartfelt gratitude.
On the third day, a pair of dangerous birds arrived at Cliveden, alighting at the Rose Garden, requiring Gwen's party to erge from seclusion. The intruders were one black and the other white and were both known intimately to the Devourer.
The 'black' was Mori.
The 'white' was Dede.
According to Ariel, both "missed her dearly", which Gwen took to imply the birds were thirsty for Essence. Out of morbid curiosity, Gwen introduced the pair to Elvia, her fellow "Vessel" and an authentic Draconic practitioner.
"Evee… I want to see what happened if you offer them a mote of the Yinglong's Essence…" After so clamouring from the birds, Gwen suggested they experint in mixing their juices.
As a biotric academic and a Creature Mage, Elvia's natural curiosity convinced her to entertain Gwen's idea.
Surprisingly, when the girls manifested a clear drop of golden Essence, the avians grew wild.
"Quack! QUACK!" Dede flapped its wings at Elvia, threatening her with its glorious white breast.
"Caw! Caw-CAW!" Mori, much to Gwen's confusion, was no less hostile.
The offence from Mori and Dede was enough to warrant a response from Elvia's defenders.
"Kiki!" Her Alraune Sprite perfud the air with protest.
"Sen-sen!" The elder Ginseng as well, rose to wrestle the duck, proving itself the superior combatant.
"Looks like the Yinglong and our Almudj don't see eye-to-eye," Richard remarked for their companions. "How curious. I read that lesser beings taken with Essence are susceptible to morphic resonance, resulting in undying loyalty to the patron. The more Essence, the more changes, the more they identify with their Essence-giver. Usually, it's a Draconic phenonon, but I guess Al's no less an ancient drake, if not more."
"How do you know this?" Gwen asked.
"The King's library is very extensive," her cousin replied. "HOLY HELL— DEDE!"
"Quack!" Dede howled as Sen-sen spun its avian body via its mass of tendrils, turning it just enough to piledrive the bird beak-first into the soft turf. On the other wing, Mori let loose a mighty "CAW!"— summoning a dark murder of crows enough to weigh-down a nearby, splendiferous oak.
Enraged, Dede excavated itself from the floor. Digging into its fluffy breast, it retrieved, then popped an HDM into its beak to replenish its energies. "Quack!"
“SHAAAA!” Caliban entered the fray, believing the contest so great grand lee.
"CAW-CAW-CAW!"
"QUACK!"
"KIKIKI!"
"SEN!"
"WHOA!"
"Ouch!"
Raging torrents of free-flowing mana clashed, ripping up the dirt and wilting the grass, sending drifts of free-falling snow and rose petals in every direction.
"SHUT UP! ALL OF YOU!" Gwen cald the farm with a Clarion Call, steam rising from her in spontaneous streams. "We're guests here, for God's sake!"
The Familiars cowered. The Devourer of Shenyang turned to the ongoing party that had all but ceased at the Rose Garden, each drawn by the spectacle of a duck wrestling a root vegetable while a murder of crows bickered with a flower, with a Kirin wling for peace and a Richard taking bets.
"Lady Astor… I am so sorry…"
The Lady of the house was with her entourage and joined by a dozen guests who had earlier arrived to celebrate Christmas Eve's festivities. Gwen's party had wandered up from Ferrier Cottage, seeing as they were holiday residents. Had Dede and Mori not descended, they would not have t until the evening.
Lady Astor was staring wide-eyed at the crows, evidently recognising their origins and their purpose.
"Caw!" Mori dispersed her flock with a cry, leaving a wordless group of aristocrats and mid-tier bureaucrats thoughtfully sipping gulps of wine.
Their hostess quickly recovered, then invited the students forward to be introduced. Both groups of guests exchanged titles and nas, then mingled. When Gwen asked who Astor was expecting to attend, she said that this year, there would be no Ravenport and no Lady Grey, not even a Rothwell in attendance. The advantage Gwen had materialised with the Dwarven alliance ant the Duke of Norfolk was holding a private soiree in his estate for mbers of the Grey Faction. Being more Middle than Grey, the Lady decided to break from the usually tense and intrigue-charged gatherings at Cliveden every other year.
"If you want excitent, I can ask the Exeters to send the twins over." Lucy Astor sipped from a flute while standing beside Gwen with a smirk. "Care for so payback for last ti? With your present standing in the Tower and the news cycle, you'll be able to push much harder than they're willing to push back."
"Thanks for the offer, but I'll pass." Gwen looked to Elvia, who was scolding her two Familiars for their un-lady-like behaviour. "I want this year to be fun and relaxing. Next year we've got Phase III to digest, and after that, our coffers permitting, all of us needs to start laying the foundations for Phase IV."
"How are your studies?"
"Going well, racking up credits," Gwen said. "Hopefully enough to pick up the Magisterhood in another year or two."
"I heard from St. Claire that you and Evee are thinking of heading up to the Steppes?" Astor remarked, her eyes drifting past Gwen's Familiars to the crow now perched on a vine arch. "With ister Bekker there, I doubt you'll face much danger. That said, you ARE headed for the Steppes, a Black Zone! Do you think you can turn the deficit void-chasm there into profit?"
"I think the Mageocracy can do better than snatch-and-grabs, general oppression and stoking civil bloodsheds," she replied in a low whisper. "If there are as many crystal mines, rare herbs, leather and Cores as they say down there, I think we could manage an import-export consortium. Keen to invest? It could be a new Silk Road."
"If you manage to wrangle the political situation there, sure." Lady Astor nodded. "That said, I do have traders operating out of Istanbul. I'll give you their contacts. When you arrive and are ready to begin operations, tell them I sent you."
"That'll be lovely." Gwen gave the Lady an affirming nod.
Their hostess passed a contact Glyph between them, then turned to Elvia. "My little Evee, my-my, how you've grown. A future Knight of the Bath! Incredible!"
Elvia curtsied. "Your Ladyship."
"I wonder how those sows at GOS would see you now," the ex-Secular Cleric, now House of Commons mber, mused. "Probably scrap for scraps at your feet, if I had to guess. Especially the Matrons who used to bully you and those other trainees from Black's too, I wager. Ever thought of going back?"
"I haven't thought of them much." Elvia's expression remained pure and serene. "The Ordo has much work to do."
"True." Lady Astor hugged the girl, squeezing her shoulders hard. "I heard about Northern Ireland. I am so sorry you had to experience that."
"It was a lesson I had to learn. One I don't regret." Elvia gave the Lady one of her signature, heart-lting smiles, one that made both Gwen and Lady Astor sigh with maternal longing.
"Enjoy the party." Lady Astor withdrew, expressing that she had already spent too much ti with one group and must now continue her free-flowing andering. "rry Christmas. We have high hopes for you all, you who are our nation's future. Magus Song—"
"A rry Xmas to you too, Lady Astor." Gwen curtsied, then hooked an arm around Elvia's inner elbow. "If you don't mind, we'll return to Ferrier's before the crowd arrives. Dede! Cali! Ariel! Mori! We're going!"
"Suit yourselves." The Lady touched a hand to Elvia's cheek and gave it a satisfying squeeze before leaning in to bid them both a fair holiday season. "Keep our Essence-sucking money tree safe, Evee. We're counting on her to pave the Middle Path with crystals."
As a business owner, Gwen understood well the concept of there being no rest for the wicked. The Tuesday past Boxing Day, while the rest of London returned to their repetitive labour, so did the Devourer of Shenyang return to her Isle of Dogs to crunch debit tables and balance expenditures.
Did you know this story is from ? Read the official version for free and support the author.
In the aftermath of the Shard's "New Deal" with the Dwarves, Yossari returned with more of her folk to help expand the Westferry Print Works, concurrently providing Petra with more opportunities to delve into the secret of Runic sorcery. At the sa ti, Nesatin the Smith, Doussed the Rune Tuner, and the two Whitebeards, Thulgig Flinthide and Danmurim the Glum had reached their one-surface-cycle contract and were due ho. For their return trip, Gwen gifted caskets of Maotai and rings full of surface goodies from sweets to cured at, as well as trinkets and Lun-recordings that she hoped would lure more young Dwarves into exploring Himmseg.
Two days before New Years, Jean-Paul invited her down to London Imperial, concurrent with a ssage that his ister would be expecting her to join her for a working luncheon.
Having already t with ister Bekker upon her previous return, Gwen made her way down to the grand avenues of South Kensington. She rather admired Jean-Paul's university, though more imposing than the fourteen isters under London Imperial's na or the Royal degree marking its inception was the fact that London Imperial has the most generous endownt of any learning institution in Europe, erging the principle collegial benefactor of Victoriana's colonial conquests. Even now, among all of the universities of the Mageocracy, graduates from London Imperial rank first for employnt prospects, dwarfing even the majesty of Oxbridge's combined might.
Recently and infamously, a late ister Stephan Grimm had committed suicide in the college's now repurposed Royal Spellcraft Hall for reasons unknown. In the aftermath, perhaps more tellingly than the Dust ister's untily demise, it was the coverup and the subsequent revelation of the faculties involved in executing factional rivalries, petty jealousies and bitter spitefulness that marred the college's two-century-old na.
Of course, the scandal did not diminish London Imperial's imposing approach. Outside its entrance, the Void Sorceress stood tall as a winter tulip in pale-blue boot-cut jeans, with a light wind jacket just reaching her knees. It took all but a minute for a gaggle of snickering young geese to descend from the steps to surround her, crowding every angle so that her only escape would be via Flight.
"Young Miss." One of the young n bowed his head in a gesture of feigned gentlemanliness, not unlike Dede fossicking for HDMs. "You're a pleasure for sore eyes, have we t?"
Had the man's pick-up not being so tacky, Gwen would have reminded the boy he'd probably seen her on the front page of the TRO. As it were, it had been so long since she experienced harassnt by strangers that the encounter felt refreshingly candid. What further enhanced her thrill was the fact that these young drakes had thought themselves cornering a hen when in truth, they were waltzing head-first in a slavering Caliban.
"I am waiting for a friend," Gwen answered demurely, feeling every inch a cat swishing its tail in front of srised mice.
"We can stand in for your friend," another of the young n said. "Where you do hail from?"
"Sydney," she replied. "I am new to London."
"Then we can show you around." The third managed with gusto. "I know the best pubs—"
"GWEN! Over here!"
Gwen was just about to agree to drink the n's wallets dry when Jean-Paul appeared from the main building's double-glass doors. Perhaps the Void Mage was in a hurry, or maybe he was a masochist, but Jean-Paul dressed his lower half in slacks and the top half in a cashre jumper. Above the ugly Christmas sweater, he even had on an orange and blue beanie. The overall effect could only be described as sothing the Void had regurgitated after an unsuccessful Christmas eve binge.
"Sorry, fellers." Gwen gave the n an apologetic shrug. "I'd love to get to know you all, but my special buddy is here."
The n's expressions fell several storeys and died on impact. Perhaps they knew of Jean-Paul and knew of his reputation, or mayhap they didn't; either way, Gwen took the opportunity to slip past their guard, leaving only a trail of perfu.
"Miss—" Their leader took on a pained expression of self-doubt after seeing Jean-Paul's exquisite face. "Are you seriously suggesting…"
"Sorry, but it's true." Gwen winked back with a smile. "JP's not good-looking, nor is he rich, but I don't know anyone else with a worm as impressive and useful as his. No other man compares."
The young Imperialists looked as though devastated by a Barbanginy.
Gwen left with a thrilling laugh, quickly leaping up the stairs in twos and threes with elegant dancer's strides to join Jean-Paul. "Hey, bud."
"What did you do to them?" Jean-Paul furrowed his brows. "Desolation Aura?"
Gwen gave her Quasimodo a hearty slap on the back. "You think I'd experint on students of London Imperial?"
Jean-Paul's expression inferred she would.
Gwen followed her fellow Void Mage through the main foyer, turning heads and catching eyes as she passed. At the atrium, she saw an enormous silhouette four storeys tall in technicolour that Jean-Paul identified as the Astral Body scan of a dical ister specialising in imaging Divinations.
The building's interior was enormous, easily the size of Kings College's main campus cathedral plus the Old Court, with a section of Peterhouse added as the library wing. Jean-Paul took her through a maze of corridors that would surely spell her doom, arriving finally at a secluded area reserved for Magisters, isters and upper-tier administrative staff.
"ister." Gwen bowed as she approached.
ister Engela "vrou" Bekker, one of three isters to erge from Cape of Good Hope and now a resident researcher at London Imperial, had the atypical appearance of a Boer, with salient ash-blonde hair and piercing, cerulean eyes. When Gwen first t Bekker vis-a-vis, she was shocked to discover that the fad Pretorian scholar was an Ooze Mage, for the clean, austere appearance Bekker maintained was usually reserved for those aligned with Ice or Mineral.
Though in her early fifties, the ister had enjoyed the likes of Vitae Fruits and rejuvenation treatnts, possessing the appearance of a well-kept woman in her thirties. Unlike Lady Astor or Rectrix St. Claire, however, the ister's appearance was to Gwen a facade, for she lacked the natural youthfulness that ca with Positive Energy.
"Gwen, co sit." The ister was one used to command. "Jean, be a dear and get us fresh beverages, aseblief."
Gwen sat, keeping at arm's length from the ister.
Here was a woman whose achievents in Spellcraft, academia and politics she could not yet challenge. As for wealth and luxury— she doubted soone sitting at the apex of the sorcerous pyramid would care for sothing she could acquire at a mont's notice.
In Gwen's eyes, the "Madam's" relationship with Jean-Paul was a strange admixture born out of experintation. To say that the vrou felt love for Jean-Paul wasn't wrong, but it was the leftover sentint of having a dog by one's side for so long that one felt amiss in its absence. In their everyday interactions, the vrou's command of Jean-Paul was absolute, treating the talented Void Mage as sothing between a scion and a servant.
Yet, Gwen also bore witness to how protective the vrou was of Jean-Paul. Engela's was a fierce, maternal emotion the vrou herself may not fully comprehend. For instance, in the trister she had spent with Jean-Paul and Gracie, the girls had attracted unwanted pursuers more than once. As a deterrence, Gwen regularly half-jokingly used Jean-Paul as a Shield to discourage prospective suitors. Unfortunately, there was no lack of young n un-accustod to won with attitude in a place like London.
When Jean-Paul, "friend with benefits" to Gwen and Gracie, fell victim to unkind rumours, he did not need Gwen or the TRO to step in. Instead, the vrou stamped her foot.
Later, the culprits issued public apologies, with one going so far as to withdraw from the college.
The vrou was married in her youth but did not have children of her own due to her rapid sorcerous advancents. Jean-Paul was the closest thing to a son, Apprentice and heir she had.
In the privacy of the canteen with no one but themselves, the trio settled down to business.
ister Bekker's wish was to hit the Steppes just after the Gregorian Calendar turned over to 2006.
As for the journey itself, with Gwen joining them, the ister advised taking the Eastern European route. They and their party of two-dozen Magisters and Maguses would arrive at Kyiv and then take a short-hop ISTC station to Volgograd, where the Russians once halted the German's eastward ambitions through spellfire, blood and enough bodies to start a second Undead War.
From there, the Flights would have to proceed on-air, hopping down the Volga River for half a day, resting at a trading post on the shores of the Caspian Sea, then take a two-day, two-thousand-kilotre flight across a southern section of the Caspian now renad the "Fire Sea" to arrive sowhere between the land of the Uzbeki and the Kazakhstani Centaurs, both presently held under the Golden Banner of the Khitani Khanate. As to where their FOB might be, not even ister Bekker could be sure— for the Golden Pavilion was forever on the move, following the rains, clouds and the seasons of the plains.
Jean-Paul remarked that Gwen owned an Orb that could arguably direct the party toward the desired location through mystical ans. If she consciously set her mind on the Golden Pavilion, there was no reason why the Omni-orb couldn't circumvent that particular complication in ister Bekker's quest.
"… How quaint. If I were a Diviner, I would say fate works in strange ways." ister Bekker sipped her coffee. "As I am not, I shall abide by an old saying from the Steppes, that 'one shouldn't count a gifted Slave's teeth'."
It took Gwen a mont to catch the ister's implication.
"Does that idiom an what I think it ans?" Gwen's eyes slightly narrowed. She had only the slightest clue about flesh-trading among the Demi-humans of the Steppes, at least not in enough detail to suggest it was a part of the everyday fabric of life.
"War is constant on the Steppes. And so is the caste system used in the region," the vrou flatly replied. "We'll be making extensive use of it, so keep your eyes half-closed and your mind wide open."
"I was under the impression that the 'slavery' was a form of indentured servitude—" Gwen thought she'd ask once more. "Or sothing like prison camp labour derived from the defeated."
"No," Jean-Paul's teacher assured her of the implications. "These are SLAVES in the sense of Arican history. There's no euphemism implied. We're talking people as property to treat and trade as you, the owner, sees fit. It's a speciality of the Khanate and one of the principal economic forces that drive inter-tribal conflict. Every battle proceeds with a fatal charge of the slave-corps, after which the main force commits its finest archers and riders."
Gwen acknowledged that reading up on the Golden Horde's history may have warped her understanding of local customs. So far, she had gathered that the Steppes, consisting of plains, tundras, plateaus, reliefs and endless estuaries descending from glaciers to the north and east, was ho to hundreds of Demi-human tribes. What she did not realise was that the dieval thod of victory through enslaving your opponents was alive and galloping today.
"That's crazy. Outright slavery! I an, not even serfdom! In this day and age?"
"How much do you think the Northern Steppes has changed since the ti of Genghis' Golden Horde?" The vrou stirred her coffee, re-heating the liquid with a stern glance. "Whatever system of governnt they had devised was effective enough to rule the largest land empire on Terra— why should the 'Nayzağay Qanı' Kin that hail from his golden blood desire administerial modernisations hailing from France?"
"Alright," Gwen conceded her human-centric worldview. "What do you an by we'll be using… the slaves?"
"Use that big brain of yours." Engela Bekker drew her a picture. "On the Steppes, there are many commodities to be traded. Crystal currency, rare earth minerals, Creature Cores and magical ingredients are what we're after, but what do you think the 'Nayzağay Qanı', the 'Thunderblooded' prefer for trade in a place so vast and full of danger?"
"… Labour?" Gwen dreaded the fact that she knew the answer. "… and Food? Wait... Jesus Christ."
"During winter, the two are not exclusive," Jean-Paul's teacher's reply made Gwen's toes curl. "The Thunderblood Marauders of Khitan think nothing of using the docile Tasmüyiz for nourishnt. We don't think much of our sheep and cows, and neither do they. Further north, the Wolf Mothers of the Qasqır Clan pay extrely well for teams of Şöpter slaves. During spring and sumr, the Şöpter tend to the fields and nurse the pups. In winter, they make for good sport— and if the weather remains foul for too long…"
"… Strewth." Gwen had to put down her fourth croissant. "It's the fucking Dark Ages out there."
"Don't be like those old fogies in the Anthropological Section," the vrou chided her. "The Steppe is life in its purest form, raw and free, unbound by petty rules to protect the weak. There's much we could learn, as Mages, from those Centaurs."
Gwen grew contemplative. "This is harder than advertised."
"Did you think this would be easy?" The vrou laughed. "The Golden Horde was responsible for the Dark Ages, after all. Our job, Magus Song, is to drag the Khitani Centaurs kicking and screaming into the 19th century."
"Do you an the 21st?"
"Your optimism is comndable." The ister gave her a look of disapproval. "You're going to be my assistant Administrator, Gwen. Not the Second Coming of the Nazarene."
User Comments
0 comments from readers