The Iron Citadel loomed above the harbor like a judge presiding over an execution. Built into the cliff face itself, it rose in brutal tiers of stone—wall upon wall, each higher and more unforgiving than the last, until the final towers disappeared into the low clouds that seemed to hang there permanently.

  Merren had docked here before—you couldn't smuggle through Vyrden without passing through the Citadel's harbor—but he'd always kept his head down, moved his cargo quickly, and left before anyone too official took too much interest. Arriving with a formal request for an audience with the king, as a diplomatic supplicant rather than a smuggler trying not to be noticed, felt fundamentally wrong.

  "Not too late to turn around," he muttered.

  Ink sat by the rail, watching the docks approach with her ears back. She’d ripped one of her nails when she’d jumped onto The Black Ballad from the docks. It had healed well enough during the four-day journey from Eldmere. She'd been quiet the whole voyage—barely eating, and laying near Merren with large eyes staring up at him.

  Missing Seren, probably. Or replaying whatever had happened in Eldmere that sent her leaping twenty feet of open water to land on his deck.

  Either way, she'd stopped pacing and whining. That was something.

  The Black Ballad made port just after midday. Merren stood in his cabin, looking at himself in the cracked mirror with deep dissatisfaction.

  He'd shaved. Trimmed his hair. Put on his one good coat—the green velvet one he kept for occasions requiring him to look like a successful merchant rather than a smuggler one slight breeze away from falling apart.

  "This is what true suffering looks like," he muttered, adjusting the collar for the third time. "Death by respectability. They'll write songs about it. Tragic ones."

  Ink sat by the door, holding his weathered tricorn hat in her mouth, watching him with dark, soulful eyes.

  "Don't judge me. Vyrden expects a certain... presentation. All very proper. Very organized. Very tedious."

  On deck, his first mate did a double-take. "Cap'n? That you?"

  "Mock me and you're swimming to shore."

  "Wouldn't dream of it, sir. You look... almost respectable."

  "Tragic, isn't it?" Merren descended the gangplank, Ink walking near him with her tail low and her ears back, still carrying his hat. "Well then. Off to convince Vyrden’s council that they should care about a kingdom that isn't theirs. Shouldn't take long. Councils are famously efficient."

  His first mate's snort followed him down the pier.

  The harbor master approached—a thin, precise man with a ledger that looked older than the Citadel itself. "Name and purpose?"

  "Merren Thorn. Diplomatic matters. Here to see King Rhodri."

  The harbor master's pen paused. "Diplomatic matters. From?"

  "Well, that depends on how you define 'from,' doesn't it? Recently departed from Eldmere, technically, though my ship's registered in Garanwyn, or was, might still be, paperwork's always complicated with these things—Eldmere. From Eldmere—as I said, it's complicated."

  "It always is with you, Master Thorn." The harbor master made a notation, then gestured sharply to a boy waiting nearby. The boy took off running toward the Citadel. "Berth seventeen. Three silver a day. Extra silver if your 'diplomatic matters' involve anything attempting to leave my harbor without the proper documentation."

  "You wound me. I'm here on entirely legitimate business."

  "First time for everything." The harbor master gestured toward the Citadel. "You'll want the third gate. Tell the guards—they'll send word up. Might take a while. Everything takes a while here."

  "Efficiency through procedure?"

  "Something like that."

  ***

  A steward finally appeared—older man who'd spent a lifetime keeping the citadel free of smugglers and other riff raff. His eyes traveled over Merren slowly, lingering on the weathered boots. Clean and polished, certainly. Distinguished? Not remotely. Sun-damaged skin. The stance of someone who'd spent more time on ship decks than in receiving halls. Hardly typical diplomatic stock. Then again, Eldmere was a poor kingdom. Desperation made strange choices.

  "Master Thorn?" The name came out with just enough doubt to be insulting.

  "That's me."

  "His Highness has been informed of your arrival." The steward's tone made it clear what he thought of Eldmere's choice of envoy. "You're to be given quarters in the diplomatic wing. Your audience is scheduled for tomorrow morning, second bell."

  "Tomorrow? I'd hoped—"

  "Second bell," the steward repeated, brooking no argument. "Someone will collect you. Your... companion will need to remain in your quarters during official meetings."

  Ink's ears flicked back.

  "She's exceptionally well-behaved," Merren tried, realising that a dog like Ink could get up to a circus of mischief if left alone.

  "I'm sure." The steward gestured down another corridor. "This way, please."

  ***

  The diplomatic quarters were comfortable in the way a well-organized prison might be comfortable. Clean. Efficient. Deeply impersonal. Not a tapestry to be seen, Merren was surprised there were coverlids on the bed. Luxury.

  A servant brought supper at precisely the sixth bell—roasted chicken, root vegetables, bread that was exactly one day old. Perfectly adequate. Perfectly measured. Probably portioned according to some chart somewhere titled "Appropriate Diplomatic Rations."

  Merren ate. Ink didn't.

  He set some chicken aside on a plate near her. She sniffed it once, then turned her head away and settled by the door with her back to him.

  "Right," Merren said to the room. "That's how it's going to be, then."

  He tried moving the plate closer. Ink's ear twitched, but she didn't turn around.

  "You're allowed to eat, you know. Starving yourself doesn't actually help anyone."

  Nothing.

  "Seren's fine. Probably. Well—she's in Eldmere, which isn't fine, but she's got Dain and Kith and that brilliant eight-year-old who knows every rooftop in the city. She's managing."

  Ink's tail stayed perfectly still.

  Merren sighed and left the chicken where it was.

  ***

  As the evening deepened, he started pacing, working through possibilities aloud.

  Ink still hadn't moved from the door. She still had her back to him.

  "All right," Merren said finally, mostly to himself. "Let's think this through."

  He stopped mid-step, thinking. Then resumed his pacing. "So. Tomorrow. Second bell. That’s terribly early. What King in their right mind would be up by then? Anyway, I’m supposed to meet King Rhodri and his Council in their chambers." He gestured elaborately trying to get Ink interested in anything but the door. "They already know Jorvan's in Eldmere—they'll have spies, everyone has spies—so I'm not telling them anything new there. The question is whether they care."

  He paused by the window, looking out at what should be the citadel’s geometric courtyard. But it was dark, so he saw nothing.

  "If Rhodri agrees immediately—which he won't, but let's pretend—I thank him, get the timeline for when his troops would reach Eldmere, offer to coordinate with Caladwyth's fleet, and sail north feeling tremendously pleased with myself."

  Ink's tail thumped once against the floor. Possibly agreement. Possibly she'd heard a mouse in the wall. At least that was something.

  The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  "But if he disagrees or is uncertain…”

  He resumed pacing.

  ***

  He wasn’t sure what exactly woke him up, the servant’s knock or the first bell. But it was still dark. Merren was not ready for the day. But he realised that he’d never be ready for this day, though he’d have been much happier if he could skip it. The servant had left water outside the door. He assumed it was for washing. Probably. Palace protocol—things just appeared and you were expected to know what to do with them. Asking felt like admitting you didn't belong.

  Merren dressed carefully—the green velvet coat, the cravat that was slowly killing him, the boots he'd polished last night out of sheer nervous boredom, spent watching a dog who seemed to have lost the will to live—though he still thought she had the better deal. He looked at himself in the mirror and saw someone pretending very hard to be respectable.

  "Right then," he said to Ink, who still hadn't touched the chicken. "Showtime. You stay here. Be good. Try to eat something. Anything. Please? Oh and don’t wreck the place while I’m gone."

  Ink looked at him, he was sure there should have been a sarcastic comment accompanying the look. Then deliberately got up, turned around so her back faced him.

  "You're exhausting, you know that?"

  Her ear flicked. Possibly acknowledgment. Possibly dismissal.

  The steward arrived at precisely the second bell. "Master Thorn. If you'll follow me."

  Merren felt like there was a heavy stone in his stomach.

  ***

  The council chamber was exactly what Merren had expected: high ceilings, long table, six chairs on one side and one lonely chair facing them like an accused man in a courtroom. Banners hung on the walls—Vyrden's colors, all very official, all very geometric, all very intimidating.

  Five men were already seated. King Rhodri sat in the center, younger than Merren had expected—perhaps thirty, with sharp eyes and the kind of stillness that came from watching rather than acting.

  To his right: Lord Garrett, silver-haired and obviously well fed, in military garb, with the attitude of someone who'd spent decades giving orders. To his left: Lord Edric, lean with ink-stained fingers and the permanent squint of a person who spent too much time reading ledgers.

  The other three lords filled out the table. Lord Aldwin—dark hair, sharp features, and a calculating expression—sat beside Lord Garrett. Lord Oswin, broad-shouldered with a weather-beaten face, leaned back in his chair with far more confidence than intelligence. The fifth, Lord Maddox, eldest of them all with white beard and tired eyes, watched Merren with the expression of someone who'd sat through this meeting a hundred times before.

  Lord Maddox's chin was already dipping toward his chest.

  "Master Thorn," King Rhodri said. His voice was measured, neither warm nor cold. "The bard. Or was it smuggler? Welcome to Vyrden. Please, sit."

  Merren sat in the accused chair. "Your Highness. My lords. Thank you for seeing me on such short notice."

  Lord Edric's eyebrow twitched.

  Rhodri folded his hands on the table. "We understand you're here regarding the situation in Eldmere. Our intelligence suggests King Jorvan of Garanwyn has... inserted himself into their internal affairs."

  "Inserted himself," Merren repeated. "Yes. That's one way to describe it. Very diplomatic phrasing, actually—makes it sound almost polite, doesn't it? Like he knocked on the door and asked nicely instead of showing up with an army and the deposed king and a bishop who's been using the Church to steal years from children—life force, specifically, draining them dry and calling it 'service'—all very proper and official, which is somehow worse than just—well, conquest is at least honest about what it is."

  King Rhodri's brows rose in surprise. Oh, so he didn't know about that.

  Lord Edric leaned forward. "The proper terminology would be 'military occupation.'"

  "Right, yes, thank you—military occupation. Much better. I'm sure the people of Eldmere feel tremendously comforted by the distinction."

  Lord Maddox's eyes opened briefly, possibly amused.

  Lord Garrett shifted in his seat. "Our reports suggest King Helmut requested Garanwyn's assistance."

  "Helmut," Merren said, "is a man of—well, he has certain qualities. Very agreeable, actually. Tremendously agreeable. The sort of king who listens to advice—all advice, really, from whoever happens to be standing nearest at the time with the loudest voice and the most convincing argument, which in this case happens to be Jorvan, who showed up with both an army and tremendous conviction about his own generosity. Makes it rather difficult to disagree when someone's being that helpful."

  "You have documentation of this?" Lord Edric asked.

  "Proof," Merren said. "Interesting question. If you're asking whether I have Jorvan's invasion plans written out in his own hand labeled 'My Evil Scheme,' then no. But what I do have is a letter from Eldmere's actual king—King Cocky, alive, in hiding, asking for help."

  Silence.

  Lord Maddox sat up slightly.

  Lord Aldwin spoke, his voice smooth. "That's quite a story, Master Thorn. But surely if King... Cocky, was it? If he's alive, he could simply present himself and reclaim his throne."

  "He could. Just walk right in, announce himself, very dramatic—except there's the minor complication of Jorvan's army currently occupying the city. Rather ruins the whole 'generous assistance' story when the legitimate king shows up saying 'actually, I'm fine, you can leave now.'"

  "So the king is in hiding," Aldwin said. "Meaning he's either a coward or the situation is less dire than you're suggesting."

  Lord Edric glanced at Aldwin as if wondering whether he'd been listening at all.

  "Or," Merren said, "he's being strategic. Hard to reclaim a throne when you're dead. Again."

  Rhodri raised a hand. "Master Thorn. Let's say we accept your assessment. Why should Vyrden involve itself in Eldmere's internal politics?"

  And there it was.

  Merren could see it now—the way they'd all leaned back slightly, the careful phrasing, the patient expressions. They were waiting for him to finish so they could return to more important matters.

  They'd already decided.

  Still. Had to try.

  "Because," Merren said, "Jorvan won't stop at Eldmere."

  "The High Spine protects Vyrden from Garanwyn," Lord Oswin said immediately. "Always has. Those mountains are impassable."

  Lord Edric closed his eyes briefly.

  Lord Maddox's head tilted back. Possibly asleep again.

  "True," Merren said, "if Jorvan stays in Garanwyn. But once he controls Eldmere—which shares your southern border—he doesn't need to cross mountains. Two kingdoms. Two armies. All very convenient."

  Lord Edric frowned. "You're suggesting he'd use Eldmere as a staging ground."

  "I'm suggesting he operates through conquest that looks like cooperation. And he's very good at it."

  "That's speculation," Lord Aldwin said.

  "It's what I would do," Merren countered.

  Rhodri was quiet for a long moment. "Let's pretend for a minute that Jorvan could threaten Vyrden. What specifically are you asking?"

  Time to stop wasting everyone's time.

  "Mobilize your army," Merren said. "March to Eldmere. Help us remove Jorvan before he solidifies control. King Cocky is alive and willing to reclaim his throne."

  "And in return?" Lord Edric asked.

  Of course there had to be something in return.

  "In return," Merren said, "you stop a tyrant before he takes over every kingdom on this island. You preserve Eldmere's independence, which preserves your buffer state. And you establish Vyrden as the kingdom willing to stand against conquest."

  Lord Garrett exchanged a glance with Rhodri. "Mobilizing our army would take eight weeks minimum. Calling in forces from border garrisons, organizing supply lines, coordinating march routes. Two months at least."

  "Then start now," Merren said. "Because every day Jorvan sits in Eldmere is another day he's entrenching himself."

  "But surely the High Spine—" Lord Oswin began.

  Lord Maddox jerked awake. Looked around. Settled back into his chair.

  "—would discourage any aggressive expansion from Garanwyn," Oswin finished.

  "We've established," Rhodri said with careful patience, "that Eldmere shares our southern border. Lord Oswin."

  "Ah. Yes. Of course." Lord Oswin made a note on his parchment as if this were new information.

  Lord Aldwin leaned back. "Master Thorn, you paint a dramatic picture. But what you're describing is an enormous military commitment based on the word of a smuggler about a cockatrice king in hiding and a bishop who steals children's souls. You must understand how this sounds."

  Merren did understand. It sounded insane.

  "Would I sail here," Merren said carefully, "to the Iron Citadel specifically, and waste your time if it wasn't true?"

  "Wouldn't you?" Aldwin asked pleasantly.

  Fair point, actually.

  "Master Thorn." Rhodri's voice cut through. "We appreciate your... passion. But this council needs to consider many factors before committing Vyrden's forces to another kingdom's conflict."

  Conflict. Not war.

  "How long?" Merren asked.

  Rhodri glanced at his council. Some unspoken communication passed between them.

  "We'll need time to discuss this among ourselves," Rhodri said. "To consult our intelligence reports, assess the strategic implications."

  "Days?" Merren pressed. "Weeks?"

  "We will send for you when we've decided. Please remain in Vyrden while we deliberate." Rhodri's tone sharpened. "And Master Thorn—that's not a request."

  Which meant they were watching him. And they hadn't said yes.

  But they hadn't said no either.

  Merren stood. "Thank you, Your Highness. My lords."

  Lord Maddox's eyes opened. He studied Merren for a long moment.

  Then nodded once. Very slightly.

  "We'll be in touch, Master Thorn," Rhodri said.

  The steward appeared at the door.

  ***

  The steward escorted him back to his quarters in silence.

  Ink was still lying by the door. The chicken sat untouched on the plate.

  Merren sat on the bed and put his head in his hands.

  "That," he said to the room, "could have gone better."

  Ink's ear twitched.

  "They're going to 'consider it.' Which means they're going to argue about it. For days. And we have to stay here."

  He looked at Ink.

  "And the worst part is—I don't know if I convinced them of anything except that I'm a rambling smuggler with a fantastical story."

  Ink finally turned around to look at him. Her expression was still unreadable, but at least she was facing him.

  "Right," Merren said quietly. "So. Plan B."

  He didn't have a plan B.

  He had no idea how long the Council of Vyrden were going to "consider" Eldmere’s fate. Then he'd sail to Caladwyth and hope William would commit even without Vyrden's support.

  And if William said no too...

  Merren didn't let himself finish that thought.