XIV

THE FREEDOM COUNCIL

“What has happened?” said Duke Harringgold as the guards closed the doors to his drawing room, leaving him and Lord Torbin Malvegil alone inside. Malvegil looked tired, sweaty, and disheveled, and strangely, he wore the garb of an upscale merchant. ““Are you in disguise?”

“I am,” said Malvegil. “Quite a bit has happened since we last exchanged messages,” he said as he pulled out the missive that directed him to report to Lomion City. “Did you send this?”

Harringgold's face went red and his jaw stiffened as he read it. “No,” he said. “I think I need a brandy for this. Join me?””

“If it's a good vintage,” said Malvegil with a forced smile.

“Barsen's Reserve, twenty years old.”

Malvegil raised an eyebrow. “That will do.”

“A gift from my brother for my last birthday.”

Harringgold poured them each a glass and they settled down in the adjoining sitting room. The outside wall of the room was sloped inward, the ceiling high, the wall almost entirely made of glass. The glass itself, a wonder in its size and clarity, crafted by Lomion’s finest glaziers, their skills unsurpassed anywhere in the known world. High in the central tower of Dor Lomion, the great windows afforded a grand view of the eastern and southern sections of the city.

Harringgold took a generous sip from his tumbler. “Have they moved against you?”

“Once on the road coming here from my Dor,” said Malvegil. “Again when we entered the city, not an hour ago. Your man, Fischer, helped us good and proper when they gave us trouble near the south gate. The Black Hand both times. They're down three assassins, and I lost three good soldiers.”

“So they’ve unleashed The Hand,” said Harringgold. “We feared that this was coming, and yet, I’m surprised. I didn’t think it would be this soon. And I didn’t think it would be against you.””

“In case you forgot, they did try to kill me the last time I was here too,” said Malvegil. “My back is still sore from that blade, and I’’ve hardly taken off my chainmail since.”

“We were never certain that it was The Hand.”

“Now we are,” said Malvegil.

“That makes all the difference. If they would murder a Dor Lord in broad daylight by Lomion City’s gates, it tells us that the League has reached the point that they'll stop at nothing to achieve their ends,”” said the Duke.

“I’ve reached that point as well,” said Malvegil. “The difference between us, is that they're afraid of me, and I'm not afraid of them. I'll come at them direct, not through the shadows.”

“If you do, they'll kill you, and anyone that stands with you. You won’t—”

“Have you been paying attention? They’re trying to kill me already. They’re trying pretty hard, in fact.””

“You won't have a chance if you move against them. No chance at all. The League has grown more powerful than you know.”

“Yet I’ve survived them thus far.”

“You’ve been lucky.”

Malvegil leaned back in his chair and paused a moment before he spoke again. “I'm going to war,” he said.

The Duke raised his eyebrows. “With who? The League has no army of its own; it uses ours: the Lomerian Guard. Will you fight our own men?”

“If they follow the League's orders, I will.”

“They do, but not knowingly. It's all through deception and lies. The League’s proxies control much of the city, much of the country.”

“They don't control me or mine. The Malvegils will bleed them. I will put them down and The Hand too.”

“The Hand too? You might as well declare war on the wind or the rain. I hope that you're just blowing off steam, old friend. If you act directly against the League, the Council will declare you a rebel and march against you.”

“I've called my banners,” said Malvegil. “Let the League come.”

“They control twenty brigades for every one of yours. You cannot win. You cannot even survive.”

“I still say, let them come.”

“And they will. They will not back down to threats or intimidation. They’ve declared your nephew a rebel,” said Harringgold. ““Do you know that?”

“Claradon?”

“Aye. Even now, a brigade led by a troop of Myrdonians under Alder command marches on Dor Eotrus. They mean to install a regent.”

“What? They're really doing it? Marching on a Dor?”

“Aye. This is for real, my friend. Go carefully.”

“A single brigade, you say? Does the chancellor think Eotrus walls are made of parchment and their men cowards? Ector will wipe them out to the last man. He'll hang their commander from the front gate.”

“Ector is untested boy,” said Harringgold. “We don’t know what he’ll do. He doesn’t have many advisors left up there, so I can’t predict how this will play out. But Barusa hopes that he’’ll back down and let the Regent take control of Eotrus holdings. But if he doesn’t back down, then Barusa hopes that Ector will attack the Regent’s troops; maybe even wipe them out as you say. That’’s why he’s only sending one brigade. Their deaths will be all the excuse Barusa needs to send a full corps against the Eotrus and yet have the support of the Council and many of the people as well. He needs that support to justify his actions. Once the Eotrus campaign is wrapped up, he'll feel empowered to move against all his enemies. Perhaps one at a time, or if he thinks he's strong enough, against all of us at once. If the Eotrus fight, it's the beginning of the end; the start of a civil war. A war that will tear the Republic apart.”

“And if they don't fight?” said Malvegil.

“In the end, it will be the same, but we'll have a lot more time to prepare; to build our defenses. Eventually, they'll come for us, one way or another. That has always been their plan; I’m certain of it.”

“They're afraid,” said Malvegil. “You only kill the enemy that you fear can harm you.”

“Apparently, you're quite frightening to them,” said the Duke. “Happily, their fear of me is not so great.””

“Keep your guard up all the same.”

“I always do. You've sent men to check on your Dor?”

“As soon as we figured out what was what, I contacted Landolyn. All is well at home.”

“Contacted her?” said Harringgold. “Ravens, you mean? You’re still using them?”

“We do, for routes that are still secure,” said Malvegil. “But this time, I used different means, which brings me to the other news that I bear. News of an even greater danger to the realm than the League, if you can believe it.”

Harringgold's eyes locked on Malvegil. “I pray that you are joking.”

“No joke,” said Malvegil. He then related all that transpired when the svart king and his retinue visited Dor Malvegil and told of the fall of Thoonbarrow to the duergar. Toward the end of the discussion, Malvegil brought in the Seer Stone that the svart king had gifted him, and showed it to the Duke, but warned him not to get too close to it. “If things were as they should be, this stone would go to the king,” said Malvegil. “If not he, then the High Council. Neither can be trusted with it. So it goes to you, Archduke, like it or not. It must stay here in Dor Lomion, locked behind your walls, gates, and doors. Guarded by your guards, but only those you trust the most.”

“Does it work, truly?” said the Duke.

“Aye. I've seen the image of a man a hundred leagues away through its surface, and he spoke to me just as we're speaking now. And it was with this, that I contacted my wife after the Hand assassin struck.”

“That is a wonder,” said Harringgold as he stared at the intricate swirling designs of the stone's surface. “The stories I've heard say that only a true seer can operate such a device.”

“She's in your antechamber now with Fischer and my guardsmen. A svart.”

“A svart? In all my days I never thought to see one of them.”

“Well, now you have one of your very own. At least until this crisis is over. Treat her kindly. We'll be able to communicate between us (you here at Dor Lomion, and me in Dor Malvegil) and with the dwarves of Darendor, and perhaps with the elves of Lindonaire. Each through our own Seer Stone, courtesy of the black elf king himself.””

“Duergar, the League, assassins, Seer Stones, and svarts,” said the Duke shaking his head. “Midgaard has turned upside down. Reality crumbles around us while myth and legend take hold. My head spins with this news.”

“If I didn’t see much of it myself, I would not believe it,” said Malvegil. “Yet it’s all true.”

“Truth is sometimes in the eye of the beholder,” said the Duke. “Especially in Lomion. Here nothing is ever as it seems. I want to see the stone in action, but we have a meeting to go to, you and I. One that may make your head spin.”

“A meeting with whom?”

“The Freedom Council,” said Harringgold with a smile.

Malvegil looked elated. “You've done it? You've organized it? For real?”

“They await me even now. You’ve made me late. Let's go before we miss anything.”

“What of the Seer Stone?”

“Bring it with us,” said the Duke. “The others need to know of this new danger, and the stone will serve as support for your words.””

“The stone must not fall into the hands of the League,” said Malvegil. “I’d rather not move it again. Not now that it’s here, safe.”

“There will be guards enough at this meeting, don’t you worry,” said the Duke.

***

The Vizier, Rabrack Philistine, known as the Royal Wizard, and lately, as the Grandmaster of the Tower of the Arcane (the High Seat of Wizardom in all Midgaard), entered the back door of Fister Mansion in disguise. Two guards that stood outside recognized him as he made his way down the alley, or rather, they recognized the man he impersonated, one Par Trask, greeted him by name, and opened the door to permit him entry. The six guards stationed in the antechamber eyed him, but made no move to bar his entry. His disguise held, at least against the guards, but of that, he'd had no doubt. The real test was yet to come.

One of the guards said he'd escort him to the meeting room and led the way down the corridor. The hall was narrow and smelled of tobacco smoke; the plaster walls were scuffed and scratched; the paint chipped; the carpet frayed and worn. They turned one corner and then another; they went down a short flight of stairs where half a dozen guards were stationed, and then passed through some battered double doors. Beyond, it was as if they'd entered another building entirely. Here, the flooring was wood planks, polished and bright, the walls wainscoted in cherry wood, the paint above, white and fresh, the ceiling high and coffered. They walked past several doors until they reached the end of a broad corridor. Two guards stood by a grand door ten feet tall, carved with intricate geometric designs. His escort left him and as the Vizier approached the door, he saw that to the right, the corridor opened up to a large reception room, sparsely furnished with chairs and couches. There lounged some two dozen soldiers, bullyboys, and mercenaries of every type imaginable — the bodyguards of those who had arrived before the Vizier. How odd most of those ruffians looked in such a regal room; many sitting on the floor and making more chatter than was proper.

“Good evening, Par,” said one of the door guards. The Vizier nodded and managed a half smile as he prayed that the man didn't ask for some secret code or password. He didn't have it, whatever it might be, and there was no hope of guessing it. Given all the muscle on hand, he'd be hard pressed to get clear of there, if it came to it.

The guard knocked on the door using a curious pattern of raps and taps: a code! The Vizier felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up. Notwithstanding the importance of the knowledge that he stood to gain, he regretted being there.

At that moment, as they unlocked the door, it was all he could do not to run. Not to flee for his life. It didn't matter that this was a unique opportunity to surveil his enemies — it was just too risky. Too dangerous. Foolhardy, even. Reckless. He turned his head, and searched for a clear path that he could run through, but he was committed; it was far too late to go back now.

The door opened to a good-sized meeting hall. It hosted a curious collection of villains. Men that the Vizier dreaded seeing. Men that he feared would see through his disguise in an instant.

He made it through the door, barely noticed; a nod of greeting here, a hello there. Most of the traitors didn’t even look at him when he entered. They just kept on their plotting and gossiping, awaiting the official start to their traitorous festivities.

Nevertheless, as he walked to his seat, he was more afraid than he'd ever been in his life. More so than the day that the Harbinger of Doom held a sword to the back of his neck. He never heard him coming, that demon. At first, his magic failed him, for he sensed nothing until the cold edge of the Harbinger's blade rested against his neck. When it did, every fiber of his being that made him a wizard felt ablaze. He knew at once who accosted him. He sensed the waves of malice and evil that radiated down that blade from the demon's hand. He nearly peed himself.

He relived those moments a thousand times. They haunted him day and night — how close he'd come to not only losing his life, but also losing his immortal soul. He’d been but a hair’s-breadth away from being damned for all eternity — from being pulled down into whatever hell the Harbinger had climbed out of. He hadn't had a peaceful night of rest since that fell day.

Yet walking into that den of traitors in the Fister was somehow worse. It was even worse than the fear he felt on the day that he led the coup against Pipkorn and the other Grandmasters of the Tower. On that day, he was in control; he had planned every move, every moment, and had contingencies set up for every conceivable countermove and happenstance. And, as importantly, powerful allies from within and without the tower supported him. Nonetheless, things went awry, as they always do in times of combat and strife. Too many missteps; too many of his enemies escaped. Yet, despite it all, victory was his; complete and total. He won the Tower of the Arcane — the High Seat of Wizardom —his dream for more years than he could recall.

But this time, he was alone. He didn’t know what to expect. He hadn’t even known who would be in attendance at the meeting. He had guessed many of the names: Harringgold, Sluug, Pipkorn, but not all of them. There were surprises; he anticipated that there would be. The problem was, there was nothing he could do to control the situation, and that greatly troubled him. It made him vulnerable. It put him at risk; great risk. If they found him out, he had almost no chance of escape. They'd kill him for certain, but first, there would be interrogation and that meant torture. And it might go on for a long time. Who knew what horrors, what indignities, those villains might inflict upon him. They were capable of anything, the heartless bastards. The very thought of it sent shivers through him and he had to force himself to concentrate on what was said around him. After all, that's what he was there for — all that he was there for. To hear what those men said. To hear it from their own lips; to know their plans and schemes.

All those feelings, those fears that he felt in the meeting room, were alien to the Vizier. He'd lived long — longer than any would guess by looking at him. Most would mark him in his fifties, perhaps early sixties, but in truth, he was 142 years old — his years and health preserved past their time by adept use of esoteric magics beyond the ken of normal folk, and nearly as far beyond his more pedestrian brethren of the Tower. He was confident in his powers — his prowess and knowledge — but that day, he ventured into a pit of vipers. They called themselves the Freedom Council, which of course was a laughable misnomer. In truth, they were a cadre of the most violent, self-centered, dangerous, and downright stupid members of the Tower of the Arcane, the High Council, the Council of Lords, and other groups and individuals, various and sundry, of generally questionable repute. In short, they were the opposition to the new order that he championed. They were the old guard of Lomion aristocracy, motivated by ignorance, avarice, racism, narcissism, and xenophobia. He hated them and all that they stood for — as did every righteous citizen with an awareness of such things. That was why he orchestrated Pipkorn's overthrow, for Old Pointy Hat was one of their leaders — acting in secret to achieve their nefarious ends. And in so doing, Pipkorn acted against the interests of the Tower, he betrayed the realm, and most importantly, be betrayed the trust of the citizens of Lomion. Pipkorn's loyalties, if he even had any concept of the word, lay not with the Arcane Order, but with the Freedom Council and their schemes to oppress the weak and line their own purses.

The Vizier had hoped that the coup would be the end of Pipkorn, either by his death, imprisonment, or banishment, but the old snake had slipped the many nooses, nets, and knives that the Vizier set against him. How he'd managed it, the Vizier still didn't know. Nonetheless, he wasn't surprised, for evildoers have a grand talent for escape; somehow, it's in their very bones. It would have been so much better for the realm if the old bastard had died that day as the Vizier had planned.

And it would have been much better for Par Trask.

Poor old Par Trask never saw it coming; in part, because he didn't have any enemies, but mostly because The Black Hand was very good at such matters. It was probably a knife in the back, or else a garrote. The Vizier didn't know. He didn't ask; he didn't want to know. In the end, it didn't really matter, did it? Dead was dead after all; best not to think about it, especially since it wasn't personal.

Trask was an affable fellow who suffered from various infirmities despite a modest age, but the older he grew, the more his views tipped toward Pipkorn's side. How a decent man like Trask grew so uncaring about his fellows over time, the Vizier didn't understand. Corrupted somehow, he must have been. Must have had some hidden vice that they exploited and used to coerce him over to their side, but what it was, would likely remain forever unknown. Perhaps that was for the best.

If it was up to Pipkorn and his ilk, everyone would be left entirely on their own — to fend for themselves. If they didn't have enough food, they'd go hungry. If they weren't able to work, they'd spend their days as paupers or beggars. The Pipkorns of the world just didn't care about anyone except themselves. And in the end, come to think of it, neither did Par Trask, the old fool. Whatever sense of fairness and justice that he once had was long gone. And so, the Vizier supposed, he got what was coming to him. He should be grateful it was quick.

The Vizier didn't like to use The Black Hand, but considered them an invaluable tool for trying times. Used sparingly, his conscience permitted dealings with them, though he avoided the details of the deaths — it made it easier that way. Cleaner.

No one could deny that there were many bad people in the world — some, like Pipkorn, truly evil, truly vile. Sometimes, you just had to get rid of that sort — for the common good. The Hand allowed one to do that, and yet keep one’’s own hands clean.

The Vizier's quest to rid Lomion of evil made him one of The Hand's most valued customers.

In Trask's case, it had to be done — evil or not. The Vizier had to know what went on in the Freedom Council meeting. The future of Lomion might depend on it. The very existence of the League of Light might depend on it. He had to use whatever means at his disposal to stop the Freedom Council, the traitors. To do that, he had to know precisely what they were up to. That meant attending their meeting himself and hearing every word that they spoke. He wouldn't trust that task to any of his agents. They might miss some subtlety, some nuance that might affect his strategy.

His attendance was impossible, of course, but for his thaumaturgical skills. He had powers other wizards only dreamed of. Skills his colleagues thought lived nowhere but in song and story. He could take the place of one of the Freedom Council members; he could assume their identity; become their doppelganger. He had the power, but strangely, not while they yet lived.

His target needed to be dead. Why? Even the Vizier didn't know; one of the many mysteries of the magical weave. Wizards harnessed and controlled only a tiny fraction of the weave's near limitless power, and that power played by its own rules, rarely revealing its intent to those who tapped it.

So he had to take the place of someone. Who better to impersonate than Par Trask? The man hardly spoke, thank Azathoth. Though his magery could make him look like Trask, exactly like Trask, the magic alone would not aid him at all in copying the sound of Trask's voice, his speech patterns, or his mannerisms. The Vizier had to rely on his own memory, mimicry skills, and acting ability to accomplish that. He had those skills too, in some abundance, but was much less certain of them than his magic. That was part of what had him scared. Would he make some false move? Would he do something uncharacteristic of Par Trask that got him noticed, that raised suspicions? His best chance to avoid suspicion was to be as quiet as possible and not engage the others. But quiet or not, it may be that one or more of the great wizards in the room would see through his illusions. For amongst the Freedom Council sat several wizards of the Tower of the Arcane. Some of them, masters of the mystic arts, and at least three (Pipkorn, Mardack, and Spugnoir) were grandmasters. Some of them had powers even the Vizier did not grasp. Not to say that they wielded greater power than he — just different power, for the magical weave was as varied as the tribes of men that tapped it. He'd rarely relied on illusions to fool such men and never in such close quarters for an extended time. If one of them did see through his illusions, he'd be done for. He wouldn't even know it until it was too late; until he was already found out. The very thought was maddening and sent his stomach into flips.

To limit his risk of getting trapped, he wanted a seat by the door. If they unmasked him, close to the door there'd be at least some chance of escape. But by the door was where most of the action would be — for there stood the head of the table and at it, sat Pipkorn. The Vizier's instincts told him to find the farthest chair in the back corner so as to draw the least attention. That would give him the least chance of being found out. Of course, if he was, there would be no escape, no chance of it at all. Not from back there.

Instead, he wound up in a seat at roughly the middle of the table, too close to the main players for comfort, and too far from the door for any escape — the worst of all possibilities.

The meeting room was large, with seating for thirty around the table, and for dozens more about the room's perimeter. Within ten minutes of the Vizier's arrival, nearly every table seat was taken by wizards from each of the major spires of the Tower of the Arcane (some that the Vizier had thought killed in the coup), including the three Grandmasters; nobles and lords (or their representatives) from most of the major Lomerian cities and several Dors; local nobles and guildmasters from Lomion City; and one member of the High Council — Lady Aramere of Dyvers. Her presence surprised the Vizier. He knew of course that she often sided with the opposition in council meetings, but not always, so he didn't think that she was one of them. Quite disappointing for he didn’t dislike her much. Where Duke Harringgold was, or tat snake, Jhensezil, the Vizier had no idea.

Not until he saw all those prominent Lomerians assembled together did the Vizier fully appreciate the depth and extent of the League of Light's opposition. Collectively, the Freedom Council wielded immense power, commanded armies of guardsmen, knights, and mercenaries, and hoarded vast wealth that they could bring to bear against their enemies — against the League. It would be a long and bloody battle to bring those people down. But down they must go, for the good of the people and the good of the realm.

Just as Pipkorn was about to call the meeting to order, Harringgold arrived with Torbin Malvegil in tow. The Vizier only partly held back a gasp of surprise at seeing Malvegil alive, but happily, his reaction wasn't noticed in the general din of greetings that erupted from about the room. Malvegil was even more popular amongst the traitors than the Vizier had thought. All the more reason to eliminate him quickly, before the real struggle began. He would have words with The Hand over their failure. They should never have permitted Malvegil to enter the city alive.

Once everyone had retaken their seats, Grandmaster Mardack, that pompous blowhard, stood and raised his hands to draw the attention of the other conspirators. Even he had trouble settling them down. A raucous bunch, scattered and confused — evidence of the rabble that they were.

Just then, there was a loud knock on the meeting room door. The guards had shut and barred it when the last of the cabal had arrived. That's the only way that they would meet — in secret. Like a den of thieves.

The councilors looked to each other in bewilderment and fear — as if they'd been caught red-handed.

“Everyone that we expected is here,” whispered Samwise Sluug from Harringgold's right, though nearly everyone in the room heard what he said — the man seemed physically incapable of speaking quietly. “And the guards know not to disturb us.”

“Well, see who it is,” said Pipkorn.

“What if it's the chancellor's men come to arrest us?” said Lady Aramere.

“Then it won't go well for them,” said Malvegil.

Harringgold nodded at Sluug.

Sluug (long, lean, and grim) moved to the door. Lord Mirtise of Dor Linden joined him. Both held swords at the ready.

“Drydan,” said Sluug to the guard captain stationed on the other side of the door. “What is it?””

“Open in the name of the king,” said a deep voice, strangely familiar.

“It is the king, my lord,” said Drydan. “The king, himself.”

A gasp erupted about the room. The Vizier was as surprised as the rest. Wizards readied spells. Some few put their hands on their faces in anxiety or disbelief.

Several decks of cards appeared around the table, as did dice, and Spottle paraphernalia. One man dumped a case of Mages and Monsters figures onto the center of the table. They were ready for someone to show up uninvited and were prepared with a cover story. Truly devious were those men.

Sluug looked to Harringgold.

“Open it,” said the Duke. He did.

And there stood his majesty, King Selrach Rothtonn Tenzivel, tall and regal, his expression inscrutable. He held a large ale mug in his hand. Behind him stood Baron Morfin and his son, Gallick. The Vizier cringed at the sight of them. Gasps and mumbles of “Morfin, it's Morfin” came from around the room. Tenzivel scanned the hall, pausing at each face, taking note of each and every man and woman in the room.

“Your majesty, welcome,” said Mardack. “I had no idea that you were aware of our little social club. Will you join us? Can we refill your mug? Some mead or wine? And you too, Morfin. Welcome back from the dead.”

Morfin nodded.

“Close the door,” said Tenzivel sternly after he, the Morfins, and Captain Korvalan of the Dramadeens (the king’s bodyguards) stepped inside. ““There are more of you than I expected,” he said, his voice ever so slightly slurred from drink.

The Vizier wasn't surprised. He hadn't seen the king fully sober in many years. Such a disgrace.

“And some faces, I haven’t seen in years,” said Tenzivel. “Some of you have traveled far to be here. No common game of cards is this.”

“It’s merely a bit of harmless fun,” said Mardack gesturing toward the gaming materials on the table. ““A bit of gambling, drinking, and gaming to pass the time amongst old friends.”

Even Tenzivel wasn't fool enough to believe that hokum.

“Such camaraderie,” said Tenzivel. He scanned the haphazard placement of the gaming pieces and the cards. Par Triman held several cards the wrong way, facing them outward for all to see.

“So long as there are people willing to stand up to injustice, we may yet prevail,” said Tenzivel.

What's this? worried the Vizier. Will he join with them? That would complicate things.

The councilors looked to the king expectantly.

“You are not the only ones that can shield your true intentions with a facade, though some are more skilled at it than you.”

The Vizier cringed. Could Tenzivel somehow see through his disguise? The old fool had no magic that the Vizier knew of, but Tenzivel had always been full of surprises.

The king made his way around the table, reached out, plucked the cards from Par Triman, and turned them the correct way.

“The time for hiding draws to a close,” said the king. “I’m resuming my rightful position, and together, we will take our republic back from the traitors that seek to destroy our way of life.”

Not likely, and it's you who are the traitors, you lying bastard.

Mardack squirmed. “So you know—”

“Your purpose?” said Tenzivel. “Of course I know your purpose. And you have my support. That’’s why I’m here.”

“Your majesty, if I may,” said Mardack, “How did you know that we were meeting here?”

“I am the king; I have my ways. Now,” he said looking around, “have I missed anything?”

“We were just getting started,” said Mardack.

“Then proceed,” said Tenzivel.

Pipkorn gave up his seat at the table's head to the king and found another on the side of the room, the Morfins beside him.

Mardack stood. “Thank you all for gathering here for the first formal meeting of the Freedom Council,” he said, though he appeared a bit flustered, uncharacteristic for him, and he glanced repeatedly at the king. ““As his majesty noted, many of you traveled far to be here; some, weeks from home. Some came via roads far less safe than they used to be. Others of us, traveled not far at all, but risk our very lives to be seen in public — in our own capital; in our own home. How far things have gone,”” said Mardack shaking his head. “How far Lomion has fallen.”

“Too far,” said Tenzivel.

“Indeed,” said Mardack. “This council's purpose, make no mistake, is to decide on and then take such actions as are necessary to preserve the Republic, to preserve the freedoms that Lomion has embodied and that we all hold dear.”

“To restore the Republic, not preserve it,” said Malvegil. “That's what we need to do. What's gone rotten isn't worth preserving, and Barusa and his cronies have rotted us to the core. Forget about preserving; it's too late for that.”

“The Articles of the Republic still stand,” said Mardack. “They're the core of our system. So long as they remain the law of the land, the Republic yet lives. We need only take such measures and reforms that insure that the Articles cannot be thrown down.”

“Reforms?” said Malvegil. “Half measures and political correctness are what's got us to where we are today. We’’ve had too much compromise, too much acquiescence. We need no more of that.”

“We must move within the system, with prudence and caution and due respect to the opposition,” said Harringgold. “They are Lomerians too.””

“To Nifleheim with the opposition,” said Malvegil as he rose to his feet. “They're traitors every one. They want to tear down the Articles piece by piece. The edict taxing Dors at fifty percent. That is theft. The—”

“That was overthrown,” said Mardack. “It was voted down by the Council of Lords. We need concern ourselves with that measure no longer.””

“The expansion of the Tribunal?” said Malvegil. “The granting of citizenship to those who openly profess to hate us?””

“The upcoming common session of the two Councils,” said Tenzivel. “That is where they will vote down the Articles.””

“Then we must insure that they don't have the votes,” said Mardack.

“You may be making too much of these things,” said Par Gatwind in a soft voice with a slight accent characteristic of those originally from the Southron Isles. Sitting, one could tell that Gatwind was a large man, but not until he stood could his immense girth be truly appreciated.

“Am I?” said Malvegil. “Have you people thought about why they took these steps? Why they are trying to change or throw down the Articles? Have you? Have you thought about it? Anyone?”

“I think we've all thought about it, and at great length,” said Par Gatwind, his thick black beard crusted with crumbs from the table's offerings. Owing to his often drowsy appearance, girth, and soft-spoken manner, few would guess that in years past he had been an accomplished soldier and vaunted leader of fighting men. “The League's overriding philosophy of equality for all compels them to give lavishly to the poor by taking from most everyone else.”

“Stealing from everyone else,” said Malvegil.

“As you say, though they don't see it that way,” said Par Gatwind. “Nearly half the Council of Lords has always espoused a version of that philosophy. The League's methods are all that differentiates them from many others. Those of us gathered here find common ground in the recognition that the League's approach is doomed to fail, however lofty and altruistic may be their intent. When the wealthy have had all their assets redistributed to the poor, the system will collapse. It is inevitable. The League and their supporters are too shortsighted to see this. What they think is fairness and kindness will only lead to our ruin. If we don't stop them, the Republic may collapse, and at a minimum, it will leave us in a weakened state that will make us vulnerable to our enemies for years to come. This is what we must prevent. That is why I am here.”

Many about the room nodded in agreement.

“Par Gatwind,” said Malvegil, “you too are short sighted. You're taking the League's stated goals at face value. You believe that they want to help the poor and the downtrodden. They don't. They are merely using that as a means to garner popular support. In truth, they don't care about the poor at all. They have one goal and one goal only — to seize power; to take control of Lomion and rule it as they will. That means suspending the Articles of the Republic, confiscating wealth, confiscating private property, and confiscating arms, so that we cannot defend ourselves against them. It means taking sole control of all military units, and disbanding or destroying those units that they can’t control. It means eliminating all local governance — putting every town, city, and Dor under the direct control of the capital. And hear these words clearly — they plan to kill all those who have the power to oppose them. We're heading quickly toward a purge. A purge that will see most of us in this room, maybe all of us, dead — unless we take sufficient measures to stop it.””

“This inflammatory language gets us nowhere,” said Par Gatwind. “This is nothing more than wild conjecture, hyperbole, speculation, and alarmism. It's insulting to every loyal Lomerian. Some — no, most, that support the League are good people. They're not interested in killing anyone. What you're saying makes no sense and frankly makes you sound unhinged, sir.”

“The High Council would never allow these things that you claim,” said Lord Smirdoon of Lockely Bay to Malvegil. “It violates all that the Republic stands for. It would never be allowed.”

Before Malvegil responded, old Grandmaster Spugnoir pounded his fist to the table, an action so uncharacteristic that everyone went quiet and turned their attention to him. Spugnoir was a caricature of a wizard come to life — ancient and pale with bushy whited hair and beard to match, multi-pocketed robes, and even a pointy hat. ““The Tower has already been purged,” he said. He looked around the room, scanning face after face. “Do you hear me, you fools? The tower has already been purged, or are you so addle-pated that you've forgotten that? Rabrack Philistine and his cohorts attacked the Tower from within and murdered more than a hundred wizards. More than one hundred! Some of them were your friends, Gatwind. Every wizard here tonight has been in hiding since that purge for fear of our lives.”

“You're equating two things that have nothing to do with one another,” said Gatwind. “The coup was the Vizier's doing. Why assume that it was part of some conspiracy by the League?”

King Tenzivel stood up and pointed his finger at Gatwind. “Do you think that the Vizier orchestrated the coup just because he couldn't stand to wait his turn to become a Grandmaster?” said Tenzivel. “No. No. And no. He did it to remove opposition to the government takeover that he's backing. Who wields more power to stop him, to stop the League, than do the Tower Wizards? No one. That's why he took over the Tower. That's why he killed your brethren.”

“You think that the Leaguers are good people?” said Grandmaster Spugnoir as he looked around at his colleagues. “That they just want to help the poor? They didn't need to sack the Tower of the Arcane to accomplish that, did they? We had nothing to do with poor or rich — we're scholars and historians.”

“The Council has been attacked as well,” said Duke Harringgold. “Malvegil took a dagger in the back the last time he visited the city. And they made another attempt just today.”

Gasps of surprise came from around the room.

“And as you well know, I've been holed up in my palace these past three years,” said Tenzivel. “I did that to stay alive and to keep my House alive, and for no other reason. And where do you think Morfin has been these past months? A prisoner! Held in a cell below Tammanian Hall on the Vizier’s orders. He escaped only today. Do you think all this happened by chance? Do you think that the League did these things because they want more robust gifting of food and monies to the poor? We are in the midst of an overthrow of our Republic, of the destruction of our way of life. And as Malvegil said, even if you're willing to sit back and let it happen, more than likely, they'll kill you anyway, for nearly all of you have been marked as opponents to the League's measures. The purge isn't coming, my friends; it's here.”

“We are the only ones that stand a chance, any chance at all of stopping this,” said Malvegil. “You must all open your eyes and see the truth before it is too late.”

“I can't accept that,” said Gatwind. “I won't accept it. Conspiracies wound within conspiracies. It's too devious. Too unbelievable.””

“I agree,” said Lady Aramere. “You see your own fears, not reality.

“Here, here,” said Par Triman and Lord Smirdoon.

Many others nodded their heads.

“There is little evidence to back up the claims that I've heard here tonight,” said Lord Smirdoon. “It seems mostly supposition. I believe that the Vizier acted alone. His own lust for power drove him to do what he did. I've seen no evidence to dispute that thought.”

“This is how great nations die,” said Spugnoir in a strong, slow voice. “When good men are blinded by fear and naiveté. When they fail to act. When they become apologists for the evildoers. I have lived longer than anyone here has, by many, many years. I have seen this all before and I have studied it in the histories. This is how it ends. This is how freedom dies unless those of good heart take up arms and fight. We're born with our freedom. It's our natural right, but it can and will be taken away if we don't defend it.”

“Let us put it to a vote,” said Mardack. “As Gatwind said, we've all given this much thought in recent weeks and months. The debate tonight, eloquent and spirited words notwithstanding, is unlikely to have changed many minds. And so I put it to you: do we work within the system to preserve the Republic or do we take aggressive action?”

“What precisely do you mean by aggressive action?” said Gatwind.

“He means, kill them before they kill us,” said Tenzivel.

“I've no objection to such a vote,” said Gatwind, “so long as it is binding on us all. Meaning, we must not split as a council after this. We can't have some of us working within the system, while others go on the attack. We must all work together in common cause.”

“Then if the vote is to fight, you will pledge to do so?” said Harringgold. “On your oath?””

“If that is the will of this council,” said Gatwind. “I will support it. On my oath.”

“Does everyone agree?” said Mardack.

Heads nodded all around, including Par Trask.

“Any opposed?” said Mardack.

There were none. At least none who spoke up.

“Shall it be a secret ballot?” said Mardack.

“No,” said Tenzivel. “There are far too many tricksters in this room. Every man must speak his mind in front of us all. If you don't have the guts, you don't belong at this table.”

“Very well,” said Mardack. “Every councilor will write their vote on a piece of parchment. When all are ready, we will go around the room and each councilor will reveal their vote and speak it aloud for all to hear. That way, the vote is not only transparent, but later votes cannot be influenced by earlier ones, for your spoken vote must match what you wrote down. Does that satisfy everyone?”

It did. The vote was taken. Twenty favored working within the system. Fifteen voted to fight, including Tenzivel, Pipkorn, Spugnoir, Harringgold, and Malvegil. Mardack voted against them.

“The die is cast, and our fates are sealed,” said Malvegil.

“We will hold you to your oaths,” said Gatwind. “There must be no violence.”

“The Malvegils always keep our word. We will not fight, unless we are attacked. I can only hope that they kill you before me, so at least I'll have the chance to piss on your grave, you stinking idiot.”

Gatwind's jaw tightened and his fists clenched, but he said no more.

***

The meeting soon ended. Tenzivel asked several of the councilors to remain to speak further with him. The rest left. With the door again locked and guarded, Tenzivel faced Harringgold, Pipkorn, Spugnoir, Malvegil, and Mardack. Captain Korvalan loomed over Tenzivel's shoulder.

Mardack couldn't wait for Tenzivel to say his piece. “That was well played by all,” said Mardack as he looked from Pipkorn to Spugnoir. “Until Pipkorn sat down and gave me the floor, I hadn't even noticed anything.”

“His disguise was impressive,” said Pipkorn. “I didn't see it at first myself. Master Spugnoir flashed me a signal.””

“I studied transformational magic at great length many years ago,” said Spugnoir. “Compared to a true master of that art, Philistine is an amateur.””

“What are you talking about?” said Tenzivel.

“Par Trask was the Vizier in disguise,” said Mardack.

“What?” said Tenzivel, Malvegil, and Harringgold in near unison.

“We had that snake in our grasp and you let him go free?” said Malvegil. “And after hearing our plans, no less? Why? What were you thinking?””

“They staged it,” said Tenzivel. “You put on a performance for him, didn't you?”

“We did,” said Pipkorn smiling.

“Explain what you mean?” said Malvegil.

“Gatwind is our man,” said Spugnoir.

“What?” said Harringgold. “So his position—”

“He only pretended to oppose us,” said Spugnoir.

“The vote was rigged,” said Pipkorn. “The speeches, the opinions — all rigged. Every wizard in the room was in on it. Except for the Vizier.”

“We knew the League might try to infiltrate us,” said Mardack. “We had this contingency plan set up in advance, just in case. Gatwind played his part masterfully.”

“So Trask is dead?” said Harringgold.

“Almost certainly,” said Spugnoir. “The nature of the magic.”

“By my count, the vote would have been twenty-four in favor of attack, but for our little performance,” said Mardack.

“So we won the vote?” said Harringgold. “That means—”

“That we go to war,” said Malvegil, a broad smile on his face.

“Well done,” said Tenzivel, his characteristic slur in his voice. “Well done. Like the old saying goes, nothing in Lomion is as it appears.”” Tenzivel held out his mug toward Mardack. “Take it.”

Mardack eyed the mug suspiciously and then took it.

“Drink,” said Tenzivel.

“Thank you, your majesty, but I prefer not to imbibe at this time.”

“Shut up and drink it,” said Tenzivel. “Now.”

Mardack looked to the others but they all seemed as confused as he did by the king's demand. He looked into the mug, sniffed it, and no doubt wondered if that was what Tenzivel had been drinking all along, or something else.

“It's not poison,” said the king. “Take a sip.”

Mardack relented and sipped from the cup. “It's not mead,” said Mardack. He took another sip. “It's honey water.”” He looked to the others. “Honey water. There is no alcohol in it.”

“And there never has been,” said Tenzivel, his voice clear and strong.

“You gave up the drink?” said Malvegil.

“I never took it up in the first place. It's always been honey water or some such. All these years.”

“You had us all fooled,” said Pipkorn. “You're a better actor than Gatwind.”

“Had I not convinced everyone that I was a hot-headed addle-pated drunk, the League would have found a way to do away with me long ago. I had to bide my time until you men were ready to act. Now it seems that time is here.”

“Well played, my Lord,” said Harringgold.

“As you said, nothing in Lomion is as it appears,” said Pipkorn.

“It has always been that way,” said Tenzivel, “and I suspect it always will. Harringgold — you're our tactician. I want you to develop plans for how we can outmaneuver the League. If that does mean violence, so be it. One way or another we have to put a stop to the League and that may mean putting an end to all its leaders. I have my own plans for that already. Plans I've spent much time preparing. We'll gather again in three days’ time —— just we few that are here. No one else is to know about any of this. We'll compare our plans. Finalize them. And then begin this. If Odin smiles upon us, this is the beginning of the end for the League. We will take our country back.”

“Or else get dead trying,” said Malvegil as he placed the box that contained the Seer Stone on the table. He opened it and told the tale of the duergar to the others.

***

The Vizier, still disguised as Par Trask, looked furtively about as he slowly made his way north on Stone Street, a block up from Fister Mansion. A figure lurked in the shadows between two buildings and spoke when the Vizier drew near. “A masterful disguise,” said the man. “I hardly recognized you, even though I knew what to look for.”

“A mere trifling,” whispered the Vizier, careful that no one else was about that could overhear them. “Your performance, unaided by the art, was all the greater. You couldn't have done better: you fooled them completely. We now know all that we need to know to finally finish them. To finally rid Lomion of those traitors.”

“Yes, my master,” said Par Gatwind as he stepped from the shadows, an evil smile on his face. “Now we have them, and soon we will crush them all.””