Chapter 1

Ms Chrysanthemum Lampbright visited her uncle’s villa in Kallgia every winter. The climate was far kinder here than back in the Estuary States, safe from the wind’s worst excessses and mild enough that she had never seen it snow. The drink was better, too - where Chrys’s father looked on anything stronger than ale with fear and suspicion, Uncle Leopold’s cellar was stocked with fine wines and coarse, fiery brandies. One memorable year, he’d even imported a case of goblin sake from Ozatha, enough to render him, Chrys, all his friends, and the watch officers who’d come to break up the party completely insensible.

Tonight’s function, though, was a little more restrained. After nearly a decade of stalling, Leopold and his “close associate” Martha had finally gone public and gotten married the previous summer. Martha’s theatrical flair had outlived her old career as an actress, and she had applied it in full force to the first party she and Leopold hosted as a couple.

This was no mere booze-up. This was a masquerade, darling.

A couple of hours in, Chrys was still struggling to see the appeal. Martha had kindly lent her a mask, a simple black domino with an embossed floral pattern, but it wasn’t like it concealed anything, really. At least half of the guests knew who she was anyway - she hadn’t exactly kept her identity a secret, and russet-brown skin and Tharic features like hers and Leopold’s weren’t too common in these parts. And she recognised them in turn. Was she supposed to see that skinny man at the central table, slipping miniature sausages into his pocket, as some dashing, enigmatic stranger? No, that was Edris, he was a local fishing magnate, he did this every time he came here, and his elaborate beak-nosed mask did nothing to change any of that.

Thus far, it was the least fun she’d had at the villa in years. She wasn’t going to let it stay that way.

Chrys carved as direct a path as she dared across the hall, swerving only to avoid cutting through conversations. Her target was the table where Leopold had arranged every bottle of wine he could bear to open from the cellar, at least a hundred of them, huddled in formation like a vast extended family posing for a portrait. She selected a young Zougenne red from near the back and poured herself a slightly overfull glass. It teetered perilously in her hand for a moment, threatening the white gown she’d foolishly chosen for tonight, but coordination won out and she raised it to her full, dark lips for a sip, closing her eyes to focus on the flavour.

When she opened them again, though, she was no longer alone at the table. Leaning against its other end, rolling the stem of her empty glass idly between thumb and forefinger, was a woman at least a foot taller than Chrys’s five-three, whose hard, statuesque body seemed poised to burst free of her simple midnight-blue dress at any moment. Somehow, though, her size wasn’t the most striking thing about her. That would be her mask, a sharp-edged wolf’s head made from what looked like some kind of dyed pottery, yellow-orange, a far cry from the plain black and white designs that surrounded her.

She was an orc. The flash of dark green skin on the back of her neck, and the glint of her tusks beneath the ceramic wolf snout as she turned towards Chrys, confirmed it.

Chrys took a couple of steps towards the stranger, just to get within earshot. “I love the mask,” she said. “Is that a custom piece?”

The woman chuckled, and even that slight motion shook the table and clinked a few bottles. “It’s not mine,” she said. “Borrowed it from a friend. It’s a wrestling mask.” She paused for a moment, and, though it was hard to tell behind the mask, Chrys felt distinctly surveyed by her gaze. “Thank you, though,” the orc added at last.

“I confess I’ve never seen orc wrestling,” remarked Chrys.

“I’m not a fan myself,” said the orc. “Don’t like the theatrics.” From the acid in that last word, it was clear she was passing judgement on this party, too.

Chrys nodded in agreement. “Perhaps I ought to stay clear, then.”

They turned back towards the heart of the party and were quiet for a while. As Chrys raised her glass again, the orc gestured towards it and asked, “What are you drinking? Is it any good? The whites I’ve tried taste like canal water.”

“It’s passable,” shrugged Chrys. “Honour Rock ‘35. May I pour you a glass?”

The orc nodded. “Go on, then. It’s worth a try.”

Chrys relocated the bottle and did so. The moment she handed the glass over, the orc took a deep draught, nearly half of it.

“I’ve definitely had worse,” she concluded. “Thanks, er ... oh, aren’t you Oscar’s girl? Leopold speaks the world of you. Hydrangea! No, Lavender. Something floral. Forgive me, head like a fucking sieve this evening.”

Chrys started at the casual profanity - she wasn’t offended, but it seemed distinctly out of step with the tone of the evening. “Chrysanthemum,” she offered. “But please, call me Chrys. I much prefer it.”

The orc shook her head at her own forgetfulness and extended a hand. “Honoured to meet you. I’m Arijga.”

Chrys took the handshake, noting the fearsome strength behind Arijga’s grip. “How do you know my uncle, then?” she asked.

Arijga scratched her chin. “Can’t actually remember how we met,” she said. “It was probably through Owain - do you know Owain?” Chrys nodded. “Owain supplied my husband’s unit, back when he was still a field officer.”

“Oh yes?” said Chrys. “He’s a military man, then?”

“You might have heard of him, actually,” said Arijga. “General Kerax. They call him the Boar.” For a moment, Arijga’s general air of indifference was tinged with a note of pride.

“General?” Chrys’s eyes widened. “Is this evening not something of a ... well, a step down for you two?”

Arijga turned back towards the crowd. “Imagine a party like this one,” she said, “but everyone wants something from you. Money, prestige, allegiance. And half of them are pretending to be something they’re not to get it. And telling them to fuck off might be treason. And you do that at least once a week.”

Chrys imagined it for a moment. “Doesn’t sound ideal,” she said.

“When that’s your routine,” said Arijga, “you need a step down now and again. Though I enjoyed these parties more when your uncle was in charge.”

“I see your point,” said Chrys. She sipped her wine. “Though I’m not sure I’ve seen you here before.” She was pretty sure she would have noticed a woman of Arijga’s stature, even without the mask.

“Oh, we’re usually not here this late in the year,” said Arijga. “Korusz joins his corps in their winter quarters, and I go home to Sunpeak for a while. But we’re both wanted at the peace talks later this month, so we thought it best to stay put.”

“Good luck,” said Chrys, laughing humourlessly. She’d never been an avid disciple of current affairs, but word of the neverending peace talks between the Eight Realms and Lau Garda had been unavoidable for months now. Every time they seemed to come close to a resolution, the queen’s estate would veto something, or the Lauists would declare a new heresy that invalidated the current terms, and the whole miserable business would start again from square one.

“I don’t think they even have us doing anything,” said Arijga. “We just have to stand there and look scary. Y’know, decorative orcs.” She scowled into her glass. “I’d have the Gardates eating out of my fucking hand in days if they put me at that table. Their approach is all wrong.”

“Oh?” Chrys said.

“They have to stop trying to meet the Lauists on their level.” Arijga shrugged heavily, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world, and came perilously close to spilling her wine. “All these concessions to the priesthood! They’re not some border state that can’t afford to upset them, they’re the Eight Fucking Realms, and they should start acting like it.”

Everyone had to have a take on the Lau Garda situation, of course, but Chrys had rarely heard one stated so boldly (and profanely), let alone at an event like this. “You should join our diplomatic corps,” she joked. “From what the news-sheets say, I think they could use a few more like you.”

“Too late, I’m taken,” said Arijga. “Granite Clan got me already.” She reached into what turned out to be a very deep pocket at her hip (a dress with pockets!, thought Chrys), and produced a pewter badge of office, the same yellow-orange as her mask. “You’re speaking to Ambassador Arijga Kerax, but if you call me that off-duty, this wine’s going in your face.” A wry smile flickered behind the mask.

“I thought you liked that wine.” Chrys was starting to get a feel for Arijga’s manner, and she decided she liked it a lot.

Arijga scoffed. “It’s alright by human standards.” She pocketed the badge and shifted a little closer, close enough to drop her voice to a loud whisper and elbow Chrys gently (orc-gently, which was still quite hard) in the ribs. “We have a joke back home. Why is human wine like having sex on a canal bank?”

Chrys blinked a few times, then shook her head. “You’ll have to help me out here,” she conceded.

“It’s fucking close to water.”

Chrys just about managed to swallow her mouthful of wine before letting the laugh loose. “Is it really that bad?” she said.

“No offence to you lot,” said Arijga, “but you’re lightweights. My favourite spirit back home is illegal in the Realms because it’s classed as a poison.”

“I suppose I ought to pass on that,” said Chrys. “I do foolish things when I’m drunk.”

Arijga nodded. “Passing out in the fetal position on the floor would be pretty foolish.”

Chrys smiled. “Well, I do often end up lying down...”

It was true. Yes, the climate was warmer in Kallgia, and yes, the drink was better, but Chrys’s absolute favourite thing about visiting was the chance to do things her father would disapprove of.

She could feel Arijga’s eyes assessing her. She hadn’t really planned on flirting, but, when the atmosphere was right, she often found she couldn’t help herself. And, in spite of the room’s subdued mood, Arijga seemed to be making the atmosphere very right indeed. Yes, she was married, but Chrys had heard that orcs often had rather different ideas about monogamy.

“This your type, then?” Arijga glanced pointedly at the rest of the room, puzzled. “This lot?”

“You’d be surprised,” said Chrys. “Once you get to know them, ‘this lot’ can be fascinating.”

“How so?” Arijga was even closer now, the two women’s arms brushing one another. “You have me curious now.”

Chrys drained her glass, set it down on the table behind her, and put a faux-demure hand over her mouth, as though realising she’d said too much. “I couldn’t possibly tell,” she said. “That would be dreadfully improper in such polite company.”

“What about less polite company?” said Arijga. “I think Korusz is lurking upstairs somewhere. I’m sure he’d love to be introduced.”

Chrys’s heart jumped. The titan-woman’s presence was compelling enough, and the thought of meeting her husband, another of her kind, was too enticing to pass up. Not to mention Arijga’s apparent interest in her past escapades ... that could mean all sorts of things, but Chrys tried not to dwell on them for now. As always, she would stay in the moment and see where it took her.

“I’d be delighted to meet him,” she said, trying not to let her voice wobble. “Shall we?”

Chrys started towards the grand staircase that loomed over the northern half of the hall, but Arijga grabbed at her sleeve, making her stop and turn back. Again, that strength shone through. If she’d wanted to, the orc could probably have picked Chrys up and carried her about with that one hand.

“The Marchioness of Sallensa is at the bottom of those stairs,” said Arijga. “She thinks we’re friends. If she catches me, we’ll be stuck there all night hearing about the royals she’s almost met.”

Chrys nodded with grim understanding. Even in her twenty-five years, she’d met more than her lifetime’s allotment of Marchionesses of Sallensa. “Service stairs?” she said.

“Service stairs,” Arijga nodded.

“Shall we?” Chrys was about to offer to lead, but Arijga was already eyeing the entrance to the southern corridor.

In the hum of polite conversation and the tipsy haze that was starting to set in over many of the guests, not a soul noticed Chrysanthemum Lampbright slipping out with Arijga Kerax. If their absence was noticed, that was no matter - they were probably off discussing Feminine Matters somewhere. Or in the privy.

Before the Lampbright family had moved in, the villa had been a smugglers’ den. Illicit imports from as far afield as Hran and the Omnarchy had found their way into its cellars and cubbyholes, resting until they were ready to be dropped surreptitiously into the thriving black market that Eusella III’s trade sanctions had seeded. The Lampbrights, wholly legitimate traders and businessfolk, had substantially rebuilt the villa in the generations since, but its older parts were still blessed with an abundance of hidden passages and trick construction.

When she was younger, Chrys had made a sport of uncovering and mapping out as many of these architectural relics as she could. She knew the villa’s secrets inside out, from the trapdoors that linked wholly unexpected pairs of rooms together to the handful of remaining “thief holes”, person-sized cupboards made for residents to hide in if the authorities came calling.

“I know a shortcut,” she said to Arijga, who was a few strides ahead of her.

The orc paused and turned, a curious smile visible behind her mask. “Do tell,” she said.

Normally, to get upstairs without using the main staircase, you’d have to take one of the servants’ passages, a couple of minutes’ walk from the main hall. Chrys, though, knew a quicker way: a few paces down the central corridor and around a corner to the east, there was one wall panel, sandwiched between two mediocre paintings of horses, which would yield to a firm shove. Chrys stopped in place, braced herself, and threw her shoulder hard against the wall. The panel budged slightly, but didn’t open. Chrys was winding up for another shove when Arijga nudged her aside and planted one palm at the centre of the panel. With a quiet grunt of effort, she pushed, and it swung aside.

The little nook behind it was difficult to see in the dim light of the hanging lanterns, but, once Arijga stepped back to shift her shadow, the outline of a ladder was just about visible against the back wall.

“After you,” said Chrys, with a teasing bow. “You’re the guest.”

Arijga was right at the limit of what could fit into the shaft - if Korusz was any bigger than her, Chrys thought, he’d be stuck within seconds. The metal rungs creaked treacherously beneath Arijga’s shoes (they were almost boots, Chrys noticed, flat and thick-soled), but she made it to the top, and pulled the catch to release the corresponding panel on the upper floor. Chrys’s journey was much easier, and she closed the entrance quietly behind her as she ascended.

Arijga was coughing when Chrys slipped out to join her. “Bit fucking dusty in there, isn’t it?” she gasped.

“It is,” said Chrys apologetically. “Here, let me just...”

Arijga’s dress had acquired a frosting of grey dust where it had brushed against the walls on the ascent, and Chrys reached out to help her sweep it off. Arijga tensed, as if to wave her away, but ultimately said nothing, allowing Chrys to kneel so she could reach down to the hem. Once the dress was as clean as she could get it without a proper brush, Chrys looked up at Arijga and smiled.

“You alright?”

For the first time so far, Arijga seemed to hesitate. After a few moments, though, she extended a hand down to Chrys to help her back to her feet. “Thanks,” she said. “Come on, you’ve got a war hero to meet, and I know where he’ll be.”

The villa had two small external balconies to the east and west - these were newer construction, commissioned by Chrys’s great-grandfather to give him a better view of the lively new city reinventing itself all around him. Arijga made a beeline for the eastern one, which overlooked Kallgia’s docklands, and, when she opened the double doors to the outside, Chrys peered past her in awe at the figure beyond.

General Korusz Kerax was huge. He must have been approaching seven feet tall, and his shoulders, hard and straight, would probably have tested some of the villa’s doorways. He wore a dark red officer’s uniform - red for auxiliaries, Chrys recalled - which, although tailored, still looked like it could barely contain his thick, powerful limbs and stone-firm torso, much like Arijga’s dress. A giant ceramic mask, a little like Arijga’s but in the image of a blue-green boar, hung from his belt. As he turned to greet his wife, his chest sparkled as the light reflected off his medals, lots of medals, what looked like a mixture of human and orcish commendations.