Castle Kingside

The taps and clacks of hard leather boots against granite resounded across the walls of a wide hallway. They came from a surgeon, a stewardess, a myrmidon ambassador, and the two stone-faced court sorceresses guiding them past maids to a distant marble door, which bathed in the blue light of embedded illumina stones.

Her Majesty Amelie Pesce awaited beyond. How would she react when her subjects reported their successful diplomatic negotiations with demons, winning them uncontested fishing spots, potential allies, and the end of a century-long war?

Judging by Klaire’s face, which struggled to suppress its exuberant grin, their feats would net them equivalent rewards. The kind only royalty could grant. Perhaps it was for that reason the woman with disheveled light blue hair strutted forward with her chest held high despite a flowing dress tainted by seawater and sand. Whatever promise the queen had given to persuade her easily startled stewardess, making her embark on a perilous voyage, must have been worth more to Klaire than life itself.

Following her was Leylani, a proud myrmidon Warcaller who couldn’t maintain an upright posture. Her shoes bounced off of each other all the way from Malten’s dock to its castle. Twenty minutes was insufficient for a barefoot species to master footwear. However, she didn’t appear bothered. Her downcast head twisted from side to side as she gawked at human architecture from under a long robe concealing her knob-like blue horns, sharp teeth, and yellow eyes.

Dimitry shared their enthusiasm. However, it wasn’t because he expected monetary recompense or admired a foreign culture’s craftsmanship. His joy originated elsewhere—the relic he had studied all throughout a half-day long voyage. The object resembling a dark quartz golf ball showed him all manner of visions, including the assembly of a flintlock musket, a faceless man firing a cannon, and how to load an arquebus.

Technology he intended to replicate.

In a world crumbling under the pressure of heathens, hot weapons couldn’t arrive at a better time. They were this city’s best hope for survival. Not only could they arm refugees to form a hastily drafted militia with strength exceeding the best knights, guns were cheap. But making and testing them would take time. Time that Malten didn’t have. Less than fourteen days from now, stone beasts would charge at its hastily repaired walls to massacre everyone inside.

That was why Dimitry intended to use his meeting with the queen to his advantage. Her help was the only way he could produce and test firearms before the upcoming night of repentance. Noticing Leylani coming to a halt, he did too.

“Her Majesty awaits inside.” A court sorceress’s hand reached out of a yellow cuff to pull on a marble door’s golden handle, slowly revealing a room filled with silver-trimmed bookcases and a luxurious chandelier.

Two people sat around a round table, drinking tea. One was a queen with wrinkled skin but commanding red eyes. The other, a raven-haired princess who gave Dimitry a confident smile as he walked into the room.

Did her mission go as well as his? Dimitry gave her a reciprocative nod, took several steps forward, and knelt.

“Your Majesty.” Klaire followed suit.

Leylani, however, didn’t. She glanced at Dimitry instead. “Must I display your people’s gesture of prostration as well?”

“It’s customary, but the queen wouldn’t take offense if you didn’t. She’s not one for tradition in small gatherings.”

“Tradition must be respected, even if no one is there to witness it.” The myrmidon dropped to her knees and closed her eyes. Despite her best attempt at kneeling, she resembled a meditating yoga practitioner rather than royalty’s humble guest.

“Dimitry, Klaire, and the ambassador may sit,” Amelie said with an amused tone.

“What does she say?” Leylani asked.

“She invited us to share the table with her.” Dimitry stood up. “Would you like a cushion?”

“Do not trifle yourself with me.” Leylani approached a chair. Her yellow and black eyes studied how Saphiria and Amelie sat before she replicated their postures.

The queen gave Dimitry a subtle smirk as he and Klaire joined them. “Are her mannerisms normal for aquatic demons?”

“If Leylani offends you, Your Majesty, it is not her intention. Her flawed imitations of our gestures are performed out of respect.”

“I see.” The queen poured three cups of tea. “Lukas’ messenger informed me she would come, but I knew not how to prepare. Is there anything she desires?”

Dimitry glanced at Leylani. “Our queen wishes to know if you wish for anything specific to eat or drink.”

“Is it not rude for humans to decline the hospitality of their hosts?” Her webbed hand reached forward for a cup of tea. She gazed into the steaming hot crimson liquid, guzzled it down, and grasped at her throat.

Klaire and Amelie watched with stunned, wide-open eyes.

Dimitry jumped forward, hoping he wouldn’t have to treat esophageal burns in a different species. “Are you all right?!”

Leylani sat up straight. “It is nothing.”

“You’re not supposed to drink it while it’s hot. It’s okay to take your time. The last thing we want is for you to get injured.”

“Your concern is appreciated but unnecessary.”

Dimitry massaged his forehead. His concern was definitely necessary. If Leylani continued to play the part of an overly gracious guest, she would die by the end of the week. He hoped hot tea wouldn’t reignite war with myrmidon. “Only do what you’re comfortable with. Your health is far more important to us than appealing to our customs.”

“Do not worry yourself so.”

Amelie patted her black-streaked gray hair. “Is she well?”

“She’s trying to be polite to establish her race as respectful,” Dimitry said.

The queen chuckled. “I quite like these aquatic demons. Have we truly been hunting their kind all this time?”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Klaire said. “However, as I’ve mentioned in the reports, we’ve temporarily entered a truce with them.”

“Do they still see us as suspicious?”

As an exaggerated demonstration for their myrmidon guest, Dimitry reached for a cup of tea, blew on it, and took a small sip. “They sent her here to confirm that we’re trustworthy before agreeing on a permanent solution.”

“What do they wish to see from us?”

Dimitry looked at Leylani. “The queen wishes to know if there is anything she can do to prove her sincerity towards your people.”

“I know not if it is the proof the Hierarch desires, but my desire is to see humans fight bravely on the coming full moon. One’s worth is decided by their valor in battle, and I have yet to see if rock giants are truly your foes.”

Her honesty surprised and concerned Dimitry. In politics, frankness was weakness. It was a sad state of affairs when a race with integrity had to learn to lie to compete with humanity. “She wants to watch us fight on the upcoming night of repentance.”

“Is that all?” Amelie asked.

“There are other concerns, too.” Klaire opened her leather book, retrieved a folded paper underneath its cover, and flattened the creased map onto the table. She pointed to a spot south-east of Waira. “This one believes that our fishing vessels should avoid the myrmidon breeding grounds here to ensure their cooperation.”

“Does that mean it is safe to send out our fishing trawlers now?”

“I believe so, Your Majesty.”

“Then, the problem is solved?”

“No.” Dimitry lowered his cup onto the table with a ceramic clack. “Convincing myrmidon to maintain mutually beneficial relations with us by sending them vol and schematics is the easy part. It’s humans we have to worry about.”

“Indeed.” The queen stood up and walked towards a window with her hands folded behind her back. She absently watched Malten’s darkening streets. “Although many amongst us know the Church’s teachings as drivel, we still cling to it, hoping for a shred of salvation. It won’t be long before some fool tries to harm our guest or one of her kind wandering our shores.”

“Your Majesty.” Klaire brushed her light blue hair back behind her ear. “It is my understanding that Dimitry warned the myrmidon from entering our country for a full year by citing overly religious Einheart and Volmer refugees as potential dangers. The deaths of aquatic demons on our borders are unlikely.”

“A prudent decision, but I fear it won’t be enough.”

Dimitry grinned. “That’s why we have to use every moment wisely.”

Amelie looked back. “Do you have a plan?”

“I have a few ideas.”

“I want to hear them. Klaire, take notes.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” She took the metal pen-like object off her ear and flipped to a blank page in her leather book.

Dimitry leaned forward. “The first thing we should do is dissuade anyone unaware of our myrmidon allies from venturing to the coast to limit potential conflict. Your Majesty could use increased heathen sightings as an excuse and introduce a protection tax as an additional deterrent.

“However, that would only buy us time. We need to slowly acclimate people to the idea of demonic allies. That is why I recommend that only people privy to this information be allowed to sell seafood caught in the ocean. While conducting sales, they’ll occasionally mention how aquatic demons allowed them to fish in peace, or how savages fought off a heathen so they could escape with their bounty.

“Furthermore, we need to spread rumors about the Church’s lies. Lukas’ spies are perfect for the job. Allow them to mingle with patrons in places like taverns where they can share stories about the Church’s attempts to prevent the Gestalt Empire from establishing peace with aquatic demons, who turned out not to be demonic at all. The creatures merely wanted to discuss a possible truce, while Zerans chased them away in an attempt to destroy this kingdom. The key is to gradually introduce the idea so people don’t overreact when the whole truth is revealed.”

Saphiria and Klaire gave him enlightened stares as if propaganda was a concept.

“Finally, an alliance cannot proceed by relying on my magic alone. I propose we use Leylani’s presence as an opportunity for those under your command to learn the myrmidon tongue. I saw Klaire attempt to speak it before, and I think her efforts should be encouraged and praised. The more we can understand each other, the less inclined we are towards war.”

Amelie laughed. “Are you truly a surgeon?”

Dimitry sipped his bitter tea. “I am, but I dabble in other things, too.”

“Is that so?” The queen sat down. “Both of you exceeded my expectations. Klaire, you will receive the reward you have been promised.”

“Your generosity humbles me, Your Majesty.”

“As for Dimitry…” Amelie tapped the table with a wrinkled finger. “Is there anything you desire?”

He pushed his cup aside and folded his arms onto the table. Monetary rewards didn’t interest him. It could not purchase what he wanted most, something that came with time and effort—the queen’s trust. With her as a conduit, he could enact large-scale plans that improved the city. “I need nothing of the sort, Your Majesty. Malten is my home now, and I’m merely doing whatever I can to help.”

She leaned forward. “Surely there is something I can offer you?”

Did she insist out of politeness or to conscript his loyalty? The answer was obvious. What ruler wouldn’t throw money at the only person who could communicate with desperately needed allies, cure deadly plagues, among other untold skills? “All I wish is for my opinions to hold weight in your decisions, even if they may seem foolish at first.”

“You haven’t given me a reason to doubt your words yet, Jade Surgeon. Did you have something in mind?”

He did. If his plan worked, not only would it bring hygiene to Malten’s streets, but would produce more black powder explosives than an army of heathens could handle.

What he needed was feces and urine. Lots of it. Whether it came from rats, horses, or people, the relic’s visions taught him it was invaluable for producing potassium nitrate—the oxidant in black powder. However, he didn’t have the authority, manpower, or inventory to collect it. But the queen did.

Dimitry’s gaze fixated on Amelie’s piercing red eyes. “I need two things: a plot of land bordering Malten’s walls and the passing of a certain law.”

“Oh?” Although the queen’s face showed no sign of contemplation, her finger’s tapping hastened. “We can discuss the latter, but if you wish for a title of nobility, it is not something I can grant right now. Especially with those rumors.”

Could only nobles receive land? If so, it was problematic. But that wasn’t what concerned Dimitry the most. “What rumors?”

“Pay them no heed. They’re naught but the idle prattle of displaced nobles from Einheart and Volmer.”

He hoped her words weren’t a sign of things to come. “I’m not interested in nobility. Just land. I need it for a project that will increase our efficacy at combating heathens.”

“Tell me about it in detail. Klaire, continue to take notes.”

A moonless night sky consumed Malten’s metal-reinforced cityscape, enshrouding all but the window of a castle’s first-floor guest room. An illumina lamp shone within. Its light guided a surgeon’s ink-filled quill across yellow paper. With every stroke, the medievalesque implement scratched the strands of its cloth-like canvas, producing a calming sound lost in a faerie’s munching and a princess’s quiet breathing.

They accompanied Dimitry as he blueprinted the v-shaped frizzen spring of a flintlock mechanism beside sketches of its lock plate, tumbler, and bridle. Less than a day ago, every component was nothing more than the mysterious inner workings of early era guns. Now, after absorbing whatever knowledge the activated relic offered, they became familiar old friends.

One vision showed a faceless man assemble a flintlock musket. As each part came together, their dimensions and purpose lodged itself into Dimitry’s memory as if they were there all along.

And yet, despite the wealth of information, new problems arose. Like metal screws. Although the relic advocated the use of intricate screw-cutting lathes to produce them, it neglected to tell him how to build the machine itself. Doubtlessly a bottleneck in a world ill-equipped like this one. Hopefully, Elias the blacksmith could make them by hand so that wasting another relic on machining tools wouldn’t be necessary.

Dimitry’s hand reached for the inkwell to replenish his quill only to discover a wall of long, raven black hair blocking its path.

Saphiria’s focused indigo eyes broke out of their trance. “Sorry.” She pulled back, wafting fragrant berry perfume into the air.

“It’s no problem.”

“What are you drawing?”

Dimitry dropped the quill back onto paper, ready to sketch the mainspring. “Where I come from, it’s called a flintlock.”

“What does it do?”

“Have you ever used a voltech rifle?”

Saphiria shook her head. “But I know how it works.”

“Well, this is similar, but instead of seals and vol, it’s powered by small explosions.”

“Sounths danferous,” Precious said with a mouth full of fent.

Dimitry couldn’t refute the faerie’s words. The first flintlock models could explode, sending the bloody remnants of their user’s fingers in every direction. That was why extensive testing was necessary before he put them to action. “It may be, but if we get it to work, heathens will become a lot easier to deal with.”

“Is it another machine from your home?” Saphiria asked.

“Yes. We used them a long time ago.”

Precious gulped, then pointed a finger at him covered in mushy, bitter-smelling fruit. “You make it sound like you’re really old. Are you sure you’re not some geezer in a youngster’s body?”

“I’ll leave that to your imagination.” Dimitry set down his quill and turned to face Saphiria. He doubted she came here just to watch him doodle, especially with the plague curing mission he entrusted her with during his absence. “So, what happened?”

Saphiria ran a strand of silken black hair through her hand. “I convinced mother to send fifty sets of enchanted bedclothes to Amphurt and twenty more to a town further south along with army detachments to protect them.”

“Did it go well?”

“Bandits tried to steal them, but Valter routed them to a hideout east of Amphurt.”

“Valter the knight?”

She nodded.

Dimitry stroked his chin. He remembered meeting Valter in his hospital, where everyone showered him with praise. Could Saphiria command someone so celebrated, or was it the doing of the queen who merely took her daughter’s opinion into account? In either case, ‘princess’ wasn’t the figurehead title he imagined it to be. She had influence. “Do you think you can cure most of the plague before the night of repentance?”

“I believe so.”

“If you do, we can sell excess enchanted bedclothes to other countries to lower the number of heathens targeting Malten. Would ten days be enough?”

Saphiria smiled. “I won’t let you down.”

The confidence in her indigo eyes surprised Dimitry. Despite her young age and life dragging her through hell, it didn’t take long for Saphiria to recover from her depressive slump. A trait befitting a future ruler. “I’ll leave it in your capable hands, then.”

“Okay.” She stayed silent for a moment. “May I ask for your input on a matter?”

“Of course.”

Saphiria looked down at her hands, which lay folded on the lap of her yellow dress. “I want to rebuild the iron mines and expand the vol mines… they’re only half the size they used to be when I was a child.” She glanced up. “I know you don’t know much about mining, but after hearing what you told mother, I thought I’d ask just in case.”

Dimitry leaned back in his chair. The mines’ limiting factors were a dwindling workforce and low efficiency. If Saphiria handled the former, could he attune a relic to discover technologies like steam engines, pumps, and smelteries to fix the latter? He only had two left. If they were anything like the first, they probably couldn’t return to their initial state after providing a vision. Their activation was irreversible.

But using one here was worth it.

Increased iron and vol production would provide a massive boon to this country.

“Try to persuade Her Majesty to make changes, but don’t finalize anything yet. I might have a few ideas that can help.”