The Rahashelian emissary made it past the refugee camp and into the conscription tents; he’d arrive at the gates in minutes.

  Riflemen swarmed the cluster, leveling weapons and barking orders.

  Peter wanted them to fire, to gun down the diplomat and his ghouls, but the man spoke to them in animated conversation, pacifying them with his words.

  “Well, this should be interesting,” Sicco said, turning to descend the burial mound. “Let’s go see what’s happening.”

  “I’m taking a shortcut,” Peter said simply.

  Before Sicco could turn or ask a clarifying question, Peter stepped forward into the air.

  He plummeted, his fall ending abruptly as he slammed into the ground, legs, pelvis, and spine shattering. He should have gone headfirst; he could have used a reset.

  A pair of captains cried out, springing away from Peter’s broken body. He bounced to his feet, broken bones glitching from reality, replaced by a looped existence where they were fine.

  Peter dusted his clothes before scooping up his hat and tugging it on. He turned to the befuddled officers, gave them a curt nod, then sprinted to the gates.

  “Make way!” he cried, skirting around a squad of lower enlisted artilleryists.

  Recognizing Peter, they shied back like fingers from a hot stove. The men around base were getting better at understanding the risks of approaching their Court. That was good.

  A warning bugle rang through the fort, and soldiers sprang to action, manning battle stations.

  Peter spotted a collection of field-grade officers barking at scrambling enlisted—several familiar faces among them.

  Lord Commandant Van Graif called up to the gate’s master sergeant. “Therid, SITREP Now!”

  “Rahashelians, Lord Commandant. A small group, flying a white flag.”

  “It’s an emissary!” Peter said, panting as he jogged just outside the group. “I saw them from the Knight's tomb!”

  Van Den Hoek glanced down, thinking fast. “It could be an assassin, sir. Switch jackets with me.”

  Van Graif considered and began unfastening his jacket's buttons.

  The men swapped uniforms, the four gold stars of lord commandant now glittering on Van Den Hoek’s' shoulder epaulettes, while the black-iron raven of Colonel adorned Van Graif’s.

  They finished establishing the decoy as High Butler Anton jogged over, flanked by a dozen Maids and Valets. “I heard there’s a messenger. I brought backup.” He eyed the swapped uniform before nodding once in approval.

  “Lord Commandant, the messenger requests an audience!” the Gate Master Sergeant called.

  Van Graif thrust a knife hand in the air before holding it to the side, then sweeping it across his body.

  Wordlessly, a whole company of riflemen fanned out, dropping prone or taking a knee as they braced Premernox rifles toward the gate.

  “Do not fire unless I give the command, or they take violent action!” Van Den Hoek barked, slipping into his role as Leader of Nine Fingers.

  Van Graif pulled his hat down low over his eyes and stepped back.

  Peter flexed his hands, allowing them to hover over his Hevigs. Behind him, Sicco panted as he caught up.

  “Domestics! Ready yourselves!” Anton barked.

  His twelve attendants fanned out, assuming fighting stances congruent with their various boon expressions.

  Van Den Hoek scanned the opening beyond the gate, then nodded. “Let him in!” he called.

  Six men slid three different timber bars free, then the gate lurched as they pulled it open. A murmur hissed through the air as dust kicked into the opening.

  A shadow stepped through, three Sus-stag mummified sentinels marching in step to either side of him.

  As the man passed through the gate, fifty new rifles from the palisade gleamed down at his back.

  The man opened his arms, showing loose white and gold robes, a pale standard clutched in his right hand. His sharp eyes peeked out from a silk headdress, bronze-skinned features accentuated by black makeup.

  “Greetings, mortals of Nine Fingers!” he called, lifting his voice as if he were a master of ceremonies at a civil event, instead of a man with enough weapons on him to instantly vaporize into pink mist.

  Peter tensed. It was a trap, it had to be. To his side, a languid humming buzz whined as Sicco’s hands compressed tightly together.

  “My name is Nebetka. Representative of Court Rahashel. I seek your leader, Sebastian Van Graif, the Court, Van Seur, and the High Priest Julian Gerrets.”

  Van Den Hoek strode forward. “I’m Lord Commandant Van Graif,” he said, then he motioned to Peter. “This is Court Van Suer. Julian Gerrets is unfortunately inaccessible.”

  Nebetka cocked his head, a striking smile splitting his surprisingly youthful face. “Is there anyone from the House of Nyamar whom I can treat with in his absence?”

  High Butler Anton shifted. “I can speak for the House.”

  “Excellent!” Nebetka chimed. “As I’m in your domain, we will confer your way. Do we deliberate this publicly, or do you prefer a private audience?”

  “You will leave your ghouls here,” Van Den Hoek ordered. “Any acts of hostility on their part, and they will be destroyed.”

  Nebetka minced forward, then snapped a finger. The block of six ghouls closed, snapping into a tight rank. “They will behave,” he promised.

  “Very well,” Van Den Hoek said. “Follow me.”

  Peter stood in his corner, eyes locked onto the enemy who sat opposite Van Den Hoek. They didn’t have a full council, but Van Graif stood opposite Peter, hat pulled low as he watched in careful silence.

  High Butler Anton sat at the table, Kulafu stood beside Van Den Hoek, and Chief Warrant Officer Weyzero hovered behind the decoy.

  “Thank you for your hospitality,” Nebetka chirped into brooding glares. “Court Rahashel congratulates you on your victory at Jullek. He acknowledges Nine Finger’s authenticity as a proper militia, more than just terrorists, and therefore wants to discuss terms.”

  “Terms?” Van Den Hoek asked, pale brows constricting. “He’s going to surrender to us? Give us his Bedorven?”

  Genuine mirth filled the laugh that answered. “Lord Commandant, you are most amusing.” The emissary shifted. “Before we get too far, Court Rahashel was hoping to meet you face to face.”

  Van Den Hoek tensed in his spot. “You brought him?” he asked

  “Not exactly,” Nebetka said. “And before we continue, I think it appropriate to clarify that I’m not a mortal. I’m a ghoul, designed and programmed for diplomacy. I’m not a combat model; however, I am a receptacle—an avatar, if you will—for Rahashel to use for remote communication.”

  Van Den Hoek tensed. “You can bring him here? Right now?”

  “Not physically, no, but I can act as a facsimile. You’d be able to communicate as close to face-to-face as possible, short of his coming here himself.”

  “So he can murder us?” Van Den Hoek asked. “Steal our Bedorvan? I don’t think so.”

  “As I previously stated, he would arrive in consciousness only, not in power. I assure you his best interests are in negotiating an amicable relationship.”

  “An alliance?” Van Den Hoek asked, searching the lifelike ghoul’s face. “Why?”

  “It’d be best to have him tell you himself; with your permission, of course.”

  Van Den Hoek' jaw worked, as if he were chewing something.

  On the back wall, Van Graif gave a subtle nod.

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  Weyzero noticed the gesture, and her dark finger tapped the table twice.

  Van Den Hoek exhaled, catching the signal. “Very well,” he said. “I’ll speak to him. High Butler?”

  Anton nodded, wary.

  Nebetka smiled, sliding back in his chair. He spread his hands across the table, then closed his eyes.

  His face swam, muscle and bone restructuring under skin.

  Peter’s hand found his hevig, but his eyes remained transfixed on the ghoul in mortified fascination.

  He swelled, shoulders broadening his torso, stretching up, gaining nearly two feet of height. Powerful arms thickened, his chest deepened, and terrible cunning etched across the ghouls' faces until they were no longer facing the emissary, but a copy of Court Rahashel.

  Peter shrank back. The being—the demigod—swept the room with his gaze, taking the tomb's interior in with amused interest. Rahashel looked the same as the last time Peter saw him, outside the Stalpia Cabinet Hall, only this time, nearly close enough to touch.

  Every delusion of facing this being in combat was dashed in a moment.

  “Van Graif,” the bass voice came deep from his chest. He cocked his head. “Van Seur.” Rahashel’s eyes flicked to Peter’s arm, eyes gleaming greedily at the Bedorvan. Instinctually, Peter shifted it from sight.

  Rahashel’s eyes moved. “And High Butler Anton, is it?”

  Anton didn’t answer, but his eyes steeled in defiance.

  “We’re in trouble, brave mortals, all of us.”

  “What are you planning, Rahashel?” Van Den Hoek demanded, young face tight with apprehension. “We tire of your games.”

  Rahashel leaned back, his chair groaning under his weight. “You dealt me a blow, Lord Commandant; a bad one, one I would have rectified by now, if not for one particular complication.”

  “Lady Libshee,” Chief Warrant Officer Weyzero whispered, body tense as she stared at Rahashel’s double.

  “Lady Libshee,” Rahashel affirmed as he showed his open palms. “I could destroy your camp, expend the last of my reserves, and punish you for your defiance. But I know you now. Your indomitable spirits, your tenacity. I suspect most of you would die before surrendering. And to a Court, a war that doesn’t yield crops, to supply tomorrow's Tijd, is a poor investment.”

  “So march out, defeat Libshee,” Van Den Hoek said. “We won’t stop you.”

  Rahashel chuckled, a rumble like thunder. “So you can sabotage and deface my seat of power? I don’t think so. If I had been victorious at Jullek, I would have swept the rest of this country like a tidal wave and had a superior force marching on Libshee right now, but I don’t think there’s only one way to move forward. We must work together.”

  Peter laughed, the pained chortle ripping out of him. “Cooperate? With you?” Memories flashed. Stapia corroded and empty, his countrymen leached to husks.

  Rahashel's eyes snapped to him, and despite his best efforts, he flinched away.

  “Yes, the bearer of Rasminfrey’s Bedorven. I was supposed to have that band, but Nine Fingers foiled me there, too. You’re too competent to disregard. I’m not asking for love or forgiveness, I’m asking for reason. Neither of us can face Libshee alone. She’s reaping Indeland. Their armies are shattered, and she harvests noncombatants by the tens of thousands. To stop this wall of fire, we must work together.”

  Van Den Hoek scoffed. “You can’t honestly believe we can give you the strength you need. We don’t have ghouls, and we’re not giving you your tiles back.”

  Rahashel nodded, lacing his fingers in front of him. “I’ve heard whispers of a deadly assassin, destabilizing the surrounding regions. Warm bodies flood you. I wonder how hard it’s been to sustain them?”

  “The Blood Wraith?” Van Den Hoek said. “One of yours?”

  “No,” Rahashel said flatly. “But, concerningly, I do know who he serves: one of my most feared peers called Atlas. The fact that his agents operate around here is unsettling, almost more troubling than Libshee and her armies.”

  “So what are you proposing?” Van Den Hoek asked. “Give you our refugees, let you leech them? Save us the trouble of keeping them alive?”

  “How gelid, Lord Commandant. Just because I can create Ghouls doesn’t mean they operate better than living warriors. The sense behind ghouls is that there’s less waste. Suppose a twenty-year-old soldier is killed on the battlefield. You lose almost a hundred years of potential time, or, as we call it, Tijd. With ghouls, you keep them topped off with a couple of weeks of tijd, max.

  What’s more, damaged corpses can be repaired and repurposed. With the same time potential, you can stretch it much further. But no, I’m willing to let willing servants live.

  What I’m offering are the Stalpia food stores and graineries, most of which are full. Even now, I’m constructing walls and fortifications, shelters and vaults, but what I need are men willing to man them. Yes, I need Nine Fingers to protect me against Libshee, but I’m eager to shield you and your men with my ghouls. Nine Fingers, and me. Fighting together.”

  He shifted to Anton. “Even jointly, I don’t love our chances, but with the House? I think the three of us, united, will have the best chance not just of destroying Libshee, but of destroying all the other courts. Then the courts on the other two planets.”

  “You could have started with diplomacy,” Peter rasped from his corner, ice clutching at his chest like a gauntlet. “But you slaughtered us. Leeched us. They don’t need a court. They have one.”

  “An unfortunate reality, Van Seur, is that we do need each other. Past sins aside. I know you’re broken. Let me train you, identify your weaknesses, and help you remedy them. With two fully powered courts, our chances of victory increase.”

  “You murdered us!” Peter snapped, his throat heavy with grief. “We can’t ever trust you.”

  “So emotional,” Rahashel frowned. “No, you can’t trust me, but you have leverage. Trust represents the structural integrity of a dream. Immaterial, nonexistent. Leverage, that's real, concrete, and steel. Use your leverage, because with Libshee, you have none.”

  “Funny you should mention her,” Van Den Hoek said. “I was just thinking we should contact her and offer her the same deal. I’d much rather destroy you at her side than the inverse.”

  Rahashel sighed. “Only to her, you’re insects, insignificant. To me, you’re hounds, useful. I lost many of my closest retainers, my elder liches. I need new lieutenants. As we collect Bedorvans from the other Courts we defeat. Where do you think they go?”

  He glanced at Van Den Hoek. “Bedorvens for Nine Fingers, commandant.” He shifted his gaze to Anton. “Bedorvens for the House.” He looked right at Peter. “Bedorvans for you, Van Suer. Each of you with a score of courts bound to you. You could save these worlds. We could save them.”

  “Let me guess,” Anton cut in. “You’ll give us these conquered Bedorvans on one particular condition?”

  Rahashel smiled humorously. “There is an ordinance—a bonding rite. When you wear your Bedorvans, they would subjugate you to me, and you would then imprint your subordinates.”

  “I’d rather eat a druk!” Peter snapped, heat flaring. “I’ll never bend the knee to you.”

  Even Rahashel grimaced at the mention of the court killer.

  “Perform this rite to Van Suer,” Van Graif murmured from the wall, hat brim low. “Reverse the roles, subjugate yourself to him, and you have a deal.”

  Rahashel’s eyes narrowed at the stranger leaning on the wall, and his gaze flickered over to Van Den Hoek, calculating.

  “I won’t do that,” he said. “You have some leverage. Not that much. I have friends—courts on the other planets. We have agreements. If any of us are on the brink of failure, we’d submit to each other. If I subject myself to someone, it would be them, and only if I had no other options.”

  “This is obviously a trap,” Peter insisted. “It wouldn’t be the first time he’s betrayed us.”

  “Send someone,” Court Rahashel offered. “Perform due diligence. I’ll accept emissaries with all the rights it entails. I already have a third-party lawmaker who will enforce the contract. Send Van Suer, I’ll train him. Once you’ve determined my intentions are pure, I’ll open my gates to you. Send representatives to Libshee, and after she slaughters them, you’ll realise your only chances are with me.”

  Van Den Hoek frowned. “You’ll give us time to deliberate?”

  Rahashel’s lip twitched, a flash of irritation instantly masked. “Of course,” he said, his smile too smug, too rehearsed. “I’ll give you all the time you need. She won’t.”

  Peter found his throat suddenly dry.

  “Nebetka will escort you to Stalpia when you’ve made up your mind. In the meantime, I wish you luck.”

  Then he changed, shifting and deflating until only the emissary remained.

  The council exchanged glances as Nebetka rose, rolling a shoulder. “I’ll withdraw and allow you to discuss,” he said, bowing sharply.

  “We’ll provide you with quarters until we have an answer,” Van Graif said. “I apologize, but our facilities are limited.”

  “I wasn’t programmed with a need for comfort, but the gesture is appreciated,” Nebtka said before turning and leaving.

  The door closed. “It’s a trap,” Peter said, not sparing a second

  “I’m counting on that,” Van Graif said. “But a trap recognised is an opportunity.”

  Anton rose, white gloved fingertips pressing into the table. “He made up this story about the Blood Wraith's master. I think the assassin is Rahashel’s pet. We don’t know anything about this Court Atlas; he could have made it up. He’s herding everyone to us because he knows we don’t have the infrastructure to provide for them. He’s making himself our only answer. The doors to the slaughterhouse are thrown wide, and he’s laughing because he knows there are wolves behind us.”

  “Van Den Hoek?” Van Graif shifted.

  “Trap,” the Colonel agreed as he started unbuttoning the Commandant’s jacket. “He will betray us, but what better place to be than under his armor when he does?”

  “Did you see Nebetka?” Chief Warrant Officer Wayzero asked, her face drawn tight, disturbed. “He’s a ghoul, but I’d say he’s indistinguishable from a human. I’ve had counter-intelligence combing the refugees for embedded overseer spies. Now I have to look for sleeper ghouls, too?”

  The Lord Commandant’s head bobbed slowly in agreement. “Yes, we need to implement new security measures; anyone could be a doppelganger.

  “He’s offering food,” Wayzero added. “We can’t take another influx of refugees; they’re devouring us alive as it is. Any way we can use him without stretching our necks on a chopping block?

  Kulafu shook his head. “We’d be hostages with guns. Rahashel’s cunning, I refuse to believe he’s so desperate. Don’t play into his hands. Let’s find something else. At least outside of Stalpia, we can move.”

  Van Graif stroked his beard. “He’s invited us in. It’s a trap, but also a rare opportunity.” He shifted to Anton. “I think we should take it. Send a team. To discover his plans. Could you spare some domestics? If we implant a hit squad, we might get a window to take him out. Julian still has the druk, right?”

  Peter shivered; any mention of the living court killer was enough to set his blood to ice. “So we’re not taking the deal?” he asked, making sure he was on the same page.

  “I—think we have to,” Van Graif said. “We can’t keep everyone alive out here indefinitely. We’ll be on the brink of survival by the time Libshee arrives. But we’re setting a trap of our own. And you’re a part of it.”

  “Me?” Peter asked, dread mixing with excitement. A mission? Field work? Front lines? He bobbed on his toes, ready.

  “If Court Rahashel knows why your court powers are stunted and can fix them, that’s something we must leverage.”

  “I won’t allow you to send Peter to court, Rahashel,” Anton said. “Not until Julian gets back.”

  Van Graif frowned. “He’s been gone for days. When might we expect him?”

  “I don’t know,” Anton murmured.

  “What’s our mission?” Peter asked, his hands dropping to his hevigs. “If Julian signs off on it?”

  Van Graif held up a fist. “Discover Rahashel’s lies. Unravel his plans, then, when the opportunity presents itself, kill him. I want his Bedorven, and with two courts, we take Lady Libshee.”