Edvar ambled to the headmaster's office the following morning. His left eye was nearly swollen shut, and the other was blacked. He'd washed the blood away and put on fresh clothes, but his appearance was still shocking.

  He bowed graciously to a couple of young ladies as he passed them, but rather than a returning curtsy, they whispered to each other.

  Edvar made his way to the headmaster's office. The air in the administrative hall was musty and thick, and smelled strongly of the harsh cleaner that was used on the wooden floors. The hallways were dim, with sunlight filtering in through high windows.

  He rapped on the headmaster's door.

  "Come," came the voice from within.

  Edvar entered the office, wearing his saucy grin.

  A small administrator sat behind a massive oak desk. He looked up from his work, glaring at Edvar over his spectacles.

  "Mr. Pembroke," he said with a voice like a rusty door. "I am disappointed to see you in my office again."

  Edvar bowed gracefully, with his saucy grin in place.

  "Headmaster Wentworth. Likewise, I am disappointed to be here."

  The headmaster's face fell into a disapproving frown. He stood and came around the desk.

  "Mr. Pembroke, you seem to view this school as some kind of country resort, or retreat. You act as though you can behave however you like, with no consequences." He walked over and picked up the rattan cane from the corner of his office.

  Edvar tensed, and his grin grew visibly forced.

  "I fail to understand how so fine a family as the Pembrokes have produced such a slovenly, misbehaving heir," the headmaster continued. He looked back at Edvar, flexing the long cane. "The Polytechnic was founded on the principles of genteel upbringing and education. That you so regularly flout our very foundations is a slap in the face of every student and the families that entrust their education to us."

  "I understand, sir," Edvar said. He tried to keep his face still, but the grin, his nervous reflex, resurfaced.

  "I don't think you do, young man," Headmaster Wentworth said. "But you will. Please bend over and hold the edge of the desk."

  Edvar did as instructed, his body tense.

  "Housemaster Hensley has recommended ten strokes," the headmaster said, "but given that this is the third time this quarter we've had this conversation, I'm going to raise that to twenty. Perhaps the mortification of your flesh will teach you what good sense has not."

  "Yes, headmaster," Edvar said quietly. All his sauciness had deserted him.

  Headmaster Wentworth took his position behind Edvar. He raised the long cane, and brought it down on Edvar's rear. The thin, flexible cane whistled through the air and landed with a "thwack" that echoed down the quiet halls. Edvar cried out.

  "One," said Headmaster Wentworth dispassionately. Then he raised the cane again.

  Edvar hobbled stiffly out of the headmaster's office. His grin was a grimace now, and was spoiled in no small measure by the tears standing in his eyes.

  Twenty strokes. That was a new record. Headmaster Wentworth must be mightily annoyed.

  Of course, all this only made him feel ever more the need to engage his little hobby. But he needed to dial it back. He'd been indulging himself far too often lately.

  Besides, he didn't need to do the full routine to get some of the benefit.

  He stiff-legged his way down the empty halls. He came across a small coat closet. Glancing around to make sure no one could see, he ducked in.

  The air was warm and dark and smelled of camphor. Edvar took a deep breath.

  The bruises on his face would heal in a day or two, but the stripes on his backside could take a couple of weeks. Headmaster Wentworth really had been annoyed. His hand reached back to rub his hurt, but from experience, he knew that would only make it worse.

  At least, that was the natural course of things.

  In the darkness, Edvar could hear the whispers. They called to him, cried to him, directed him. His saucy grin, hidden where no one could see, turned feral.

  He began muttering, words of Dark Ardenian flowing out of him. As he spoke, he felt power seeping out of the very air, wrapping his body. His skin tingled painfully, as though a limb had fallen asleep and was waking up. He forced back a grunt of pain as his abused flesh suffered further indignity.

  He felt his heart lurch in his chest. He slammed a hand into the wall to hold himself up as he grappled for control. Sweat popped out of his forehead and boiled away to steam.

  "Submit to me," he growled. "Dictīs meīs pāre. Dictīs meīs pāre!"

  The world wobbled around him, then snapped back into place. The pricking of his skin slowed, then calmed, then slid into soothing smoothness.

  Edvar let out a sigh and sank to his knees. Pure joy bubbled up in his chest, escaping him as a laugh that, under other circumstances, would have made him feel quite silly.

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  The whispers had quieted. He grinned at the silent darkness.

  A few minutes later, he walked out of the closet with a bold, firm step, and his saucy smile rested easily on his unbruised face.

  The air in the smoking-room that evening was thick with curls of pipe smoke. Electric light from the brass sconces dotting the walls struggled to pierce the thick tobacco smoke. Dark mahogany wainscoting ran under the maroon wallpaper.

  Gentlemen in fine clothes were scattered around the room, taking their ease, sipping post-prandial brandies and talking quietly. A clockwork coffee-pot steamed quietly in a corner of the room.

  One of the men, one Lord Oswald De Vere, stood and cleared his throat. He wore delicate gold spectacles on a golden chain. He raised his hands and addressed the gathering.

  "Gentlemen," he said. "Let's convene."

  The men slowly gathered near the fireplace, their conversations petering out as they congregated. Voices stilled and eyes turned to the speaker.

  "Our first order of business this evening is to welcome young Lord Reginald Ashford to the Ministry of Guilds. Lord Ashford, would you say a few words?"

  A young man stepped forth and held his brandy snifter aloft.

  "Gentlemen, Lords and Nobles all," he said. "When I took the helm of the Tanner's Guild, I did not appreciate the breadth of responsibility I had accepted. I am humbled to be in presence of such august company, and I hope to learn well from all of you. I will do my best to honor the faith you have put in me by inviting me into the Ministry of Guilds."

  A robust round of "hear, hear!" circled the room, and those with brandy tipped their drinks.

  "Good to have you, Lord Ashford," the bespectacled Lord De Vere said. "Now, to tonight's topic. We need to discuss what to do about all this nonsense in the Eastern Reaches."

  The men in the room began muttering.

  "Look here, De Vere," said Bertram Somerset, head of the Guild of Shipwrights. "These foreign ventures are all well and good, but this latest proposal... it's a bit much, don't you think? I'm sure a good source of steel will be a boon to your Steelworkers' Guild, but frankly, it's a terrible expense, and doesn't really benefit the rest of us."

  Lord Oswald De Vere swept the assembly with a contemptuous gaze. He pulled off his spectacles and began cleaning them on his jacket.

  "Do you all feel this way?" he asked gruffly.

  Reluctant murmurs of quiet assent bubbled out of the assembled men. Lord De Vere nodded.

  "Very well, then," he said, re-seating his spectacles. "I see I have failed to explain our grand plan properly." He began pacing in front of the broad marble fireplace. "Arden, gentlemen, runs on two things: people and technology. People provide the labor, and we, the Ministry of Guilds, provide the technology. Thanks to the tireless efforts of the Guild of Sorcerers, our technology has advanced rapidly. We are now the most advanced, fastest-growing nation in the world."

  He stopped and fixed the group with a stare.

  "Our people make us productive, but our technology is what makes us powerful. And what does our technology require? Steel, brass, and coal. Coal we have in abundance. The mines of Fynmere produce more coal than we could use in ten generations. But the iron mines of Wyn are nearly tapped out. And I assume we are all aware of the copper shortage?" He nodded at one of the gentlemen. "Lord Gideon? Would you care to report on that?"

  Lord Gideon of the Coppersmith's Guild nodded. He was a tall man, sickly thin with a bushy beard.

  "We'd had high hopes for the new diggings," he said in a deep bass voice, "but the copper we'd found was all on the surface, and depleted quickly. That mine is already closed, and once the Fenland mines play out, we'll have no domestic source of copper available. We have had to drastically raise prices on copper to preserve it for our national interests."

  "There you have it, gentlemen. Our national crisis in a nutshell. We have no more copper, and very limited steel. How many of our modern amenities do you think will survive a collapse of the copper market? And what of our wars? How many rifles can we produce without steel? We must have another source for these metals."

  Grudging acknowledgment circled the group. Somerset piped up again.

  "We all know the problem, De Vere, but why so far east? Can't we get our materials closer to home? Tarsis has rich deposits, and it's practically next door. These savage nations to the east are a beastly long way to haul steel and copper."

  Lord De Vere shook his head.

  "Tarsis is already pressuring us politically. They hold the whole coast of the mainland to our southeast. If anything were to happen, they could cut us off from the rest of the civilized world." He gestured broadly. "Opening our own corridor to the east will give us a steady flow of cheap steel and copper. If we can press the locals into service, it will make our materials even cheaper. We're already building rail lines through western Laiqar."

  "How can you be laying rail with this steel shortage on?" one of the men asked.

  Lord De Vere grinned. "We're building it solely with the steel we've already secured from Laiqar."

  A silence fell over the group as they considered this.

  "Now," De Vere continued, "Laiqar is all well and good, but the real prize is further east. Namar?n has vast, untouched iron and copper reserves. They haven't even developed mining technology because so much ore sits right on the surface. They simply dig it up with shovels and crude pickaxes."

  Murmurs circled the group again. De Vere cleared his throat.

  "So you ask why we venture east at such great expense? Because the rewards are far greater. You ask why we send the Eastern Expeditionary Force into the wastelands? Because the wealth of the world lies at our fingertips. We have only to take it, gentlemen. This national crisis is a national opportunity."

  "What of the natives of these lands?" asked Somerset.

  "What of them? We have Weatherby negotiating with the Namar?nians now. He's a good man, clever. He'll wear them down, fighting over every bit of the spice trade, then slip in favorable terms for the copper and steel right at the end, along with a place for our troops. The Namar?nian people are ignorant, but they have good strong backs. They'll make an excellent labor force for us in the east."

  "What if Weatherby can't get terms?" Somerset asked.

  De Vere shrugged.

  "Our armies are already making inroads. When the Eastern Expeditionary Force shows up on their doorstep, they'll negotiate."

  "And their magic? I've heard rumors about their sorcerers."

  De Vere waved his hand dismissively.

  "Witch doctors and vudu-men," he said. "All superstitious prattle. They don't have the study or the ability to research and fully plunder the Mysteries. Not like our Guild of Sorcerers. Even if they did, no vudu would stand a chance against massed rifle infantry."

  The men discussed this for a bit, their mood slowly warming to the idea.

  De Vere cleared his throat. "What's more, the Guild of Sorcerers wants us to establish a foothold in the Eastern Reaches."

  The men shifted uncomfortably at the mention of the highest guild in Arden.

  "Why didn't you just say that at the outset?" Somerset groused. "It matters not what we decide, if the Sorcerers are pushing for this."

  Wide eyes fixed on Lord Somerset.

  "Quiet, man," somebody whispered. "Do you want to get disappeared?"

  De Vere simply nodded at the question.

  "The Guild of Sorcerers sets the direction, but we must guide and execute. We must understand the why in order to manage the armies and materials properly."

  "What does the king think of all this?" someone else asked, anxious to move talk away from the Sorcerers.

  "Who cares what the king thinks?" De Vere scoffed. "The king is for the people and the people are for the king. It's nothing to do with us. He'll do whatever we recommend." He touched his forehead absently. "Long live the king, of course."

  "Long live the king," repeated the room.

  "Now," De Vere said, rubbing his hands together. "If we're of an accord, let's discuss how to use our troops in the east."