·         Stephen Wormwood here. Thank you for clicking. Feedback and constructive criticism are always welcome at stephenwormwood@mail.com. As always hope you enjoy reading this and please consider donating to Nifty if you can, it's more than merited.

 

·        You can find a map of the fictionalized setting of this novel here: https://imgur.com/JtpD8WU (this is my first time using Inkarnate so it might be a little rough!)

 

·        If you end up enjoying this, please read some of my other stories on Nifty: The Dying Cinders (gay, fantasy/sci-fi), Wulf's Blut (gay, fantasy/sci-fi), The Harrowing of Chelsea Rice (gay, fantasy/sci-fi), The Dancer of Hafiz (gay, fantasy/sci-fi), The Cornishman (gay, historical), A Small Soul Lost (gay, fantasy/sci-fi), and Torc and Seax (transgender, magic/sci-fi).

 

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Chapter Six: The Wretched of the Realm, Part 1

 

**********

 

Unhidden Truths – Fracas in the City – Luther – Assets and Seizures – The Queenswood Hunt – Gallows Grove

 

**********

 

Manse de Foy, Dragonspur, Kingdom of Morland

40^th of Summer, 801

 

Just a day prior Francis Gray had half expected to return to Manse de Foy a victim of his master's wroth. He rode home swiftly but sulkily, creeping in like a tardy apprentice in wait of a beating. But that beating never came. Nor was there any dressing down. Upon Fran's return that yestermorn Gustave was absent – busying himself at one of the local quays with the wharfinger. When Fran took himself to Gustave's rooms, he found them empty – the bed sheets freshly pressed, its windows washed, its airs scented with his distinctive continental lavender. The chambermaids had already seen to it. So, Fran went looking for one, and asked her for his master.

 

"Gone to the ports," said she, a coifed and smocked little Wallishwoman named Yana. "One of the king's messengers came calling afore moonrise with a missive."

 

That missive, as Fran was later to learn, was an invitation to join King Oswald's personal retinue at the coming Queenswood hunt. When he learned that, Gustave's absence made more sense. He'd be down at the ports practicing that gaudy silver-tongue of his to beg through a shipment of Wallish white for the King's pleasure – and if his verbose charms failed him, he'd furnish the good wharfinger's purse with a few extra King's Marks to sweeten the pot.

 

The Wallish Ambassador was right to take it seriously, of course. An invitation to hunt with a king was no small honour, and given Wolfrick's stupid blunder at Woollerton Green, it was a startling one. And when Fran's thoughts took him in that direction he started to wonder if there was more to the invitation than mere favour.

 

`Oswald is shrewd,' thought he. `Perhaps there's more to it than Gustave realizes...'

 

But the thought was a passing one. As Francis Gray set about his itinerary for the 39^th (drawing in Perrin the Steward's ledgers for review, overseeing wage payments, drafting responses to messages from local lords, etc) his mind turned to Edward and the night they'd spent together, and how it galled him to take flight so swifty after it. The boy sat out the afternoon at his escritoire daydreaming of the blonde-haired swordsman, his quill dripping at the nip as his mind idled away with thoughts unsaintly.

 

`I shall have to make plans to see him again,' thought Fran. `And soon.'

 

Gustave did not return home until moonrise. When he did, there was a lightness in his gait, a smile to his face, and a crate of fine Wallish white clanking at the back of a mule-driven wagon. Fran joined Perrin and Wolfrick at the gates to receive him, welcoming him home and informing him of matters requiring his attention, all of which he promised to see to after he took some rest for the night, and bade Fran follow him to his chambers. The clerk did as he was asked (much to Wolfrick's chagrin) and walked with the ambassador back to his perfectly dressed rooms, its candles and sconces already lit for the evening.

 

Gustave's lips swallowed up Fran's own as soon as the door closed. The younger man gasped, taken aback by the sheer suddenness of the kiss as the older one shoved his back against the scroll-patterned wall, rattling its wall-mounted portraits, rustic landscape tapestries and shelved ornaments.

 

A rough hand snatched beneath Fran's undershirt and slipped its way up the lightly muscled stomach beneath it, up the soft contours of his breast and pinching at his nipple. The clerk's face scrunched into a grimace, not that Gustave cared, not when his other hand took the boy by his neck and shoved his thick tongue down his throat. Lusty moans smothered revolted ones. The kiss was foul and drudging, the master's hot breath befouled with commoner's ale and eel pie, and when their lips finally parted, Fran gasped for breath, wide-eyed and disgusted.

 

Gustave was drunk.

 

"Get into the bed," he said slovenly, shunting down his hose.

 

Fran did as he was bid.

 

Gustave had at him twice that night. Well, once and a half. When the moon was high, he spread Fran flat across the bed and rutted him until his swollen balls painted the boy's bowels white – then promptly collapsed into a drunken slumber. When the moon was low, he awoke with a shivering Fran still trapped beneath his great weight, his woollen chest pulsing against his back.

 

The Wallishman's manhood grew yet again. Clumsy hands reached for a seed-smattered arse and pried them open until his bell-headed girth aligned with that pink puckered hole it so cravenly sought. Fran snatched at the sheets and bit down into the pillow to steel himself for a second round of his master's dog-like humping, but its veined cock was only halfway through before he dropped asleep again, and that time, he would not rise again until morning.

 

The bed fell still. Silent (save for the snores). Fran caught his breath. Thumbed the tears from his eyes. Bit his lip and willed himself not to cry again. That was when The Fiend fingered its way up his spine and plunged inside his ear, calling him a WELL-KEPT CATAMITE and a SUPPURATE WHORE and a RUTTED BITCH. Most nights its whispered evils kept him from sleep, but not that night. Fran was too drained and aghast. Some hours after his master, the boy fell into slumber, wondering how a day that began so well could end so ugly.

 

When Gustave woke the following morning, the morning of the 40^th, Fran was already up and dressed, sat in silence by the escritoire drafting more of his master's letters.

 

The Wallishman yawned, lumbering out of bed, padding across the sunlight-dappled hardwood floor by his bare feet until his thick arms drew around the Morish boy's thin shoulders.

 

His best approximation of a lover's embrace.

 

"My master wakes," whispered Fran.

 

Gustave kissed his ear. "And such a pretty face to wake to, sweetling. How goes it with my gift?"

 

The boy paused. In his haste to see Edward he'd forgotten about that cattle tripe of an excuse he'd concocted. "I... I struggled to find a Morish brocade that would suit, master. I have the thread, but..."

 

"No matter. Fetch it another time, you have preparations to make. Three days hence, you and I shall hunt with King Oswald himself."

 

"Truly?" He feigned ignorance. "But after that business with Wolfrick...?"

 

"Perhaps Ludolf's poison tongue isn't quite so potent as he thought. Or perhaps the boy is wise enough to understand that relations with Wallenheim need not be threatened by such trifles. Either way, this is welcome news, a fresh opportunity to sell the consortium proposal to him, once Frogmoncke puts in his good word. I've even secured some good Wallish white as a gift. One taste of it and he'll be begging for more to follow."

 

"An excellent plan, master."

 

A chuckle. "Indeed. Anyway. Today is my banquet with the Wallish tradesman, is it not?"

 

Fran nodded. "Yes, master. They are scheduled to arrive at noontide. I will speak with Perrin and Inga to ensure that the hall is properly prepared for them."

 

"Good," said Gustave. "See that you do. And take yourself into the city again, lease a pair of good hunting horses. Our little fjord mares will not stay apace with these Morish ones. Collect the marks from Perrin."

 

A nod. "Yes master."

 

Then a knock at the door. A hard one.

 

Gustave breathed a heavy sigh. "Who is it?!"

 

"Wolfrick, lord." Said he. "I have... urgent news."

 

Another sigh. The muscled ambassador drew away from Fran and reached for his dyed wool night tunic, threading his arms through its sleeves, and settling back into his high-backed chair before allowing in his captain of the guard.

 

The door bolted open. In strode Wolfrick, short sword and breastplate clunking with each footstep. He threw a dark look of disgust at Fran before lowering himself into a bow before their master.

 

"May St. Wynnry spare you her wrath, Wolfrick. Why come you calling to my door at so early an hour?"

 

Fran lowered his quill. He did not turn to Wolfrick or move to be spoken to – it was not his place to do so – but he did peek a glance at the old Wallish warrior and saw a look most curious. It was a fearful sort of look, fearfulness to deliver his pressing news, but also a look of begrudging self-affirmation, a sort of `did I not warn you' half-smile, half-frown.

 

Something was wrong.

 

Wolfrick lofted upright. "Lord, there is... no good way of putting this. The meeting that you helped orchestrate between the King and this man Stillingford... it has gone badly."

 

A knot twisted inside Fran's stomach.

 

The colour drained from Gustave's face. "...What do you mean?"

 

"Lord, I-"

 

"WOLFRICK!" Roared he. "What do you MEAN?!"

 

The grey-chopped man lowered his head. "A large crowd came out in attendance. Thousands, they say. Things began well, the king was receptive, but some rogue fired a shot, perhaps to kill the king, no one knows. But it caused a panic and then a crush... at last count nearly a hundred people are dead."

 

`Oh Saints!' thought Fran, his skin suddenly afire. `Oh, saints be good! Ed! Edward Bardshaw, please be alright...!'

 

Gustave's face went still, his arm tremoring. "...And the King? Is the King unharmed?!"

 

"King Oswald and Stillingford's people are safe," said Wolfrick. "Thomas Wolner's men rode into the crowds and plucked them from harm. But the city is on edge. After sunset some fights broke out between Odoists and Anti-Odoists in the taverns. Now, The King's Eyes are patrolling the streets to keep the peace, but..."

 

Silence.

 

Gustave, his skin utterly blanched with fright, threw his face into his palms, screaming. Up he shot then, pacing about the room until his fist met the wall. A blood smear fouled the dent his knuckles left in the stencilling. His enflamed eyes rolled toward a day-old ewer of wine sat upon a side table. Fran and Wolfrick watched tensely as Gustave poured himself a cup, threw it back in three stolid gulps, and slapped it back down.

 

The ambassador wiped his lips. "...Speaker's Square was a mistake. I never should have suggested it to the king. My reputation at court is already curdled, this will only worsen it! My... my brother was right. We have to distance ourselves from the Crow's Club..."

 

He turned to Fran.

 

"Go," said Gustave. "Leave me. I need time to think."

 

A nod. Fran left the parchment and quill where they lay and excused himself from Gustave's rooms, leaving him and his captain behind to plot their way forward. As soon as the door clicked shut Fran raced down the dimly lit corridor to his own rooms and bolted it shut from within. He meant to think, to plot, to consider how this might implicate Edward, to figure some way of reaching him, but when he opened his eyes, he found another guest standing in wait for him.

 

Lothar.

 

Wide-eyed. Shocked. Dishevelled. His normally atonal face was now a picture of stunned disbelief.

 

`What now?' Thought Fran. "Lothar? You shouldn't be here without Gustave's leave; it might make him suspicious..."

 

Lothar looked away, silently.

 

"Are you alright? Lothar? Whatever's the matter?"

 

That was when Fran noticed the parchment rolled up in the espial's shaking hand. Lothar said nothing and handed it over, wordlessly willing Fran to read it. His heart was racing with thoughts and fears for Edward, but as the clerk paused to fully digest what he was reading, when all the names and dates and secrets inscribed flowed into his mind and formed a picture of themselves, only then did its true horror finally penetrate. Only then did Francis Gray finally see the ugly truth of Lothar's birth.

 

"...No..." he whispered. "...He... could not be this evil... there is no way..."

 

KILL THE BASTARD! The Fiend screamed with rage inside his skull. KILL THE BASTARD! KILL THE BASTARD, KILL THE BASTARD, KILL THE BASTARD!

 

Fran looked up at his friend.

 

There were tears in his eyes.

 

"Oh Lothar," Tears found their way into Fran's as well. "I... I'm so sorry..."

 

The espial knuckled his eyes dry. "...Regardless. I... I have a brother. I have a brother, Fran. I would like to see him..."

 

"This document. Is it a facsimile?"

 

Lothar nodded yes.

 

Fran turned to the hearth. The chambermaids had lit a small fire for him to stave off the morning cold. The clerk threw the document into the fire and watched it burn. "Gustave would kill us both if he ever found it."

 

"What about my brother?" Said Lothar.

 

Fran took himself to the window to breathe, to give himself space to think, to process his thoughts. His mind was like a cluster of sparks firing off in a single instant – Edward, Stillingford, Oswald, Gustave, Magnhilda, Lothar, Luther, Wolfrick – he had to breathe, he had to focus. "You... you can't slip into the hospice a second time; the risk is too great."

 

Lothar hardened. "I will not leave him to rot in that place a day longer."

 

"Lothar, listen to me. You have to think! Alright? You have to think clearly! Where would you keep him? You cannot sequester him in Thormont's lodgings, and you CANNOT bring him here! We can only fetch him when the time is right, when I have title and holdings to provide for you both!"

 

Pussyfoot and Bullyfoot rattled in their sheaths as Lothar marched silently to the other side of the window. He gazed out at the courtyard of Manse de Foy, beyond its tall walls to Dogford Bridge and the rushing waters of the River Wyvern that it forded.

 

"I want to see him at least," said Lothar. "If I have to wait to be with him, then I will wait. But I want to see him. You have to help me."

 

Fran sighed.

 

"...Please, Fran. He is my brother. Please?"

 

**********

 

Harvenny Heath, Dragonspur, Kingdom of Morland

40^th of Summer, 801

 

The bread was stale. Its deliverer was a baker's apprentice, a well-wisher sojourning some six doors down from Stillingford's dwellings, someone whose master heard of, as he put it, `the fracas in the city'. Edward thanked the boy for his diligence, his master for his kindness, then sent him on his way with two half-marks. He carried the loaf with him to the table and set his dagger to it. It would not cut smoothly.

 

"Stale..."

 

On a different day Edward Bardshaw would have chased the boy down for his half-marks and chided him for his carelessness. "Did you mix my master's bread for crow's feed?" He may well have said.

 

But not that day.

 

That day he cut the bread regardless, splitting it in half then sawing off three thick slices, one for Stillingford and two for himself. There was a bit of butter to hand (freshly churned by another well-wishing neighbour) which Edward spread dispassionately over the slices. Meanwhile the cooking pot over by the flaming hearth had boiled over, scenting the air with carrots and chicken marrow.

 

The swordsman rose up staggering (a stumble in his step from the fall at the forum) and fetched a brass ladle from the wall-hangings to spoon steaming helpings of bone broth into a small, lacquered feeding bowl. Then Edward took the buttered bread and broth to his master's bedside and set it at his lap.

 

He was awake was Stillingford – abed but awake – yet it was all he could do to lean upright and set his back against the headboard, so unkind was the `fracas in the city' to his joints. He groaned. "Oh, the bones are tired today."

"Here, Master. For your strength."

 

Theopold Stillingford, saints bless him, had no stomach for breakfast that morn. He wore the weight of failure horribly; shoulders slouched, brow furrowed, eyes downcast... but his bony, knobbed fingers still took up the spoon and fed himself.

 

Ed slumped into a nearby chair as the room fell to stillness. All was silent save for the slosh of broth and the snapping hearth. And the silence caused Edward's thoughts to drift – to the chaos of Speaker's Square and to the King's Eye horsemen galloping away from the stampeding throngs until they were safely sequestered in a commandery near Dunnsfield Market, half a mile from the uproar at the forum. A host of Bannerets, twenty of them, were readily arrayed upon their arrival. They saw to the King, helping him down from his saddle and spiriting him off to rooms undisclosed, offering him food and water and assuring him that a carriage would soon arrive to collect and deliver him to the safety of Staunton Castle. The reception Edward, Will, and Stillingford got was far afield from that.

 

Thomas Wolner's men had each of them carried off into separate rooms – boxy stone rooms carpeted with rushes and saturated with the musty stench of rat piss. Edward recalled himself slumping over the croaking wooden bench that was left for him; too exhausted to stay awake yet too wary to sleep. One of the King's Eyes came for him – eventually. He came with a cup of water, a bit of bread, and many, many questions. Questions about the Crow's Club and the Old Lioness tavern, about Stillingford, Rothwell, Roschewald, the Wallenheim Delegation, Odoism, and even Equitism. When the ringing in his ears finally calmed down, Ed was able to answer some of his queries. Then after some hours in their custody, long after the King's Eyes had ridden out into the streets to dispel the crowds and quell the furore, the three of them were released.

 

"King Oswald's orders," said one of the breastplated guardsmen as he escorted them to a deserted laneway outside of the commandery. Thomas Wolner was nowhere to be seen – no doubt he led the King's escort back to Staunton Castle. "Take my advice – stay off the streets for a spell."

 

Then the trio were left alone.

 

They embraced together beneath the shelter of a tavern house jetty. They traded stories of what had occurred at the Square from each of their own perspectives. Stillingford said he heard a gunshot then a shout. Will remembered it the other way around. Ed harkened to the marksman on the rooftops and wondered with all his heart if he'd meant to kill the king. Will wondered aloud how such a would-be assassin might botch the shot at such a height. Either way, they all agreed on one thing.

 

Speaker's Square was a failure.

 

Edward recalled the tears in his master's eyes as he admitted as much. Stillingford thanked the saints for the King's safety and cursed them for allowing such madness to occur. William Rothwell embraced him. "Blame not the saints, master. We did all we could."

 

Ed (mindful of that King's Eye's warning to stay off the streets) bade Will and Stillingford wait for him as he doubled back through the desolate backstreets to fetch Bessie where he'd left her, but his trusty mare was long gone, pilfered no doubt by some desperate escapee or some fleet-fingered opportunist.

 

Edward cursed the bastard (whoever they were) as he sought the nearest inn for a coachman that would take coin at short notice. He found one near the river, but the coachman wasn't willing to make the trip for anything less than a King's Mark. Edward (who had no money on him) promised to pay him upon their return to Harvenny Heath and put up his sword as collateral. Fortunately, that was assurance enough. The coachman downed his last cup of ale and went to the stables to fetch a brace of horses, two black-maned thoroughbreds bloating with colic. Edward helped him fit on the harnesses, straps, lines, breechings, and martingale, then climbed into the back as he drove his horses upriver. By that time Ed returned to the commandery laneway, it was almost nightfall, and Will and Stillingford had found shelter from the cold in a nearby tavern.

 

"Escort the master home," Will had said. "Mine own lodgings are none too far."

 

"Are you certain it's safe to walk home alone like this, Will? Why not stay the night with us?"

 

Their words were curt ever since that clumsy moment in Rothwell's lodgings. For the first time in many days William looked to Edward wholly, truly, without any guise of coldness about him. His smile was stiff, his eyes half-watered. A runny nose dripped over his lip before he scrubbed the mucus away with the cuff of his torn sleeves. All the fire and passion from the forum was gone. Firebrand Will was gone. And how lost he looked...

 

A sniffle. "Worry not for me, Master Bardshaw. I'd... I'd like to take some air anyway. See to Stillingford, I'll come visit with you both in the morning."

 

And now here they were. Morning had come, but Rothwell was nowhere to be found. `Saints protect you, Will.' Ed thought. `Our position feels less certain than ever before.'

 

Stillingford's dry spoon slapped its empty bowl. Nothing was left of his bread but crumbs. A belch. And then a sigh. "That... that was our moment, Ed."

 

The swordsman opened his eyes. "Master?"

 

"That was our moment to alter the tides of history," said the scholar. "To deliver a better realm for our people. And now that moment lies shattered before our feet. How cruel are the stars that govern us?"

 

Edward clutched at his locket. "You speak as if we've already lost, master."

 

"Have we not? King Oswald was almost trampled to death by his own people...!"

 

"And yet he lives," said Ed. "The people meant him no harm; they were startled by some shouting and a shot. Our pleas and our needs remain the same. The King will not let this ugly moment obscure that."

 

"...Think you so?" A small smile formed at the corner of Stillingford's wrinkled lips as he eyed his aide and protector. "Truly?"

 

He had to. Ed was not a saintly man by any stretch but knew this much – there was providence in the workings of the stars. And deeper there was a will, a human will, to strive and to survive. What else could have kept he and Fran alive long enough to find each other again after ten whole years of separation? The King was blessed to have Bosmund as his saint. But he did not need his saint to grant him wisdom. He need only look to his own good sense and reason for the truth of the matter.

 

The locket of relics went warm in the clutch of Edward's fist. "Master. You were the one who convinced us to have faith in the King, yes? Then share that faith again. Keep your hope alive. Reforms will come."

 

Stillingford smiled. "Master Bardshaw. St. Thunos' most heartfelt soldier."

 

Ed chuckled, wryly.

 

"Dear boy. You need a fellow soul to warm your bed, son. Wouldn't you like to be married? To sire children? Why dodder about caring for an old man like me?"

 

His master was not the first to wonder. Will had wondered. Basil Smeadon had wondered. Old Meg oft whispered to him about the giggling tavern girls hoping to catch his eye. But Edward had never known what to say for Edward had never really known his true desires.

 

What did he want?

 

As a boy his dream was clear. He wanted Fran in any manner the saints would permit, and he wanted to follow in the footsteps of his master, Ser Martyn Morrogh, and become a Banneret of the Bloom to protect Fran from all who would do him or his house harm.

 

And then the bastard Imperials besieged that beautiful Isle of Gead and destroyed everything. His home. His parents. His master. Lord and Lady Gray both dead. His best friend Harry Grover gone in the chaos of it all. The heart of his heart, Francis Gray, lost to him for a decade to come.

 

His dream, like Stillingford's now, lay shattered... then.

 

When boyhood Edward landed at the shores of Dragonspur ten years ago, flesh stained with blood and soot, hair matted with clumps of dirt, eyes sodden with bitter tears; he was a different person, an angry person. Angry at the Imperials for besieging Gead and angry at King Osmund for failing to break that siege. Angry at the Geadishmen for turning their pitchforks on House Gray. Angry at the whole realm for turning a blind eye to their plight. Cast adrift like all the other orphans of Gead, he was a ripened intrant for the ugly underworld of the dockside cutpurse.

 

The world had cheated him so why not cheat others?

 

But where did it land him, that lack of faith? Gaoled and tortured within the bowels of Staunton Castle with only the locket now clutched in his fist to keep him sane. And who was the one who saved him upon his release?

 

Theopold Stillingford.

 

This man for the ages.

 

This man who took him in and found him work, who taught him philosophy and the written word, who saw past his angry eyes and rekindled an inner goodness.

 

When he emerged from the Oubliette at his lowest, it was Stillingford who told him, thusly, `The past is fixed and the future is fluid, but both are shaped by the present. Who you are now, what you do now -- these are the things that matter most. Now you are free, and you are free to choose a better path.'

 

It was Stillingford who taught him not to hate the townsmen and villagers who rebelled against House Gray, for when all was said and done, they were his kindred, his fellow Geadishmen, his fellow Morishmen. `They were victims of circumstance,' his master had said. `Much as you were. Blame not the commoner but the nobles who abandoned them.' And Edward knew in his heart that Stillingford was right. His philosophy of Equitism, and the Odoism that preceded it, would be the guiding light of the Morish commoner. And Stillingford himself had to be protected from the forces of this world who would stop at nothing to keep the Morish commoner underfoot. And so, Edward Bardshaw found again his purpose. To protect the man whose teachings would reshape this realm for the better. Ed's own need, Ed's own wants? They were nothing but a small sacrifice for a greater good.

 

Or at least that was how he once saw it.

 

But now Francis Gray was back. Back in his life, back in his arms, where he always belonged. Now there was someone else to protect. And Fran too, Edward sensed, was another small but important piece on the gameboard of Morish history. He could not say how – but he knew it to be true. What better use could his sword arm have if not to protect these two men so dear to him? And so riddled with import to the world he walked on?

 

Edward smiled to himself.

 

His mind was already made. "There is happiness yet for me in this life, master. I don't need to abandon you for it."

 

The front door juddered.

 

Ed and Theopold turned towards the echo. A fist pounded at it, three times, each time louder than the last.

 

Edward shot up to his feet. His left hand fell from the locket at his neck to the locket at his scabbard, whilst his right reached for the grip of the sword it sheathed.

 

"No," said the old man. "Ruffians don't knock. Put your sword away, Edward."

 

It was like someone asking him to stop breathing. Edward growled beneath his breath but complied, unstrapping his weapon from his belt, and dumping it onto his chair as he made his way to the door to open it.

 

Bone pale morning light dappled the shoulders and wide brimmed hat of the hulking figure staring back at him with a cold skeletal smile. Thomas Wolner.

 

Sword-armed, this time.

 

And behind him? Behind him stood four of his men, The King's Eyes, well armoured in bossed iron breastplates and boiled leather armguards. Basket-hilted longswords swung from one side of their belts; holstered flintlock pistols swung from the other. Their hooded cloaks shrouded their faces in darkness.

 

Wolner smirked. "Where, pray tell, is Master Stillingford?"

 

Ed's tight fist tremored at his side. "The chill of this failed summer has caused him a stiffness of the joints, Constable. Return again tomorrow. He might attend you then, perhaps."

 

The smirk deepened. "Stand aside, boy."

 

"I have to insist, master, that he is not well enough to receive visitors... come again tomorrow."

 

"I am afraid that will not be possible," Wolner pulled a document from his cloak and presented it to him. "I have a warrant for Master Stillingford's arrest."

 

"What?!" The blonde's eyes flared. "What do you mean a-"

 

"Edward," a raspy voice cut him off. "That is enough. You are being rude. Allow our guests in, won't you?"

 

The Constable of Dragonspur did not wait for his cue. He shoved Edward out of his way, brusquely, and lumbered in with his clinking spurs, his four guards following close behind as he approached the old man at his humble little bed. Above his toothy smile Wolner's cold eyes drifted about the room, surveying it, smirking smugly at it, before settling upon Theopold. "Your lodgings are unbecoming of your repute, master."

 

Stillingford eyed him, unblinking and unafraid. "What am I charged with?"

 

"Sedition," hissed Wolner. "And conspiracy to commit acts of sedition."

 

"He's an elderly fucking man!" Yelled Edward. "What harm could he do the king?!"

 

"Ed!" Stillingford's frown darkened. "Come here, boy."

 

His eyes went to the sword at the bedside chair. None of Wolner's men moved to secure it. The guardsman ran scenarios through his mind as he willed himself not to hurl his fist into the good constable's ghoulish face. `What if I dove for the sword, cut them all down before they even drew their weapons. What if I snatched one of their pistols and shot Wolner in the fucking balls? What if I grabbed the old man and ran?'

 

But `what ifs' were wind. Even with his sword he was outnumbered and outmatched in that tiny little homestead.

 

Edward sighed, willing his shaking hands to still themselves as he pushed past the line of men surrounding his master's bed.

 

Stillingford held his frown. "Still that temper of yours. Do you hear me?"

 

"...Master..."

 

"Do you remember what you just said to me? Hm? About having faith?"

 

"Yes..."

 

"Those words were beautiful. Abide by them, you unsung soul. Did you not swear to protect me?"

 

"...Yes..."

 

"Then hear me plain. Engaging in violence here would do the opposite. Do you understand?"

 

Ed's whole body shook from shoulder to foot. "...Y-yes..."

 

"There's a good lad," said the old scholar. "I have nothing to fear from these charges because I have committed no crimes. No honest court would find against me."

 

A groan. The old man slowly shifted his weight, moving his bare feet from the sheets to the cold floorboards below. His rheumy eyes turned to Wolner. "I would surrender myself to your custody willingly, Constable, if only your men would help me up?"

 

The Constable of Dragonspur, stone faced, directed his men to assist him. Edward grudgingly stood aside as two of the King's Eyes took Stillingford by his arms and carefully ferried him outside to a rickety horse-drawn wagon at the front of the property. Edward followed them out to the communal garden where the budding crops of the season lay crushed by the hooves of ten whickering horses – each one mounted by a King's Eye horseman – while a line of lashed prisoners tailed behind them; six men bound at the wrists by iron fetters and bound at the neck by tight leather collars, tying them together. Each man was stripped, beaten, bloodied, bruised, and barefoot. All were members of the Crow's Club. And one of them was William Rothwell.

 

`Oh no!' Ed's heart sank. `WILL!'

 

Around them all spectating crowds had formed. Men and women. Young and old. Some had hoes in hand and others swaddled babes. Neighbours all. Some cried, weeping tears for the old man who spent his tendays philosophizing about their astronomical rent as he tilled his little garden plot. Others, those who knew him not, merely looked on with gawking curiosity at the scene. But there were also others. Neighbours who jeered, who booed, who hissed, who threw things. Neighbours who peered through their windows with disgust, their foul gazes and harsh whispers following Stillingford as he was carried out along the dirt tract and bundled into the back of the wagon by Wolner's thugs.

 

"Piss on you!" Shouted a farmer. "Piss on you for what you did to our king!"

 

"A thousand lashes would not be enough!" Cried a cobbler.

 

"To oblivion with you all!"

 

"Saints damn you!"

 

"You traitors!"

 

"BASTARDS!"

 

The jeers and insults grew louder and fouler as Thomas Wolner took to his horse and commanded his men to move out. Boos and hisses followed them off as the rickety wagon rolled along and the captured prisoners were dragged afoot. Villagers took clumps of dirt and horse dung into their hands and hurled it at the Constable's prisoners. Ed watched Will catch a cowpie in the ear with naught but a jerk of the head in resistance. From the look of him, beaten and abused from purpling flesh to clotted nose, it was all he could do to stand and walk.

 

And Edward, dumbfounded, fell to his knees.

 

**********

 

Hospice of St. Bosmund, Dragonspur, Kingdom of Morland

40^th of Summer, 801

 

Despite all to do and all to come, Fran's thoughts were of Edward that morning. He couldn't help it. A pall of creeping terror swept over him as Dragonspur's increasingly deserted streets rolled by his glassed carriage window. The mood was plain. Word of the calamity at Speaker's Square now flooded the city from alehouse to counting house. The coachman now ferrying them said it was all anyone could talk about at his master's inn.

 

"They say a hundred dead at last count!" He'd said excitedly. "They say King Oswald barely escaped with his life! They say that bastard Crow's Club set the whole thing up to kill him and set their leader up as the new king!"

 

Fran could not bear to listen to his ignorant nonsense, but if Gustave taught him one valuable trick it was never to ignore the whispers of the commoners. There was always much to be learned if one could parse through the horseshit and conjecture. And what Fran could glean from the coachman's diatribe was that the Crow's Club was being blamed for the disastrous outcome of the King's visit to Speaker's Square. Not Wolner in his lapse of security, not the King for failing to anticipate the size of the crowds that flocked to his heels, nor even the people themselves for a stampede of their own making... it was the Crow's Club, that vile nest of heretics and seditionists who hated the king and worked mischievous plots to author his downfall. Or so went the talk.

 

`Stay safe, Ed...' Thought he. `And trust not these jackals you fight for...'

 

Then a sweet girlish voice called to him from his right.

 

"Master?"

 

Fran turned to her. Lady Eleanora of Stafforth. Swept from head to toe in the feminine fineries; her pearl-studded caul and ermine-furred shawl atop a tight black corset and a flowing gown of velveteen brocade in the shade of deepest scarlet. From her supple white neck swung a silver pendant bearing the sigil of House Comwyn – to symbolize and signify its master's possession of her. She looked the part. But the façade of sweet and charming innocence with which she presented herself at Woollerton Green was blunted by a trepidant air of hope and fear that she could not mask.

 

"What troubles you?" She asked.

 

`That lilting voice,' thought Fran, soberly. `You are almost too good at this, my friend.' "Nothing is the matter, my lady. I have your master's writ of instruction and we should be arriving soon. All is well."

 

The ride to the Hospice was even swifter than expected. Within the centre of the city the streets lay barren of almost all traffic save for a handful of other carriages and wagons nearly all of which bore the royal sigil. There were some checkpoints set up by agents of the King's Eyes dotted up and down the length of the Old King's Way, but as guests of the court, Francis Gray and Lady Eleanora were given leave to proceed. They arrived at the Hospice of St. Bosmund before noontide.

 

Fran was first to exit the cab and helped Lady Eleanora down. And once again they beheld those spiked white walls and spear-like spires. Daylight's pall did little to ease its foreboding presence. Fran's own sense of dread grew starker and more bitter, like chalky bile rising up in his throat and warning him to turn away. But he had no choice.

 

Fran could not complete his plans without Lothar... and Lothar could not focus until he was at last reconciled with his family. Better to get it over with.

 

Francis Gray approached the two guardsmen at the gate. He handed over Lord Comwyn's letter of instruction – or rather the letter Lothar had forged in Comwyn's name, mimicking his handwriting, and sealing it in wax with the viscount's stolen seal. One of the two burly men snuffed his pipe and cracked it open, reading it, then commanding his partner to strike a bell from within the hospice walls. The black-painted iron gates swung open and the two were allowed into the grassy forecourt.

 

Water fountains and marbled statues decorated the grounds. Wide gravel tracts quartered off the key buildings of its enclosed expanse – the sanitorium, the leprosarium, the infirmary, the surgeon's hall, the lecture hall, the kiln, the kitchens, the barracks, the temple, and beneath them all, the wine cellar and the under croft. Neidhart's dossier even made room to detail that morbid place.

 

They were approached by a barber-surgeon in the courtyard. A tall man in a tall coat with gloved black fingers peeking out of its furred sleeves. At his hooked belt danced a wealth of surgical tools: small knives, hooks, hammers, needles, prods, crackers, drills, forceps, prongs, and tongs. He doffed his falcon-feathered flat cap to the Lady Eleanora.

 

"Greetings to you both," said he. "I am Thomas Fitzwalder, deputy to Sergeant Surgeon Ser John Goodwyne and chief administrator of the Hospice. And might I say it is an honour to make your acquaintance, Lady Eleanora. I have only now received word of the generous donation Viscount Thormont made to this establishment. Please offer him my deepest and sincerest thanks."

 

The `donation' was a thousand marks. Lothar poached the coin from Lord Comwyn's pay coffers before his departure to Thormont. When Fran first heard of the theft, he chided the espial for his carelessness, only to be told the cunning alibi; `One of his drunken guards accosted me a few nights ago. I took two thousand marks and fattened his purse with half before pointing Comwyn's paymaster his way. We are in the clear.'

 

"You are most welcome," said Eleanora. "I had come to check that the donation was received, but also to see about a boy my master helped sequester here. A boy named Luther; if I recall?"

 

Fitzwalder's preening smile weakened. "Eh, Luther...?"

 

"You know him?"

 

"Aye. He... he is a good boy, well-tempered, much of our own doing. Might... might I enquire if this has aught to do with the... recent arrival of the Wallish ambassador...?"

 

Eleanora shook her dainty head. "My good master. Of course not. The Lord Viscount simply thought of the boy recently and wondered of his circumstances. We come only to confirm he is hale and hearty and then we shall take our leave."

 

Fitzwalder squirmed. "My lady, it is not typically customary to-"

 

"The heart of my heart Lord Comwyn once spoke of a draughty spire here in the hospice. And some clogged hearths and some broken tools. If these things were stressed to me, I should love to return to him and bid him send another donation to assist with the repairs. Perhaps the Viscount might even fix you a purse, Master Fitzwalder, for your most comforting welcome of me."

 

Fran kept his mouth shut. His realm was one of ledgers and accounts and by-laws, this realm of disguise and espying and skulduggery was Lothar's own. And by the saints he was good at it. All Fran needed to do was stand aside and play the part of the humble escort – that was why he wore the breastplate, plaid skirt, and basket-hilted sword of the Wallish halberdiers – for no lady of the court would go about the streets of Dragonspur without an escort.

 

Fitzwalder relented. "Come with me, lady. But I can only grant you a few moments."

 

The Deputy Sergeant Surgeon led the way. Fran and Eleanora followed close behind as he took them across the hospice grounds to a cloistered building encircling a small herbal garden. The surrounding apartments were high by three storeys and supported by rows of stone columns. Fitzwalder fished a ring of brass keys from his pocket and unlocked its door, which yawned open into a darkened corridor lined with more barred iron doors. Moans and groans wailed behind them. Erratic shouts and mad sudden laughter, cackles, and shrieks. Fran felt his flesh crawl beneath the tartan of his tunic.

 

There were some sconces lit but the light was low. They were warned to "mind their footing" as the barber-surgeon led them down the hall and up two flights of curving stone steps until they happened upon the second floor. And here Fitzwalder counted the doors until he came to the thirty-fifth one. A room marked with a pair of initials.

 

LR.

 

Fitzwalder unlocked the door with his ring of keys and bid the other two enter with him.

 

Nodding, Fran and Eleanora followed into a small but comfortable room of hardwood floors carpeted with bright yellow rugs and low stone walls – the rearmost of which allowed light through a glassless window protected by star-shaped stone latticework. There was a feathered bed and a lacquered cabinet, and three high shelves filled with lush woven toys and brass figurines. And there, seated in the centre of the room upon a circular rug of plush velvet, sat a young man.

 

He was tall – taller than anyone else in that room. His grey hair was bushy and unkempt – save for a single enlarged bald patch amid the right side of his skull, centred around a deep pink scar. Spittle flew from his thin lips as he pursed them together in a duck-like shape and blew out silly, child-like noises. He was pale and he was thin. Fitzwalder called his name.

 

"Luther?" He spoke. "Luther, you have guests."

 

No answer.

 

The young man had toys in his hands, a lacquered wooden cube riddled with bite marks and a straw-filled doll stitched with button eyes and woollen hair. He excitedly bashed the latter with the former.

 

"Gu!" He spat. "Gu! Gu! Gu! Gu!"

 

Lady Eleanora scuppered her tears.

 

"Luther is a good boy," said Fitzwalder. "We keep him in comfort. He grows tall and strong, as you see, but his mind is... little progressed from its infancy."

 

A sniffle. "W-what can you tell me of him, Master Fitzwalder?"

 

"...I-" The barber-surgeon sighed. His surrender was swift. "His name is Luther Roschewald. Wallish by birth, as you can imagine. Twenty summers young, born 22^nd of Winter 781 beneath the Star of Temperance, a child of St. Bosmund."

 

"What of his birth?" Asked Eleanora. "Why... why is he like this?"

 

Fran sighed. They had both seen the records, read well of them before he burned them. But perhaps Lothar needed to hear it aloud and make it manifest in all its ugly truth.

 

"The boy was born a twin... conjoined at the skull with his younger brother. Luther & Lothar, they were called. And this hospice is one of the few places in the world with experience of such an uncommon abnormality. Their father brought them here some fifty days after their birth pleading for our help... to separate them. And we did. It was Master Goodwyne, with myself in assistance, who performed the surgery. Normally, in such cases, one or both siblings die in the attempt, but the saints were good to us that day, and both boys lived. But... some damage was done to Luther's mind... and here you see the result."

 

Eleanora thumbed a tear from her eye. It was an unwomanly gesture. Fran noticed it. Thankfully Thomas Fitzwalder did not. "And what of his brother? This boy called Lothar?"

 

"We do not know," said the barber-surgeon. "He was a fit lad, morose in character, if I recall, but no worse for the wear. We gave him to an orphanage so are attentions were more focused on Luther here, for him we could not release. The healing process required him to remain in our care."

 

And then came a glint of restrained yet seething anger. "And their father... what was his name?"

 

"My lady, as you can imagine I cannot-"

 

"His name, master."

 

Lothar knew. Fran knew. But to hear it out loud...

 

"Gustavius," said Fitzwalder. "Their father's name was Gustavius von Roschewald. But as a guest of His Majesty's court, surely you already-"

 

Now Fran interjected. "Master Fitzwalder? Might the Lady Stafforth have a moment with the boy? I fear she is overcome with pity for him, Child of St. Jehanne as she is. Please, master. Grant her this last wish before we depart."

 

Fitzwalder sighed but offered no protest. They were several breaches of protocol deep into this game, it served no purpose. The master of the hospice stood aside and stepped out, shutting the door behind him, allowing the good lady Eleanora a moment with the boy.

 

When Fitzwalder was gone Eleanora lifted up her chemise and knelt down to meet Luther at eye level, smiling through crystalline tears. "My brother. Look at him, Fran. I have a brother!"

 

"Gu!" He cried. "Gu! Gu! Gu!"

 

She cupped him by his shoulder. Luther did not respond. "Brother. I promise. One day I will free you from this place. We will forge a family! No one will ever hurt you again! I SWEAR it! And that bastard we call a father will pay with his fucking life...!"

 

Fran stilled.

 

Never had he heard Lothar speak with such emotion. Every word was a promise, not a threat.

 

"Lothar..." Fran caught himself. "Lady Eleanora. I am happy for you, truly I am. But we have to bide our time. When land and titles are restored to me... once I have a foothold in this court... your brother will be retrieved, and we will take our revenge against Gustave. I swear it to you."

 

Eleanora nodded softly. "When do we start?"

 

"First, we deal with Wolfrick. Then..." Fran retrieved a letter from inside his tunic.

 

"What is that?"

"A missive... for the Duke of Greyford."

 

**********

 

Harvenny Heath, Dragonspur, Kingdom of Morland

40^th of Summer, 801

 

There is anger and there is fury.

 

Edward Bardshaw felt anger many times throughout his short life. But fury? Fury was new to him. Fury was what dragged his bloody knuckles from the grass-laden dirt as his friends and master were carted off to the dark depths of the Oubliette. Fury was what powered him through that swelling throng of gawping villagers until Thomas Wolner and all his men disappeared along the highway. Fury was what made him sprint back to Stillingford's cottage and draw his sword.

 

A scream of rage boomed from its glass windows.

 

Edward seethed through grinding teeth, nostrils flaring, eyes bulging, his weapon brandished at no enemy and every enemy, tears spilling from his eyes as he thrust and swung the blade at the shadows. He growled himself hoarse. He swung his steel sword at phantom after phantom until his arm grew too tired to fight on. It fell from his grasp and Edward fell along with it.

 

He wept.

 

And then, slowly, Edward Bardshaw began to piece himself back together.

 

`The others,' thought he. `What about the others?'

 

It was that one thought that fetched him from his fury. And then there was only anger. The swordsman hauled himself up, scrubbed his eyes dry, sheathed his blade, donned his cloak, shrugged its hood over his messy blonde whorls, then charged out of the cottage. Slops of mud squelched beneath his boots as he bolted down the southbound path of the lane towards the stables of Master Malbus, the wealthiest horsemaster in Harvenny Heath.

 

One of the journeymen stablers was there shoeing a piebald Highland horse (and giving instructions to an apprentice about the proper technique of doing so) when Edward's rigid shadow fell upon him. He threw down his scabbarded sword.

 

"I'll need that horse," he said sternly. "Get her saddled and bridled then give my blade to Master Malbus as collateral. I'll have her returned by morning."

 

The journeyman froze nervously. He looked around the stables for his master then swallowed a lump in his throat when he couldn't find him. "Begging your pardon, Master Bardshaw, but without my master's permission it wouldn't be right to-"

 

Edward gripped him by his collar with both hands and dragged him to his feet, startling the little apprentice boy at his side. "Who was it who spoke up for Malbus when the city court posted a warrant for his arrest over those unpaid grazing fees? Hm? Who was it who plundered his own pension to fund the repairs to the tavern house after your mutton-wit brother almost burned it to the ground? Hm? STILLINGFORD! That's who!"

 

The journeyman winced.

 

"Borrowing isn't theft, lad. Malbus will spare you his fists once he sees that sword. And by tomorrow morning the mare will be safely returned. So now do as I ask and GET THAT FUCKING HORSE SADDLED AND BRIDLED!"

 

"Y-Yes Master Bardshaw...!"

 

A gulp.

 

The journeyman and apprentice sprinted into action, and before long the piebald mare was leathered and watered for the ride. Edward thanked them both as he mounted up, drew its reins aside and galloped off down the main highway through the village toward Dragonspur. The cloaked rider huddled down and dug his heels into the horse's flanks yelling for it to pick up the pace as his thoughts raced twice as fast.

 

`I have to check in with the others,' he thought. `Under whose orders were Theopold and Will captured? Why now and not yesterday? What if Wolner found something in the paperwork?'

 

His thoughts were scattershot ramblings shooting through the fog of his own anger. All conjecture and passing suppositions. Nothing cohesive. Not until a kindled memory brought him back to the bedlam of Speaker's Square... and of the cloaked marksman he saw perched upon the rooftops... a shadow in the shadows of a red brick flue... pistol tilted low, too low to hit the forum or the king sat atop it... yet close enough to kill a spectator... to trigger a panic... and then how quickly came Wolner's men to King Oswald's rescue... how handily close by their streetside commandery was... and so conveniently soon into the good Constable's investigation into the Crow's Club...

 

Too many coincidences to be a coincidence.

 

Edward was almost to the gates of Dragonspur when the straying threads of this sordid matter finally wove together into a single cohesive skein. This was no mere happenstance. None of it was. This was a plot. A carefully and meticulously calculated plot.

 

`I see it now...' Ed thought, seething, his anger brewing more bitter with each frantic hoofbeat. `The King was never brought to Speaker's Square to listen to the people or give the Crow's Club a chance to make appeals to him! It was about creating a pretext to finally bring us down! Wolner...' His leathered fingers drew tightly to the bounding reins. `This is all YOUR doing! You orchestrated this! You orchestrated this entire act! DAMN YOU!'

 

No doubt the Duke of Greyford had a hand in this – Wolner was a molossus reared beneath his leash – but did King Oswald know about this? Did Roschewald? How deep did the conspiracy go?

 

The southern gatehouse of the outer city walls cast a long shadow over the winding presence of the Old King's Way. Edward rode Malbus' mare into that darkness until her pounding hooves stopped. Ed bunched up her reins as he eyed the shouting throng ahead of them; a mass of villagers and townsfolk, hundreds of them, with mule-drawn wagons full of crops and cages rattling with livestock, all of them crowding together at the maw of a single chokepoint where a small contingent of King's Eyes billmen stood guard.

 

`Checkpoints they've made now,' thought Ed. `Bastards'.

 

The Constable of Dragonspur was slowly tightening his talons around the city's throat, no doubt conjuring pretexts and premises to flush out the dissidents and miscreants once and for all.

 

One by one each prospective entrant was stopped, searched, and questioned about their business in the city. Edward growled. Was it better to loop around the wall and ride for the eastern gatehouse near the river? No. There was no point. He had to wait until his fellow townsmen and women were slowly processed, whittling down the bottleneck across the hours until he was next. And all the while he heard the whispers.

 

"D'you hear what happened at Speaker's Square?"

 

"That pulpit of rabble-rousers, yeah? What was said?"

 

"What was did! There was a crush there! More'n a hundred people dead now, I heard. The Bloody Parley, they're calling it! And you know what else? I think that Crow's Club lot had a hand in it! I think they wanted to kill our king and take over the country, just like Greyford did! To the underworld with `em!"

 

Edward felt his blood boil.

 

And there were many more gossipers of the like. Morishmen and women accusing the Crow's Club of working for the Duke of Greyford to undermine King Oswald, accusing Stillingford of seeking to install himself as king, or condemning the Club as a nest of `alien sympathizers' seeking to bring Morland under the thumb of the Empire. Baseless claims all, all rooted in ignorance. Ed wanted to SHOUT at them and chide them all, to protest, to remind them all that Theopold Stillingford spent the majority of his long life fighting on their behalf - but instead he grit his teeth and forced himself to bear it. Any outbursts might draw the ire of the King's Eyes and scupper his entry into the city.

 

The guardsman stayed mute until he was next in line. He dismounted, held his arms aloft to be searched, gave them his name (a false one – Kit Whitehead) and his purpose (a lie – selling his horse) then re-mounted and galloped off when they allowed him through.

 

A dark mood had settled throughout Dragonspur.

 

Where thousands once walked its streets, there were now only a few hundred. Most of its businesses had closed shop for the foreseeable. The markets were shut. Even the bourse had closed its doors to the merchants and tradesmen. All along the Old King's Way, the city's longest and most important highway, Wolner's jackals established checkpoint after checkpoint to choke off the city from its people.

 

But Edward knew those backstreets well. He avoided the King's Eyes outposts by slowly picking his way through narrow alleys and darkened back routes until he could ride unimpeded through the deserted city centre.

 

Ed went for where was closest. First to the Guildhall at Black Bow Street where Basil Smeadon was based. He called for him at the gate, but the yeoman posted there said Smeadon had `gone to ground' at his cottage in Alfriars.

 

The legal practice of Kenrick Thopswood came next, but Ed found it shuttered for the day. No doubt Thopswood had gone to ground as well.

 

Then, at the last, came the Crow's Club's dearest haunt – The Old Lioness. Edward rode down its dark laneway towards the stabling in the rear, dismounting and tethering Malbus' mare to one of its rickety posts. It was there he found Old Meg and the tavernmaster, clutching each other for dear life and weeping.

 

The tavern doors were externally boarded and there was a notice nailed to one of its planks.

 

 

"Bastards," spat the tavernmaster. "Bastards!"

 

Old Meg peeled herself from her husband's arms as Edward approached. "Ed!" She threw her warm arms around him and sniffled against his shoulder. "Oh, thank the saints you're alright! How's the master?"

 

Glinting tears welled in Ed's eyes as he was returned to the image of burly men carrying off his master. "Stillingford's been arrested, Meg. Will Rothwell too, and some of the others. Smeadon's sheltering in Alfriars and Thopswood I cannot find, but... he is hiding, I suspect."

 

"Oh no..." Meg palmed her lips before she wailed. "Oh no... poor Theopold. Poor Will..."

 

"What of you both? Are you well?"

 

The tavernmaster scrubbed his eyes. "We're alive and we have our freedom. What more can we ask for in the wake of all this?"

 

"The Old Lioness is gone," Meg returned to her husband's side. "My girls have all found other work. There's nothing left for us here. We're going back to our farmhouse in Merry Makepeace to see this all out. Then after that..."

 

Ed shook his head. "You're giving up? Truly?"

 

"It's over, Ed." The tavernmaster pointed a thick finger at the nailed boards. "It was over the moment Thomas Wolner walked through those doors. The Crow's Club is over."

 

"So, you see it too then? How Wolner authored all of this? We have to pull the veil from people's eyes, expose him to the king, something! We cannot simply..."

 

"...Ed..." The tavernmaster palmed his shoulder. "Listen to me. It is over. Perhaps someday something can be rebuilt from the rubble of our movement but at this moment... we're finished here. I have to protect my wife. We have to go."

 

He was right.

 

Meg was his wife. The Constable was at their heels and gnashing for blood. Edward could not in good conscience ask him to do otherwise than protect Meg. The swordsman cradled the hand upon his shoulder with his own. He sighed.

 

"Aye. It's farewell then. To you both... and to the Crow's Club."

 

Old Meg took Edward into her embrace again, stifling her little sobs before stepping away. "...We'll keep Will and Theopold in our prayers. In the meantime, go back to Harvenny Heath and keep the cottage warm for him, Ed. Mayhap the saints will be merciful. For the Folkweal."

 

Edward smiled, bitterly. "Aye. For the Folkweal."

 

Old Meg took to the tips of her scuffed moccasins and kissed his cheek with a farewell wish. And then Edward watched them both leave, two of the warmest faces he had ever had the pleasure to see. They mounted their mule-drawn cart laden with any salvageable goods – food, wine, clothes, furniture, etc. Old Meg offered Ed one last goodbye as the tavernmaster cracked his whip and drove the mules on through the dirt-tracked laneway. And then they were gone.

 

`Keep the cottage warm,' thought he. `But not today.'

 

Instead, he rode out. From the boarded-up doors of the Old Lioness he cleaved through a series of side streets before emerging at the stonework promenade along the River Wyvern, galloping east towards Manse de Foy.

 

There was another King's Eyes checkpoint ahead, this time at the southern bridgehead of the Dogford. Edward's stomach turned at the mere sight of Wolner's dogs, standing at the prowl and harrying every passing tradesman and marketeer seeking to hawk his wares in the northern (more affluent) side of the city. But the swordsman held his tongue. Kept his head down. And eventually he was allowed through after (falsely) declaring his business.

 

Edward rode on.

 

Manse de Foy, the Wallish chancery, was none too far ahead and at once – as before – its sumptuousness struck him; the empyreal white marble statues ornamenting its babbling water gardens, the little plots of lavender and juniper bestowing sweet fragrance to its hedge mazes and gravelled walkways. It was a nobleman's haunt if ever there was one, and Edward almost felt small approaching it. The northern side of the city was never made or meant for men like him. And yet there he was riding to the very gates of Roschewald's festooned holdfast in search of aid. `He claimed himself a follower of my master's teachings, did he not? A sympathizer of him? Well – let him prove it now.'

 

Three halberdiers of the Wallish Ambassador's household guard stood watch by the gates – now sealed. One of them, Edward recalled, was called Edrick – that Wallishman he'd saved from a thrashing. His wounds were healed. He smiled when he saw Edward, but his compatriots warily crossed polearms at his approach. Ed pulled back the reins and dismounted, proceeding the rest of the way on foot as he led the mare forward by the bridle.

 

"No harm is meant, masters." Said he. "I've been here before. My name is Edward Bardshaw."

 

Edrick smiled. Softly. Almost guiltily. "I well recall, friend."

 

"Aye. Well. I won't tarry with idle talk. My master Theopold Stillingford has been arrested under false pretences. Thine own master, Ambassador Roschewald, was ever kind to him. In that spirit of fellowship, I humbly request an audience with him to discuss the matter."

 

Edrick sighed. "That I cannot grant, master. His excellency is currently entertaining guests and is not receiving visitors."

 

"Very well then, what of Francis Gray? Might I speak with him?"

 

"Master Gray is away at present," said Edrick. There was an air of guilt about him, palpable and ill-suited. And then? It softened into a look of relent. He lowered his halberd and took Edward aside – and out of earshot. "My Lord Roschewald orders that no member of his household is to associate with any members of the Crow's Club. He will not entertain you. But if you want to see Francis – wait by the river. When he returns, I will send him to you."

Ed's smile returned – a small but earnest one. "Thank you, friend."

 

A nod. "Go now, quickly."

 

Edrick stepped back and proclaimed loudly, "Away with you! His excellency Ambassador Roschewald will not entertain you. Away!"

 

There was a clutch of trees between the riverbank and the south-facing wall of Manse de Foy. Edward gestured to it with a slight nod, Edrick nodded back, then Edward made his way to it, ducking around the corner between the southern and eastern walls. He held the mare steady and petted her as he waited out the hours for Fran's return.

 

It was long past noon when the clerk's carriage rolled by; its coachman bringing its team of galloping black horses to a brisk stop afore the chancery gates. Ed peered around the edge of the wall. He watched Francis climb out of the carriage. A noblewoman within blew him a kiss and thanked him for his aid. Fran gave the woman a polite bow then bade her coachman drive her off to Viscount Thormont's apartments. At once the carriage was away. Fran then turned to greet Edrick, who murmured discreetly to the younger man before gesturing at the tree now designated as their meeting point.

 

Fran excused himself and ambled over to it, his emerald eyes brightening when he found Edward Bardshaw lying in wait in the shadows. Their kiss was instantaneous. One moment they were apart and the next they were in each other's arms. It had only been a day since they last met and yet it felt like an eon. They parted lips, but not their embrace.

 

"Oh, Ed. I heard about what happened at Speaker's Square. Are you alright?"

 

"I am well," said he. "But Stillingford's been arrested."

 

A sigh. "That poor man. What happened?"

 

Edward told the sweet boy everything he remembered about The Bloody Parley. The gigantic crowds. Rothwell's demands. King Oswald's candour. The marksman atop the roof. The crush. The King's Eyes charging to their rescue. Their eventual release and eventual arrest. And their jeering, ungrateful neighbours. And before that the investigation led into them by the Constable and his men, and before even that the beating of their supply man, Knorris.

 

He watched Fran digest and piece together the information to form a conclusion not so dissimilar to Edward's own.

 

"Thomas Wolner," said Fran. "He's had this planned from the moment the King agreed to attend the square, I'm certain of it. He means to discredit you."

 

"At the Duke of Greyford's discretion no doubt. Can you help me, Fran? Your master has the king's ear, he's been warm to Stillingford in the past. Roschewald is the only one who can help him now."

 

Fran's smile softened. "Gustave cares only for Gustave, Ed. He wants nothing more to do with the Club in the wake of this. But I will try."

 

"Thank you," Edward drew Fran closed, chestnut head to his broad shoulders, and thanked the saints he still had this sweetheart to cling to. "Thank you..."

 

**********

 

The Queenswood, The Midburghs, Kingdom of Morland

43^rd of Summer, 801

 

It was Ser Fynn Glenyster who took the lead. As King Oswald and the inner circle of his hunting party sat aside in their saddles, his strapping Master of the Hunt stalked ahead of them to the edge of the footpath, where the hoof prints veered off into the leafy bushes between two towering oaks. Ser Fynn knelt down (his boiled hunting leathers squelched in muddy stains from boot to haunch) and called for one of his men to part the nettles. A servant of his chopped a path through the brush with a threshing hook, and with each yard cleaved more tracks were revealed. That and dung. Stinking, hot black clumps of dung fused together into an unsightly log and dumped into the earth where it lay.

 

Ser Fynn smirked victoriously.

 

Up ahead, where the wide beaten footpath swerved between the high oaks and thickets into the deep shade of the forest canopy, barking dogs were heard, snarling beasts held back by studded collars and the leather straps of Ser Fynn's fewterer, and behind him, the Duke of Greyford rode into the clearing at the head of his own branch of the hunting party, he and six of his closest retainers.

 

"What say you, Glenyster?" Barked he. "Was the beast not cornered?"

 

Ser Fynn drew his dagger and pointed to the chopped brush. He did not seem to notice the Duke's curt tone – or if he did, he did not show it. Greyford was rather infamous in his distaste for new men. "Aye, your grace. But he broke from the path and into the brush. Yet it may be to our advantage! There is a dell in that direction, perhaps a half-mile long that ends in a large glade where my best beaters are placed. From here we need only pick up the trail."

 

"Very well," Greyford gathered up the leather reins of his white-maned thoroughbred and cantered over to young King Oswald, sat imperiously in the gilt saddle of his prized silver backed stallion – Ambassador Ludolf's cunning gift to him. "Your Majesty. Your fat boar alludes us not. Glenyster says we may yet have him cornered."

 

The King threw back his hair, breathing deep of the country air, and cast his Lord Uncle the broadest of smiles. His exhilaration was evident. Despite his studious demeanour and continental education, Oswald's love of hunting and horsemanship was well known throughout the kingdom. Few were as surefooted a rider as he (or so it was said).

 

A chuckle. "Ah! Welcome news. And none too soon, how low the sun looms." Oswald turned to his leftmost outrider, Ser Robert Mountjoy. "Do you recall our first hunt through these woods, Ser Robert?"

 

"I do," Said the Lord Seneschal, with that ornate golden half-cloak perched across arm and shoulder. His saddle was customized with weights and harnesses to compensate for his lame leg. "You were a boy of seven at the time. The Queen Dowager insisted you were too young for the trail but that did not deter you."

 

Oswald drifted off, nostalgically. "Indeed. I rode off anyway and joined you. We caught a monarch that day, didn't we? Sixteen tines. What a fabulous beast. And what an ear thrashing mother gave me when we returned."

 

"You and I both," said Ser Robert. "But then your father, the late King Osmund, saints rest him, said... `The prince who masters his hunt shall be the king who masters his wars' if I recall correctly. That settled her humours."

 

Greyford frowned.

 

"What a day," the King cast a flat smile to his Lord Uncle. "What a pity I've so few experiences of the hunt since then."

 

The mood amongst all of them soured.

 

A group of around thirty now occupied that clearing in The Queenswood, the ancient hunting grounds of the Morish Royal House, half a day's ride inland of Dragonspur. A group split between King Oswald's retinue; himself, Ser Robert Mountjoy, Ser Fynn Glenyster, and several of his closest courtiers as well as Ambassador Roschewald – and the Duke of Greyford's band consisting of himself and the Earl of Huxton, Ambassador Ludolf, Matthias, Marquess de la More, and a handful of his various retainers.

 

All eyes turned to the king and his lord uncle.

 

Fran, eying them both, petted his horse's mane with gloved fingers as he and Gustave, similarly ahorse, felt plain the tension between the two factions. There were long standing rumours abroad the court of the King's unhappy upbringing in the household of his mother, the Queen Dowager Emma of Wuffolk. His many interests in hunting and riding were curtailed in favour of more academic pursuits – much to the desire of his lord uncle, it was said.

 

Greyford sighed. "For all its joys, hunting can be dangerous, Your Majesty. A mother's love is oft mistaken for churlishness. An uncle's concern for his nephew... and a duke's concern for the heir to the realm... similarly so."

 

Silence.

 

Fran had never cared for hunting, despite it being one of Gustave's favoured pastimes. He always found it so brutal and unbecoming. Yet when he looked to his master, sat so smug yet so nervously in his silver-trimmed black velvet and bear pelts, Fran wretched within himself. `Even this filthy pursuit is too great for you,' thought he. `Abandoner of thy child. Whoremonger of thine own son... vile bastard...'

 

HEH, HEH, HEH... Chuckled The Fiend in Fran's ear. HE DESERVES NOTHING LESS THAN HIS OWN GRAVE, BOY, BUT WE NEED HIM ALIVE. ALIVE!

 

King Oswald cut a false smile with pursed lips. "My sweet Lord Uncle. Take the joys of the hunt for thine own self this once. Ride ahead with the dogs, track my boar along the dell, and blow your horn when the beaters have it trapped for the kill. We shall follow anon."

 

The Duke returned a curt half-smile, equally false. "Yes, Your Majesty."

 

He turned his horse about and whipped at its reins, galloping ahead into the shaded forest trail. The Duke's retainers quickly followed, including his excellency Ambassador Ludolf, who cut Gustave a dark glare as he broke away with the others. Ser Fynn's fewterer and his gnashing bitches did the same.

 

`There are factions in this court,' thought Fran. `And their rift grows...'

 

It was an interesting development, but nothing that could not help him. He thought of Lothar and how much easier it would now be for him to slip his secret letter into the Duke of Greyford's chambers. And then, finally, Fran could begin his plans...

 

King Oswald saw his uncle off with a wry smile. He leaned into his Lord Seneschal's ear to whisper something inaudible (Fran being so far behind the rest of the King's retinue) but what came next defied that fact. It was the monarch's broad smile turning back to the Wallish ambassador and his humble Morish clerk. He gestured to them both with a flick of his hairless chin. "Your Excellency? Master Gray? A word, please?"

 

Most of the court now lodged at Rutherworth, a palatial summer retreat for Morish monarchs since the reign of Oswyke I, nestled at the edge of the Queenswood. Gustave and his Wallish retinue were some of the last to arrive yestermorn and their reception amongst the other courtiers was cool at best. The events of The Bloody Parley had cast a long and dark shadow over them, just as Gustave feared.

 

The King's retainers grumbled amongst themselves but held their position as Oswald coaxed his horse down the path in a slow even canter with only two of his mounted Bannerets following after him.

 

Gustave, taking the cue, swallowed a heavy breath and steeled himself for what was to come. With Fran in tow he followed King Oswald deeper into the woods away from prying eyes and ears with naught but slow hoofbeats and chirping birds and rustling leaves to break the silence.

 

Until...

 

"Why do you think I've asked to speak with you privately, excellency?" Asked the King.

 

Gustave exhaled. "...Perhaps to discuss the events at Speaker's Square...?"

 

Silence.

 

"What happened there was utterly regrettable," said Oswald. "By last count 109 Morish souls lost their lives in that stampede. A great waste. A great tragedy. And yet... certain issues were brought to my attention that I cannot in good faith countenance."

 

"Your Majesty?"

 

The peacock feathers of King Oswald's flat cap wafted about his shoulders as he rode. He did not look back at the ambassador. "Your agitators were correct. Odoists have been burned by the hundreds in the Lowburghs. The Earl of Wrothsby attests to it. He asserts the necessity of his work, but I have ordered him to suspend the Sacred Inquest until such time as I am able to review its workings myself."

 

Gustave kept his smile low – but his mood perked. "A wise decision, Your Majesty."

 

"Before everything fell apart, they spoke also of a Guard Tax. I had not known such unfair burdens had been placed upon my people throughout my Lord Uncle's regency. Such burdens are harbingers for unrest, I see that now. That is why I have given instructions to my Lord Sergeant to draft a bill for its repeal."

 

`Saints be,' thought Fran. `Perhaps your faith in this boy was not misplaced, Master Stillingford... even after the Bloody Parley, he-'

 

"An even wiser decision, Your Majesty," said Gustave. "Your Lord Uncle's rule was no doubt just, but perhaps these measures would go some way towards placating those... disaffected during his paramountcy."

 

King Oswald nodded. "I think so too. However, my Lord Treasurer is not so keen on the measure."

 

DE LA MORE! Spat The Fiend. DE LA MORE! DE LA MORE!

 

Gustave petted his horse. "His Lordship the Marquess of Gead does not approve?"

 

"He is miserly," said Oswald, chuckling softly. "But miserly men make for fattened coffers. He says repealing the Guard Tax would merit a 9% shortfall in annual revenue to the crown. That is no small amount of money, excellency. Which returns me to your consortium proposal."

 

No longer could Gustave hide his smile. He rode ahead until his horse was side to side with the King's own. "I did have other proposals in mind..."

 

"Good. I should like to hear them. I will sit for counsel with my Masters of the Realm very soon and I would like you and Master Gray to attend. Draft your proposals and we will discuss them."

 

Though it threatened his plans for Gustave to be further side-lined at court, a little piece of Fran had champed at the bit to watch King Oswald tear strips out of the Wallish brute for his role in the Speaker's Square fiasco. And yet here he was in the wake of that chaos somehow managing to benefit from it. They were slippery as eels were the Roschewalds, always falling by some miracle into greater heights. They had the luck of the saints... or rather... the brothers Gustave and Neidhart did. The brothers Lothar and Luther? Perhaps not. But still. This did not amend everything. There was still the matter of...

 

"Your Majesty, I-"

 

Fran stopped himself.

 

He was speaking out of turn.

 

He knew that.

 

Gustave glared at him for it.

 

And yet, die cast, as the King glanced over his cloaked shoulder and asked the clerk a swift, "What is it, Master Gray?" Fran could not help himself. He knew his bastard master would punish him for it later, but he could not help himself. "What of the Crow's Club, Your Majesty? The men who brought these concerns to your attention. What becomes of them?"

 

Roschewald's fists tightened around his reins.

 

"The agitators?" The King cast his eyes ahead again. "The Constable of Dragonspur has investigated them for some time now and sends me disturbing reports of their activities. Reports of sedition and the proliferation of seditious materials from clandestine printing houses. Some members have even been found smuggling arms and funds to Edith the Exile."

 

"...Y-you mean..."

 

"An example must be made," said King Oswald. "Their properties have been seized, their finances frozen, and their two ringleaders, Stillingford and Rothwell, have been arrested. The pair will be tried on charges of sedition and conspiracy to commit acts of sedition... then they will be executed."

 

Fran's heart sank.

 

Gustave looked away. "If... if that is Your Majesty's wish, then..."

 

A hunting horn blared in the dark distance.

 

The King's smile widened. "Ah! Seems my Lord Uncle summons me for the kill. Come along now, masters! Let's soak Rutherworth with the scent of roast boar!"

 

The boy king cried with zeal and galloped off with a single beating of his horse's reins. Gustave and the two Bannerets did likewise and yelled at Fran to stay apace. And from behind them approached a mass of thundering hoofbeats –

Ser Robert and the other courtiers of the King's personal retinue riding hard to catch up with their lord sovereign.

 

Fran's horse did not move. It held its place, whickering softly as the others trundled past it down the forest path.

 

Fran was still and silent and tearful.

 

COME ALONG, BOY! Yelled The Fiend. FOLLOW THE OTHERS! TARRY NOT LEST IT MAR YOUR STANDING WITH THE NOBLES! FOLLOW! FOLLOW NOW!

 

But he did not listen to The Fiend. Fran took up the reins of his horse, tears in his eyes, and coaxed it back around in the direction of Rutherworth Palace. His thoughts were of his life's love, Edward Bardshaw, and of the letter he would write to him, ruing bitterly the sad tidings it would deliver.

 

**********

 

Gallows Grove, Dragonspur, Kingdom of Morland

89^th of Summer, 801

 

There was a wrinkled letter inside Edward Bardshaw's calloused hands. He opened it up and read it.

 

 

Edward Bardshaw folded the letter – by halves, then by quarters – and slipped it back inside the middle seam of his tunic. There were tears in his eyes (as there always were) when he re-read it, perhaps for the twentieth time in as many days, but he thumbed them away, his bearded face obscured by the flapping hood drawn over his ears. He looked to his left. Basil Smeadon stood there swathed and hooded by his own dark cloak, eyes burning with rage as he glanced through the jeering crowds to the croaking wooden gallows erected in the heart of the fields.

A quarter of a mile rightward stood the soaring western gatehouse of the city walls, and from beyond it, temple bells tolled. It was noontide on execution day and the headsman had a few benighted souls to send to the saints.

 

Hard winds rocked the scaffold, begging no small wonder how it held its own weight against them, much as the commonfolk whispered. And there were whispers in the hundreds that day, whispers in numbers almost reminiscent of that terrible day they now called the Bloody Parley. The whispers were of traitors and seditionists, of evil old men seducing young maids to slander the king, of a guildmaster's son seeking to import armies of alien workers to take over the realm and impoverish the good Morish yeoman. The whispers were of the Crow's Club – a secret nest of greedy bankers, corrupt clerks, evil Odoists, alien sympathizers, and traitorous tradesmen with designs to kill the king.

 

"Fools," whispered Ed. "Absolute fools!"

 

Smeadon eyed him sideways. "Quiet. Here they come."

 

That was when the chanting began and the crowds fell into respectful silence as a young pair of cassocked castratos slowly scaled the scaffold, singing the Chant of the Ancient Ones in honour of the four saints. Hooded shepherds followed close behind the boys with smoke trails of burning incense wafting into the air from chained lanterns swinging from their palms. And behind them came the High Shepherd of the Midburghs, Aldwyn; a dough-skinned shave-pate ambling barefoot in pearly robes emblazoned with intricate golden symbols – each one a reflection of the chief aspects of the four saints – Courage, Love, Strength, and Temperance. He was the only man beneath the Lord Shepherd with authority under saintly law to bless any child of any saint. He and the castratos sang a canticle with the gathered, slowly and softly, to bequeath the moment with reverence and holiness it did not deserve.

 

Then came the headsman.

 

Tall. Muscled. Dressed in nothing more than a brown hood, brown breeks, and brown boots. His axe awaited him at the chopping block as he mounted the scaffold with the others.

 

And then, finally, the prisoners were brought out of the paddock beneath the rigging. Men of the Crow's Club, one after the other, gyved by iron shackles at wrist and ankle – men whom Edward had drunk with, japed with, laughed with, debated with, trained with. Men of honour. Men with hearts of gold. Men who wanted nothing more than to deliver a better realm for the people who now stood there scorning them.

 

Then they brought out Will.

 

Ed bit his lip.

 

They'd done him over.

 

That firebrand silver-tongued speaker, the guildmaster's son, William Rothwell, was now a shadow of himself. His flame red hair was gone – shaved down to the grain. His flesh was pallid, bruised, and riddled with flea bites, his figure gaunt, his cheeks sunken and sweaty. Both his eyes were blackened. Some of his teeth and toenails were missing. His white undershirt dripped red from the whip welts weeping at his back. He looked like he hadn't eaten in days. His broken gait was reminiscent of palsy, he could barely stand. It was as if the light had been sucked from his eyes. The gathered crowds insulted him, all of them, but Will Rothwell couldn't have been aware of it. Wolner's tortures had taken him to another world – a world Edward knew all too well. Death was almost a mercy if it delivered you from that place.

 

"Hang on, Will..." Ed said, lips trembling. "Stay strong... just a bit longer..."

 

Then they brought out Stillingford.

 

Edward caught his breath.

 

His master. His teacher. His confidant. His good friend. The man who saved him from the same plane of desolate ruin that Will now walked. His fucking father, by all accounts. And they'd beaten him. Head to toe. Barely able to stand, eyes fused shut with clotted blood, his withered lips gasping for breath as a brace of bastard King's Eyes carried his broken body up the scaffold steps to join the other prisoners.

 

Edward didn't hear himself scream Stillingford's name until Basil Smeadon slapped his mouth shut, warning him to hold his fucking tongue lest he lose it. But it did not matter. The crowd now was too raucous with bloodlust to notice either of them.

 

Naught was to be done.

 

High Shepherd Aldwyn stepped forth and proclaimed loudly. "PRAISE BE TO OUR SAINTS! MAY THEY BLESS US ALL AS WE DISPATCH UNTO THEM THESE BENIGHTED SOULS WHO HAVE STRAYED SO FAR FROM THEIR PATH! THE FIRST OF THE CONDEMNED IS THIS MAN!" To the old man he pointed. "THEOPOLD STILLINGFORD! THIS MAN WAS TRIED AND FOUND GUILTY OF SEDITION AND CONSPIRACY TO COMMIT ACTS OF SUCH! DOES THE ACCUSED HAVE ANYTHING TO SAY BEFORE HIS SOUL IS DELIVERED TO THE STARS ABOVE?"

 

Edward and Basil looked on.

 

Stillingford wept, frowning through broken teeth, tears crystallising in caked blood, as he raised his chin to the jeering crowd he could not see. And his last words were very, very simple.

 

"F-f-for... t-t-he... f-for the Folkweal..."

 

They dragged him to the block. Fixed his neck into the groove. Pinned him down and held him there as the headsman collected his freshly cleaned axe and held it aloft in the bone white light of the sun.

 

"SEND HIM TO THE SAINTS!" Cried Aldwyn.

 

A single warping flash of steel flew through the air. An axe fell through a noble neck and clapped the grain below like a cleaver through a lamb leg. A crowd gasped. And then a single gelid head fell softly into the bloody basket twelve feet below.

 

**********

 

·        Thanks again for reading everybody! Stay tuned for more. Feedback and constructive criticism are always welcome at stephenwormwood@mail.com .

 

·        Please read some of my other stories on Nifty: The Dying Cinders (gay, fantasy/sci-fi), Wulf's Blut (gay, fantasy/sci-fi), The Harrowing of Chelsea Rice (gay, fantasy/sci-fi), The Dancer of Hafiz (gay, fantasy/sci-fi), The Cornishman (gay, historical), A Small Soul Lost (gay, fantasy/sci-fi), and Torc and Seax (transgender, magic/sci-fi).