Mycroft Ravenport, Master of Arms of Her Majesty’s Mages and her minister of Foreign Affairs, skulled his third glass of Highland Macallan, vastly outpacing the recommended recreational dosage prescribed by his worrisome daughter. On his desk, an enormous crow helped itself to another shot of the same in a tall tube, while Charlene sat, watching the fragrant single malt infuse his body with the rare mana of the Wildlands. After a moment, Mycroft reached for the bottle again. “Third one’s the charm, father,” Charlene’s sweet voice, so full of clarity and judgement, shot across the hardwood surface of the Minister of Foreign Affairs’ work table. “How’s Oliver?” Ravenport changed the subject expertly. “Is Magister Edwards taking the news well?” “Ollie has no more hair, and therefore no more worries,” his daughter did not bite as he had hoped. “Temperance, father, or you might lose yours…” Ravenport massaged his brow. Of all the forces tied to the Regent’s ambition, House Ravenport was the foremost beneficiary, and therefore, most burdened by her success. On paper, a wondrous thing had just happened. On the Mageocracy’s map of trade routes, the South American continent had always remained a Black Zone. Cuzco was an ally, but their mastery of the coastal trading routes was tenuous. Amazonia, without question, was out of bounds for anything beyond recreational poaching by members of the Grey Faction. Tenochtitlan was an isolationist, theological adversary, while the rogue colonies to the north were trade deficit-driven and sought to supplant the Mageocracy’s works in the world. Ergo, the prospect of building a stable, friendly, and potentially unassailable trading port on the Chilean Coast was the single greatest news for Humanity since the Fifth Vel and since Deephelm’s co-development treaty. As the speaker of the Grey Faction, Ravenport welcomes these entirely new frontiers of trade and commerce. It was what the Mageocracy had attempted and failed spectacularly in the Niger Delta. Compared to their failed operation, what the Regent had managed within two years was a generational feat worthy of the Empire’s highest honours. Mycroft Ravenport was also the Minister of Foreign Affairs. Domestically, the Militants who had hated the Regent with every fibre of their being now consider themselves her most ardent supporters, going so far as to threaten ultraviolence on anyone who dared to challenge the claim that they were behind her every step. The Faction’s heir, the scion of Holland, thanks to his Draconic Spirit, was a fervent follower of the Regent’s ambitions. Conversely, his Grey Faction was far too splintered and profit-driven to mount a resistance against the profitess, and the Middle Faction were her true support since the beginning, thanks to her role as the Apprentice of Henry Kilroy. Thanks to the METRO and her enormous charity works, the Regent also enjoyed unparalleled popularity among the commoners, particularly the impressionable youth, who were swayed by her fashionable aesthetics. Her social and political popularity meant that, if the Regent were eligible for Prime Ministership tomorrow, there was a real chance that she may meet the Queen a week later… Which was well and good for the IoDNC’s meteoric stock prices, but not very good for the Empire’s strained diplomatic corps. First and foremost, there was the eventual opening of the Shalkar Cross-Atlantic Transit Route, SCATR for short. From London to Paris to Berlin, all roads lead to Shalkar, then to the Planar node of Deepholm. Though the Dwarven city was xenophobic, its historical undertaking required vast amounts of Journeymen and cross-species Enchanters. Meanwhile, lacking her own diplomatic corps, the Regent had bestowed the honours upon Charlene, which meant House Ravenport, which meant Mycroft. In the coming weeks, he would have to juggle the interests coming from Berlin and Bavaria, as well as Paris, Milan, Oslo and other European powers who had suckled the sweet nectar of the Regent’s Dyar Morkk. Furthermore, the directive from the Crown had been that low-ways should foster continental unity, with Shalkar at its heart, holding a tight rein on its licences. They were now living in interesting times because their Regent had given the Mageocracy a third Renaissance, which was extended by her master, Henry Kilroy. If they managed this resource well, using it as a stick and carrot, the status quo of the Mageocracy’s influence in the Prime Material would remain for another generation or three, which meant The Accord could be kept in balance as well. A difficult antagonist, however, had reared its serpentine head. “Have you contacted Magister Weissman?” Ravenport gestured to one of the reports Mori had materialised earlier. “This matter isn’t going to sit well with our… Regent, when she returns to civilisation… high on her solo expedition.” “I have, and… Magister Weissman is helpless in this regard. The Massachusetts Institute of Thaumaturgy is privately funded, and if the board refuses his veto powers, there’s nothing to challenge legally.” “...Do you think she will start a war with the Americans?” The Duke felt a terrific throb in his temples. “She might, but I think it's more likely they will push her into one.” “Out of necessity or greed?” Ravenport tested his daughter. “Out of necessity, because she has already proven that Gunther Shultz could be transported without incident across the continent, without the tacit approval of their mid-way stations at Hawaii,” Charlene’s ever-intelligent eyes twinkled. “To leave such a transit node in the hands of mere allies isn’t something a nation as untrusting as the United States can allow. Allow us to recall that Lord Shultz and our Regent lassoed a Lich, Father. Such a thing hasn’t happened since the Great War.” “And accordingly, the Golden Bull hungers. The Plutocrats will not rest until they’ve had their slice of the pie. In their eyes, it's their market that we’ve somehow created, then usurped. That’s why they took Magus Williams. I don’t think we can avoid a confrontation, Father. Gwen will need to oversee the development on the East Coast with her unique… charm. All we can do is give her as much diplomatic immunity as the Empire can afford.” Mycroft thumbed his empty crystal glass with its carved crest of House Ravenport. “We have… little reach across the ocean, you know this.” “That reach was just amplified a thousandfold, a week ago, Father,” Charlene sighed. “We can field any number of Mages and Golems into South America if Deepholm allows, and if the Regent willed it, it will be allowed. She also has a navy there. No one has seen it yet, but it's there.” “This is a wonderful and unfortunate truth,” the Duke groaned. “Compared to this, I would be glad to receive a dozen Liches.” His gripe was true, for the Lich with the surname of Oi was handed to the Ordo Michael, then transported in secret to the Vatican, where experts in the matter of Faith Magic may yet unravel the myriad folds of Geas withholding information from the interrogators. Meanwhile, London was still waiting for an opportune moment to announce the Regent’s accomplishments to the world, and it seemed that wedging the news of the Lich’s defeat in between the orgy of interest in her new enterprise would be the soundest and safest way forward. Ironically, the Adherents of Juche had been silent on the matter. Mycroft confidently suspected that they knew Oi was captured—but destroying the Lich’s phylactery would mean that Oi had every reason to give up his Supreme Leader. Ergo, for an immortal who trusted no one, the “God” sitting in the centre of Pyongyang’s Necropolis must put on a show of absolute faith in his lost sycophant. “What of Lindholm?” Mycroft felt that he should probably spend some father-daughter time with Charlene. One needed only to look at the Regent to see what would happen if mischievous daughters grew up without the warmth of a caring father. “Has she returned to the Ordo?” “She has, as have the survivors.” Charlene’s expression grew complex. “From their debriefing, it seems that the Dragon Ruxin, together with Master Golos, toured Che’ell-Cressen. Master Golos offered to fight their Vessels, while Master Ruxin skillfully negotiated for the release of the Ordo Knights and Lady Lindholm.” “Is the Rothwell boy still…?” Ravenport recalled vaguely the blonde youth inducted into the Ordo. “... damaged?” “Sir Rothwell will need years of extensive therapy, even with aid from the Golden Mead and Faith Healing. He will be made whole, but the man who ventured into the Murk with Lady Lindholm is a thing of the past,” Charlene said, her voice a little softer for her empathy. “The Ritual performed by the Regent’s brother was… vicious, to say the least. It was the magic of Sobel, mixed within something else. Lady Lindholm can regrow the parts he’s lost, but the immaterial…” “Ah. Kirin sorcery," Ravenport recalled the appendices. “Had we not gained a Regent, I would have been worried. Send the boy something. His aunt remains a close confidant of ours, and a trustworthy ear in the Ordos.” “Understood. But all is not woe. At least now, the Ordos can put a price on their grudge,” Charlene informed him. “Only Senechal Ashburn took the matter seriously before. Now, all of them are fully committed to finding what remains of Gwen’s brother, and the scattered legacy of the Necrophage, the States not withstanding.” The Duke of Norfolk stopped at an intricate globe, a magical device that could project a detailed map of the world as the Mageocracy saw it. “The Necrophage…” he tapped the part of the globe dominated by an enormous, beautiful landmass, once the crown colony of the old Britannic Mageocracy. If he knew Spectre as well as he professed, then he understood that Spectre’s plans were multifarious and wide-ranging. Gwen had rooted out the pustule, but the infection was far from over. North of the Chilean Coast was the Caribbean, home to the Seat of the Ninth Vel. Above that, in the Gulf of America, renamed by the present administration from Seno Technocitlan, was home to the Tenth Vel. Each was home to untold volumes of exiled Mer Clans, refugees from the eternal conflicts of the deep. Above them lay Miami, that flourishing pantry which supplied the east coast with unlimited resources harvested from the Vels, feeding every city from Jacksonville to Boston. Merman—Miami—The Phage. His mind mapped an intricate spider web of reason that linked cause and effect, potential and portent. The United States—Neo Technocitlan—Che’ell-Cressen. In the ensuing chaos, where had the Lich Squid gone? If he were the infinitely cunning Ljósálfar pulling Spectre’s strings… Perhaps it was a good idea to unleash the Regent on their old colonies. In all likelihood, a localised war was inevitable, and only their Regent could create enough uncertainty to make Spectre’s sympathisers think twice about profiteering from the chaos. “I’ve changed my mind,” Ravenport said to his daughter, who waited with patience to dissect his wisdom and learn from him. “Let’s leave the matter of the patents to the Regent. Leave no detail of our American allies untold. Let her understand the breadth and depth of our former colony’s appetite.” It was said that the United States became the wealthiest nation on the Prime Material Plane because of Humanism. Humanism was the belief that Humanity were the inheritor of the Earth, that select Humans were blessed by the Almighty and his son, the Nazarene, to go forth and multiply upon the Prime Material. In the old country, the scripture had a different implication, for it was written in a time when Human empires grew and wilted like monsoonal fungi. The Testament of the New World Adventists, conversely, informed the Thirteen Colonies that the New World was their oyster, and that anything that stood in the way of the gospel of prosperity was blasphemy, lies, or both. And so, on the banks of the Hudson, sheltered from the harsh surf of the North Atlantic, a new Human Empire came to be, built on the belief that as long as the star-spangled banner flew over Washington, liberty would reign over the land of the free and the home of the brave. In Manhattan, the seven Towers that stood as sentinels to the newly risen American Empire were living proof of its unfettered march toward human progress. It was on the fiftieth floor of the Empire Tower, in a boardroom full of important men wearing tailored suits, that Eric Gilt stood an inch away from the glass perimeter, pondering the fate of his nation. Cloest to the Empire was The Walton Tower, with its stranglehold over agriculture and wholesale produce, home to a megacorp that employed more bodies than any other corporation in North America. Next was The Slate Tower, the original crafters of the now ubiquitous Data Slates used by every nation everywhere, a centre of Human-centric Magitech. In the Slate’s shadow sat the FedEx Tower, the largest logistical corporation in the USA and the owner of the largest cargo fleet besides the Mageocracy’s conglomeration corporations. Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings. Drawing closer to Central Park stood The Unity Tower, home of the United Health Alliance, which held a monopoly over the distribution of healthcare and pharmaceutical potions on the East Coast. Taller than the rest was thedistinct facade of the Twin Towers, housing an alliance of the nation’s financial traders, from old banking families like Stanley Morgan, to newcomers like Berkshire, to the Gilded Age financiers of the Chase family, and the House of Sachs. The final Tower was just out of view from the Empire’s north-facing suites. This was the Gilt Tower, a landmark that housed the empire built by Jonathan Gilt’s Ether Engine. Once, it was the tallest building in New York. However, after Gilt released the patent to his designs as a boon to Humanism, it was surpassed first by the Empire, then by the latecomers who carved out their individual niches. Henry Kilroy, the man who introduced the notion of Towers as the means of rapid reclimation, had never imagined that his design would become symbols of might in their own right. Each corporation that attained a certain stratum of wealth immediately went about building a Tower as a monument to its own grandeur, resulting in something that Europeans could only shake their heads at. Consequently, this excess of Towers had decentralised military power into the hands of corporations, crafting a country perpetually hungry for conquest. “We’ve relocated Magister Williams,” an aide, a young blonde woman with a comeliness that wasn’t excessive, reported with relief. “Our IST Mages have secured his data vault and brought it to our labs in MIT. He remains uncooperative, but that will change.” “And the patents?” Gilt tried to recall the face of the NoM called John C Williams, but could find nothing in his well-tuned, impeccable memory, for that was how unimportant the man had been. “We have everything, particularly the interface system used to integrate the IMS with Dwarven Runecraft. Williams was also working on Hvítálfar Glyphscript at the behest of the Regent of Shalkar. Our office had MIT transfer ownership for everything John submitted, down to his graduation thesis on Control Interface for Wands, for NoMs.” “We’ve launched a multi-national petition to be paid for John’s inventions, which of course, the Gilt Motor Corporation now owns.” “Well done, Emily. Still, our debtors won’t fold so easily. Are the Slate siblings on board?” Eric could picture the brother and sister now, grinning their sardonic grin, knowing that the conglomerate needed them to pull the rug from the Mageocracy’s feet. “They are. Slate has issued a joint statement with FedEx stating that, unless the rightful possessors of the technology are paid, we will sanction the supply of Data Engines and Mid-way transit permits.” “And how have our detractors responded?” Gilt felt a tiny sliver of thrill course through his body, like the opening blast of a high-tier, high-risk duel. “Poorly, as expected,” his aide replied expertly, "London is appealing through legal means. Europe protests, but it is toothless. We’re still awaiting a response from the Regent herself.” For the Regent, Gilt had a crystal clear mental vision of the young woman. He had seen her in her IIUC performance when he was a student at MIT himself. Even now, he could see her in her infamous crow-suit, as clarified in his mind as if she were standing beside him. The Regent cut a striking figure, one who, like his grandfather, the late Jonathan Gilt, had built herself up from nothing. This quality made her far more desirable than, say, the inheriting daughter of the Vanderbilts, whose descendants failed to escape the shadow of their profound founders. “Extract what you can from Williams, but keep him hale.” Gilt placed the priceless porcelain cup on the tray of yet another assistant. “We will have to return him, eventually, and he needs to appear to be happily fed, watered, and treated.” “Yes, Master Gilt.” His assistant snapped her heels, a leftover habit from her service with the Seventh Recon. “Shall we bring her to you at the first opportunity?” Eric Gilt, heir to the Empire, looked at his zealous assistant appreciatively. Like many of the men and women who came to work for the Gilt Family, theirs was a generational endeavour. For Emily to have risen so far, so quickly, her father and his father would have worked for Jonathan Gilt since the days of the Founding. For multiple generations, there would have been a vague sense of worship for the man who built an empire from the rubble and ashes of the Great War. This story of Jonathan Gilt—the man and the myth—was a good story. It was also replicated as inauthentic facsimiles by Gilt’s competitors, particularly the Waltons with their sordid history of slavery. “Goodness, Emily,” Eric shook his head. “Gwen will be a guest. A rare guest. Treat her as if you would treat me. We’re not doing any of this out of antagonism. It’s a pragmatic business approach, and I am hoping we’ll agree on potential mergers. Do you understand?” Emily nodded. He could see that she did not understand. His assistant could not fathom that some regional ruler of a wealthy county could be as valuable a figure as the heir to the Ether Engine, the foundational mechanism that powered Humanity’s machines. Fortunately, Eric did understand. From his conversation with Prince Inti, he knew that the Regent was a figure as important to the present world as his grandfather. The question, therefore, was what benefits the Gilt conglomerate could gain from working in tandem with the Regent, and if nothing else, what they may M&A from the carcass of her corporation. Unbidden, the space immediately in front of Eric shimmered, the mana barrier disintegrating something that had drifted into view. “Oh, look at that.” Gilt felt a strange calm as his attention returned to the rival Towers present before him, laid out like colossal dominoes. “Isn’t that rare, Emily? Snow, so late in March…” While the wider world moved around the events of her making, the shaker herself was on her way back to civilisation via Cuzco. As always, time seemed to dilate whenever she worked with Lei-bup’s Mer. First, the extrication of Aristotle from the headland was far more complicated than she had expected. Channels had to be dug, tides had to be calculated, and unimaginable volumes of seawater had to be moved for her Leviathan to “retreat” without further tearing itself apart. A week later, when all of this was done, the cleansing of Arica, far from her initial expectations, was more complex still. This was because, once she had consigned the Phage Pools to the Void in the literal sense, her Mer discovered an extensive system of warrens and tunnels that led back into Amazonia. Normally, this fairly obvious occurrence shouldn’t have raised alarms. Her calm was broken, however, when her Sea Witches divined that the Murk trails led not to any random portion of Amazonia, but the heart of the World Tree located in the grand forest’s loci. What’s worse, the seawater that her Witches injected into the Murk revealed a path toward Amazonia’s roots, a location she knew all too well. Worryingly, Gwen saw for herself what Oi and Spectre had planned. Either the Lich amassed an army large enough to surge into Che’ell-Cressen and lay one of the Spires to waste, thereby erasing the balance of power, or the ultimate plan was to send the decaying Mer en masse into the city until everything withered, completely destabilising Quar-Tath’s lair and thereby, causing another Black Dragon incident ala the Fire Sea. It was all speculation, of course, but she had fought Spectre for enough of her adult life to deduce that game recognised game. After a long meditation on the roles of the Mageocracy, on Tryfan, and of her own needs, she decided that this secret should be kept to herself and the upper echelons of her followers. Once her Mer cleared out, Hanmoul’s men would arrive to construct a Dyar Morkk station, one that would allow for rapid transit of troops, or at least enough “Power Houses” to overpower the momentary madness of an Ancient Black Dragon seeking to overturn the status quo of the Prime Material and send every Magical Creature in Amazonia flooding across the South American continent. What followed was the mundane work of teaching a Mermen cult the occult understanding of civil engineering. This was carried out by the Dwarves who were still hell-bent on marking the region with a citadel so they could continue to scour the Murk for their infested kin. Mermen Foremen, the first of their kind, were assigned ill-fitting hardhards, often bolted onto chitin-growths and enormous lobster heads, then directed by their Dwarven and Rat-kin handlers to proceed to the various sections of Arica. Arica itself, post-Aristotle, was now a deep-sea port with an enormous U-shaped wedge making a natural inlet that kissed the river feeding the coast. As expected, her men had a frustrating and rough start. The Mer, as evidenced by their construction in the Fifth Vel, had little appreciation for angles and precision. The poor communication between the Dwarven planners, Rat-kin foremen, and the Mer-teams was so inconsistent that Gwen was on the verge of feeding a school to Caliban when Ariel took charge and blessed the work crews with Kirin magic. Suddenly, like the labourers of Babel, something clicked between the crab-men and the Dwarves in their Klads. Platforms were levelled. Piles were driven into the igneous rock, and wastewater was drained without incident. Under the glow of Ariel’s divine illumination, tens of thousands of Mer worked in tandem, guided by the firm hand of their Dwarven directors in their mechanical suits, terraforming the raw jungle into the beginnings of civilisation. The very first building to be completed, taking a total of seven days, was the Bunker. Set into the base of the steeply climbing Andes, the six-storey structure would eventually feature an internal network linking its surface entrance to the Geofront beneath the buildings. Thanks to pre-fabrication, her abode was quickly furnished, allowing her to enjoy hot showers and gourmet meals that did not involve raw fish. When Gwen was finally satisfied that everything would proceed as Hanmoul promised, she decided to delegate the supervision to Ariel. After using the Dyar Morkk to relay a Message that travelled halfway around the world, she took to the air and blasted her way across the Chilean north. As the crow flies, flanked by Caliban in its menacing form, it took her just under four hours to shoot up the side of the Andes, past the many skylakes that dotted the mountainside. Incidentally, she had the sudden pleasure of arriving at a wondrous mountain of many colours known as Hatun Ch'aqu. Much to her delight, a rainbow hue of naturally bands seemed to possess the mountain, streaking its surface with vivid cuts of crimson, sunburst, turquoise, pink and faded violet. The scene was so reminiscent of Almudj that she stopped and prayed, traversing her consciousness across time and space to her World Tree, wondering if Almudj had grace the South American continent in its Pangea days of duelling Dragons. She received no enlightenment, but was happy and satisfied by the wonder of the natural world. At Cuzco, she was welcomed with festive fanfare by maidens from the Temple of the Moon, then ushered into the palace by Inti and Inti, Tica, and the masters of the Suyu, joined by her CFO, one Magister Eric Walken. Inside the golden temple, after a hearty meal of alpaca and other exotic Peruvian fare, she relayed the happenings of her conquest, much to the awe of her guests. “I take no credit in any of this,” her former instructor sighed, looking older and greyer. “Once, the Mer invaded Sydney with a Leviathan. Now, you’re reclaiming the Wildlands with your own Leviathan. If Henry were still here, he would be just as shocked as I am and proud. Very proud. Gwen.” “Thanks, Eric.” Gwen felt both sad and fuzzy. Indeed, if her Master were here, he would probably slap his thighs and tell Sufina to offer a round of Golden Mead to all. “I did what I could. The Necrophage is cleansed as far as I could pursue it, and the area is transforming as we speak.” “When will you be needing us?” The Sapa Inti asked carefully, in case he spoke too loud and offended the Regent of a multi-million Shoal of Mer. “We can work as soon as you need us.” “We can spare four thousand craftsmen and a hundred Mages,” Amaru, their Tower Master, assured them. “I’ve been planning to carve a low-way between our city and the port. Even with Golem Engines and help from Master Hanmoul, it will take a few weeks, but the rudimentary stages should be completed before the port itself.” “Oh, good,” the Sapa Inti looked relieved. “Well done, Brother.” Read complete version only at NovelHub(.)net The Tower Master’s smile did not reach his eyes. The man was doing his best, Gwen could see. Cuzco’s public service was a form of conscription, so overtaxing the people was a demand the Sapa Inti loathed to perform upon his beloved citizens. Some would say that this made the King weak, for the economy did not wait for feelings. However, Gwen truly felt that a monarch who cared more for his people’s happiness than for the nation’s coffers had a rare charm, one that she wanted to support. With dinner done, cheeks kissed and hands held, the council retreated, leaving Gwen alone with her advisor, the CFO of the IoDNC, and the future Magister Administrator of Arica, sister city to Shalkar. “Alright, give it to me,” Gwen pulled up a chair in the side room, reserved usually for the Suyu elders who loved a good toke after a full meal. “You’ve been sitting like the chair’s made from Caliban.” “Haha, nothing gets past you.” Her old instructor pulled himself toward a divan and made himself comfortable. “I am sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but finally, as expected, someone made a move for the Dyar Morkk.” Gwen breathed in, calmed herself, then breathed out. “The Russian economy must have a fucking death wish.” “Aha, wrong,” Walken seemed pleased that he finally caught her committing an unforced error. “Not Russians. Americans.” “Americans?” Gwen scanned her most recent memories. “I don’t know any Americans.” “Ah, but you do,” Eric Walken shot a little lumen-pic into the air with a swish of a finger. “Magister William, from the Massachusetts Institute of Thaumaturgy, the man responsible for the IMS User Interface we’re implementing on the urban low-way lines.” A dozen memories flashed through her mind as the timid face of the Magi-tech NoM expert flashed across her frontal lobe. “How so? I paid him for the work. He has an employment contract with the IoDNC. Our HDMs funded everything he made; he even paid taxes in the UK.” “True, true, and true,” Walken nodded. “It’s a moot point now, but Magus Williams does not… own the knowledge he initially brought to the table. MIT patented those, and though Cambridge has a tacit agreement to share advances in IMS with the Americans, they had just informed us that the Gilt Motoring Corporation has purchased every patent MIT ever filed under Magus Williams.” “They’re…” Gwen’s brows furrowed as her anger ignited. “They’re patent-trolling me?” “What a novel way of putting it.” Walken cocked his head to one side. “But yes, I suppose they are. They’re demanding that we pay them for William’s initial work by apportioning a percentile of the low-way ownership.” If they weren’t in Inti’s Temple, Gwen suspected she might have shot a Void Bolt through a wall. “That’s bullshit,” she hadn’t felt this humiliated since someone groped her ass at her uncle’s banquet. “You know that’s bullshit. What can the Americans do anyway? We’re the Mageocracy. So I don’t pay. AND they get no low-way. Good riddance.” “Ah, there’s the rub.” Her ex-instructor waited until her brows stopped duelling one another. “The American Conglomerate by the name of Empire—as in The Empire Tower—is hinting that they will withhold shipments of Data Cores and Thinking Engines from Tier I governments that continue to use the Dyar Morkk, until such time that we’re willing to negotiate with them.” Eric Walken stared back, then looked away. “Where’s Williams?” She asked. “He’s… back home, probably confined somewhere where his work can be divined.” “I see. Tell them…” Gwen slowly licked her drying lips. “The transatlantic trade routes can be dangerous this time of the year.” “Ah… please don’t,” Walken put up both hands. “Before your arrival, I had an extensive conversation with Lord Ravenport. The matter is delicate, but it’s ultimately a contest of wealth and power, not lives. We know that ultimately, the US’s desire is for a transfer of technology, but we both know that’s unsustainable on their part. The old colonies are infamous for their Humanist supremacy. With your stranglehold over Deepholm and the Dwarves and your relationship with Tryfan, there is no possibility of a true technological transfer. They can scrap every ounce of data they wish, but there will be no Dyar Morkk without the Dwarven artisans, and no low-way without Deepholm as a trans-continental locus.” Gwen exhaled with exasperation. She knew that a challenge would come, sooner or later. She had also expected that the Americans would never let something so disruptive to their operations free rein. What she had not expected at all was how it would happen. She was angry, but she was more annoyed with herself for not seeing… the sheer shamelessness of it all. “Even so, they’re threatening us?” “Perhaps, but please don’t open the first act of a trans-continental Cold War,” Walken informed her of Ravenport’s dearest wish. “The Duke suggests that you take this opportunity to speak with Master Gilt in person. As the conglomerate’s speaker, he has intimated that the matter can be resolved diplomatically. Whatever your choice, you are still a Regent of the Mageocracy. If you’re endangered, the Mageocracy WILL go to war on your behalf.” “Really?” Gwen felt sceptical of Walken’s optimism. “Well, your Deepdowners will probably lay waste to whatever they can reach until Deepholm stops turning. Your Rat-kin will swarm the north from the south. Your Mer will probably erase a coastal city or two… Alesia… will do the Alesia, dragging in Gunther. It's in everyone’s interests if the Mageocracy stepped in and settled things with decorum as opposed to letting natural consequence take its course.” The Regent of Shalkar felt such fatigue. She had just flown in from Arica, and now there was this bullshit. When would she get time to rest? “... Say, is Evee back?” Walken paused mid-speech. “... Yes. She’s back with the Ordo. She’ll be busy with Sir Rothwell for some time, courtesy of your brother.” Gwen growled, feeling doubly fatigued. She didn’t regret leaving Evee to her devices, but she didn’t need this either. Her former instructor waited for her to fully orient herself before continuing. “Gwen. You said you’re a businesswoman. This is business. None of this is… survival. It’s not existential. I don’t think a monopoly is worth destabilising the current world order we’re enjoying,” Walken continued timidly, like a rogue sneaking past a growling Dragon. “The Duke said that his greatest fear is that you will throw a wrench into the Foundry Engine of normative politics—simply because you possess that will and the means.” “Fabricator Engine,” Gwen corrected her former instructor while reading between the lines. “So, are the powers that be regretting giving me this… freedom?” “On the contrary,” Walked corrected her. “You’ve garnered too much support. If parliament had to decide on maintaining your monopoly tomorrow, they would not hesitate to vote. Ravenport understands this and hopes that you won’t wish for it, and that you’ll find an alternative.” Gwen studied her Magister, who looked like a swagman holding a hat, waiting for her decision to apportion porridge. She sighed. She was tired, but that was all. “Alright.” Walken breathed out. “Ha, that wasn’t too difficult.” “Don’t patronise me,” Gwen dismissed the disgusting attempt at pampering her ego. “Alright. They want me to go there and have a face-to-face, do they?” “Master Gilt inferred as such. The others… I am less sure. Your operations here have circumvented FedEx’s monopoly on trans-Atlantic transit. It will also step on many more toes as Arica’s Trade Consortium matures. HDM mining, Magical Materials trade, agricultural goods… I’d wager our American stakeholders are waiting to see how you’d react…” “And waiting to see if there’s profit to be made,” Gwen replied for her Magister. “The Empire Conglomerate, you say? Headed by the Gilts?” Gwen felt strange saying a name that was in her textbooks. “Figure-headed,” Walken explained. “The Empire Conglomerate is itself a chimaera of many interests, often at war with itself. It was created to represent the principal economic drivers of the East Coast, to minimise in-fighting.” “Meaning, I should start on the West Coast?” Gwen’s mind quickly turned devious. “Remember when I asked you to do homework for me, Eric? All the way back in the IIUC visit? Please get me a list of the direct competitors of these East Coast bigwigs. Find me innovators their monopoly had stifled. Tell the Ravenports to put together an acquisitions team from the IoDNC crew. Requisition a US Law Firm that specialises in M&A if we lack the relevant brains. Also, get Lorenzo from METRO to single out a list of independent Media companies with potential. I want to buy a few.” A strange thrill coursed through her body as she imagined herself browsing through the accounts of these companies with their brimming potential. “Also, if you’re going to be this busy, maybe Ollie should oversee Arica.” Her former instructor murmured a sympathetic prayer, but did not refuse her request. As for Gwen, she felt the fatigue of her latest labour fall away like a receding tide. The United States, at least the tier I portions she had studied, was a mecca where HDMs wrote the law. The principal rule, as many authors of her personal research had recounted, was that a man’s imagination was limited only by the depth of his HDM stores. Their society was one of exceptionists, a nation created by Humans, for Humans, a country without Gods and Kings, Dragons, or Elves. Her CFO watched his CEO’s face change from Ebenezer Scrooge into the Grinch who stole Christmas. “Regent, are you going to war after all?” “War?” Gwen’s pearly whites flashed dangerously. “What is it good for?” Yes. The profitess found herself purring internally. Just as there was more than one way to skin a cat, there were a plethora of ways to fight a war.