of Sumbria I declare this meeting opened.'
'So noted.'
The second came from farther down the table, and the two-hundred-and-forty-first meeting of Sumbria's ruling body had begun.
With his three thousand blades, Prince Mannicci ruled Sumbria's council. In some kingdoms, such as Lomatra, the councils elected the weakest of their number as their prince, knowing the council's votes could overrule his decrees. In other states, a single family held troops enough to dominate the entire balance of power. Here in Sumbria, the balance remained more delicate; the Mannicci family could not quite hold power on its own. The prince needed the support of other houses, who ebbed and flowed into voting blocks as various needs arose.
Senior among those voting blocks were the nobles allied to Blade Captain Ilego. Unable to wrest the crown from Mannicci's hands, Ilego instead managed to act as a thorn in his prince's side.
And so, Mannicci schemed. The bride-price paid for his daughter's hand would be taken in trained soldiers, not in gold; votes enough to give sudden iron to his reign.
Outside the room, the tinkling music of the victory ball could be faintly heard. Squaring thick yellow papers against the table, the prince briskly consulted his agenda.
'Gentlemen, our first business: the campaign spoils. Twelve blade companies were deployed into active service. I propose a standard division, with double shares for the active contingents, and single shares for companies remaining in the city for garrison. How does it please?'
At the far end of the table, Ilego-slim, lean, and calm-raised a hand to stroke at his mustache.
'The brunt of the fighting was borne by hippogriff squadrons. Surely we should indemnify those commanders who have lost fliers and breeding stock.'
'A reasonable suggestion.' Old Orlando Toporello, heavy-handed captain of a thousand blades, leaned forward across the tabletop. 'Reasonable, until we remember that Blade Captain Ilego has the largest investment in these aerial novelties.' The old man slammed a hand sharply down against the boards. 'Let him feather his nest on someone else's profit, and not ours!'
'A word!' At the far end of the table, a noble raised his hand. 'A word upon the subject of 'innovations.' I wish to query the continued and erroneous valuation of mere handgunners as the equivalent share-value as crossbow- men and pavisiers!'
An instant furor arose. The smoke powder contention had already been shelved a dozen times before. The proponents of the crossbow now rose to bellow at the top of their lungs as the firework enthusiasts matched them tirade for tirade. Cappa Mannicci heaved a sigh and hid beneath his papers as the heated debate flared into an outright brawl.
'Innovations are our life's blood! How can you not see the value…'
'An arquebus is a weapon for a fool! How are we profited by missiles that go only fifty paces range?'
'And within that fifty paces, they will pierce…'
'Pierce what? The cheeks of your bum?'
'… they will pierce through the stoutest…!'
'Order! Order!'
A mace banging on the much-scarred tabletop had little effect; only a bellow from Mannicci's sergeants restored order to the melee. As a sudden silence fell, Sumbria's prince blew out a sigh through his mustache and tilted his mace-of-office toward another man.
'Blade Captain Zuro has the floor.'
Not, perhaps, the best of choices; Zuro was scarcely a soldier at all, and devoted most of his days to collecting ancient knickknacks and refurbishing his library. Tall, white haired, and sporting a mustache almost six inches long, old Zuro puffed himself up like a rooster before his peers.
'Gentlemen, I think it would be a sad mistake were we to dismiss smoke powder too lightly. A young man from Lomatra whom I met outside, assures me that these… 'guns' are the future. In his sketchbook he carries some of the most astonishing designs…'
'Good!' Orlando Toporello hammered both his palms onto the table with a bang. 'Then Lomatra's army will play with firecrackers and twinkledust, and leave the soldiering to those who hold good, honest blades!'
As had happened a dozen times before, Prince Mannicci forestalled the discussion.
'Remuneration of all campaign losses can be handled from the common fund. All in favor? Good.' The mace banged quickly down before anyone had time to do more than blink in sheer surprise. 'Next item: the increase in thievery and brigandage in the city. Please bid the complainants enter.'
Pleased at forestalling yet another argument, Cappa Mannicci leaned back in his seat as sergeants opened up the chamber doors.
The noise instantly increased a thousandfold. A piercing, operatic voice pealed forth its complaints as Prince Mannicci's wife, the Lady Ulia, led a wedge of outraged dames into the council room.
'It's a disgrace! An absolute disgrace! First emeralds, and now pearls as well! It's no longer safe for a handsome woman even to rest in her own bed!'
A clerk brought over the list of complaints-a parchment scroll so large it unrolled clear down to the floor. As the women battled to be heard, so the debate about smoke powder flared into life once more. Besieged on every side and suffering from a migraine which pierced him clean from ear to ear, Prince Mannicci rested his head in his hands and prepared himself for a long and tiresome day.
3
'Right! You ten men-keep half on patrol and half in the guardhouse. Check your trip wires regular, and watch out for the glue powder spread atop the battlements!' The crossbow sergeant leaned out across the high, dry battlements of the Toporello family palace-a lavish blockhouse topped by towers, roof gardens, and airy balustrades. Night had fallen once again across the city of Sumbria, and once again the streets would see the forces of law and order pitted against this new wave of thievery.
A cat burglar held the city in a reign of terror. Night after night the demon had struck, robbing the palaces and town houses of their very choicest jewels. The streets were trebly patrolled, walls were garrisoned, and the price of watchdogs had quintupled in a week. And yet still the villain managed to pursue his evil trade.
House Toporello readied itself for the onslaught. Home to an antique horse bridle studded with star sapphires, the mansion offered an almost irresistible prize. Old Orlando therefore crowned his battlements with soldiers and filled his courtyards with half-starved hounds. A hippogriff and rider perched upon the rooftops, while cunning traps were laid crisscrossed through every room and hall. Orlando Toporello, his family and friends, thus all turned to their beds and slept in peace-apart from the occasional sounds of the cleaning staff running afoul of deadfall traps, crossbow bolts, and blades.
A trip to the privies in the dead of night was more than a body's life was worth…
Now, with midnight having come and gone, the guards were being changed. Satisfied with his arrangements, the guard sergeant stared down into the empty streets, flicked his glance up to the hippogriff roosting high above, and marched back toward the kitchens for a meal of chicken pie.
Time passed, and the night grew painfully still, leaving the guards gazing blankly out across an empty world. Far below, the sound of marching boots echoed back and forth between tall city walls.
And high above the battlements, up at the very ridgepole of the roof, a tiny sound drifted in the breeze…
Creeping slowly about the corner of the roof came first a great razor beak, then a silly nod of plumes followed by a single yellow eye. The firebird's face peered from cover with exaggerated cunning, rolling eyeballs left and right before wiggling his brows in glee.
The soldiers walked their beats, keeping their eyes scanning the streets below. Upon a pepperbox turret far overhead, a hippogriff dozed with its eagle-head beneath one wing while its rider diligently searched the upper skies. Infinitely pleased with his own endless cleverness, the firebird fixed his beak in an idiotic grin.
The best sparklies-the very, very brightest and the shiniest of things-came from places where many people stood on guard! With great, mincing steps, the firebird slipped out of hiding and began to creep his way along the crest of Orlando Toporello's roof. With each pace, the bird stretched his long neck this way and that, scanning
