"It's time to go."

  Mirk looked up from Kali's leg, shaking the hair back out of his eyes. Emir was leaning against the doorway, arms folded and brows lowered as he stared across the room at the bassinet rocking away atop the supply cabinet. "Already?" Mirk asked, swiping the sweat off his brow with the sleeve of his robes. "I'm sorry, Emir. I must have lost track of time...I'm a mess, I can't go out looking like this..."

  As he shifted his gaze back to Mirk, a wry, humorless smile came onto Emir’s face. "I knew you'd say that. You've got an hour before the voting starts."

  "N'inquitez pas, I'm almost done." All that was left to do was the bandaging — he'd already scraped the dead flesh out of the wound in Kali’s thigh, had applied the potion he'd cobbled together to counteract the poison that had been on the blade Kali's father had slammed into her. Mirk had gone out and searched the parade grounds for the knife himself, but the bolt of magic Margaret had brought down on Casyn must have turned it to dust along with her husband. "Does it hurt yet, Miss Kali?"

  She grimaced as she shifted on the edge of the examination table, unwilling to dignify his question with a direct response. "Just hurry up. I've got places to be too."

  "Do you?" Emir asked. "It looks like you weren't chosen to stand for the vote..."

  That question brought a scowl onto Kali's face. Or maybe it was the pleased burbling from the bassinet, as a small hand reached up to grab at the tiny magelights that hovered above it. It'd cost twenty extra gold for that enchantment, but Mirk had been more than willing to pay. Catherine had said she was willing to take up the matter of Ella's care herself, but Mirk knew the child would inevitably get passed off to others. People like Kali, who had a hard time tolerating older children, not to mention one who couldn't yet speak or be taught to stab people.

  "I'm still going,” Kali said. “Maybe we'll get lucky and another fight will break out," she muttered, her fists clenching at her sides.

  Emir ignored her comment, his eyes drifting back to the bassinet. "I got a letter this morning from the Twelfth's new commander. Word's gotten around about Cyrus wanting to have you expelled, Mirk. Comrade Commander Mary and the other lady officers are strongly opposed, to use their words. They've lodged a formal endorsement of your loyalty for the approval of the next Comrade."

  "Mary...Mary..." Mirk tried to place the name as he set about wrapping up Kali's leg. It came to him suddenly, with the memory of a cold, skeptical woman whose dourness was lifted just a fraction with the help of the back brace he'd spent a few weeks cobbling together alongside Ilya over the winter. "Oh! The brace must still be working well for her, then. I'm glad. I hadn't heard from her since I gave it to her..."

  "I'm not surprised they're willing to stick their necks out for you. But I am surprised it was Mary Lane who got the commander's position and not Kysr's mother. You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you?" Emir's attention shifted back to Kali. "Vote trading, perhaps?"

  Kali shrugged. "That's Catherine's business. Maybe Kysr has another job for Ophelia, who knows. That and she's ancient."

  "I hate all this," Emir said, plucking disdainfully at the front of his dress robes. It was clear to Mirk that he didn't often have reason to wear them. They were too tight in the hips and the chest, from a time when Emir had been run even more ragged by the infirmary than he was at present.

  Then again, Mirk didn't think the healers’ dress robes suited anyone. The set he'd been given were little better than a laundry sack even after he'd taken them to the best tailor in mage London. The tailor had given him his profuse apologies for his inability to turn the dress robes into something serviceable, along with a discount on an embroidered belt to try to create something approaching a dignified silhouette.

  "At least it'll all be over today?" Mirk tucked under the tail of the bandages, giving both Kali and Emir an encouraging smile. Both of them returned it with deepened scowls.

  "Politicking is never over in the City," Kali said as she hopped off the edge of the examination table, hastily drawing up and buckling her odd half-skirt, half-breeches. "That's why I take all the contracts I can get."

  Emir gave up on trying to get the shoulders of his dress robes to sit right, folding his arms again instead. "Lucky you."

  "You could always quit." Kali went to the bassinet on the supply cabinet, tapping the rune on its side that made the magelights vanish and halted its rocking. The moment both stopped, Ella's crying started up again, and Kali grimaced. "How do I get her to stop doing that?" she asked Mirk.

  "Methinks she'd rather be held than carried," Mirk said, joining her at the cabinet and peeking down into the bassinet. He offered the child the cleanest finger, and her crying tempered down into sniffles as she seized hold of it. Considering the strength of her grip, Mirk wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that Ella’s father wasn’t human, even though he knew the truth of the matter. He looked down into her dark, unblinking eyes, trying to think of something helpful to tell Kali. "When...well, when she was at the bordello, someone always had her wrapped up against their chest."

  Mirk still couldn't bring himself to say Alice's name. Not in front of Kali, and not in front of Ella. Even if Ella probably didn't know her dead mother's name.

  "Like hell I'm walking around wearing a baby like a bandoleer," Kali grumbled, taking the bassinet down off the cabinet. But she did offer Ella a finger to hold, just like Mirk had.

  He rinsed his hands in the wash basin atop the cabinet, listening to Kali and Emir exchange more terse asides as she left and he stayed. When he turned back around to face Emir, drying his hands on the front of his robes, Emir was staring at him again. "Is something wrong?" Mirk asked.

  "There was more in the letter from the Twelfth. They said they either want you moved to the Tenth or they want women's healing moved to the Twentieth."

  Mirk's hands froze on the front of his robes, clenching the rough fabric in his hands. A new set — Genesis's cleaning potions hadn't worked their magic on them yet. "They do? I...I can't leave everyone..."

  "The Tenth will never have you," Emir said, before Mirk could stammer out any further protests. "I'll hash it out with Cyrus after the vote. We'll know better where things stand once it's over."

  "I've only been here a year," Mirk mumbled as he hurried to compose himself, to gather up his things and make a dash for where he'd left his dress robes in the common room. "Methinks it isn't right for me to be in charge of anything."

  None of it was right. Not the fact that the rest of the healers who supposedly specialized in women's issues were so cold and indifferent that the ladies would take a newly minted healer over them, nor the fact that he was the one who'd be joining Emir on the voting platform instead of one of the healers who'd been there for ages, Sheila or the division's potion master or any of a dozen others. But all the other healers had refused the position, whereas Mirk had gladly accepted. Less out of a desire to have any acclaim for himself, and more out of worry for what might happen should the vote go awry.

  Emir left him alone to fuss and worry over his dress robes and his hair, which Mirk resorted to tying back for lack of anyone to help him with curlers and primping. Like the tailor had claimed, the belt did help some. And so did having his staff to lean on. But Mirk still felt like a fool wearing the dress robes, ill-prepared and disheveled no matter how many wrinkles he coaxed out of the front of them. Maybe Genesis had had a point when he'd said that noble mages wore their suits like fighters wore armor, as a shield against criticism and sneers that could pierce just as badly as arrows.

  Mirk didn't know when he'd stopped thinking of the staff as his grandfather's. And he didn't know whether that was a good change or not. But it was the truth nevertheless.

  Even though no one had been willing to join Emir up on the voting platform — a wide, rickety-looking thing that a team of men from the Supply Corps had been cobbling together across the parade grounds from the Glass Tower when Mirk had arrived at the infirmary that morning — everyone wanted to sit out on the front steps of the infirmary to watch the spectacle. Healers who'd taken bottles and buns out into the afternoon sunshine budged aside to give Mirk and Emir room to descend the steps, only a few of them halting their conversations long enough to look up at either of them. Yule and Danu were too far away for Mirk to do more than wave to them as he followed after Emir.

  The rest of his team was on the furthest end of the bottommost step, talking with a group of men from the Seventh along with Eva and Sheila's team. There was no clear separation among the divisions then, English fighters intermingling with foreigners as they jockeyed for the best spot to watch from. The only real separation was between the low-level fighters and Supply Corps workers and the officers.

  Most of the low-born K'maneda treated voting day like a festival, a break from work spent drinking and arguing over how generous the bonus the new Comrade would hand out to secure their loyalty would be. The high-born officers, on the other hand, had good reason to be nervous. It didn't matter to the low-born fighters who sent them off to die. Anyone had to be an improvement over Ravensdale. But the high-born officers stood to lose all they'd worked for if the wrong commander was voted in.

  Everyone else seemed to have no trouble shifting to calling Ravensdale by his true name, Jackson, once he was gone. Mirk still struggled with it. After that day, hopefully no one would have much occasion to speak of him again.

  Mirk kept close on Emir's heels as they crossed the parade grounds. People moved out of the way instinctively for Emir. Even if he was only a healer, he was still a divisional commander. And Emir had his imposing half-blood stature to help things along. Mirk shifted back to a more deferential position once they reached the narrow staircase leading up to the platform, leaning hard on his staff to help climb the wobbly steps Emir was able to take three by three without hesitation.

  At least one officer from most of the other divisions had ascended the platform already, even if the commanders weren't all in attendance. The one exception, Mirk couldn't help but notice, was the Seventh. There was nothing but a gap where they were supposed to be. It made a hard knot of worry grow in the pit of Mirk's stomach.

  There were several new faces on the platform, ones Mirk didn't recognize, though they wore the insignia of a commander on the neck of their uniform, five stars inside of circles. A younger, nondescript man had replaced Casyn at the head of the Fourth, and an elderly mage had taken up command of the Third Mage, drowning in the mages’ dress robes. A man that favored the study of magic over guild politicking, then. The fact that Elijah was nervously shifting from foot to foot behind the elderly mage only reinforced Mirk’s guess. Alliances didn’t matter for much of anything when one hardly ever looked up from their grimoires.

  As Mirk passed them by, both the Twelfth's new commander, Mary, and Catherine bobbed down into curtseys. Catherine managed to work up a smile for him. Mary didn't. But she still looked much improved from the first time Mirk had met her, and she didn't scowl at him, not like she did the other commanders and officers up on the platform. Mirk got the impression that was as good as anyone ever got from her.

  The divisions were arranged up on the platform by number. Which meant Mirk had to follow Emir all the way along it to the very far end, shuffling awkwardly in front of the crowd of officers. It was probably better than attempting to shove through behind them in an effort to keep out of sight, but it didn't make Mirk feel any less out-of-place. Even if everyone out in the restless crowd surrounding the platform was too preoccupied with their own concerns to pay much attention to the commanders and their officers, at least not yet.

  There was only a single man between where Emir took his stand and the far edge of the platform. The commander of the assassins, a man whose name Mirk had learned and promptly forgotten. He was less intimidating than Mirk had been expecting. The commander of the Twenty-First was the same height as him, with close-cropped blond hair and cold gray eyes. He nodded to Emir, but didn't offer either him or Mirk a smile. Emir responded in kind, with a slight nod and a muttered “Ansel”.

  Which left them all with nothing to do but wait. Mirk shielded his eyes from the sun with his hand and squinted across the parade grounds at the clock face on the front of the Academy building. It was five minutes until three, when the voting was supposed to begin. In his gut, Mirk knew exactly when the rest of the commanders would make their appearance.

  A minute or so after Emir and Mirk had found their spot, North lumbered up the steps at the side of the platform, grimacing at the way they creaked and swayed underneath his bulky frame. He looked as awkward and out-of-place in his dress uniform as Mirk felt — whoever was responsible for making sure North appeared at things looking presentable must not have been able to strongarm him into going to the tailor. The uniform's coat strained across his chest and shoulders, and Mirk was sure that if North bent over the wrong way, the trousers would be finished. North was sunk in what looked like a state of begrudging misery, nodding along to whatever the two officers who followed him were saying without appearing to be listening. Mostly, he just looked hot. And annoyed. All the medals pinned across his chest made it difficult for him to scratch and pick at the uniform coat like he wanted to.

  Then came Kysr, suffering none of the mundane troubles burdening North but just as much ill-at-ease, Mirk thought. He couldn't feel any emotions from him, not over those of the crowd and the other commanders and officers baking in the afternoon sun, but Mirk had been well-schooled in spotting the signs of unease in a gentleman of means. It was in the way Kysr kept his hands clasped behind his back even as he ascended the wobbly step, the slight furrow to his brow. The strands of hair that had fallen loose from his ponytail, like he'd been worrying at it while he'd been alone but hadn't remembered to fix it once he'd gone to meet his officers. And there were many more officers trailing after Kysr than North. Several of them were Kysr’s blood relations, if their narrow noses and firm jawlines could be trusted.

  And then, an uncomfortable period of waiting. An interminable two minutes. Mirk listened for the bell of the Academy clock as he leaned forward, over the edge of the platform, looking down the row of commanders toward the gap where the Seventh was supposed to be. Just as he'd expected, on the stroke of three exactly, they emerged through the shadow cast by the portly commander of the Eighth Cannon rather than ascending the stairs.

  Dauid, shivering and wide-eyed, smoothing down the ragged edges of his beard. His second, the disdainful fighter who was more Dauid's shadow than his actual one, cursing and brushing off the shoulders of his dress uniform like he'd just barely escaped a scuffle. Then came K'aekniv, his feathers puffed up like they always did when he got moved through the Abyss, gripping the arms of Sean, the captain of the Irish company, and Conall, Sean's second.

  Then there was Genesis. Looming behind the rest of the Seventh's officers like a shadow turned to flesh, silent and disapproving. Mirk wasn't surprised in the slightest. He'd been listening to Genesis grumble and hiss to himself over what a disaster the vote was bound to be for the last twenty-five days, commenting ceaselessly about "cayet democracy" and "royalist corruption." What had worried Mirk more was how unconcerned Genesis had remained through it all about the matter of whatever punishment he might face for what he'd done to Jackson, should the vote not go well.

  A shuffling, coughing, restless silence fell over the parade grounds. At a tactful nudge from one of the younger officers standing behind him, the elderly mage who'd taken over the Third stepped forward, pulling a sheaf of notes from the sleeve of his robes. He fished a pair of spectacles on a coiled silver handle out of his sleeve as well, clearing his throat before reading off the first of the papers, ignoring the crowd of fighting men on the ground below the platform.

  "In accordance with the three-thousand year practice of the K'maneda—"

  Out of the corner of his eye, Mirk saw Genesis's mouth drop open to correct the mage, but at a hard kick to the shin from K'aekniv, Genesis resigned himself to silence.

  "—the Council of Commanders has gathered here today, in full view of all of the K'maneda enlisted men, to hold the vote to elect our new Comrade. I, Montgomery Robert Drummond, the Fourth Lord of Holt, as Comrade Commander of the Third Mage Division and the senior mage in the former Comrade's last division, will tally the vote." The mage paused, squinting through his spectacles. "Ah, again, in accordance with the three-thousand year practice and the Five Laws. Right then."

  The rest of the commanders assembled atop the platform either exchanged skeptical looks or stared with annoyance off into the distance as the mage fumbled once more in the sleeve of his dress robes for a stub of pencil. The fighters below, judging by the haze of impatience rising off them, like heat off a cooking plate, were also not very impressed by the Third’s new commander. "We'll go in order, First to Twenty-First. Comrade Commander North?"

  "I vote for myself," North said, grinning and shrugging his way through the roar of laughter this drew out of the fighters below. "All my officers made me!" he added at a shout. "I'm following the laws."

  Genesis had something to say about this too, but whatever comment he made was lost in all the snickers and guffaws. Mirk couldn't tell whether North was telling the truth about being strongarmed into voting for himself or not. Either way, the next five votes took away the sting of it. Every other division, from the Second to the Sixth, voted for Kysr S'kanyk. Kysr's face was an indifferent mask, and by then Mirk had given up on using his empathy to find out anything. He drew his mental shields tight up around his mind, settling in to watch with nothing but his physical senses.

  With every vote, Dauid looked more and more uncomfortable, still tugging at his beard as if he expected it to leap off his face, scamper off the platform, and hide in the crowd in fright. When it came time for him to cast the Seventh's vote, rather than stepping forward, he slunk a few paces backward and allowed Genesis to speak in his stead.

  Genesis needed no notes. He launched into the lecture he'd been bottling up on ancient K'maneda practice without hesitation, though K'aekniv stayed close, ready to kick him again should he wander too far afield. "This is not a...vote. This is yet another case of a king...crowning himself. However, the Seventh has agreed, democratically, through debate and the proper accounting of opinion to follow the correct procedure."

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  It would be easy for someone unacquainted with Genesis to assume that the whole affair bored him. His voice was flat, his expression cold and blank. But Mirk could spot all the quiet, subtle signs that gave away his frustration. His fingers twitching at his sides, though he left his hands in plain view, so that no one could accuse him of calling to his magic with gestures behind his back. The forward thrust of his chin, an unspoken challenge to anyone who dared to strike out at him. The darkness that had gathered in his eyes and the shadows curling behind him, though his magic was still too weak from what he'd done a month ago for it to be that threatening.

  "Comrade Captain Philip. Did you...conduct the necessary vote?" Genesis asked, turning toward Dauid's second.

  The man seemed offended by the question, scowling behind Dauid's back at Genesis. "I'm the Captain, I get the vote for myself. Kysr for sure."

  A nerve in Genesis's forehead ticked. But a twitch of K'aekniv's wing, one that would have turned into a smack against Genesis's side if he decided to outline the whole of the necessary procedure that Philip had skipped over, restrained him. More or less. "I...see. Comrade Captain Sean?"

  The captain of the Irish company rocked back on his heels, rubbing at his arm where K'aekniv had been gripping it — his bad arm, the one that was perpetually getting put in a sling. "I did what you asked and whipped a hat around the lads. Came out for North."

  To his right, Conall stooped down and mumbled something in his ear. "Hundred forty three to nothing, that's right. But a couple of us didn't want to vote for anyone. Sort of pointless, isn't it? Going to be some nob no matter what."

  "An...abstention is a vote in itself," Genesis said, electing not to comment on Sean's opinion on the voting process at a warning squint from K'aekniv. "Regardless. Comrade Captain K'aekniv?"

  K'aekniv leaned forward, looking back and forth down the line at the commanders, first at Kysr, then at North. "A boss is a boss. But if we're going to have a boss, we want to have an infantry bastard like us who won't make us do anything he hasn't been stupid enough to try himself. North. What was it..." The half-angel paused, digging in his pockets for something.

  "...one hundred seventeen for North, none opposed," Genesis said for him, after watching K'aekniv pull handfuls of rusted coins and corks and bits of twine out of the pockets of his ill-fitting dress uniform in search of the tally of the Easterners' votes.

  Laughing, K'aekniv crammed all his things back in his pockets and clapped Genesis on the shoulder with a grin. Genesis attempted to remain rigidly upright, but the force of K'aekniv's hand was too much for his thin frame to bear. "That's our Snegurochka! He can remember anything he hears once."

  The other divisions, especially the commanders, were frowning and sighing and shifting impatiently from foot to foot as the leading officers of the Seventh debated. But Genesis held firm to whatever ancient process he was determined to follow, his fingers twitching once more as he considered the best way to continue. "As the...first company did not follow the proper procedure...it is impossible to have a wholly accurate tally of the votes. However, we must...adhere to the general principle. No individual's vote is worth more than any other's. And in the...vote for the Comrade, all individuals must be asked their choice. There is no more expeditious measure that could preserve the vote's integrity, unlike the votes for...lesser officers. As such, my vote must only be...one among many."

  Genesis turned to Dauid, his eyes narrowing as he recited the tally to him. "The...current count is two-hundred sixty to one in North's favor. I will also vote for North. Although...imprecise...I believe that both Comrade Captain Sean and Comrade Captain K'aekniv and their fighters have seen the truth of the matter. Since this vote is...largely artificial...it does not preserve c'ayet. The debate is a foregone conclusion. However, I do agree that, considering the options, and Comrade Commander North's experience leading off-realm contracts, he would be...more inclined to preserve the lives of the Seventh's members and not agree to cayet contracts in pursuit of material gain."

  Mirk could tell by the glazed look in Dauid's eyes, the way he was still worrying at his beard, that he wasn't listening to Genesis. He was watching the other commanders. Their displeasure was plain to see, even to a man as self-assured as Dauid. If it had been anyone other than Genesis who'd chosen to ramble on about long-forgotten ideals and processes, Mirk was certain someone would have already put a stop to it. But the memory of what Genesis had done to Percival and his followers on the parade grounds less than a month ago was fresh in their minds. Listening to a speech was a small price to pay to keep their limbs from being ripped off their bodies while still alive.

  "Your vote. Dauid," Genesis prompted, once the silence had hung between them long enough.

  "Oh! Yes, right, I..."

  Dauid hesitated. Philip shot him a pointed look, one that carried with it the expectation that Dauid wouldn't be cowed. That he'd follow the other commanders and take the vote more or less for himself.

  Throwing up his hands in defeat, Dauid shook his head. "Don't look at me that way! I don't want to get stabbed in the back in my sleep, Poppy. The Seventh's vote goes to North. Hope it's worth it," he grumbled under his breath, shoving himself backward on the podium, in the hope that by leaving Genesis and K'aekniv at the fore, any blame for the disruption would fall on them rather than him.

  Lord Drummond of the Third was too eager to have the vote over and done with and out of his hands to linger on the odd display put on by the Seventh. He moved on fast with the vote. The stout head of the Eighth Cannon, sniffing his disdain at Dauid, cast his division's vote for Kysr S'kanyk.

  But the head of the Ninth, the overseer of the K'maneda's network of spies and information gatherers, voted differently. A third vote for North. Though Cyrus was quick to counter it with his own vote for Kysr, after muttering some platitudes about him having a better sense for order and decorum than North did. Although the new head of the Eleventh Mage, replacing the anxious, portly lackey of Jackson's that Am-Gulat had burned to death in Madame Beaumont's ballroom, was quick to give his support to Kysr as well, the opinion of the K'maneda's lower divisions was more in favor of North than Kysr.

  That didn't surprise Mirk. He didn't know either Kysr or North well, but he knew what he'd heard from Emir and the other healers, and from the men of the Seventh. Both of the commanders were high-born, consequential and powerful men. But North had deigned to walk among his lessers, even if he always remained a step above, separated from the rest of the low-born fighters by that invisible chasm that only gold and rank could create. Though no one could be as forthright as Genesis had been, as open in his disgust for what had become of the K'maneda, the other commanders and their officers were granted, through his stubborn refusal to yield, the courage to be a fraction bolder.

  Mirk smiled to himself, spinning his staff in his hand as he listened to the other commanders offer up their votes. There was potential there, hope. Even if Genesis would need decades more experience in talking with others to ever have the necessary tact to become a leader himself. Aside from always being at the head of the poor men of the Seventh, who'd been saved enough times by his shadowy magic to forgive Genesis his oddness.

  The Nineteenth Watch hadn't been cowed by what Genesis had done to them, the mess Jackson and Percival had ordered them into. Their commander gave his vote to Kysr rather than North, citing, like Cyrus had before him, Kysr's dedication to order, to walking the middle path. Mirk turned and looked up at Emir as he stepped forward to give the Twentieth's vote. He had his hands tucked into the sleeves of his robes, his shoulders hunched just a fraction. As if huddling beneath phantom wings he hadn't inherited from his father, just as Mirk hadn't either.

  "I don't like that the healers are divided," Emir said, not bothering to raise his voice. Leaving it low so that others would have to be quiet to hear him. "We're not here to serve any faction's ends. But the Twentieth's vote goes to North. He's sent us fewer bodies lately."

  At the other end of the line, North smirked, flipping Emir a sloppy salute since no one was looking his way. The attention of all the K'maneda gathered on the parade grounds, both high-born and low, was fixed on the final commander. Ansel, the commander of the Twenty-First. The vote was tied, ten each for both Kysr and North. The future of the K'maneda lay in the hands of the head of the assassins, who was still standing alone at the end of the podium, his arms folded tight across his chest as if he was bracing himself against a cold winter wind instead of standing in the full light of the late spring sunshine.

  Ansel remained silent for a long time, thinking, his hard gray eyes flicking over each of the other commanders, before returning to rest on Genesis. So close to him, Mirk stood a chance of feeling traces of Ansel’s emotions as he decided their fate. But when he lowered his shields, Mirk was met with something just as hard as Ansel's eyes. Mental shielding three times as strong as his own, a dark haze in Mirk's mind.

  He shouldn't have been surprised. The last head of the Twenty-First had been a wingless angel raised in the Empire. Learning to protect one's mind against empathic magic was taught to young angels along with walking and flying.

  "Comrade Genesis," Ansel called out, his voice low and raspy. Like he'd been choked so many times his throat could never be fully healed.

  Genesis looked over the heads of the other commanders, down the length of the platform to Ansel. Mirk shrugged, letting him know as best as he could without words that he couldn't help him divine the thrust of Ansel's reason for speaking to him. "...yes?"

  "You said that abstention is a vote in itself?"

  One of Genesis's humorless, defensive grins crept onto his face. "A refusal to choose...is also a choice."

  "Then I abstain."

  A wave of mingled laughter and jeers rose off the fighters below the platform. Above the crowd, one faceless voice shouted out a half-joking suggestion to North and Kysr, who'd finally decided to meet each other's eyes: duel for it, why don't you?

  Lord Drummond tucked his spectacles under his arm and flipped through his notes, searching for answers among the pages of his ornate mage-script and finding none. "Ah...er...hum, a tie. That's never happened before..."

  North's grin was just as humorless as Genesis's. But it had a taunting, challenging air to it that Mirk didn't like the looks of. "What do you say, Kysr? Should we duel for it? It'd have to be swords. If it was magic you'd just cheat and use the family curse on me."

  Kysr was not amused. He made a cutting gesture at the crowd, which had erupted with hoots and raised fists of approval at North's willingness to take up the faceless fighter's suggestion, and it grudgingly quieted. The bonus that came along with a new commander was still at stake, after all. "Retake the vote. It's the only option."

  Drummond nodded without hesitation, flipping over one of his sheets of mage parchment and setting up a fresh tally with a slash of his pencil. "Right. We'll start again with North..."

  North shook his head. "We could do bribes instead of a duel. You'd win that one too, Kysr, but at least everyone would know where things stand."

  Again, a roar of laughter rose from the crowd. Mirk thought he could see a hint of redness blooming on Kysr's prominent cheekbones. "Nonsense. That's how we got into this in the first place. Jackson stole his way into power. We won't be repeating it. The K'maneda is more respectable than that."

  Judging by the grumbles and snickers that percolated among the low-born men, most K'maneda begged to differ. As did North, who shrugged rather than casting another vote, squeezing his hands into the too-tight pockets of his too-tight uniform trousers, content to let Kysr rant and rave until he gave up and things came to blows.

  Mirk nudged Emir with the tip of his staff, speaking just loud enough to be heard over the heckling of the crowd and the murmurs of the other commanders. "Do you know what Comrade Commander North plans to do, Emir? Methinks this might not end well if it goes on any longer..."

  Emir shook his head, a flush of exasperation creeping up the sides of his neck. "I have no idea what he's planning. He probably doesn't even have a plan."

  Leaning forward, Mirk looked up and down the row of commanders and their officers once more. Kysr was still trying to strongarm North into following procedure; North wasn't budging. Sides were being taken. Commanders were sizing up the contingents nearest them, judging whether or not they'd come out on top if it came to blows. And near the middle of them all, Genesis was stewing privately in his own discontent, while K'aekniv set up an impromptu bet with Sean and his second.

  Mirk knew it wasn't his place. But no one else up on the platform seemed inclined to even attempt to negotiate a truce, happy to let things come down to a fistfight, the modern K'maneda's standard way of doing things. Brute force above all else, with gold following close on its heels. Clearing his throat, Mirk stepped out of his place in line, shuffling his way down the length of the platform with apologies and reassurances until he reached North and Kysr, who were arguing over the befuddled Lord Drummond's head.

  "Excuse me, Comrade Commanders. I don't mean to be rude but..."

  All three of them ignored him. That was, until Mirk repeated his request, accompanying it with a sharp rap of one end of his staff against the mismatched planks of the platform. The knock was louder than Mirk'd been intending. Something in the staff's magic must have called to its long-dead brethren pines and poplars, making the blow resonate, giving it an eerie, hollow ring that made Kysr and Lord Drummond jump.

  Clearing his throat once more, Mirk tried again. "As I said, Comrade Commanders, I don't mean to be rude, but methinks there might be a way to settle things without fighting. Or bribery, as you said, Comrade Commander North."

  North arched his scarred eyebrow at him, scoffing at the way Mirk’s appearance had ruffled the other two commanders. "What? You expect us all to just kiss and make up?"

  Electing to ignore North's question, Mirk pointed with the end of the staff toward where Genesis was still staring miserably off into the middle distance. It was telling, Mirk thought, that North and Kysr had decided to have their argument well out of reach of Genesis rather than meeting together near the middle of the platform. "I don't know everything about how the K'maneda does things, of course, but methinks you could ask Genesis if there was a way that the old K'maneda dealt with ties. They seemed like a very...euh...deliberate people. I'm sure they must have thought of most things that could go wrong."

  Lord Drummond rustled through his notes again, scoffing. "I've read every book in the library on the ancient K'maneda. If there was some procedure they used to break ties, I'm sure I'd have found it. It has to be in here, somewhere..."

  "But it can't hurt, non? Messire!" Mirk called off down the line, waving to get Genesis's attention. "Genesis, would you come here, please?"

  North's hand twitched toward the sword at his waist, the long, battered thing that he wore on a belt like a sensible low-born mage rather than on his back like a noble mage looking to show off his magical skill. And Kysr abruptly clasped both his hands behind his back. Though Genesis frowned at being called by a title in front of everyone, he relented and made his way over. No one got in his way or tried to step on his toes like they had when he'd made his way down the line, Mirk noticed.

  "Mi...euh, Comrade Major, do you know how the old K'maneda used to settle things when something like this happened? A tie?"

  Genesis stared down at him for a moment, not knowing what to make of his question. But Genesis’s truthfulness, his inability to ignore a question asked of him directly and his strong opinions on the moral qualities of the K’maneda he’d been taught of as a boy, overcame any reservations he might have felt about being called upon in such a way. "Yes. The...reasoning is outlined clearly in the T'akakk Nisc’ayet."

  Lord Drummond flipped more quickly through his notes. "Ta...er...say that again..."

  "That t'akakk has been...lost. I memorized it many years ago. The book...of debate. Roughly translated."

  "What did it say we should do?" Mirk prompted, when the three commanders refused to speak. Or look directly at Genesis looming off to their side, sneaking sideways glances at him instead. Mirk couldn't help but notice that they were all more focused on the shadows cast by the afternoon sun than they were on Genesis himself.

  "It would be cayet to…ignore the opinions of those who have voted. And to take the vote again would lead to unjust results. As opinions would be motivated by...necessity rather than reason."

  "So we duel?" North guessed, not without a tinge of hopefulness, Mirk thought. The man had to be in a terrible mood. Usually North was more diplomatic.

  "No. We must...respect the opinions of those who voted. If they voted for two Comrades in equal measure...then there must be two Comrades, equal in capacities. This is c'ayet," Genesis said, lifting his chin again, as if challenging any of the commanders to dispute his claim. "The..Comrade, as you all call the individual, is not a king. The Comrade does not rule. The Comrade exists only to...fulfill the will of the K'amenda. To speak for them when it is necessary for one voice alone to speak instead of each joining in the debate. By accepting the position...one gives up their own interests...in favor of doing what is most c'ayet. That is all."

  Judging by their expressions, both Kysr and North had stopped listening to Genesis as soon as he mentioned the possibility of there being two Comrades. The commanders had settled into staring at each other, beyond each other, taking stock of who could be called on to defend them should they challenge the proposition.

  Neither of them understood what Genesis meant by c'ayet, that click-clack word he always returned to when asked to justify his reasons, why he insisted on so many odd, backward things. No one understood it, other than Genesis himself. Mirk had asked him to explain it once, and the best thing Genesis could compare it to was justice. Albeit not justice of a royalist kind, whatever that meant.

  Just as Mirk was about to intercede, to make a tactful suggestion that it was better to be head of half of the K'maneda than none of it, and left dead in the infirmary basement besides, North cracked. He shrugged, folding his arms, which meant taking both his hands well out of reach of the sword at his waist. "We've just lost a quarter of our commanding officers, and a third of our mages on top of that." A humorless smile dragged up one corner of North's lips. "Though we're better off without those Watch stooges."

  Kysr unclasped his hands, letting them hang at his sides. "The summer contract season begins in two weeks. Considering all the wealth Jackson stole, it would be reasonable for the K'maneda to focus on rebuilding its strength. For the good of the fighting men."

  That comment was too much for Genesis to bear. Rather than subjecting himself to listening to more of North and Kysr's bartering, Genesis slunk off back to his place with the Seventh, where K'aekniv was grudgingly dividing a handful of coins between Sean and Conell. Mirk elected to speak on his behalf, more or less. Though he did his best to be more diplomatic than Genesis would have been. "I'm glad we could settle all of this peacefully, Comrade Commanders," he said, dipping into a low bow, first to North, then to Kysr. "Methinks everyone's been hurt enough lately."

  Kysr returned his politeness, smoothly bowing to him in turn, saying something under his breath about a need to return to normal, a need to compromise for the sake of order.

  North wasn't so charitable. "There's going to be no end to the killing as long as your friend's still with us," he said, looking off over Kysr's head at where Genesis was enduring, blank-faced, both K'aekniv and Philip's complaining. "But it's better that he's our monster than someone else's."

  With a final bow to the flustered Lord Drummond, who was attempting to record what Genesis had told them about the ancient K'maneda's customs for posterity, Mirk retreated to his own place in line, beside Emir. He shook his head at Mirk, though he managed to work up a smile for him. One that was as brittle as the calm that had fallen over the crowd in front of the platform, the fighters awaiting news of their bonus and the summer contracts. "Don't think you've settled this. All you've done is made another century's worth of work for yourself."

  "I know," Mirk said, slumping over in relief as he took his position behind and to the right of Emir. "But methinks there's no other way. Not now, anyway."

  "You're right. Senkov was an idiot to think they could take control like this. Not without resorting to doing the same things Jackson and Percival did. And he should have known by the time he died that they wouldn't." Emir turned to the side, his gaze sliding over the gossiping commanders and officers. "But anyone can get pushed too far. Maybe he was hoping Jackson would be enough."

  "What do you mean? I still don't know anything about this Senkov person...but he must have been important to everyone..."

  "There'll come a day when that one decides that the only way to put an end to all this nonsense is to give up on his grimoires and his laws and use force," Emir said, gesturing down the line at Genesis. "I hope I've quit before that happens."

  Mirk bit his lip, wanting to protest. But he didn’t have the strength to argue with Emir, not then. Not when something approaching peace had finally been reached.

  If Genesis ever gave up on his ideals, his long-dead code of ethics that he clung to like it was the only thing keeping him from madness, the Genesis that Mirk knew so well, that he admired, that he loved, would be just as dead as everyone who stood between him and his ambitions. And Mirk hoped, like Emir did, that he'd never be forced to bear witness to that day.