“Your power is borrowed.” He pronounced each word with furious care. “And as any banker will tell you, what is borrowed must be repaid. With interest.”

As he leaned forwards to hiss the last word, one of Savine’s bodyguards stepped smoothly in front of him. “Is this man bothering you, Your Highness?”

“Not really,” said Savine. “But throw him out anyway.”

Two guards seized Sulfur under the arms and marched him towards the door, his feet scarcely brushing the ground. The constant presence of armed men can be a little harsh on the nerves, but they certainly have their uses.

“You will hear from us!” he called as he was dragged through the crowd. “My master will be satisfied!”

“Your master wants something from me?” Savine turned away with a snort. “He can get in line.” And the mocking laughter of the crowd followed the magus to the door.

Savine had not made society a snake pit. She had simply determined to slither to the top of it.

Who could deny that she had?

Not for the Prizes

The vast banners of Angland and the Union covered the fronts of the warehouses entirely, billowing faintly with the sea breeze. The ranks of dark-uniformed soldiers stood to stiff attention. The buglers blew an awkward fanfare. The threadbare crowd gave scattered cheers as Lady Finree stepped to the quay, a few dozen seasick worthies of Angland in her wake.

Leo limped forward, his one working arm out to embrace her. “Mother!”

You couldn’t have said he was used to his wounds. The pain, the shame, the seething frustration. But they’d become familiar. Routine. Seeing the ill-disguised horror on his mother’s face was like looking at himself in the mirror, mutilated, for the first time.

“It looks worse than it is,” he said. “Curnsbick made the leg for me. So good I’m thinking of having him replace the other one! And I’m getting some movement back in the arm now, too.” He waved his left elbow about as much as he could, trying not to let the pain show and hoping his limp hand didn’t flop from his jacket.

“Leo.” She brushed a speck of fluff from his uniform, and held him tight, very clearly trying to fight back tears. “I thought I might never see you again.” And she pressed her head against his chest. Her hair had much more grey in it than the last time he saw her. By the dead, could it really be less than a year ago?

“I’m… glad you were wrong.” He could’ve stayed there all day, holding her. But people were watching. A sentimental attachment to his mother might look well. A desperate need for her support would not. He cleared his throat, and stepped away, and gave her a moment to dab her damp eyes. “Your carriage awaits.”

He did his best to walk smoothly, open the door, help his mother up. But his iron foot slid on the step as he followed and the heel got caught. “Damn it,” he snarled, twisting it, pulling it, getting worse tangled in his frustration.