Firkin was crouched inside his own Shadow and mentally cursing. He did not want to be a mere five feet away from current Captain of the Golden Guard, Dragon Lord Guialt and ex-Captain Count Willems De Forency. He definitely did not want to be privy to the information he was hearing because he knew Mage-King Jaralt would love this bit of leverage. Unfortunately, he'd been conducting his...research...on the ex-Captain in the man's study. He'd barely begun to search when the two had swung in and started a meeting that he was damn sure King Novan should be privy to.

“How many spies did you let in this year?” Ex-Captain Count Willems De Forency's voice was lazily curious. He looked like a fat fop, with thinning white hair. Firkin knew for a fact that De Forency was wearing an elaborate illusion that was reinforced by the clothes he wore. That fat was pure muscle, and De Forency was anything but lazy.

“Six. They aren't as good as some of the others at blending in, poor babies, but they'll learn.” Dragon Lord Guialt had a wry twist to his lips. When he wore his dragon form, he was white with green-gold eyes. His human form often had different colors of hair from day-to-day, but the eyes were the same. He looked like he could be blown over with a puff of breath. If it were that easy however, he wouldn't be in the Golden Guard.

“It is easier when we catch them from the start, Guialt.” De Forency took a leather chair near the fireplace.

“True enough, Will. It's also easier to control the flow of information out of the Capital.” Guialt took the other chair, lighting the fire with a negligent wave of his hand.

Firkin had to scramble to keep his Shadow in place with the sudden light. The last thing he needed was to be caught by these two. He knew he'd welcome death on Traitor Hill once they were done with him, if he made it as far as Traitor Hill.

“Still, when we don't catch them from the start...”

“Traps upon traps, old friend, though sometimes one or two are just too good at what they do.” Guailt tilted his left hand in emphasis.

“Yes, some are very good. Take whoever is reporting to Gamriel. I'm not talking about the younger ones, but from about 20 years ago onward. Tell me you've made progress on whoever he or she is so that Vanihan can finally gain some ground in the war.” Will demanded.

“Unfortunately no. That entire group is very good at surviving. In fact, they're the largest and longest living group of Golden Guard we've ever had.”

Firkin grinned. He was glad his work for Gamriel hadn't been in vain. However, he was also glad that he'd managed to keep his comrades alive all this time. He grimaced. All right, he, Harken, Quinton, and blast-her Sylvie were equally responsible for the survival of their year-group.

“That's somewhat unusual.”

“Very. From the privy accounts and records, usually a class of Golden Guard lasts about five years or so. The only exception are those that are so good at the job it's almost instinctual. We usually had maybe five or six people from each year-group survive, if that. Until the year Sylvie and Prince Alex joined.”

“Really? How many survivors now?” Will sat back in his chair with his fingers tented.

“Nearly the entire group. We had thirty people to start with from that class. So far, we've lost a mere five. Only one of those was to a preventable death.” Guialt grimaced.

Firkin grimaced as well. It was a mystery to him as to how Lukos Caren had managed to pass the intelligence tests the Golden Guard went through. The idiot had walked out into an epic storm that had been triggered by a mage going insane, and he'd thought he could subdue the mage and walk out without a scratch. He hadn't listened to the option that the mage would tire himself out, and would be easy to grab once the mage collapsed. Honestly, he was glad that the man hadn't had children. Stupidity like that might be catching.

“That is anomalous.”

“Yes, and the anomalies continue. Every single class after that one has only lost a few people. The Golden Guard is nearing the size of a small battalion. We have around 300 highly trained mages and warriors now.” Guialt's voice was serious.

“What's the difference in attrition rates?”

“Almost a complete inverse, and I can't make heads or tails of it. If the attrition rate were normal, we'd see maybe 4 in 5 people dying every year. By the fifth year, the group would normally be down to about 2 or 3 people remaining. Now we see 4 out 5 people surviving. Oftentimes they survive impossible situations.”

“And you've definitely been sending them out on the worst cases.”

“It is what the Golden Guard is for. Take that blasted plague. We had our mages and med mages working to exhaustion to cure. There were hundreds of deaths. It hit everybody equally, and we had plenty of the Golden Guard down with it. We should have lost at least half of our men and women to it. However, just in the nick of time, the cure to the plague arrived. In fact, in the past fourteen-odd years, there's been plenty of 'just in the nick of time' things happening. It's like Vanihan's Golden Guard has its own Guardian.” Guialt was was up and pacing by the time he finished.

Willem studied the Dragon Lord for a bit. “There is a solution to bring the Golden Guard back to acceptable levels of staffing.”

Guialt paused in his pacing and faced the ex-Captain with a slight look of incredulity. “I'm listening.”

“The front line does need more soldiers. It always does.”

There was silence in the study. The fire crackled and a log popped as Guialt thought about the idea. “If we sent out twenty or so people from every class...”

“Yes, and we needn't send anybody useful. People like Harken and Quinton are valuable resources.”

Guialt sighed and nodded. “Yes, we must keep the best alive.  I need a drink, and one stronger than what you stock. Maybe after a few drinks, I'll come up with a better idea as to how to do that.”

“Persal Tavern?”

“Just the thing. Come, let us discuss this along the way.”

The door opened and shut. In the study, Firkin was frozen with horror. These were men he'd trusted with his life and his comrades' lives over and over. He'd fought side-by-side with both men. How could they reduce the Golden Guard to mere numbers when they'd lived and worked with them? He had a sickening thought. The Dark Mage he was looking for was profiting mightily with the way things were.

He'd just witnessed something the Dark mage would love. If that many mages and warriors died on the front lines, there would be very few people left to stop him. Not only that, but those deaths could, and probably already had, fuel many Dark magics. 

He stared at the fire that the two Captains had left burning for a long time. It had finally started to die before he could collect himself enough to finish going through ex-Captain Count Willems De Forency's office.

It wasn't until he checked the fireplace itself when he saw it. There, on the mantle in full view of anybody, was a ring. Firkin shook his head. Talk about hiding in plain sight. The signet ring did not belong to any noble house in Vanihan or Gamriel. What were the heck was King Bernin of Hamaryd doing sending one of his sons to pose as a count? He nearly called himself an idiot. Was he really naive enough to believe that another country wouldn't try to profit off of Gamriel's and Vanihan's war? Another country had just as much to gain if they could gain any kind of foothold in Vanihan and its politics.

He mentally cursed as he made his way out of the study, still shrouded in Shadow. He couldn't do this alone, and there were very few people he could trust not to kill him the instant they found out he was a spy. Luckily the people he sought would still be awake. They were natural born plotters and connivers.

When he slipped through the door to their room, he quickly found himself pinned with a sword at his throat. He dropped the Shadow, and didn't bother with his usual mask of stolidness. “We need to talk.”

Harken looked at Firkin hard before jerking a shoulder and sheathing his sword. He leaned against the wall near Quinton. Quinton was dangling a knife in his hand, and Firkin knew he'd come very close to dead just now. He couldn't bring himself to care at the moment.

“So talk.” Harken was obviously in a foul mood. Firkin was about to make it worse.

He took a deep breath and began. “It begins thirty years ago when I was born, and my father blood-bound me to Mage-King Jaralt...” Firkin told them the whole tale of exactly what he'd been doing and how. He told them about the Dark mage and Sylvie, and finally he told them about the scene he'd just witnessed between the two Captains. “Now, I may be a bastard spy but I am part of the Golden Guard. Kill me, turn me over, I don't care. I don't go in for wholesale murder just because the numbers aren't right, and particularly not of the people I have lived and fought with for the past fourteen years.”

The two men in front of him hadn't moved throughout his story. Then they looked at each other. Quinton held out a hand to Harken. “I win.”

Harken winced, went to his chest, drew out a bag of coins, and dumped them in in Quinton's hand. “I should learn never to bet against you.”

"Until then, my meals and drinks will be on you for a while."  Quinton hefted the bag, smirking.

Harken scowled at him briefly before returning to lean against the wall. 

Quinton turned to Firkin, who was gaping slightly. “We figured you for a spy from the start, but letting spies in the Golden Guard is a regular practice so neither of us was too worried about it.”

“And since you never betrayed us more than you had to, we were fine working with you.” Harken began cleaning his nails with a knife.

“Then you were made the Mage Hunter. That worried us. Who knew how many of us you could harm with that kind of power?”

“Now, though, we need to stop a Dark mage, and a war. A war you helped keep in place.”

Firkin managed to shut his mouth and nod jerkily. “And you'll probably need to do it without my help. The second Mage-King Jaralt realized that I betrayed him, well...” He managed a stiff shrug. His own blood would be used to kill him from hundreds of miles away.

Quinton snorted. “You know, there's one person who might be able to figure out a way around the blood-binding.”

Firkin's eyes widened, he knew who Quinton was talking about. “Hell, no! She'll kill me the second she senses me withing ten feet of her. I know she blames me for her expulsion from the Golden Guard.”

Harken snickered. “And if we're there?”

“She'll run and hide, just like she did when you went down to Brushtown. She's not stayed alive this long by being stupid! She's been labeled a Traitor by the King. She won't just calmly sit down and say "hi" after five years on the run.”

“You know where she is.” Quinton commented factually.

Firkin briefly closed his eyes. Walls fell down before Quinton gave up.  “You might want talk with High Priest Loren about how secure his seclusion glens actually are. I didn't get that close to her, but she was there.”

“She's that close?” Harken demanded.

Quinton grinned. “She's one of the Guardians of the Golden Guard. Where else would she be?” He stood up and put on a cloak.

Firkin grimaced. “That is not going to become a thing, is it?”

Harken snorted. “Come on fellow Guardian. We have an old friend to see.” He went out the door, confident that Firkin would follow.

Firkin grimaced again. It was going to become a thing. He could tell. He sighed as he trailed behind Quinton and Harken. He could just tell that this was going to bite him on the ass. He only hoped Loren would be able to keep Sylvie from running off.