The heir of the City collapsed, and the building quieted to inhuman levels. Where only moments prior, the lords had been shouting and cursing—at what precisely, it was hard to determine—there was a sudden silence. Some trados lords at the edges of the room continued on for just a moment, before they noticed that no one was listening to them.

Duncan Lonrhafn, the lone Marine among the officers on the witness stand, stared at the male heir of Prince Einos, though the boy didn’t move from where he had fallen. It reminded him too much of Zile nan Rèv, and all he had suffered with that boy.

The Royal Guardsmen tightened their ranks as they saw nearly a hundred astonished faces start toward them, while a few of their uniformed comrades ran up the steps of the Prince’s Dais to their monarch’s son. Voices—all startled—began shouting from every corner of the room.

“I think this is our chance to escape,” Captain Malcolm Weathers said out of the corner of his mouth, his accent rolling the words together. The words intruded on bad memories, and Duncan glanced about; no one was looking at them—even the Secretary of the Navy was pushing into the crowd, trying to make his voice heard.

“Our Lord of the Moment,” Weathers said, stepping off of the stand so as to approach the lord in question. Duncan and the officers followed behind, though all of them kept glancing about, as if wondering if it was truly that easy to escape.

The trados lord serving as the Lord of the Moment—no longer standing on his podium—glared at the offending Navy captain, who had interrupted his loud attempts to return the room to order. “What?” he snapped.

“If there is no objection from our lords, we beg to be excused,” Weathers said, smiling in the tight, controlled manner that so many Ravens—wild, or otherwise—seemed to. The expression only grew as he watched the Lord of the Moment realize that none of the trados or konos lords were interested in them anymore; they had all found something more scandalous.

Shrugging, the Lord of the Moment said, “Objections will now be heard,” though, in the midst of the cacophony, no one could discern hardly a word. After a few moments of shouting completely unrelated to his order, he sighed and slapped his hand against the podium, though hardly anyone heard that either. “You are dismissed; get out before someone notices you.”

* * *

It was hot outside by the time the officers from the Zoirys managed to flee the Apella. Well, hot to a Wild Raven, anyway, and Duncan pried at the buttons of his coat, seeking some kind of blessed relief—it had always been hot in Zile nan Rèv.

Captain Weathers glanced at the Marine lieutenant, but didn’t reprimand him. Instead, he did just the same, and opened up the collar of his coat.

“If I might, sir,” Hughumon Yost commented, “I’d recommend tying an anchor to our feet and jumping over the side the next time they want us to come and stand for testimony in the Apella.”

“That’s the long, officious way of saying that it was rather unpleasant,” Jyel Meerlon said, quickly stepping aside to dodge a swat from Yost. The second lieutenant laughed, while the elder first lieutenant scowled.

“I’m afraid I agree,” Weathers said simply, ignoring the antics. The lieutenants were hardly more than children to him, and he couldn’t fault them for reverting to boyhood after having their honor so thoroughly pried at by the trados and konos lords. He glanced around the empty courtyard, eyeing the distant cordon of Guardsmen and City Watch. “I would not be surprised if we are quietly swept under the carpet and forgotten about.”

Dry chuckles came from the Navy lieutenants, as they made their way to the cordon, though it was far too likely a fate to bring them much mirth. The Apella and War Department might like to honor its heroes, but it damned those unfortunate enough to be caught in disaster with equal fervor.

“What’d you think, Duncan?” Yost asked, nudging the Marine. Though the Ravenlander was in fact about the same age, his subdued expression and long face made him seem older. “You got off the easiest; not a one of them could understand what you said.”

“I may have played up the accent, just slightly,” Duncan admitted, his voice quiet.

Even Weathers chuckled. “Hardly anyone can understand a knuckle-dragging Marine—you speak a language all your own; grunts, mostly. Never mind that you’re a Wild Raven. Don’t know why I didn’t try to do the same . . .” he trailed off as an officer dressed in the livery of a Royal Guardsman emerged from one of the side entries of the Apella, striding purposefully toward them.

Instantly, the boyish antics and forced mirth the lieutenants had shared vanished, replaced by flat expressions, and all let their Captain take a step ahead of them.

“Yes?” Weathers asked coolly, once the Guardsman—a major from the look of his plume—was within earshot. It seemed strange to use a major as a messenger, but the Royal Guards had so many officers one could hardly throw a stone into their drill square without hitting a captain or higher.

“His Majesty the Prince wishes to address you privately. All of you,” he added, when he saw Weathers’ face pale slightly.

* * *

The sounds of quiet conversation were heard through the broad, oak doors, and the Guardsman major tapped at them tentatively. At the sound of his knuckles on the wood, the muffled conversation dwindled away, and a simple “Enter,” was heard.

Einos, the Prince of Pothomar, Protector of the Change, was no longer dressed in the heavy ceremonial robes he had endured while presiding over the chaos of the Apella, and had discarded his fashionable coat as well. He paced about the little sitting room, hands folded behind his back, the silk of his shirt pulling at his chest.

He was built like an old barrel, the bands of which were starting to come undone, and looked massive beside the diminutive frame of Lord Unon. The trados lord held an open folder, and looked up over the top of it at the door.

“Your Majesty,” the major said, bowing once they’d been bid to enter, and had made their way in. “The Captain of the Zoirys and his officers are here by your summons.” At the officer’s words, Unon closed up the folder, tucking it under one arm.

Einos glanced at Lord Unon for only an instant, the action so quick that Duncan didn’t even believe he had seen it for a moment, but the lord simply gave a minute shrug.

“Thank you, Major.” He turned his eyes to Weathers, and the Ravenlander bowed quickly, all of the lieutenants doing the same. “You seemed to have survived the lords in the Apella well enough,” he said, motioning for them to rise. “Even managed to escape, when no one was looking.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Weathers said stiffly. It was clear he was wondering if he should hastily apologize for running, or if he should just keep his mouth shut and take it as a compliment. His mind raced, but, before he could open his mouth, his monarch spoke:

“Give me your hats.”

For a moment, the Navy officers stood in confusion, before slowly extending their hats from where they had kept them tucked under their elbows. The felt of every one was worn by wind and weather, while the Marine officer plume of Duncan’s hat was ragged and in need of a trip to a hatter’s shop—a red and green peacock’s feather didn’t hold up on the sea very well. A Fleet Marine rarely had time or money for new plumes.

“When I can escape it,” Einos said, “I do not partake in much ceremony, though I’m often forced to do so in upholding my office.” He reached into the pocket of his trousers, retrieving four little brass images. “However, this once, I look forward to just a smidgen of ceremony and tradition.”

Duncan swallowed thickly, knowing exactly what each one of the little brass symbols—all cast long before any of them had been born—meant. He wore one, already.

“My Lor—Your Majesty,” Weathers stumbled over his words, and then paled when Einos’ eyes narrowed just a little. Still, he continued on valiantly, “We did not—”

“Earn such a thing?” Einos finished, a false, politician’s smile appearing on his face. “My daughter thought you or Lieutenant Lonhrafn would say as much.” The smile grew slightly concerned, though he masked it well, at the mention of one of his children. “Ravens and their damnable sense of honor, and all that.”

Weathers blinked, his mouth moving without any words escaping.

Einos stepped forward and pinned the brass image to the hat Weathers held. “I grant thee the tharos of the City, Captain Weathers, dishonor it not.”

Duncan realized his hands were clenched into to tight fists, one curling into his shako, and closed his eyes, uneasily letting his hand twist the cap in his grasp. His fingers brushed the simple brass image already pinned there.

His stomach recoiled at the thing’s touch, and he realized faintly that his hands were suddenly shaking. In an instant, it seemed as though he was back in Zile nan Rèv. But the horror of that place merged with fresh memories, and he could almost feel a sword in his hand, as he screamed his rage and anger into the faces of his enemies.

The stench of death and agony seemed to waft through the sitting room, and Duncan had to close his eyes once more. He could almost see Zham—the Zoirys’ third lieutenant—with his face covered in soot and blood, and a fierce kind of joy on his face. He could almost see the way his guts had exploded when a swivel gun’s shot had blown through his stomach. He could almost see the torturing grounds again, where men were punished for their crimes—such as they were.

He tightened his shaking grip on the hat until he thought he might rend it in two, and he opened his eyes slowly. The lieutenants were watching him, as was Weathers, out of the corners of their eyes.

Slowly though, Weathers breathed a mournful, “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

The Prince of Pothomar frowned at the reaction—it didn’t seem to be what he had hoped for—but nodded and gripped the Raven’s shoulder. The Prince was moving on to Duncan when a smaller side door opened. They all turned a little from where they stood, and Duncan saw the crippled daughter of Einos come into the room, pushed by a Guardsman.

“Father,” she said, before seeing the tharos in his hand, or the men arrayed before him. When he paused and gestured for her to continue, she said, “He’s awake now. The physician says he’s well, but he’s sick to his stomach.”

Her father glanced down at the tharos in his hand, before saying to the officers, “I . . . I beg forgiveness, gentlemen, but some things must come first in a man’s heart.” He stepped away from Duncan, his fist closing around the unawarded tharos’, and crossed to his daughter. She took them without a word, and he vanished through the door she had come from.

“You must forgive the Prince,” Lord Unon said, while Lya was pushed by her Guardsmen, coming before the officers. “He often thinks with his heart . . . the world would be better if all men did a little more of that, and a little less with their minds.”

“We are not offended, My Lord,” Weathers said hastily, cutting a glance at Duncan, who was busy clenching and unclenching his grip on his hat, still staring at nothing it seemed. Duncan knew what he was staring at.

Lya’s wheeled chair came to a stop before him, and the little woman caught his eye. She was not truly little, Duncan supposed, but only seemed so because of being bound to her wheeled chair. He bowed to her, awkwardly. “Your Majesty, Captain Weathers said as much to your father, but truly, we did not earn these things. If you had been with us . . .” He paused, thinking about this frail flower being cast into the pits of hell, or gracing the field of a bloody battle. To say she should have been with them, to understand. . . .

“No?” She didn’t seem to have been offended by his words.

“No, Your Majesty.” Lya’s hands plucked Duncan’s hat from his grasp anyway, and she studied where his cockade was clipped to the felt by a little copper pin. There was a spot just to the left of the brass image already pinned there. . . .

“When you returned from the Daber Gulf, half of the City was intent on lynching you for what happened there. Perhaps you’ve listened to them so much that you’ve never heard what the other half said.” She pinned the tharos to the felt carefully, closing the back of the latch so that it would not be easily lost. “You set your own lives down as a bulwark between innocents and pagans; set that basic desire to live aside in exchange for the hope that a few of your charges might escape.”

Lifting her chin slightly, to better look the Raven in the eyes, she went on, “You were captured, enslaved, destined to be sold in Daber, or perhaps taken back to the Land of the Moon, like so many of our countrymen have been, throughout the years. Yet you took the Zoirys back from your captors. You outran your pursuers; you survived. You defied the pagans, and made them curse your name.” She smiled a little. “I expected nothing less from you, Duncan. But I expect you to have the grace to accept our thanks—two tharos in one lifetime, sir, is an accomplishment few have boasted.”

She presented his hat to him, now sporting the brass image proudly, resting just beside an identical one. “I grant thee the tharos of the City, Lieutenant Lonhrafn, dishonor it not.”