Chapter 3 (Part IV): Info Wars

"That was about the time we started running our 'Fact Check' series at The Kingstown Herald. At first I wondered if no one was reading it, but eventually I came to understand that circulation wasn't the problem. It turns out, there're two types of facts. There are objective facts, based on events, actions, and physical certainties - the 'facts' journalists are interested in - and then there's an alternative set of facts rooted in the subjective reality of the individual - these are the 'facts' that politicians are interested in. Unfortunately, our competitors were more successful at politics than we were at journalism."
               - Cupe Anders, writer for the The Kingstown Herald.

Syliva didn’t regret her decision to 'fire' Millon. Although the Loche brothers didn’t take well to the disappearance of the tenured editor, the suddenness of his departure seemed to drive home a point for both them and The Vulpine’s staff. The vacancy was filled internally by someone far more agreeable to Syliva’s way of doing things, and far more amenable to Baryd’s way of doing things. Before long the Broad Beard Press and The Vulpine Post were operating like two halves of a whole. In fact, Syliva was considering merging them – if she orchestrated it right, she might end up with complete (and entirely aboveboard) control over the amalgamation.

The two heralds inundated the streets with news about the riots, the investigations into the university, and the investigations into the former staff and students. They raised calls for more investigations, more scrutinizing investigations, and at every turn reinforced the idea that these demands came from the people, rather than from the publishers or the dragon that owned them.

They also commented extensively on matters pertaining to the kingdom’s laws and governance, with ‘educational’ pieces that dramatically reinterpreted, or altogether disregarded, the kingdom’s actual legal framework. Much of this ended up targeted at King Hylas – relatively normal acts of governance were suddenly criminalized, even declared treasonous, by the Broad Beard’s writers, and The Vulpine Post’s writers relentlessly criticized him for his failure to do things that, legally, he did not have the power to do.

 Most of the other major heralds were afraid to go head to head with Syliva’s tag team, but there was one exception – The Vulpine Post’s main competitor, The Kingstown Herald. The Kingstown Herald’s staff didn’t write anything seditious, they simply refused to present the altered 'facts' that the dragon provided as news. Particularly aggravating to Syliva though, was that, occasionally, The Kingstown Herald would present anonymously contributed ‘letters of concern’ or art that reminded their audience that while Syliva was powerful, she didn’t have any formal authority within the kingdom’s government. It was plucking the same nerve the woman in the market had struck during their argument.

As far as Syliva was concerned, that had reached the point of intolerable within days, with the writers becoming increasingly unkind and abusive towards her. It frustrated her ultimate goal to establish herself as a legitimate, legal authority in Caelia, and it aggravated her to allow any such opposition to pass.

Baryd felt certain that many of the most scathing attacks came from former scholars. Most of the those who’d survived the fires weeks earlier had simply dug in and kept their heads down or discretely left the city altogether. A few, however, threw in with The Kingstown Herald, contributing letters and editorials, and others were actively getting out in the streets trying to persuade the people that the dragon was causing their kingdom’s problems. Baryd claimed this was a positive development, as their opposition ‘maintained the established narrative’ that Syliva was an enemy of the intellectual elite, but Syliva was personally annoyed. She’d burned down the university to put a stop to this sort of thing.

Baryd had done his job, though. The more intense the opposition, the more material he was able to create for the Broad Beard’s writers to work with. A small group of the Beard’s most ardent supporters took to calling themselves “Nationalists”, and the Beard glorified their small movement, exaggerating its size, extolling their virtues, and giving them a platform for their rhetoric.

The Nationalists helped revive the claims that the scholars had used arcane knowledge to sabotage the economy and cried passionately that they’d been put up to it by the Gnoman Empire. Scholars, they said, were not just crooks but traitors, and foreigners were not just unwelcome, they were dangerous. When the Nationalists’ line gained the credibility of being covered in the Vulpine Post, their numbers swelled. People who’d quietly had an inclination towards the same mindset eagerly joined in, dragging or pressuring many others to support their cause.

The Nationalists ran wild like a horse that’d slipped its reigns in a crowded market, growing beyond Baryd’s control. The category of ‘scholar’ gradually broadened to include anyone with an education, and the category of ‘foreign’ likewise broadened to include anyone who wasn’t a white human or, as they liked to put it, anyone who was a “non-person.” Though Syliva’s lackeys no longer steered the movement, they still proved useful, championing the moral rectitude of the movement in everything that followed, while blaming and demonizing their opposition.

Of course, the Nationalist’s antipathy towards ‘non-persons’ was of immediate concern to Syliva. Politics was not her native game, but she knew she couldn’t very well gain legitimate authority in the kingdom if she was declared a second-class citizen. Her agenda required she position herself squarely on the ‘right’ side of history, lest she be the target of malice from both sides. For the time being, the best way she saw to do that was to make it clear to the Nationalists that she was the enemy of their enemy.

Syliva had Baryd arrange for some provocative street violence to stoke the Nationalists flames. Guards reported being attacked, and the Broad Beard pinned it on the minorities dwelling in Kingstown’s north end. Shops had bricks tossed through their windows, street vendors were harassed, homes were defaced, and it didn’t take long for the Nationalists to retaliate in kind. Of course, the men and women the Nationalists threatened responded in kind, and before long it became a self-sustaining cycle of outright street violence. Syliva ensured that the responsibility for handling that problem fell squarely on the shoulders of King Hylas, and when that happened, she invited Hylas to the castle to discuss the problem.

“Invited” – summoned may have been a more appropriate term. Hylas did his best to look important, of course, arriving with a full retinue not only of his personal guard, but many city guards for good measure. It was a meaningless gesture to Syliva, of course, but she imagined it must have made the king’s walk to the castle gates less embarrassing.

Hylas was a soft man, even by human standards. Caelus IV’s brother had never possessed the special qualities a people seemed to expect in their king, and over two centuries it seemed to Syliva (and others) as if the bloodline had been thoroughly watered down. Syliva had ensured the royal family retained a measure of affluence without the burden of responsibility, however. Because of that, Hylas was usually as docile as any domesticated animal, but for once, it seemed as if the squishy little thing was actually upset with her.

“You need to get your papers under control!” Hylas said, “Not just Broad Beard, but The Vulpine as well!”

“Why?” Syliva asked, “What harm is there in an informed public?”

“None, but there’s a great deal of harm in a misinformed public! The sensationalistic 'news' they print has turned a handful of rumors into a political catastrophe, and I’m being blamed for not preventing something that didn’t happen that I didn’t have the power to prevent!”

“Hylas,” Syliva hissed, “The Vulpine has always been as favorable as possible to the royal family. Your cousins have seen to that, and their father before them.”

“Which makes it all the more vexing that it has turned on us now!”

“You’re not suggesting you’ve been somehow betrayed, are you?” Syliva clutched her scaly chest as if she’d been stabbed through the heart, “As I said, The Vulpine has always been loyal to the royal family… but there are limits. When the royal family fails to protect the well-being of the country, surely The Vulpine can’t be faulted for saying so?”

“I have failed to do nothing!”

“As far as the people are concerned, you’ve failed to do anything.”

“Because that’s the story you’ve manufactured!”

“Oh, and now you think I’m somehow attacking you personally… I hope you don’t intend to take such preposterous accusations beyond these walls; paranoia doesn’t suit you Hylas.”

“What do you want, Syliva?”

“Brass tacks, then?” Syliva quirked a brow, “Good for you. I just want to do what I’ve always done – help the kingdom prosper by lending my wisdom and experience to the throne.”

“And?”

“And I want formal recognition for it,” Syliva said straightforwardly, “No more whispering and nudging and informal suggestions. I want an office – not a physical one, of course, but a title that properly acknowledges my role in holding this kingdom together.”

“For Golon’s sake, is this really because you suddenly feel underappreciated?”

“Well!” Syliva balked, “When you speak to me like that it certainly does! Really, Hylas! What would your family have without me? Without my protection? My resources?”

Hylas sighed, “What exactly are we talking about, then?”

“As I said, personal recognition in the form of a formal title – you can make one up if need be – and the authority to use the kingdom’s resources as I see fit, in order to quell the unrest in the streets.”

“If you want to quell the unrest, then just tell your heralds to stop fomenting it!”

Syliva laughed, “And how would that look to the Nationalists, hmm? If the king appointed me to an office and two of the kingdom’s major sources of information suddenly dropped the biggest story of the decade? That would be more provocative than anything.”

“Then what do you intend to do?”

“Give a big story a big ending,” Syliva said honestly, “and give the people closure. Do what the Nationalists want and see the investigations through. Deal with any… problems that emerge, and put people’s fears to rest.”

“You’re asking me to put the guard under your command?”

“Well…” Syliva decided to throw Hylas a bone, “If it would be more acceptable to you, simply give me the power to allocate funds for a special investigative force. I already have considerable manpower at my disposal – if they were, for a short while, on the kingdom’s payroll they could be temporarily deputized to officially participate in the investigation with legal authority.”

“You want me to pay for a whole new guard force?”

“Not you, the kingdom,” Syliva corrected, “In fact… here’s what we’ll do: I’ll continue to employee them personally, but contract their services to the kingdom part time at very low cost – in the name of patriotism, of course. And if that’s a problem I can obviously loan some money to the kingdom to cover the cost. As I said, it’s only a temporary arrangement, so it should be easy enough to pay back…”

“And I have your assurance this will be a temporary arrangement?”

“Of course. In fact, if you do this I’m sure we can have this problem dealt with within a matter of days.”   

Chapter 3 (Part III): Mass(acred) Media

"I just love Caelia so much, and I fear for my country."

- William Alexander Shawnitty, content creator for The Vulpine Post criticizing a proposed tax increase to restore Caelia's failing roadways and bridges.

Vidi had been partly right about journalism in Kingstown. Indeed, Syliva held a controlling interest in one of the most influential heralds, The Vulpine Post, sharing control primarily with two of King Hylas’ maternal cousins, Edward and Carl Loche. It had proven an excellent investment over the years, both because it gave her a fair bit of influence over the information flowing out of Kingstown into the surrounding countryside, and because it kept the ruling family’s fate tied to her own.

Of course, there were times when the Vulpine’s editors imagined themselves to be too respectable to run a story the way she wanted, or when the Loche brothers felt a particular story was too negative towards their family. For those circumstances, Syliva had The Broad Beard Press, a gossip rag she had acquired years ago and begun reinventing to suit her purposes.

The Beard’s writers and editors had, essentially, no standards to speak of – in fact, even before selling out to Syliva their motto had been, ‘The Story Always Comes First’ – facts, evidence, and reason came in as distant seconds. The small local periodical had been regarded as a joke by most of Kingstown’s citizens, a font of conspiracy theories and demagogic editorials, but that had changed under Syliva’s patronage.

One of her sharpest moves, in this regard was embodied in one of the men who stood before her now, Mikhail Bran Baryd. Baryd was known in polite circles as “scum”, but to Syliva he was a valuable tool. She wouldn’t have said he was worth his weight in gold - but possibly silver. She loomed silently as Baryd argued with one of The Vulpine’s editors, Millon Crasell.

“Don’t get all noble now, Mil,” Baryd said, “The Vulpine needs the Beard now more than we need The Vulpine.”

“The Vulpine’s readership and listeners eclipse the Broad Beard’s audience by a hundred fold. You’re tabloid is a joke in this city.”

“A hundred fold? Don’t kid yourself, Mil. And you won’t keep that edge long if you stop featuring Beard staff as commentators.”

The Vulpine Post had been Syliva’s herald-of-choice to promote the story about the alchemists’ plot against her, but it had been writers for the Beard who had taken that premise, linked it to the university, and inflated it into a grand conspiracy against the kingdom. Syliva had leaned on The Vulpine many times in the past year to circulate the Beard’s editorials and personal commentaries as ‘shared content’. Being shared by The Vulpine gained the Beard’s writers’ greater credibility and wider distribution than they could have achieved alone.

“Well it’s done,” Millon said, “we never should have started sharing another publisher’s content in the first place. That’s not how journalism works.”

Syliva hissed, “Millon, Millon, Millon… do we need to have this conversation again? Covering other publisher’s coverage as news is what finally put The Vulpine ahead of The Kingstown Herald. It made The Vulpine the final word in news – why listen to The Kingstown’s criers or pick up their papers, when everything of value would be summarized in The Vulpine? It simply saves people time… and has nearly starved out The Kingstown Herald.”

“Well they used to call it plagiarism!” Millon said.

“You always cite your sources,” Syliva said, “It’s not as if The Kingstown Herald’s work goes unrecognized – it just goes unpaid for.”

“Regardless, I’m done ‘sharing’ garbage from the Broad Beard, and I’m done giving their writers space in our printings.”

“It’s not given,” Baryd pointed out, “Madame Syliva pays for those commentaries to be printed.”

“On a piece by piece basis,” Millon said, “So it pleases me to formally refuse any further contracts involving the Beard’s writers.”

“I really think this hostility towards my staff is unwarranted,” Baryd said, “the Beard’s stories sell - you know it, everyone knows it - especially to audiences outside the city.”

“Because people outside the city don’t know what a shit reputation you have!”

Baryd feigned shock, “We have an excellent reputation Mr. Crassel. Do I need to remind you that we broke the story about the university riots?”

“Because you started the riots!” Millon shouted.

“That accusation is just absolutely ridiculous; the worst sort of liberal garbage. Really? Blaming us for the actions of a bunch of entitled brats!”

The accusation wasn’t ridiculous. In fact, the riots had been a great example of what made Baryd so much more valuable than the typical human. Baryd had once worked for Caelia’s guard doing undercover work, and though his career had come to an unfortunate end due to his… initiative, the same qualities which had him shunned from law enforcement made him ideal for the sort of journalism Syliva valued. Baryd didn’t just look for stories or investigate them, he was forward-thinking enough to go out and make them. Any of the Beard’s writers could simply make things up, and they frequently did, but Baryd and his former partner, Medes, who’d remained in the guard, could bring at least some measure of reality to even the most ridiculous of fictions.

Millon seethed silently for a moment, before responding, “I will be frank. The Vulpine Post appreciates Madame Syliva’s role in our community and her generous patronage, and has thus far repaid that generosity by communicating her thoughts on matters to our very large audience, both inside and outside of Kingstown. We have done this despite the fact that it’s led many people to regard us as little more than her personal public relations department, and while our readership continues to grow, many individuals working at The Vulpine, including myself, are not deaf to such accusations. Being pressured to provide that same sort of service to the hacks at Broad Beard Press does not sit well with many of us, and it never has. The sorts of things you’re asking us to run now have more than crossed the line; I will not allow it.”

“So?” Baryd asked, “You do remember you’re just an editor..?”

“An editor who was working at The Vulpine while you were still learning your ABCs, Baryd,” Millon said, “That may not mean much to Syliva, but it does to Ed and Carl, and between them they still control The Vulpine.”

“Oh?” Syliva quirked a horned brow, “You feel that, given the opportunity to make your case to the Loche’s, they would side with you?”

“I know they would.”

Syliva nodded thoughtfully, and then snapped forward like a heron plucking a fish from a pond. Her jaws snapped shut around Millon’s torso, the pressure crushing the air from his lungs and stifling any screams or cries for help. He writhed in her maw, skewered on the few, large spike-like teeth that lined her beak. His struggling splattered blood about the area as the smaller, razor-sharp teeth that filled the inside of her mouth sliced his flesh.

Syliva inhaled sharply through her nostrils and then, with a huff, spat him from her jaws in stream of flame that propelled him high into the air. He came apart midair, but most of the burning pieces cleared the castle wall and fell down to the lake below.

Syliva sat contently for a moment, cleaning the blood spatter from her jaws and outer teeth, as Baryd looked on. The man was definitely less distressed than the average member of his species, but still clearly unsettled. He finally asked, “What are you going to tell the Loche brothers?”

“That The Vulpine needs a new editor, of course,” Syliva said calmly.

“And when they ask about what happened to Millon…?”

“I’ll tell them the truth,” Syliva said, “I fired him.”

Chapter 3 (Part II): Hold My Beer

My mentor once told me that, any time someone asks you how long something will take, you should quote them a time twice as long as you think it will take so that you have room for the unexpected, and can still pleasantly surprise them when you finish the project ahead of time. Except, she said, if there’s a dragon coming to kill you – in that case, tell them it will take exactly as long as it takes for the dragon to show up, because if your deadline is an angry dragon, there is no overtime, no extension, no redo. In my class, you may as well consider your final exams to be a dragon, because when you ask me how long it should take you to study for your final exam, I will tell you the same thing.

-          Magister Harrus Desalvo, Praetor (Retired) of the Sinister Legion, speaking to his combat engineering class at the Gnoman Empire’s Dexter Military Academy. 

Restoring the ballistic pipe had been every bit the pain in the ass that Ochsner had feared it might be. It hadn't proven impossible, but every part of the process had been challenging. It had, for instance, taken the Gnomans twice as long to clean the device as they’d hoped. The Gnomans had cleared the debris off, and carefully followed instructions Ochsner had found for removing the weapon’s protective cover. The good news had been that there were no cracks or serious failures in the barrel or the chamber, the portions of the gun subject to the greatest stress when firing. Unfortunately, despite the protective cover, there was at least some corrosion on every part of the weapon, and some parts of the assembly that aimed the weapon were so badly corroded that ‘cleaning’ them consisted of tearing them out and tossing them away. When the ballpipe nearly rolled over on one of the restoration teams, they had realized they would need to set up a scaffold before yanking out any more parts.

In the meantime, another team had scoured the armory for replacement pieces, but eventually had to admit defeat on finding a few of the parts. Fortunately, Ochsner had figured out how to reactivate a dwarven machine that could actually melt down metals fed into it, and then construct complex objects by successively laying down thin layers of the material. It was miraculous to watch, but it was very slow, couldn’t produce anything that would have needed to be hammer-forged, like a sword, and could only be told to create objects whose designs were catalogued in the fortress’s archives. Still, it churned out sprockets, gears, and levers that were perfectly sized to replace the missing pieces of the ballpipe. As far as Ochsner could tell, they were identical to the pieces that had originally been used – the precision amazed her.

While waiting for the machine to reproduce their missing parts, she and the Gnomans had gone through the ammunition in the fort’s magazine. The arsenal had hundreds of shells of different types but all of them seemed to have gone bad. Most of the shells were visibly corroded to the point of being impossible to fire. Some of the Gnomans had hoped they might make new shells and simply repack the explosives from the old ones, but Ochsner had guessed right away that wouldn’t work. They had cracked some of the shells open to study the chemicals packed inside, and every one they inspected had fouled. Where she dared, Ochsner ‘tasted’ the contents with her fingers, using her uniquely dwarven sense of touch to recognize the ingredients and understand how they’d decayed. For some of the munitions decaying simply meant that that the round would fail to fire but for some going bad meant they had become unstable. The dud rounds could be disposed of casually, but that still left Ochsner with a giant room full of volatile explosives. That was another problem Ochsner would have to deal with at some point, but not right then.

Fortunately, they’d found the recipes for the propellants and explosives used in the different munition types, as well as some very well sealed ingredients in a storeroom on a lower level, and after using the replication machine to construct new shells, they had the means to make their own ammunition. It was, however, an unfamiliar process with limited resources. All they’d been able to construct so far was a single ranging shell packed with phosphorous that would burn brilliantly in the night sky.

The restorations on the weapon had been formally completed that afternoon, and now, having a (hopefully) functional shell, it was time to test it. Ochsner helped the Gnomans load the phosphorous shell onto the same movable rack she’d used to escape the fortress the first time she’d entered it. The Gnomans didn’t like the idea of using their one and only piece of ammunition, but the weapon absolutely needed to be test-fired, and if any problems were to emerge, they needed to find them now, rather than later.

Ochsner gave the munitions team a small salute and headed topside. Ochsner was pretty sure she could aim and fire the weapon from the observation room using the tablet, but she still hadn’t figured out how to see what she was aiming at from inside the mountain. Unfortunately, it was still a long trip from the control room to the weapon. They’d found the front door to the place down in the valley, but the quickest safe route to the ballpipe was still through the back door in the basement of the mountain top citadel that Thrakaduhl’s late father had once made his home in. That meant going down the ramps, across the bridge, up the massive mechanical descender, down the tunnel, and finally up the stairs to the roof of the old citadel. 
Ochsner made it to the roof where the ballpipe gleamed golden in the setting sun. The Gnomans were very intense about the tasks they were given – if you told them to clean the tarnish from the barrel, that’s what they did. They didn’t spit-polish it, they didn’t remove enough tarnish to give it an antiqued look, they didn’t even clean off nine-tenths of the corrosion. It was all gone. The gun didn’t look quite new, but it certainly didn’t look hundreds of years old.  Ochsner inspected the gun thoroughly one more time. One of the Gnomans gave her a lamp with a reflective dish – the kind used in mining – and she examined the gearing mechanisms, and even the inside of the barrel. There were long grooves spiraling down the inside of it; Ochsner was  certain those were supposed to be there, but when she’d looked down the barrel for the first time, days ago, she’d found tiny stalactites growing from the ridges on the top and corresponding stalagmites inside the grooves on the bottom – and they weren’t simple rock formations. They were the product of metal being dissolved by rain water leaking into the barrel from one end and then being redeposited on the inside as the water ran down inside it.

One Gnoman, Harrus, had spent the entire time the ballistic pipe was being restored inside the barrel cleaning it, sanding it, and polishing it to insure the channels were smooth and clear. Having been given a full day off after finishing what turned into the most claustrophobic and miserable job in the history of the universe, Harrus now sat in a reclined lounge chair he’d found, sipping a beer from the town below and waiting eagerly to see the weapon fired.

 Ochsner tapped her tablet as the firing crew stood ready to perform the drill they’d laid out. The ammo feed cowling slid back, and the belt began clanking. After a moment, the shell they’d constructed down below emerged. One of the Gnomans slid the chamber open on the ballpipe as three of them lifted the shell out of the rack and loaded it into the chamber. They clearly struggled with the task. Ochsner had forgotten how much greater dwarves’ natural strength was, at least when it came to tasks like this. She wondered if that was going to be a problem.

The Gnomans slid the chamber into place and locked it. The weapon was ready to fire. She directed them to aim it towards the southeast. If the round’s built in propellant was less potent, than she hoped, and it fell short, she didn’t want it landing in the middle of the town below. Of course, the much more likely danger was that the weapon would simply explode. She gave them an elevation, and once they’d raised the barrel, she gave the order to fire.

It was like nothing Ochsner had ever heard before. There was a sharp crack that briefly deafened her, followed by a rolling, bone-rattling boom so intense that she didn’t think she would have needed ears to hear it. Far in the distance, a point of light appeared in the night sky, like a very bright new star. It flickered and fell towards the earth trailed by sparks.

When Ochsner’s hearing returned, she realized the firing crew was cheering loudly, and already accepting celebratory libations from Harrus. Ochsner whistled into her tablet, the same tune as before.

“This is scout two,” a voice immediately answered, “I hope that show was you guys.”

“It was,” Ochsner said happily, “Can you help me out by tracking down where our flare landed? I’d like to be sure we didn’t light someone’s farm on fire.”

Chapter 3 (Part I): No Lack of Ambition

"For two centuries the dragon Syliva had been content to simply own a quarter of the free land in Caelia, and then, one night in the last summer of the Hylas's reign, she decided she'd set her sights too low."  
       - From Cassorla's History of Chrematism: The Rot Within a Country.

The inside of Syliva’s mind roared like an ocean storm. Her thoughts pounded against the inside of her skull, emotional swells rolling like waves through her whole body, and intense feelings of pure, instinctive rage occasionally splitting the darkness in her mind like lightning. This was a feeling she’d not experienced for decades.

She landed heavily on one of the castle’s parapets where her aide immediately came to attend to her, “Madame Syliva, what do you require?”

The woman… what was her name? Syliva didn’t remember; “you” was generally sufficient… the young, dark-haired woman tended to all the duties Syliva physically could not take care of – mostly anything involving small, human-sized spaces or writing implements. She was unfailingly courteous, but Syliva never mistook her politeness for anything but fear. On the other hand, that made her all the more worthwhile. On a bad day, she could always terrorize the little woman, remind her of her helplessness and inadequacy, and feel a little bit better about herself. But today… today that just didn’t seem like it would be enough.

“Why don’t you people kill each other?” Syliva asked the woman below her.

“I… pardon?” 
The stupid little thing was already confused. Maybe I should just get a new one. Syliva let out an exasperated sigh at the thought of the time that would be involved in finding or training another servant to be as adequate as this one, and decided to shelve the idea for another time. 
“You get in each other’s way all of the time," Syliva explained, "You squabble over scraps, sometimes completely meaningless ones, or - even worse - you fight over other people. You even fight over people’s ideas, as if they have any value at all. But you don’t just kill each other, even when it would be expedient to do so.”

“Oh, well… sometimes people do. They commit murder, they fight wars...”

“But those are the exceptions that prove the rule. Clearly you can kill each other, so why are most of you so hesitant about doing so?”  

“Because murder is wrong…?”

“Why?”

“Because a person’s life is the most valuable thing they have and if you take it from them…”

“Bah!” Syliva let out a sulfurous snort; smoke curled from her nostrils as she shook her head, “If you kill someone, it’s no trouble for them. They’re dead.”

“Then I guess… it’s a crime against the loved ones that survive them.”

“Ah… so if there were no survivors, then you would do it? Murder is wrong, but genocide is reasonable?”

“No! I mean… it’s still… it’s just wrong.”

“Hm. Well, I don’t understand why you would think so, but fine. You people do ridiculous things for ridiculous reasons. But tell me, why shouldn’t I kill someone?” Syliva growled as she lowered her long head and cocked it to one side to stare the woman straight in the eye.

“Madame, I was under the impression you had..?” her aide asked.

“Yes, of course… I’ll rephrase… why would I refrain from killing someone in front of other people?”

“Why would you be concerned with witnesses?”

“Yes… I didn’t used to be. I used to kill anything that pleased me, any time and any place.”

“You killed hundreds of people just a few weeks ago when you set fire to those protesters and burned down the university…”

“Hm… and it felt good, yes…” Syliva hissed, becoming lost for a moment in the memory. The smell and sound of the burning crowd had been delicious. Burning meat was always pleasant to the senses, but when a man or woman burned alive there were layers to it. Before the skin burned completely away, fat would melt, ooze out of the cracks, and fuel the fire. Then the bowels would burst from the heat, and bloody viscera would begin to burn. Syliva stroked the thick, broad plates of natural armor on her chest with one of her razor sharp fore-claws, “It felt good to exercise my power openly as I once did. So why would I allow some snotty little girl to mock me in front of a crowded market? Why wouldn’t I smite her for her insolence?”

Syliva had intended the question rhetorically, but the little human actually broke the moment of silence that passed with some insight.

“It would have made you look weak, madam.”

Syliva rankled at the idea of being considered weak, but she was well aware that the people that inhabited her kingdom were prone to misperceptions and bad judgment. There was an enormous difference between being weak and being seen as weak.

“How so?” Syliva asked the woman.

“Well, clearly it would have been no effort for you to kill this woman, so it wouldn’t really have proven that whatever she said to you was wrong, right?”

“I suppose so…”

“It would only prove that a woman was able to compel you to action through the use of her words.”

“Hmm…” Syliva’s tongue flicked as she contemplated that, “And there’s a fine line between compelling someone and controlling them.”

“Yes, madam, I suppose that’s true.”

“She insinuated that I had no real power in the kingdom. I could have struck her down, and yet she stood there and claimed I was powerless.”

“That does seem ridiculous, madam. Even without considering your incredible physical power, you have far more economic leverage than any other private citizen in Caelia… would you like me to bring you the books?”

Syliva motioned for her to stay, “No… it wasn’t 'power'… it was authority. She said I had no authority…”

“I suppose that technically you have no title…”

“And why not?” Syliva asked as she slowly scratched her lower jaw, “Two hundred years… I have a castle, a fortune, a financial empire… why don’t I have a title?”

“I always assumed you never found one necessary, madam. Why would you want one?”

“Why do I want anything?” Syliva asked, “Why the gold? The jewels? The weapons?”

“Because they have value…” but the woman immediately corrected herself, “to us, but clearly to you they would be of no consequence.”

“Yes, they are meaningless… and yet, I want to have them because they are there to be had. Power over your kind has the same appeal. To control a human or an elf, or a dwarf is in itself pointless, but all the same, that power is there to be had,” Syliva clenched one of her claws as she imagined herself crushing their little souls in the palm of her hand. 

“But you still command that power through wealth and force, madam.”

“But not through authority…” Syliva concluded, “There’s a difference.” Syliva leaned closer to the small woman; as dismissive as she was of lesser beings, Syliva was enjoying the conversation, for love of her own voice if nothing else. “Two hundred years ago, the king of this place confronted me in this very castle. I’d already routed his army through fear of my physical power, and turned his own kin against him with promise of money, but despite that, a small handful of people accompanied him into my chambers. Even when it became clear that they’d walked into a trap, that they had no chance at all of survival, they continued to follow his orders, and to fight to the death. You can’t compel a person to sacrifice his life for money he cannot spend, nor can you compel him to suicide by threatening him with death. No, these men were unswayed by gold or fear… so why did they fight me?”

“Love for their king?” the woman suggested, “Loyalty to their kingdom?”

“Heroic nonsense,” Syliva growled, “No… I think it was the title. Your kind is easily bent by words. You honor and abide by contracts and agreements that destroy you, because it says on paper you have to. Yes… it’s all about the words. He was the king, and so they were compelled to follow his commands, even to the point of sacrificing their lives.”

“Does madam wish me to draw up a royal patent? I’m sure we could retroactively declare your bloodline to be a royal lineage…”

Syliva chuckled, “That is an amusing thought, but no. I think we can do better than that.”

“Madame?”

“I want the people to give me the title. No, I want them to beg me to take it, yes. Let us retire to the courtyard. Fetch some writing implements, and summon my herald. We have work to do.”