Vasili Popov.

The vile politician, Popov.

Popov, the Master of Smiles.

Popov the perverted, Popov the Puppeteer.

Like his foe, the Regent of Shalkar, Vasili amassed many titles in his time as the Tower Master of Moscow. During his university days at the lauded Leningrad Sorcerous Academy, he served as its Praetorian. He was the right hand of the infamous Magister Anatoly Pavlov, founder and father of modern Mind Magic.

His first political title was the Secretariat of the Central Committee of Moscow, a role later elevated to the Chief Secretariat of the Kremlin’s Strategic Office of Works.

Then came the Beast Tide of 1971, and nearly all of Popov’s competitor governors and Secretaries in the central Oblasts either died to the tide or at his behest. Years later, when Moscow had finally pushed its way outward from the trenches ringing its capital, and the Mageocracy came with an olive branch, it was Popov who put into action Henry Kilroy’s proposal to build Towers in Moscow’s landholds.

The period that followed was bloody and painful for many nations, particularly Europe's central power, but for Popov, the Restoration Era was an unprecedented period of growth and consolidation.

Using the Towers as an excuse, Popov harnessed the economic might of his industrious nation, nationalising almost every major industry, including the massive mining cities that ringed the Ural Mountains and their boundless share of HDM-rich mineral veins.

He authorised and created the Security Service of Federated Russia, SFB for short, and created a locus of power within his Tower. Talented children were conscripted from the nation’s rapidly expanding Oblasts, their original inhabitants subsumed into Moscow’s fold or erased from the land if they were useless for the gulags.

He was also incredibly popular. On the civilian front, Popov’s hidden Sparrows controlled the narrative of his nation’s internal politics, with regular “discoveries” of corrupt politicians he would remove from power. In contrast, outside the country, foes simultaneously weak and too overwhelming a threat demanded the nation’s absolute commitment to Moscow’s military-industrial complex. On paper, his efforts had lifted a nation of millions out of poverty, but not too much, as excess merely fed the capitalist succubi. Daily, men in bars slinging vodka would drink to his health, and his birthday was an unofficial public holiday because there wouldn’t be a sober adult left in the countryside. Nightly, his reputation for ruthlessness, widely admired by a hardy populace, would frighten children to bed, lest the Sparrows come to steal their tongues.

It was within reason, therefore, that Popov had felt himself somewhere between the monarch of his nation and the chosen one of the proletariat.

Now, Popov was feeling less confident.

At first, when the news arrived that he had lost the Urals, Popov’s first reaction was rage, then acceptance. He was a seasoned statesman, and it wasn’t beyond his ability to guess that Magi Igor Sakharov, inventor of the super-massive levitation Mandala, had chosen a new master.

It was an understandable defection, for Moscow had nothing left to offer Sakharov.

Popov had sent HDMs and precious Wildland ingredients.

He had given the Magi a mobile magical laboratory.

He volunteered young men and women, even boys and girls, for the Magi’s interests.

But he could not give Sakharov the means to live beyond the current decade. Thus, the Urals had become collateral.

Of course, Moscow had Towers in reserve, and it could recover the Urals if they paid a corresponding price.

Then, he found out that their rogue Tower Master went out of his way to use a world-class strategic spell, one not even Moscow would use sparingly, on a tiny city-state known for producing Elf-blessed luxury produce.

After that, the reports piling up on Popov’s desk were enough to warrant his full attention.

Dwarves?

Elves?

A World Tree?

Popov knew at once that this was their new Urals.

He would move a Tower into Shalkar, and through their usual tactics of tacit threats, underhanded deals and manipulation of the proletariat, the Mageocracy would eventually deem the trade city too burdensome to retain.

Thus, he had sent two Towers, both run by Tower Masters loyal to his cause, with almost five decades of service between them. Boris Govorov was his right-hand officer for years, and Petyr Shuysky was quiet, obedient, and passive to a fault.

His negotiations with Mycroft Ravenport had gone well, and the Mageocracy had inferred its inability to interfere with matters in Shalkar. The Special Operation was going rather well… and information from his Sparrows had flown without distress.

Until he received news from his innermost circle of siloviki Clanners that the Regent of Shalkar was on the cusp of a breakthrough to the Dwarven capital of Deepholm, and that if Gwen Song stabilised the situation there, Moscow would never touch Shalkar in his generation.

An hour later, his Towers moved in, brimming with confidence…

Then Nizhny teleported home, and its Tower Master went AWOL.

His Sparrows had gone silent. Their nest had imploded…

Leaving its sibling Tower to be seized by a coalition of Demi-Human and Mageocracy forces, until he had to arrive to deal with the fallout personally.

And now, they were negotiating with a child for the release of captured Russian equipment and personnel. According to the oriental, Shalkar desired concessions, an apology and a promise of trade and non-aggression.

Popov informed their opponents that this absurd dream was impossible because Moscow did not possess the necessary flexibility in its spine to kneel like a Demi-human, nor could the Mageocracy afford to break Moscow’s bank lest it fail to ward Humanity’s Eastern Front against the Undead.

Even now, Popov explained, reports were flooding his desk of abominations created by foul sepultures, stitched from the bodies of the former citizens of Yekaterinburg’s Frontier, building up the concussive force of a new Undead Tide on the Ural Front like a swelling pustule.

Shalkar’s greed, he reiterated, was built upon falsehood, a lying accusation that Sparrows had manipulated the city’s people. Theirs was not a debt Moscow would shoulder, and anything barring the unconditional return of Moscow’s Tower, its people, reparation, and the opening of trade routes would satisfy an already irked Moscow.

If indeed his Tower and nation must shoulder the incursion of the Undead Tide, then was is only natural that Shalkar, a city under Moscow’s care, should pay its share.

For hours, the debate had pivoted back and forth, with the Vice-Regent aided by the worthy Lady Grey of the Middle Faction, the young Lord Holland of the Militant Faction, and the daughter of his eternal foe, Mycroft Ravenport.

Throughout, the actual Regent of Shalkar was tied up by her adventures in the Murk until suddenly, she was not.

And so, forcibly invited from the comfort of the Bunker’s interior, Popov and the delegation from Russia were politely displaced into the wondrous courtyard of Shalkar’s Central Square. Here, the Citadel Below met the Bunker in an enormous sunken space, occupying the most expansive mezzanine Popov had ever seen.

Faced with the grandeur of such a space and facing the reality that they would not be taking this city in any timely fashion, Popov confessed to a rare jealousy.

First, Dwarven architecture strongly favoured the geometry of Brutalism, a language of design that Russians found immensely agreeable in its vision of strength and immutability. Unlike the public spaces in Moscow, however, enormous white columns fanned into angled blades that formed the support, constructed with what Popov identified as volcanic bone ash. The result was a space that felt far larger than its actual size, for the enormous cathedral ceiling amplified the dappled light of Shalkar’s cloudless weather. Likewise, enormous roots, some as large as tram tubes, dug through the support structures or traversed shapely viaducts, connecting the cities above and below Shalkar’s liminal spaces.

Within this space, ivory levitation platforms lead to the Bunker and the city outside, while ebony platforms led downward, where Dwarves and Rat-kin laboured side-by-side. To the left and right, public transit systems took citizens to the city’s districts and beyond, while the hall to their direct adjacent functioned as a Teleportation node where a dozen circles of varying sizes connected the city to its external ISTC array.

Everywhere Popov looked, Shalkar’s citizens were busy in their labour, preparing in orderly chaos for the triumphant arrival of their Regent.

Popov had seen the same scene decades ago, when the Regent’s Master was in Moscow, building the loci of his future power for Popov. He found the undesired nostalgia unpleasant, for he could vividly recall that same feeling of industry and hope, emotions that he could not arguably use to describe the present lives of his people. Popov wondered how long it would take for the oligarchs of the Mageocracy to parcel out Shalkar’s resources for themselves. How long could a young businesswoman keep the Dwarves leashed until the citadel rebelled and burned from the inside, even if she held the obnoxious title of Profitess?

And what had the vice-Regent promised? An Elder Dragon?

Popov had heard of these creatures, so ancient and alien compared to the reality of a Human nation’s day-to-day affairs. When he had moulded Russia in his desired image, removing his country from the influences of these scheming creatures was central to Moscow’s power structure. Their plan worked because he knew that there was an Accord and that these landlords of antiquity largely left Humanity alone because of it.

“Vasili,” Zinichev, his second in the matters of diplomacy, used a Silent Message to shake Popov from the stupor of his internal ruminations. “Will you look at that? So that’s the Dyar Morkk, is it? If we had that and recovered the Urals… you understand.”

The room trembled. The floor folded impossibly in a manner like intricate origami, demonstrating a level of material fabrication no human nation can replicate alone. What was revealed was an enormous cargo lift on a slanted track, armed with concurrent platforms that slowly ascended from the depths to deliver oversized cargo like a fleet of Golems, or the return of a Regent’s Expedition.

Within minutes, the Central Square became packed with rubberneckers. Dwarves, Rat-kin, Centaurs, and former citizens of Russian cities, packed into the hall. Lumen-caster screens across the public spaces changed their display signals, forgoing their regular broadcasts of public transportation to display instead the historical arrival of the city’s triumphant Regent.

A tinnitus-inducing whinny filled the central chamber as the mana engines powering the low-way elevator kicked into gear. Slowly but steadily, something from within the Citadel’s bowels rose.

Lights flashed, warning glared, and Glyphs materialised, instructing the bystanders to remain still and clear the marked areas. Messages in a dozen languages, Human and demi-human, played across the aural projectors, demanding that bystanders stand back. Rat-kin in visibility vests resembling child-sized dolls rushed back and forth, waving what looked like shock wands.

The first platform came into view, then locked snugly as horizontal stabiliser rods bit into the pre-formed shafts with nary a sliver of error.

“Vasili, you seeing this?” Zinichev was positively drooling over the bristling array of Golem-forged spell swords attached to the battered hulls of a mechanised battalion. “Even if we can recover and dismantle one for study, it will be a great boon to our native factory works.”

“Yes, impressive,” Popov remarked drily.

He could indeed see the Golem suits. These were of special interest to Moscow because the fundamental difference between Dwarven Golem Plates and Human Golem Engines was that Dwarves “wore” their suits, while humanity “piloted” theirs. Even in the larger Golem variants with cockpits, the Dwarves interfaced with their suits much like an extension of their arms and limbs, without the lag between activating servos, Glyphs, Mandalas and more in human designs. What made Zinichev foolish was assuming that Spellcraft could replace Dwarven Runecraft. For Moscow to mass-produce new-generation Golem Engines, the only possibility was to have Dwarven colonies in an occupied Oblast make the war engines with human pilots in mind, which brought Popov’s interests back to Shalkar.

The Golem suits took a good fifteen minutes to clear the platform, which gave Zinichev more opportunities to excitedly pronounce his passion for the six-legged Fabricator Engine the Dwarves were transporting.

The next and next platforms came and went, bringing maimed Dwarves and Rat-kin alike, making a grim impression upon the city’s observers on the cost of the expedition in the Murk.

Besides the Moscow entourage, their vice-Regent and his crew of Mageocracy lackeys had lost the smug joviality. Instead, they spoke of the casualties and costs incurred by their profitess.

A particular set of figures that Popov had not seen at the negotiations was also present: the infamous Thunder Dragon roosted in the World Tree, and what looked like a woman-bird. The former was a magnificent specimen in his humanoid form, an overly large hulk with distended arms and blue-tinged skin hinting at scales.

As for the Harpy, Zinichev seemed heretically intrigued by a bird-woman with the face and torso of a Helenic beauty and the limbs of a bird of prey. However, Popov could only feel his chest protest in disgust.

Perhaps intentionally, or maybe a miscalculation, it took almost two hours, several refreshments, and Rat-kin bringing chairs, before Popov finally caught sight of the infamous Regent of Shalkar.

With Zinichev swearing under his breath and Lady Grey apologising disingenuously on behalf of her former student, the “Pale Priestess” arrived to an ocean of ovation.

Dwarves, Rat-kin, Centaurs, Human NoMs and Mages alike joined in a thunderous display, clapping their hands and stomping their feet and hooves. His hands remained idle, unlike Zinichev, who began with a golf clap but was swept up in the outpouring.

If this is a display, Popov mulled amidst the uproar, then Gunther Shultz had taught the Regent well.

But if this is genuine… Popov felt the hair on his neck stand. For a Secretariat who had survived two Purges and instigated six more, he knew well what powers a genuine populist could wield, especially if they controlled the infrastructure of a region.

Love this novel? Read it on NovelBin to ensure the author gets credit.

Then, finally, after pushing Popov’s patience to its limit, Shalkar’s leader arrived.

Like the fermata of a Moscow symphonic concerto, the enormous square and its tens of thousands of onlookers grew suddenly silent.

“Vasili!” Zinichev’s silent Message trembled. “Are… are you seeing this? What the hell is that thing?”

There was a young woman there, a very beautiful woman who was very dear to Popov’s well-trained eyes, but he didn’t register her.

Beside her, two Dwarves wore the most ornate, intricate Golem Plates Popov had ever beheld, but he didn’t see them.

There was also a Mage with red hair, Shalkar’s Marshal, the Commander of its Rat-kin forces, and who must be the city’s guest Hvítálfar—but Popov was insensible to their presence.

Instead, the entirety of his occipital lobe was stuck processing the goliath in their midst.

“An Elder Dragon in the flesh

,” the vice-Regent had promised.

For the first time since Popov had met Henry Kilroy three decades ago, he found himself floundering. A Mind Mage of his calibre possessed the means to feel the presence of minds around them as a passive ability, often used to skim the surface thoughts of his colleagues and opponents. Due to this ability, wearing mental shielding accessories was a common practice both Moscow Tower and his Shalkarian negotiators adopted.

The Elder Dragon possessed no such accessories, nor guarded its overt thoughts.

And therefore, Popov possessed for a moment an unfiltered insight into the Dragon’s desires.

Its foremost thought was destruction. That was the impressionistic vision Popov received from the malevolent thoughts radiating from the Dragon. A vision of utter devastation, a living earthquake, unstoppable and immutable, tearing through the Regent’s city, destroying all and turning all living creatures to stone, just like it had done to the Dwarves already.

Then, it was greed. Such voracious greed for precious things and dominion over others that Popov could not begin to fathom the same existential tier of wanton materialism in any human being he had ever encountered. It simply wanted… things, people, cities, places, possessing avarice on a scale too large for Popov to understand, because it kept repeating the mantra of twenty per cent.

Then, it was lust—whereupon Popov withdrew with haste.

A capitalist Dragon? The Tower Master of Moscow shuddered at the realisation. In a world where the history of the proletarians is the history of class struggles, the Regent of Shalkar would raise an Elder Dragon to be the golden bull of her Mammonite temple? Did she not know that the bourgeoisie invariably produces their own gravediggers?

“Master Popov, it’s a pleasure,” an otherworldly voice called out from somewhere. Popov looked down to see a pale hand, half-stretched toward him.

His foremost desire was to slap it away out of annoyance, for he was lost in horror, then the world came rolling back into his swollen brain, and he looked up into the smiling face of a young woman with hazel eyes that bordered on gold and green.

The Mistress of Shalkar, Popov finally noted, wore a suit of crow-skin sleekly fitted to a svelte ballerina’s body, which combined with her flawless, pale complexion, projected the likeness of a gothic portrait. The armour, however, smelled unpleasantly of ozone and the aftermath of violence, shrouding the girl in an aura of death.

“I am Vasili Popov,” his mouth moved of its own accord. “Greetings from Moscow, Regent.”

“It’s good to see you in the flesh,” the girlish voice replied. “I am Gwen Song, Magister of London Tower and the Regent of Shalkar. My second Richard has told me that our negotiations have stalled, but before we take matters further, allow me to introduce you to my companions of the Murk.”

Gwen was glad that Petra was still returning from procuring supplies the city no longer needed for the present.

In her talks with Petra, Vasili Popov had always seemed like a bogeyman, something of a vague creature in the dark that haunted her cousin’s past, a terrifying phantom ogre.

Comparatively, the Vasili Popov she now encountered felt particularly… mortal.

Moreover, she felt inexplicably… annoyed.

Gwen recognised this as the consequence of having to make small talk to a nine-foot-tall Elder Dragon about building up his portfolio while finding every possible Draconic word her translator could afford to sell him real estate.

That she had forced Dhànthárian’s hand felt like the aftermath of some fantastical dream. She was reminded every other minute that here was a being who could crush her mystically reinforced body like a ripe cherry tomato. Here was a Dragon who could wipe her city off the Prime Material in less time than it took to return home. It was a realisation that had only dawned upon her after Dhànthárian joined them on the platform, having thankfully listened to Slylth’s advice on wrapping a Magerobe around his waist like a bathtowel. This realisation soaked her armour padding with perspiration possessing the consistency of Caliban’s secretions. When this is all over, Gwen promised, she would have to visit Ruxin and give her board member a generous gift basket and her thanks.

As a juxtaposition, the threat of Vasili Popov had simply lost all its lustre.

Once the bloke’s senses fully returned, she could feel the periphery of the man’s mind prodding at the invisible barriers of her psyche. If their meeting had occurred before her subjection of Natalia, she would have felt extremely disturbed. After a deep dive into the Sparrow’s recollections of their organisation's methods, however, every significant member of Shalkar wore the necessary protections and understood the particulars of Moscow’s speciality.

In his mortal coil, Vasili Popov stood just under five feet eight from head to lifted heel. He was an unassuming man who wouldn’t have stood out in a crowd, though he did possess a palpable aura of quiet menace. A part of her brain suggested that Popov was akin to Ravenport, but the latter seemed far more comfortable in his skin. Comparatively, Popov gave off the atmosphere of a man clinging to the reins of a buckling bear with masochistic willpower.

She watched as the shock of seeing Dhànthárian for the first time slid from Popov’s face. It was subtle, but she had expected it. When she had first seen Almudj, when she had first met The Bloom in White, and when she had come face to face with the Yinglong’s enormous, cloud-wrapped eye…

“I am Vasili Popov,” the man said on autopilot, seemingly catching himself.

“I am Gwen Song, Magister of London Tower and the Regent of Shalkar…” Gwen introduced herself, then her peers, finishing with a dramatic pause when she finally turned to the shapeshifted Godzilla beside her. “...and finally, this is Great Dhànthárian, Prince of his Domain, and the promised Lord Protector of Neo Deepholm.”

Popov stiffened, then bowed from the waist without extending a hand—for that would be a gesture given to one’s near-equals. It was a good move, Gwen had to admit, an act that showed just enough genuflection without losing the rigidity of one’s spine.

In all honesty, it still surprised her sometimes when her contemporaries professed to having never trafficked with quasi-divine Demi-Gods with lives spanning past Humanity’s first recorded history. That she had been licked by one at fifteen and then thrown hands with the son of another at seventeen before complaining to the parent would make quite the chapter in her future ghost-written autobiography.

“Let us retire somewhere more comfortable,” Gwen said with her best smile, especially given the circumstances of her battle garb.

The Russian delegation followed while she waved to the crowd, answering their cries of “Pale Priestess!” and “For Deepholm!” There were a good number of “Lord Dhànthárian–!” and “Eternal Dhànthárian–!” mixed in, which made no sense to her—until she saw Richard’s fox-like, loopsided grin as their eyes met.

Beside her, Dhànthárian appeared confounded, until two seconds passed and the prideful Dragon sank into the comfort of worship like a tired workman into a hot, bubbly tub.

Dragons liked to sleep.

Dragons liked their HDMs.

Dragons like to fu–fornicate.

And Dragons… liked to wallow in worship.

Like herself, Richard had dealt with Dragons long enough to know their kind well. That Richard foresaw such considerations cemented her cousin as her right hand and the right lobe of her sometimes overwhelmed brain.

The party returned to the enormous conference room, whereupon Dhànthárian naturally took his place at the head of the table after transmuting a new bench by glaring at the floor. After a sigh, Gwen moved to sit next to him as a show of solidarity, flanked by Slylth and tailed closely by Strun and Lulan.

With everyone seated and reseated, she took a few minutes to read over Richard’s meeting minutes, then nodded at the Russian Tower Master to begin their new proceedings. That Dhànthárian was now sitting in on the meeting was not in Popov’s expectations, but who had the balls to tell the Elder Dragon to go home?

“I shall not repeat myself,” Popov spoke in her direction, his eyes not even registering Dhànthárian. “We will have our Tower returned, we shall have our reparations, and what is rightfully the domain of the Federation you have unlawfully occupied.”

“Richard’s offer…” Gwen nodded at her second approvingly. “Is for the withdrawal of your wayward Tower, the return of your captured Mage Flights, and a treaty to ratify non-aggression for the foreseeable future. No reparations, unless it's toward the citizens of Shalkar.”

“Moscow will not be able to exercise its duties to the Commonwealth Mageocracy if that is your desire,” Popov answered sternly. “The Undead are amassing, as you know. If you wish to bear the brunt of the next Tide, be our guest.”

Gwen raised her elegant chin just a tad so that she looked down on the wispy-haired Tower Master. “Do I look like someone who hasn’t evaporated two Undead Tides, one of which was a Mer-tide, numbering in the multi-millions? Do you believe me incapable of such a thing?”

Her retort washed over the Tower Master, who shrugged. “You can survive, Regent, but what of your people? You have no Tower here, not yet. What of the lives you will pay? Do you not need to rebuild Deepholm? We have always withheld the Undead from the shores of Europe with our blood and tears, HDMs and Towers. Will you do so with your… Rats? Will these not merely feed the phage?”

Gwen stared at her opponent. She had many weapon systems ready to go. Still, the Tower itself would take some time—somewhere between one and two years for the whalebone setting to be outfitted, tested, adjusted, re-tested, and refitted with fully functioning levitator engines. Then would come the interior fittings. And while she could command the Dwarves and the imminent mass-migration of Dwarves to Shalkar to labour on her Tower, she wouldn’t, for rebuilding their sister-city was now Shalkar’s first and foremost priority.

“Perhaps, but Shalkar has many allies and friends,” she said, breaking her mask with a smile. We have Mistress Sanari here, who has methods for dealing with the Undead you cannot imagine. We have our dear friends here, Lord Kül-Hildenbrandt and Axehoff, our Clan Rat unions, the Great Cherbi of the Khan of Khans, Milady of the Middle Faction, Lord Holland of the Militants, and my dear sister Charlene of the Grey Factions…”

“EE-EE!” She clicked her fingers, and Ariel blossomed into being, irradiating with room with its regality. “We have a divine deterrent to the Undead here…”

The Kirin blew a raspberry toward the Tower Master of Moscow.

Gwen laughed, then subtly indicated to the giant at the end of the table and the red-headed young Mage sitting beside her. “...and the love and care of beings from above and below our humble, earthly Prime Material. In all seriousness, Master Popov, I would just take my Tower and go home. I’ll sign a favourable trade agreement with Moscow that will ensure a rapid recovery of its HDMs reserves, and that’s my best offer.”

Popov’s facial muscles tensed as she remarked on the three Dragons in her stable.

Golos, the layer of birds.

Slylth, the scion of Morden.

And of course, Lord Protector Dhànthárian the impatient.

On cue, the Elder Dragon grunted.

“What is happening, and where is my new penthouse?” Dhànthárian demanded in his characteristic Draconic, speaking via concrete.

The Russians did not have the means to understand Draconic, and Richard did not prepare the Ioun Stones for them to do so. At any rate, it wasn’t as though “Penthouse” existed in the Draconic vernacular.

“My Lord, Tower Master Popov did not mean to delay the inspection of your new home, or the refurbishment of your old one,” Gwen translated for the grim-faced Popov, then spoke in English. “He is merely looking out for his people and their interests, as is his right and duty. His is a difficult province to govern, perhaps I can show you why later… on a map…”

Dhànthárian turned his gaze toward the Russians.

Gwen barely counted to two before a solid wave of Dragon Fear rippled out, turning anyone who was not ready or had already experienced psychic gut-punches into boiled cabbage.

The Magisters behind Popov melted, with three fainting and the last vomiting the contents of his luncheon. The disgraced Tower Master of Novosibirsk sat with a grunt, and the man Gwen identified as Oleg Zinichev turned the hue of printing paper. Comparatively, Popov weathered the storm with the same grim determination he always wore.

“Let’s not descend… into vulgar threats,” the Tower Master of Moscow spat between clenched teeth. “You have made your point very clear, Regent. Moscow isn’t insensitive to your priorities. Allow us to take the Tower and our people home. We will negotiate the treaties of trade and non-aggression in another summit.”

“No reparations?”

Popov shook his head. “We wouldn’t think of impeding the Lord Dragon’s projects. Let us not say things which cannot be taken back.”

Gwen glanced at her mentor, the Lady Grey, who nodded in approval, and Charlene, who looked a little giddy. Besides the ladies, the future Duke of Holland gave her a thumbs up.

With grace, the Regent of Shalkar extended a white hand toward the expressionless Tower Master opposite. “Let us mark this day as a day of progress, for both our nations.”

With Dhànthárian watching like a ruffled hawk, the pair shook hands.

“I am afraid Richard will have to handle the particulars,” she apologised when Dhànthárian stood, making his intent known to all. “I am afraid I shall be occupied for some time still. I am grateful, Tower Master, for your understanding, and I will ensure that you will not regret your decision today.”

“I should hope so, Regent,” Popov turned toward her second, still ignoring his incapacitated men and women, never once looking in the Dragon’s direction. “I hope you all the best in providing for the Lord Dragon.”

“Come, Lord Dhànthárian.” Gwen’s mind returned to a concern she’d been ruminating with Dhànthárian since they stepped on the lift. With a hand on the rough scales of the Earthen Dragon’s arm, she guided him away from the next round of negotiations, simultaneously calling for Golos and Slylth to join her and Lulan. “Let me show you to your ultra-lux abode in the canopy. As promised, it is located exactly beside Slylth’s, and no more than a stone’s throw away from the summer home of our… Summer Queen, the wonderful, immutable, and ever regal lady in red, her highness, Sythinthimryr…”

With the Dragons gone, Popov waited until his men returned to lucidity.

He did not feel particularly ashamed or regretful, for what was regret without choice? That was an Elder Dragon, and Moscow’s trade treaty would make a good story for his home audience. And though he had given his concessions, and Moscow had to swallow its teeth, his people would not know, nor he forgo the grudge.

After all, revenge was a Borscht best served cold.

He would recover the Sparrows, chain the wayward chick related to the Regent, and then deal with the aftermath as Moscow had always dealt with the Mageocracy, subtly and through subterfuge.

“I am sorry!” His brooding venom production was interrupted by a loudhaler in the form of Richard Huang, vice-Regent of Shalkar. “But I must say, Tower Master, that was entirely on you.”

“Me?” Popov swallowed his rage like a man made to throat a fat slug.

“Yes, friend,” Richard growled painfully, raising both hands in the universal symbol of disappointment. “I told you I was inexperienced, and I told you no less than THREE TIMES that we should wrap this up before our Regent showed up. Now look where we are. I feel ashamed, Master Popov—ashamed that I could not help you more… but I still want to help. If you cut tariffs on our grain exports, we’ll take your stockpiles at the market rate…”

With the supreme effort of a man resisting spontaneous combustion, Popov smiled.

For the first time since a very, very long while, the Tower Master of Moscow felt the ardent desire to forgo Mind Magic and strangle a man to death with his cold, bare hands.