Lich for Hire

The obituary for Roger Ángelo reached the emperor in the imperial capital of Lyon.

The young emperor read it to the end and crushed it in his fist.

"Damned undead! We never should have issued that pardon in the first place. None of this would have happened."

Roger Ángelo had been the general most devoted to the Lyon royal family, the most powerful and most senior supporter the royalists had. With him gone, the royalist faction had lost its greatest champion.

The emperor had been counting on the Unholy Kingdom campaign to bring him out from behind the curtain at last, to transform him from a puppet emperor into a ruler with genuine power.

But Roger Ángelo was dead before the war had even officially begun.

Would people blame him for this?

No. He couldn't allow that. He needed a scapegoat—no, not a scapegoat. It wasn't his fault, after all. The fault lay with that lich, and with the traitor Allen Watson.

Right. Allen Watson must have conspired with the lich to engineer Roger Ángelo's death. And the pardon had been James Watson's doing. Clearly, the entire family had worked together to destroy Roger Ángelo.

And that was that. There wasn't any need for deliberation at all.

Still, one complication persisted: James Watson was the High Inquisitor. Under Lyon's laws, the High Inquisitor was the supreme interpreter of all legislation. Putting such a figure on trial involved a procedure of extraordinary complexity.

The young emperor turned it over in his mind and muttered to himself, "First, I'll let the news spread. Once all of Lyon is demanding answers from the High Inquisitor, a little pressure in the right direction is all I need for public opinion to finish him off. What I need to do is..."

He was still trying to figure out how to deal with that stubborn old man when a servant announced that the High Inquisitor was requesting an audience.

The young emperor jumped up in shock.

Was the old man onto him?

Despite having the upper hand, the emperor had never quite managed to stop being afraid of James Watson.

Since the day he had taken the throne, Watson had gotten the better of him time and again. This was precisely why he despised the man's incorruptible rigidity and wanted him replaced.

With a guilty conscience pricking at him, the emperor was tempted to refuse the audience.

He needed time for the rumors to spread, and for public opinion to turn, before he could have the confidence to face Watson directly.

What he didn't expect was for Watson to have anticipated exactly this. After being refused an audience, Watson had a servant deliver a letter instead.

The emperor stared at the envelope. "Did the old man say anything else?"

The servant knelt. "Nothing, Your Majesty. The High Inquisitor turned and left immediately after."

The emperor opened it with suspicion, ready to pin the blame on Watson regardless.

After reading it, he blinked and read it again. Then again. He checked it for enchantments. There were none. The letter was exactly what it appeared to be.

The letter itself consisted of just a few brief sentences.

James Watson was resigning from the office of High Inquisitor. He intended to go into self-imposed exile and leave Lyon entirely.

His reason: Allen's treason, and the suspicion that Allen had been involved in Roger Ángelo's death, made it impossible for him to maintain the role of High Inquisitor without appearing to be covering for his son. The matter required adjudication by someone without a personal stake in the outcome.

It was entirely consistent with everything Watson had ever stood for: law above all, with no exceptions for personal sentiment or compromise.

The resignation was perfectly reasoned. The emperor could not believe it.

That stubborn old man was giving up the High Inquisitor's seat just like that? No one would believe this.

Still, whatever game Watson was playing, the emperor now held something he could use against him. He could replace Watson with one of his own people, and no one would be able to object.

He moved quickly. The news was announced to the entire capital within the day, accompanied by a letter the emperor had commissioned: a deeply felt, personally moving appeal for Watson to reconsider. When he announced the resignation publicly, he read the letter aloud with great feeling.

The message was clear: this had not been the emperor's doing. He had tried his best to keep Watson in place. The former High Inquisitor had refused him repeatedly and chosen to leave of his own accord.

The emperor had even wanted to hold a proper farewell ceremony. After all, Watson had served the empire for so many years. He deserved a dignified send-off.

Unfortunately, the old man had already left Lyon before any such arrangements could be made.

The emperor also made a point of announcing, in a magnanimous tone, that he would not hold Allen's treason against the rest of the Watson family. Siblings and other relatives would face no consequences.

The people of Lyon praised the emperor's mercy while quietly cursing the Watson family. A father who raised a traitor—clearly there was something wrong with the man.

This was exactly what the emperor had wanted. He had already sent people out to seed that particular sentiment to make sure James Watson could never regain his former standing.

With that settled, the High Inquisitor's seat was vacant and ready to be filled. He could take his time selecting the right person—a deputy could cover the role for now.

Everything had all worked out neatly. The death of an imperial general had been buried under the noise of the High Inquisitor's resignation. The public outrage that might have been directed at the crown had been redirected entirely onto the Watson family.

But beneath the surface, a real problem remained.

Roger Ángelo was dead. What was to be done about the Unholy Kingdom?

Peace? That was, on its face, the sensible choice.

But if the war were called off now, the next opportunity to strike the Unholy Kingdom could be a long time coming. Once the public calmed down, James Watson would be forgotten, and attention might drift back toward the emperor himself.

This was the kind of decision the emperor wanted to discuss with someone, but he realized with a jolt that he had no one to discuss it with.

When Watson had still been around, the emperor hadn't minded consulting him on occasion.

The old man was infuriating, but the emperor trusted that his counsel came without ulterior motives. Everyone in Lyon knew that, in all his years as High Inquisitor, James Watson had never once given anyone grounds to question him, except where his son was concerned.

Even an answer delivered with contempt would have been worth something. At least it would have been honest.

But Watson was gone. The emperor found he had no one he could actually trust.

He had spent too many years as a puppet. Making real decisions was never something he had been permitted; now that he had the chance to do so, he had no one to turn to.

After a long while, he descended once more to the palace cellars and the row of old fogeys lying in their coffins.

They sustained themselves in deep dream-sleep, slowing every bodily function to the minimum required for survival and preserving just enough of their minds to think clearly.

It was the only way the aging Lyon royals could prolong their lives without access to any form of life extension. The emperor had come to them once before, seeking their sanction to use the Draconic Armaments—sanction they had granted, though he still didn't know why.

Now, with the empire approaching a turning point, he came to them again.

Specialized servants—those of royal blood who had failed to trigger any resonance with the Draconic Armaments—had learned the magic needed to carry messages into their dream-state. They served as intermediaries between the waking world and whatever remained of those ancient minds.

Before long, the emperor received a simple answer: continue the war against the Unholy Kingdom.

The emperor wanted to ask why, but the servants told him that wouldn't be possible. Each response to a waking question was a burden on those minds. Another question might be more than they could withstand.

The emperor left the cellar with his teeth clenched.

They had always treated him this way, as a puppet who took orders and nothing more.

"Once I've taken back real control of this empire, I'll have every one of you dug up. Let's see how respectful you are when you're awake and standing in front of me!"

He had his answer, unsatisfying though it might be. Despite the lack of explanation, he had no choice but to act on it.

Continuing the campaign against the Unholy Kingdom wasn't complicated in itself. All he needed was to call up another general. And once he deployed the Draconic Armaments personally, there would be no doubt as to the outcome.

Lyon began moving its forces. Troop movements on that scale couldn't be hidden.

The Unholy Kingdom received word quickly, but the tiflings had a more immediate problem on their hands.

In the capital, where hymns and anthems were sung at all hours of the day, Domina Lowry and the twelve other members of the Unholy Council sat around a table with dark expressions as they stared at the report before them.

It said nothing about Lyon's troop movements. Rather, it was about a rumor that had been spreading through the Unholy Kingdom.

The Unholy Council had signed a contract with a lord of Hell. The entire kingdom had been offered as the price; in exchange, the councilmembers would be spared torment and granted noble status in Hell.

The rumor lacked any details and read like something invented by a gossip.

But every member of the Unholy Council knew it to be true.

Domina Lowry rose to her feet and drove her fist through the table.

"Who leaked this?"

She swept the room with a sharp gaze. None of the other twelve flinched. They looked thoughtful, startled, worried—all reasonable responses to learning that their greatest secret had been divulged.

Domina Lowry pressed her lips together. She didn't know who the culprit was. She didn't even have any suspects in mind.

The old tifling seated beside her said, "Domina, we are all parties to this arrangement. None of us would expose it prematurely. That would only accelerate our own descent into Hell. Don't try to find someone to blame. Instead, we need to think about how we should respond."

Domina Lowry was quiet for a moment. "You're right. So how do we?"

The rumor was circulating only among senior officials and nobility for now. It hadn't spread widely, but it fit the current situation too precisely.

With Lyon threatening an invasion and signs of infernal involvement already visible within the kingdom, anyone who looked carefully would be able to find hidden clues. Even without any proof, the suspicion would only deepen.

How were they to contain a rumor that was actually the truth?

Someone suggested, "Issue a statement and deny everything. It may not do much, but it's something."

Domina Lowry shook her head. "It won't work. These aren't commoners. All those who have heard this rumor are nobles themselves, and largely city lords at that."

"Then we must stall. Lyon is about to invade regardless. Once the war starts, everything will become a foregone conclusion. By the time anyone asks about it again, it'll be too late to matter."

That was, at least, a workable suggestion. Buy enough time, and the situation would resolve itself. But when would Lyon actually invade? With one of their generals just having died, they might pull back. If they abandoned the campaign, stalling would become worthless.

The councilmembers had traded an entire kingdom for personal immunity from Hell's torments: exemptions for a handful of people at the cost of everyone else.

If that became widely known, the population at large would not consider the long-term consequences. They would not worry about Lyon. They would revolt first and ask questions later.

"We must proceed on three fronts," Domina Lowry said. "We deny everything, publicly and loudly. We investigate Lyon's exact situation. And we find whoever spread this."

She wanted to make a specimen of them. Whoever it was, she already hated them more than she had ever hated anyone.

The meeting ended. Domina Lowry pressed her fingers to her temples and made her way back to her rooms.

She had barely stepped through the door when she saw an old man with white hair waiting for her.

"Mr. Misfortune," she said, her voice going still.

Mr. Misfortune looked at the woman who still carried herself with an unmistakable presence. He smiled. "Domina. It's been a long time."

Domina Lowry stepped back, positioning herself to call for the guards at a moment's notice.

She was a legend, but years of comfort and governance had taken the edge off her. She was an alchemist now, a leader of a nation, not the infernal knight she had once been.

Mr. Misfortune had interfered with their operations more than once. His principles ran directly contrary to theirs. He was on the wanted list. A traitor, by their reckoning.

Finding him here, in her room, was deeply unsettling.

She signaled the guards outside through the door. They didn't respond. They didn't even look up, as though they couldn't see her at all.

Mr. Misfortune said, still smiling, "Relax, Domina. I'm not here to kill you, and there's no point trying to call for help. No one will see me here today. Not within these walls."

She didn't believe him. She tried to leave the room, but she couldn't—no matter what she did, she couldn't cross that threshold.

"I told you, it won't work." He crossed the room until he stood before her. "I came to tell you one thing, Domina. I was the one who spread the rumor. I know everything about your arrangement with Hell."

Her eyes went wide. "How?"

Mr. Misfortune shook his head. "That doesn't matter. What I want you to know is this: I am going to save this kingdom. But I cannot save you." He held her gaze. "I loved you once. When I was young, you were the sun to me, something I could look at but never touch. But now, I have to destroy everything you have built. The Unholy Kingdom will not fall into Hell. You, however, will. You and every last one of your shameless partners."

He paused. "I can give you one opportunity. Among your descendants, you may choose one person to be spared. That is all I can do for you, Domina. Choose."