north, was no time to allow dissension to develop on her flanks from so paltry a
matter as the perquisites of obscure and weakling gods.
This uprising among the buffer states upon Upper Ranke’s northernmost frontier
and the inflated rumors of slaughter coming back from Wizardwall’s mountainous
skirts all out of proportion to reasonable numbers dominated Molin’s monologue:
“And what say you, esteemed lady? Could it be that Nisibisi magicians have made
their peace with Mygdon’s barbarian lord, and found him a path through
Wizardwall’s fastness? You are well-traveled, it is obvious…. Could it be
true that the border insurrection is Mygdonia’s doing, and their hordes so
fearsome as we have been led to believe? Or is it the Rankan treasury that is
suffering, and a northern incursion the cure for our economic ills?”
Lastel flickered puffy lids down at her from ravaged cheeks and his turgid arm
went around her waist. She smiled up at him reassuringly, then favored the
priest: “Your Holiness, sadly I must confess that the Mygdonian threat is very
real. I have studied realms and magics, in Ranke and beyond. If you wish a
consultation, and Lastel permits-” she batted the thickest lashes in Sanctuary
“-I shall gladly attend you, some day when we both are fit for ‘solemn’
discourse. But now I am too filled with wine and revel, and must interrupt you
your pardon please-that my escort bear me home to bed.” She cast her glance upon
the ballroom floor, demure and concentrating on her slippered feet poking out