Corporal Regina checked range and angle for the fourth time, and once again found it to be perfect. It was as if the creepy, self-winding catapult wanted to hit its target.
"Stop fiddling with it," her brother, Reginald, said. "That kid in the red cloak said all we have to do is pull this lever."
"You mean your niece, Relkin?" Regina said.
"Yeah," Reginald blinked. "My niece."
Regina supposed she was her niece, too. Obviously. She'd always been her niece. That's how nieces worked. She could even remember holding her as a baby. She was family. You're supposed to do anything for family, right? That's what people said. She didn't think most people usually meant treason, though, when they said it. Did it count as treason if the emperor himself was being mind-controlled? This was right, wasn't it?
Well, family or no, mentally dominating people was wrong. It was possible—even likely—that there would have been a mutiny once the extent of the domination over the army was uncovered. Regina knew that she, at least, had been mad as Hell when that boy—who was her favourite nephew, she reminded herself—had broken the spell. Taking someone's life and re-writing it to your own will was black as night. And now they were taking the fight to the one who had done that to her. That had to be right.
Regina checked the catapult again, feeling a little uneasy. The firing angle was still perfect.
Those two kids were family. They'd always been family.
The question that nagged at the corner of her mind, though, was, well...
They were always family. They'd always been family. Always. But had they always been family yesterday?
o—o—o—o
Milo walked into the Palace's grand entrance chamber. Pinkish marble sheathed the walls, and a small, tasteful fountain cascaded water on either side of the room. The thick red carpet was covered in muddy bootprints from the soldiers who had been stationed here.
"Everyone still here?" Milo whispered. The rest of his party wasn't simply invisible (as that could be countered with magic), they were outright un-see-able.
There were a series of affirmatives.
Milo felt as if he should give an inspirational speech. Something that would thank his friends for risking their lives to help him, that would get their blood pumping, and that would drive them to new heights. Something suitable to the momentousness of the occasion.
"You all know what to do," Milo said. Screw it. Inspiring people was un-wizardly. "Let's get to it."
o—o—o—o
"Is the package prepared?" Bellatrix asked, pacing impatiently, her silent bodyguard lurking in the corner.
"Soon, mistress," Lkoturo the Vizier said. Even the Imperius Curse couldn't quite banish the oil from his voice.
"What's taking so long?"
"There is an affray at the Mage's Guild, mistress" Lkoturo said. "Unenlightened Wizards—"
"Wizards!" Bellatrix snapped. "They are not wizards!"
"Of course, mistress. Unenlightened... users of magic launched a raid in an attempt to free their comrades. Further, they deployed some sort of... trap against our army. It may take some time to clear up the mess."
"Army," Bellatrix mocked. "Muggles with sharpened sticks. I care not one way or the other."
"Of course, mistress. But may I remind you that, for the pacification of the lands surrounding Myra, City of Light! City of Magic! we need—"
"For now," Bellatrix cut in. Once the package is prepared, this strange mockery of a world can burn for all I care. "And I thought I ordered you to stop saying that."
"Of course, mistress."
"You may leave me."
"Of course, mistress." Lkoturo bowed deeply and walked out, closing the great spell-wrought wooden doors behind him.
o—o—o—o
Most other seats of government don't have prison cells in the basement, excluding, of course, the conference rooms.
Despite ready access to Continual Flame-based lighting, the prison was dark, smoky, and poorly lit, because some conventions are more powerful than mere practicality.
Unconscious prison guards lay scattered about the room, of whom roughly half were suffering from severe injuries.
"Cure Minor Wounds," Zook murmured over one of them. With a gasp, the guard's eyes shot open, and he reached for a weapon. "Gerard?" Zook gestured.
Gerard, holding a broken table leg, effortlessly thwacked the guard over the back of the head, knocking him back unconscious.
"Must you?" Relkin asked impatiently.
"These guards are innocent," Zook said. He looked down at the guard Gerard had just knocked out, who had RSIST AREST tattooed on his knuckles, and a black eye patch with a skull on it. "Well, given the benefit of the doubt, they could be innocent. We don't know. So we need to make sure they're unconscious from nonlethal damage. Otherwise, they'll just bleed out when we leave."
Relkin sighed, but left the issue alone.
Surprisingly, considering the new regime, the cells were largely empty. Milo had expected more, well, starving political prisoners and the like. Maybe a couple of loyalist guardsmen or knights willing to help their cause if you put a weapon in their hand.
Though, he supposed, it actually made sense for the place to be empty. Anyone like that would simply have been brainwashed by Bellatrix or one of her cronies before being sent back out into the streets to act as a double agent. And besides, most of the magical prisoners were being kept up at the Mage's Guild, and since when had a Death Eater ever paid attention to the goings-on of Muggles?
There was, however, one prisoner: an aging man in filthy tatters that were once fine robes. Regal, even.
The old man stared up at them with blank eyes.
Milo recognized him immediately. He'd seen his face every time he'd sat down at an inn, bought new equipment, or looted a treasure chest in a fifteen-foot room after slaying the orc defending it.
"Your Majesty!" Milo hissed. "We're here to rescue you!"
The Emperor continued to stare at him blankly from the other side of the bars. Right, Milo realized. He's probably under a whole boatload of mental compulsions. There was no way to fix that without first getting into the cell.
"Oy, skill monkey! I've got a job for you."
Relkin perked up. "Oh?"
Milo gestured at the lock.
Relkin stepped up and took a look at the oversized, rusty lock. Then she produced a series of fine, complicated-looking tools and probes, and went to work. In a few seconds, the door swung open.
"Protection from Good," Milo muttered, and tapped the Emperor on the forehead. He felt weird casting the inverse of his usual spell, but this was all he'd found in Thamior's creepy spellbook. For these purposes, the results should be exactly the same.
The old man gasped and looked around as if he'd never seen, well, anything before.
"You're free," Milo said. "But we need your help. Someone has to take over after we—"
"This is your tube," the old man said in a serious tone. "This is your tube in ruins."
"Er. What?"
"Any treads?" the man said, dropping to a whisper, and clutching Milo's hands desperately. "Madness and ages past; that's what really matters. Yea! Fie! Treads! Treads!" The old man suddenly stopped rambling and stood up straight, adopting a beatific pose. "Neither a borrower nor a treasure be," he said sagely.
Relkin frowned. "Detect Magic," she cast. "He's clean," she said.
"So, what... what's wrong with him?" Milo asked. "I heard him give a speech a few years back; he wasn't like this then."
"No man," the emperor said pompously, "is fit to coagulate another that cannot coagulate himself."
"I think he's been under mental compulsion his whole life," she said. "I don't think he's... all there. I'm not certain it's something magic can fix."
This posed a problem. It had all seemed so simple on paper: break in, free the rightful monarch, take out Bellatrix, everyone goes home happy.
"The sample and the plug," the old man rambled, "are alike admired for a saturated tank—and for their transparent pits."
But the emperor was clearly unfit to rule. Milo didn't want to leave the City to fend for itself after dealing with Lestrange, but what could he do...?
"I've got an idea," Milo said grimly. "But I think some of you may not like it."
Milo told them.
They didn't like it.
o—o—o—o
The hallway was empty.
Red plush carpet covered the floor, and the walls were expensive hardwood. Every here and there was an alcove or sconce with a painting, urn, or other tasteful, and, more importantly, expensive piece of art. It was, basically, your typical palatial hallway.
Lkoturo the Grand Vizier strolled down the hallway. He looked confident, in control, smug, and hardly mind-controlled at all. His long, waxed goatee looked particularly oily today.
He paused, tilting his head, as if he heard something that he couldn't quite make out. After a few moments, he gave the minutest of shrugs and continued walking.
He didn't realize he wasn't alone until after Milo had tapped him on the back with a Protection from Good and dropped his tower shield.
Lkoturo spun around, eyes sharp on Milo.
"You!" he hissed. "You're supposed to be dead!"
It was Milo's turn to be surprised. "You know who I am?"
"You're a PC! What do you take me for? Of course I know who you are! Now, why did you free me?"
"We want to help you," Milo said. "Actually, let me rephrase that. We're grudgingly willing to help you."
"To what end? And in exchange for what? And why shouldn't I rid myself of your meddling presence now, while I have you alone and out-levelled?"
Milo coughed delicately, and there were three thuds as tower shields hit the floor, revealing Zook, Gerard, and Relkin with mace, greatsword, and longsword held, respectively, in a generally menacing manner.
Lkoturo paused. "Your case is persuasive," he said finally. "Now, what do you want?"
"We're here to take down Lestrange," Milo said. "We want you to return the city to a generally status-quo-sort-of situation afterward. In the meantime, you stay out of our way."
"How do I know this isn't some sort of trick?" Lkoturo asked. "After all, with me in charge, sooner or later we'll likely have it out anyway."
"True," Milo said. "But you're the sort of villain PCs are there to handle. You're capital 'E' Evil, and Bellatrix is lower-case 'e' evil, and I think we've all seen what's scarier. And besides, I lived in the City under your rule for eleven years. Bandits and kobolds were problems, but the people never went hungry and oppression was generally kept to a minimum."
"I pride myself on my modern outlook," Lkoturo said.
"You're this world's problem, and this world can deal with you later. Until then, someone has to keep the trains running on time. Do we have a deal?"
"Very well," Lkoturo said. "But what is a train?"
"Irrelevant to our conversation. Where is Bellatrix?"
"In my office. Take the stairs two floors up, first door on the left. But you'll never get in; the doors are heavily protected with magic."
Milo made a dismissive gesture. "Not a problem. Why was she rounding up spellcasters?"
"For her search," Lkoturo said. "She's completely obsessed, especially in the last few days. High-level spellcasters possess very potent divination and transportation spells, allowing them to find and retrieve objects the world over."
"Interesting. But what is she looking for?"
"Philosopher's Stones," Lkoturo said. "She's got dozens of them."