these soldiers. Yes?”
“Well. Yes, sir?”
“And where are the other holdouts, as you put it?”
“There’s…There’s one down the lane here, sir,” he said, pointing down the street. “About a mile that way.”
“I see,” said Crasedes. “Well, then. One moment.”
“W-What are you going to do, sir?”
“I,” said Crasedes, “am going to resolve the issue.”
He turned, reached into his cloak, and pulled out Clef.
Crasedes said to him.
The key remained silent.
asked Crasedes.
Clef still said nothing—yet Crasedes thought he sensed a furious, frustrated air about him.
Crasedes sighed. Then he lifted the key, reached out with the tip, and focused…
The door was there.
But then, the door was always there. Reality, as Crasedes knew quite well, was made of layers within layers, walls within walls, locks within locks within locks—much like the very city he now occupied…
Though reality was run a little better than Tevanne. And its walls and locks tended to operate in more than four dimensions.
The door swung open, and Crasedes stepped through, and…
There was a crack, and he was inside the foundry, behind all the Morsini soldiers, who squatted before the foundry windows. The soldiers jumped in fright, and turned.
But Crasedes was already moving, already turning the key, already opening the door, and this time he was pulling them through…
Crack.
A blast of sea air, wet and balmy, and they were thousands of feet above the ocean, plummeting through the air. The soldiers were so surprised that they didn’t even scream as they hurtled down to the waters.
Crasedes did not wait to see their reaction. He extended the key again, turned it…
Crack.
He was in another foundry, with another set of Morsini soldiers defending what they believed to be rightfully theirs.
“Keep firing on the streets!” said one Morsini sergeant. “Don’t stop until the Dandolos ha—” Then he noticed Crasedes standing behind him. “Who the hell are y—”
Crasedes extended the key again.
I remember when I did this, he thought, with that army from Lhosara.
Another turn of the key.
Crack.
Another blast of air, this one cold and freezing, and the Morsini soldiers found themselves dumped into drifts of arctic snow.
But that time, he thought, I simply dumped them into that volcano, one by one…Time-consuming, but worth it.
He turned the key again.
Crack.
Crasedes found himself back at the foundry gates, facing the Dandolo captain, who looked surprised, confused, and quite terrified.
“They should be gone now,” said Crasedes. “You may take the foundries. A few scrivers will be along to ensure it’s all configured properly. Just do as they say.”
“The…The enemy is gone, sir?” said the captain. “From both facilities? But where to?”
Crasedes waved a hand, bored. “Somewhere else.”
“Do they still live?”
He had to think about it. “Probably for a little while. If there is nothing more…I have other things to attend to.”
He turned the key once more, and with a crack he walked out of the Morsini campo and into the depths of Ofelia Dandolo’s estate house.
He stopped at the base of a long set of marble stairs, which led up to the Dandolo grand ballroom. Above him a dozen massive, rose-pink floating lanterns quietly wheeled through the foyer’s columns in a slow, dreamy waltz.
He stood there for a moment, listening as the crack of his appearance echoed through the tremendous room. Then he walked up the stairs until he came to the doors to the grand ballroom, placed one hand on the handle, and paused.
He slowly pulled out Clef and stared at him in the palm of his hand, the key winking as the rose-pink light waxed and waned.
“You don’t remember me, do