At the same time the Mayor’s Office was experiencing its own version of a structural collapse.

  The office was a disaster area of high-level intellect. Maps of the Hundred Kingdoms were pinned to the walls with silver daggers, books on ancient arboriculture were stacked like precarious towers, and the air smelled of expensive tobacco and burnt sugar.

  In the center of this chaos sat Mayor Thaddeus P. Sterling.

  Thaddeus was a man who looked like he had been put together from spare parts found in a genius’s attic, yet somehow the result was strikingly handsome. He possessed a sharp, aristocratic jawline and silver-streaked hair that he kept perpetually windswept, giving him the look of a fallen prince who had spent too much time reading. He was currently upside down in his velvet armchair, his legs draped over the backrest, intensely studying a single leaf through a magnifying glass.

  To the Federation, he was a "Natural Walking Disaster"—a man whose intelligence was so vast it often spilled over into deliberate eccentricity. He knew exactly how handsome he was, and he used it as just another tool to annoy, distract, or disarm anyone who dared to bore him.

  "It’s a fungus, Arthur," the Mayor announced to the ceiling, his voice a rich, cultured baritone. "A very specific, very judgmental fungus. It only grows on the boots of people who have recently been to the Northern Marshes and have a guilty conscience. Or perhaps it just dislikes their choice in socks."

  Arthur, the Mayor’s assistant, stood by the window with the ramrod-straight posture of a man who had survived three wars and a dozen royal assassinations. He was a war veteran with silver hair and eyes that had seen the "Peace of Iron" being forged in blood. He was the Watson to Thaddeus’s erratic Sherlock—the calm, composed anchor to a ship that preferred to sail in zig-zags.

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  "The fungus is irrelevant, Thaddeus," Arthur said, his voice a steady, dry rasp. "What is relevant is the black-lacquered carriage currently venting steam in the square. Inquisitor Valerius is here. And she isn't alone."

  "Ah, the Slate-and-Gold," Thaddeus said, righting himself with a sudden, athletic grace. He smoothed his waistcoat, looking momentarily like the most capable leader in Aethelgard before intentionally crossing his eyes at his own reflection in a silver tray. "Valerius. The daughter of Silas. A man so rigid he uses a level to check if his soup is flat. And her mother... well, her mother was the only person who ever beat me at Alchemical Chess. I’ve always wondered if the daughter inherited the mother’s wit or the father’s inability to understand a metaphor."

  "She is at the silversmith's shop," Arthur continued, unperturbed. "And she is currently being 'assisted' by the boy from the orphanage. The one with the golden eyes. Along with the frost-child and the Listener."

  Thaddeus stopped mid-stride. A wide, disturbingly clever grin spread across his face. "Oh, how marvelous! The Federation’s finest logic-engine meets Oakhaven’s most beautiful glitch. It’s like watching a clockwork soldier try to dance with a whirlwind. I wonder if she’ll try to arrest him, or if she'll realize he's the only one who can see the grime on her lenses."

  "It is a political catastrophe," Arthur corrected calmly. "If she realizes what those children are, the Federation will seize the town. You need to be the Mayor now, Thaddeus. Not a philosopher."

  "Arthur, my dear old friend," Thaddeus said, picking up a heavy brass paperweight shaped like an acorn. "I am being the Mayor. Why do you think I let the silversmith get murdered in such an 'Interesting' way? Why do you think I left the North Gate unlocked?"

  Arthur paused, his eyes narrowing. "You knew they were coming."

  "I knew the Continent was tilting," Thaddeus said, his voice dropping its manic edge and becoming suddenly, terrifyingly sharp. "The Ether Accords are failing. The Federation is desperate. They need a 'Node' like Oakhaven to stabilize the Bridge. I merely provided them with a puzzle that requires... unconventional pieces to solve."

  Thaddeus walked to the window, looking out at the square. He caught his own reflection—handsome, composed, and utterly dangerous.

  "The Federation thinks they are here to solve a crime," Thaddeus chuckled, his ironic humor returning. "They don't realize they're actually being invited to a dinner party where they are the main course. Arthur, fetch my best coat. The one with the slightly frayed collar that makes me look harmlessly incompetent but still underscores my undeniable charm. We’re going to go say hello."

  "Which Thaddeus am I presenting?" Arthur asked, already reaching for the coat. "The Wise Leader or the Buffoon?"

  "Oh, the Buffoon, definitely," Thaddeus beamed. "Nothing annoys a Federation Inquisitor more than a handsome man who can’t find his own spectacles while simultaneously predicting the exact trajectory of their downfall."