06/02/2025 Snippet, IN THE HALLS OF THE LILY KING.

Let’s get back to this.

…

One of the things Waylon disliked most about Holy Quebec was the unnatural regularity of its streets. Unlike most places, the Imperial Republic actually tried to keep to the old, pre-Discovery grid pattern, even when there was no point to it. The oldest parts of the city were the most sensible, but even then the streets were still unnaturally wide. At least by Kentucky standards; this Miss Serenity was taking it all in stride.

Waylon also wondered if he would ever get used to how warm Holy Quebec was, or the red glow to the northeast from the Balise de Feu. He wasn’t worried about it, exactly. If the volcano hadn’t blown its stack in seven hundred years, it probably wouldn’t in the next five years. But it made getting through the nightly fog a fantastical mess. You could see figures in it, but damn your eyes if you could ever figure out who they were.

Or what. “Are we being followed?” he asked Serenity, careful not to whisper. Sound also traveled oddly in the fog.

“This is Holy Quebec,” she replied, in the same carefully pitched tones. “I am always being followed. You?”

“Heh. One night in every five, I’d say. Used to be one in three, before that War of yours started. Guess there’s more money in snooping on spies and diplomats.”