Milo Janken, or Milo the Lantern as he was called in Marsh Wool, stood before the throne, trying not to soil his breeches. He hadn’t exactly shouted at the King, but he’d shouted in the King’s presence, and lashings were sure to follow. Maybe death. He’d tried to stop the words that flowed like river: stammering, stuttering, repeating himself, using every trick he could think of to stop the swell. It had been no use. The ugly tale had spilled out.

            His people were being slaughtered.

            Elymas had been his undoing. Milo had counted on the Earth Skyll’s interruptions and so had made a careful list of those missing from the Nawab tribe, put the grisly evidence in a satchel, and practiced his speech in front of a shield he’d found and polished to a shine.

            “Six hundred men came at the King’s bidding to repair the walls. Now, we’re down by half. None of the men have returned home.”

            “A serious charge,” said the King. He was alert, rubbing his temples. 

Encouraged, Milo had continued. Nawab children were missing as well, and at that the Earth Skyll had scoffed, “Gods above, who’d steal a Wabber brat,” and Milo’s control had snapped.

            He began shouting in a voice he didn’t recognize as his own.