AN: Being sick sucks. On the plus side, it means I get a lot of time in front of my computer. Which in turn means I get a lot of writing done. Which means you guys get to have an update much faster than usual.


The night was filled with burning ships. Standing at the edge of the docks, Marshal Gerhardt clasped his hands and frowned. This was most definitely not part of his plan. Sabotage had been a secondary consideration, only when the Duke—or whoever else might be serving as Flag Officer—had been taken into custody. It also meant stealth was no longer a true consideration. Even less so when the thunder of cannons reached him across the fjord. All his ships were still trapped in ice, so who was out there, firing on Weselton? Who was willing to risk starting a war over this diplomatic incident?

Elsa, for one. Vengeance for her sister. Except that she was safe in the castle, and her fleet lay at anchor in the fjord, or was several weeks out to sea. There was no way a message could reach those ships in time, not when less than a week had passed since the abduction of the Royal Princess. No, it wasn't anyone from Arendelle out there. Spain, perhaps? Minister Johanssen had said something about expecting a Spanish cutter to arrive soon to finalize trade negotiations. Possible; and Spain would be at little risk should Weselton decide to declare war—their ships and armies were better trained and equipped than those of Weselton. But it was unlikely that Spain would send ships of the line, or any large vessels at all, to escort a diplomatic courier. Perhaps a frigate, even two. Ships that could actually keep up.

Then there was the fact that two smaller vessels had obviously been used as fire ships, their wreckage littering the fjord, one Weseltonian Third-Rate sinking slowly beneath the fjord, deck and masts ablaze, generating a massive pyre as it burned. The aft quarter of another Third Rate was simply gone. Blasted to smithereens when the second fire ship had exploded, beams and timbers hanging loose, embers burning on charred ends, flames licking at the deck of the ship, sparking up the rigging and igniting furled canvas sails. Gerhardt could only imagine the confusion on the deck of that ship, their officers gone, probably taking on water, crew scrambling to put out the fires, no one in charge. Chaos that could easily be taken advantage of.

That left the enormous First-Rate that had opened the broadside engagement, crossing the 'T' astern of one of the Weseltonian Second-Rates. It had to be at least a hundred guns, probably more. It was a big ship, even at this distance, and Gerhardt knew his ships well enough to know it outmatched even the Pride of Arendelle. The ship she was fighting had been all but shredded by the first salvo, and he knew that meant her captain had double-shotted the guns. That meant a canny commander, or a very efficient crew. Quite possibly both, given how swiftly she was beginning to tack, bringing her starboard batteries to bear against the only undamaged Second-Rate on the water—studiously avoiding the Weseltonian flag. Intriguing.

Powder smoke began to obscure the battle, blowing in from the fjord, and Gerhardt was forced to shift position, maintaining a clear line of sight to the ships. He wished he'd had the presence of mind to pack a compact telescope, or perhaps a pair of larger binoculars. If he had those he might have been able to see the crest flying atop the attacking ship currently laying waste to Weselton's fleet. A fleet that was only just starting to respond to such a devastating attack. The remaining Third-Rate opened fire at the massive First-Rate pounding the fleet, causing what only appeared to be minor damage.

The Second-Rate that had been raked across the stern managed sporadic fire against the First-Rate assaulting it, heavy shot smashing through wooden hull and central timbers. The larger ship returned fire by battery, raking her guns across the Weseltonian ship's lower hull, holing her savagely at the waterline. By the time the smaller ship managed another round of fire, she was listing heavily to starboard, her masts in danger of becoming entangled with those of the larger ship. Rigging and yards were suddenly falling away, hitting the water with loud splashes as the smaller ship's main mast dropped like a tree felled by a lumberjack. The top half landed on the First-Rate's deck before tipping back and sliding down the side of the hull, eventually to end up at the bottom of the fjord.

The Weseltonian Second-Rate struck a white flag. Further seaward, Gerhardt could just make out a skirmish between what seemed to be five frigates, two of them maneuvering so as to prevent the other three from coming to the aid of the larger ships, all the while maintaining a sporadic, ineffective fire towards the surviving Third-Rate. Until a deck mortar landed a round that tore apart furled sails and set the forecastle of the Third-Rate ablaze. The one sided fight was slowly turning against the larger ship, Weselton having more guns in total, and now able to bring them to bear.

Only a single broadside was fired. Having suffered extensive damage, and the complete loss of at least three ships of the line, the Flag Officer finally decided enough was enough—or he had been forced to strike that flag by a boarding party of some kind. A white flag. A lull descended over the fjord, broken by the occasional crack of rifle fire, and the crackling sound of burning pitch. A single, lonely cannon boomed, and was followed by an audible splash. Smoke from the battle finished its lazy voyage over the fjord, and the tang of powder was unmistakeable.

Dark shapes dropped from the side of the Weseltonian flagship and Gerhardt felt the tension draining from between his shoulders. Two platoons of Royal Marines, dragging captives through the waters of the fjord and onto the ice expanding from the harbour. Multiple captives. Except the marines were actually helping some of those men, setting them up straight—but not releasing their bonds. A show of compassion. Those weren't men from Weselton then—which meant that whoever else was in Arendelle's waters, they were no friends of Weselton—and had a vested interest in recovering something, or someone, from the same flagship his own men had just raided. He began to wonder just how to present this news to the Queen, and realized he had no need to do so.

Former lieutenant Erikson stood at his side, having remained perfectly unobtrusive while they both watched what had just played out in the fjord. He had no need to tell the Queen what had happened, her bodyguard would do it for him. So Marshal Gerhardt, dressed for fine company, stepped onto the dock, climbing down the side in a slightly awkward fashion, and made his way across the frozen waters of the harbour towards the Royal Marines returning from a successful raid on an enemy flagship. There was a soft thump behind him. Erikson had leapt from the dock, landing on the ice in a low crouch, gently massaging his right side. There was a fire in his eyes now that set the Marshal on edge. A fierce and protective loyalty, one that did not appreciate being manipulated in any way.

"I'm just gathering information to enlighten El—Queen Elsa about the events unfolding here, tonight."

Gerhardt caught the slip. Second time tonight, Erikson, he mused silently. I wonder if perhaps your close protection isn't getting a little too close. Or maybe it's just simple adjustment; Queen Elsa doesn't seem impressed by propriety and royal deference. Not unlike her father that way—of course, I doubt we'll ever be on first name terms in our meetings. That, however, was beside the point, and Gerhardt gave a noncommittal reply.

"Suit yourself, lieutenant Erikson. It could prove to be a long night."

"Then I shall simply apprise Queen Elsa of the facts tomorrow morning."

Gerhardt shrugged impassively. Devotion to duty was admirable, and he knew the lieutenant was no fool. Maybe the Queen had been more concerned by this situation than she let on during the council meeting. Or perhaps she simply had a vested interest in seeing to it that Weselton was punished properly for their actions against her sister. A sister she was willing to sacrifice her entire kingdom for. A sister she had personally rescued. A sister she had killed for—the fusiliers she had taken on that mission had told him as much, and more besides. A sister she had doted on during and around the recent council meetings. One whose side she had tried not to leave as she recovered from her torture and imprisonment. Those weren't just the actions of devoted siblings… they were the actions of… no. He didn't want to entertain that thought, but it suddenly made sense. If that was true, then everything since the Great Thaw suddenly made a whole lot more sense.

"Marshal Gerhardt, are you feeling alright?"

He hadn't even realized he had stopped, so great was the revelation. Nothing was confirmed, of course, and it still could be simply highly devoted siblings; but he had his doubts. The scandal that would cause—although it was, of course, not entirely unheard of in prominent royal families, ostensibly to 'keep the bloodline pure'. Of course, being women, there was no chance of that between the Queen and her sister. Not a single word of this theory could be breathed to another living soul. Not a word.

"I'm fine, lieutenant. I just realized that our marines are bringing back a lot more prisoners than I expected."

"Exactly how many were you expecting?"

"One."


Hus av Strykejern was busy. It wasn't unusual, but Vanja Ostberg-Lang was more aware of the fact. She really wanted to be alone—like she normally was—but she couldn't be, because much as it galled her to admit, she owed Søren an apology. Possibly several, for the way she'd acted and the way she'd spoken to him. Especially about Konrad. It wasn't like her to offer anyone an apology, but when she'd started asking herself why she felt it necessary, in a vague sense, she had discovered something strange. Søren was her friend. Or at least the closest thing she would let herself have to one, and she didn't want to lose the former blacksmith's trust. Or compassion. Because she knew he sometimes watched her, making sure she was safe.

He was protective of all the women in his life, few though they were. Even the Queen, even after she had sentenced his son to death. Vanja huffed impatiently, setting her drink down on the table with a soft thud. If she didn't say something now—while she still had a little Dutch courage in her—she might not say anything at all. Because she did like the way Søren sometimes watched out for her, even if she didn't want to admit it. When she spoke it was with a wry grin that spoiled the effect of her words somewhat.

"I'm sorry."

"For what?" Søren didn't even bother to face her as he gave a sullen reply.

Vanja huffed again, annoyed that she actually cared about this relationship. "For Konrad. For how I acted in your workshop." There, done. Now it was out in the open and she could put all of this behind her—or at the bottom of another tankard.

"No you're not," Søren's voice was slightly slurred. Vanja knew he'd been drinking much more heavily tonight. He was actually trying to properly drown his sorrows. "You don't care; you never cared!"

Vanja crossed her arms and stared at the table. She had to, otherwise she was liable to start a fight with the former blacksmith—and though she would enjoy the exercise, and might even win the conflict, her body would not appreciate the pounding she took in the morning. So she sat there, silently fuming, unable to think of a good reply. Mostly because Søren's words were truer than she cared to admit. But she was trying to make right, damn it, and she wanted a little appreciation for that. Which was why, when she felt a strong arm wrap around her fur lined shoulders, she didn't immediately try to throw the offender across the table.

"Maybe I–I'm just har–hard to care about."

"And maybe you should put that beer down," Vanja replied, her voice softer than usual, removing the blacksmith's arm from her shoulders. "You're lucky I didn't break the table with you."

Søren looked at his arm, where Vanja's right hand still rested. He chuckled softly, perhaps recalling the last time he'd tried to touch her while drunk. The last time any man had tried to touch her. She knew most of the rumours about her past, of course, and about how she treated everyone here. Mostly because she'd been the one to start them. She never wanted to develop those kinds of feelings, not after—not after what had really happened in her past. But maybe I am, she grew pensive. I even apologized to Søren—for something that wasn't even my fault. I don't even know why I care, but I do.

Taking another draught from his own tankard, Søren seemed to reach some kind of hazy decision. "I should s–s–sleep. Did I drink that much?" He raised an eyebrow towards his empty tankard.

"You did, Raske. Be careful," Vanja took another swig of her own drink, sizing up the competition in the drinking hall tonight. There were some good times to be had. A good way to work the tension out of her shoulders, and take out her frustrations on people that either wouldn't mind or wouldn't remember getting beaten up by a woman.

"W–walk with… me," it was just above a whisper. A 'no' still rested on the tip of her tongue. Thunder rumbled in the distance—a storm was coming—but it stopped her from replying. She didn't believe in signs and omens, but sometimes—just sometimes—she knew there might be something to them. Coincidence or not, she didn't particularly want her friend—and there it was again, the annoying proof that she cared more than she wanted to—walking home alone through a storm. It would probably just make him even more miserable. Søren just stood there as she tried to come to a decision. She still needed exercise, physicality. Maybe she could convince him to at least jog, keep ahead of the storm. In the end she relented, finishing her drink before standing at his side and starting towards the door.

She still didn't know why she really cared. It wasn't like Søren was the only person she actually knew. But he was the only one she spent time with—any length of time—outside official duties. And softly, to no-one but herself, Vanja Ostberg-Lang cursed how blind she had been, and how she'd led herself on. "I'm an idiot."


"That's the last one, Justicar," Ansa handed the papers to Kristoffersen. "But how did we all miss it? How did everyone on the council miss that kind of duplicity?"

"Because we simply weren't looking for it, Ansa," Kristoffersen soothed. All in all, things could have been a lot worse given Larsson's treachery. He had played the part of the bumbling scribe so well that no one thought to question him about what he did after work—or at all. That he had been appointed shortly after a period of national mourning was beside the point. His background had been checked, history and contacts, an enormous web of lies. There were other, darker possibilities. Those contacts might all have been plants, vanishing slowly afterwards, returning to Weselton, or whichever kingdom they were truly loyal to. They might have been coerced into giving Larsson glowing references. Or, worst of all, Larsson could have stolen another man's life in its entirety, groomed from an early age for exactly this position.

And now there was a laundry list of crimes he was accused of. The evidence was easily enough to see him convicted by a jury of his peers—if he had not already been judged by royal edict. Impersonating a council member. Working under false pretenses. Bearing false witness—to everyone in Arendelle, actually. Kristoffersen sighed, continuing down the list. Plotting to kidnap a member of the royal family. Plotting to torture the same. Plotting to depose the Queen. Attempted regicide, by proxy. Attempted murder of a council member—and surely Minister Johanssen would have something to say on that matter. Two council members, in fact. He had of course decided to try stabbing miss Ostberg-Lang during his arrest. Resisting arrest—which, compared to everything else, seemed inconsequential.

"Torsten, have you managed to compile all the evidence and witness statements from the crowd?"

"Almost done, Justicar. Perhaps another hour—there are a lot of statements here, and I'm sorting out those that actually matter."

"Good work then. I'll leave you to it," Kristoffersen turned to his final assistant. "Ah, young Ari, what have you managed to find out?"

"A lot, sir. Most of it is political ploys masquerading behind religious justification for the assassination attempt. Most, but not all. Konrad Sørenson claims he was doing it to protect his father—here's his statement. There's not a word in there that's untrue, but it's just the way he was saying it—like he needed to justify it to himself. The others were totally convinced of the righteousness of their actions, but not Sørenson. He participated willing however—no coercion there—but I'm not sure he could have done it. Kill the Queen, I mean, sir.

"That's not to say he would not have been willing to, or that he would not have tried—which is what this trial is about, after all. It's just… well, something tells me he's not telling the truth, sir. With your permission, I'd like to talk to him further, see if I can uncover the real reasons for why he was there."

"Done," Kristoffersen's reply was simple. "I'd like to get to the bottom of this, no matter how long it takes. Weselton is not our only enemy—as Gerhardt loves reminding us, our enemies lie in all places, high and low, at home and abroad. But, Ari?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Don't get your hopes up. Even if it is just misguided youth and a protective family, it won't be enough to exonerate Sørenson."

"I wasn't hoping for that sir. I just wanted to get to the truth."

"Actually, Justicar, is that what you are hoping?" Ansa asked quietly from across the room. "You've been fixated on Sørenson tonight, over and above the others. Even Larsson—well, over him for the last hour or so."

That was the problem with perceptive assistants, Kristoffersen sighed. They certainly knew how to read him. Søren was his friend, and Konrad was barely an adult, but his crime—attempted regicide—was so severe that the law didn't care about age, only justice. He had wanted to be wrong, for it to be some other young man with unruly red hair, but the face was unmistakeable. Telling Søren had been hard. They might not have been friends, but he respected and admired the former blacksmith's work with all the guilds. It took a special kind of man to unite that many fractious unions. Now he was going to lose his son, his only child, in a situation that could destroy his reputation. Who was going to hire a man whose son had attempted to kill the Queen?

It got worse when he recalled Søren's wife, Sylvi. Beaten, raped, and killed. Savagely so. The guards that had found her still had nightmares—one of them had been dismissed from the force, becoming a terrible alcoholic before Kristoffersen had thrown him in a cell, and then at a counsellor. That man now served aboard a merchant ship far from Arendelle, professing to liking the solitude of the ocean, the sound of the wind waves, the simple physicality of his new job. Nothing that could remind him of that horrifying night. Kristoffersen hadn't spoken to him in more than a year now.

He remembered telling Søren what had happened—not in detail—and his reaction. His insistence on seeing the body, unable to believe it really was Sylvi. He remembered too, the haunted look the guildsman had carried with him for the next year. He had fallen apart, unable to process or properly comprehend what had happened. Everyone outside—those on the council, his remaining family, his friends in the guild—all of them had been powerless to do anything to stop it. So they had called on the King, asked if there was a way he might be able to make things right—to give the guildsman purpose again. And it had worked, but Søren came back a changed man. Harder, stronger, more driven and passionate, but somehow… lacking. Like a piece of him was missing.

Kristoffersen had spent many an afternoon in the intervening years discussing issues such as that with Clarence Gudbrand. And Bishop Gudbrand had always had interesting and well considered answers. In this case, asking if he believed in the concept of soul mates, and relating an ancient Greek legend about souls being split apart at birth and forced into twin bodies, cursed to search forever for their other half in the mortal world. It had surprised him that Gudbarand would talk about such pagan beliefs so openly, but the good Bishop explained the difficulties he had first had, trying to integrate both christian and nordic myth under a single banner. There had to be temperance, he explained, a union of belief that centered on christian values—and that those values, along with the belief that created them would, in time, properly replace those generated by the nordic myths and legends.

"Justicar?" Torsten's voice intruded on his reverie, and Kristoffersen looked up.

"Sorry, lost in thought. I'm getting tired in my old age."

"Hah, a likely story—I saw you chase after those men with Bishop Gudbrand. Anyway, Ansa asked about why you're so fixated on Sørenson tonight."

"It's just hard to accept; that the son of one of my friends was willing to try and kill the Queen. I know Søren was a good father, for the most part—"

"So you're concerned about Siri, aren't you?" It wasn't really a question, coming from Ansa, more a statement seeking confirmation. Damn if these weren't the best assistants he'd ever trained. And damn if they weren't just a little bit too perceptive.

"Yes, I am," Kristoffersen sighed heavily. "It's just making me question a lot of things, a lot of decisions I made, or I might make. I just don't know what went wrong… why did he stray so far?"

"That's why you're letting me talk to him again, isn't it sir?"

"Ari, I'm letting you talk to him again because you want to uncover the truth about this—like any good investigator. But I'd be lying if I said that was the only reason. It's also getting late, wouldn't you all agree?"

"You're dodging again," Torsten accused, smiling. "But you're also right about the hour. We can always finish up in the morning. We'll see you around eight, then?"

"Nine, I have a feeling I'll be late. Siri can be a real handful sometimes."

"In the mornings."

"If she didn't sleep well."

"Or got woke up."

"Okay, enough, you three. I'll see you in the morning. Let's get tidied up here."

"Justicar," Torsten and Ansa inclined their heads respectfully.

"Sir," Ari edged towards the double doors out of the room.

"Not so fast, master Stendahl… you're not getting out of cleaning duty this time," and with that, Ansa shoved a pile of ledgers into his waiting hands and gave him a shove towards the shelves lining the wall of the room.


"Dad?" the wooden door in front of Per Johanssen opened further, allowing him to see the table set for three. "You're early—and you're looking a lot better these days too. You really had me and Kaia worried for a long time."

"May I come in?" Per Johanssen smiled as his son suddenly became flustered, even after all these years, still the same old Kasper. The door opened wider still, allowing Johanssen to step through, into the main room of the house. Whatever it was that Kaia was cooking, it smelled amazing. A hint of the ocean, and crisping meat, so maybe fish—as long as it wasn't her version of lutefisk.

"Oh, and no, dad, still not yet," Kasper closed the door behind his father, sitting on the couch beside the wall.

"You know I don't have that many years left in me, and you'd still deny an old man his grandchildren?" Per Johanssen sat next to his son.

"Have you talked to Synnøve recently?" Kasper asked with a sly grin. "She's got three grandchildren you could visit."

"And I do, son, I do. I just wish you could have been as lucky as her."

"I'm not sure I'd call those three little nightmares 'lucky'…" Kasper trailed off, opened his mouth to say something, changed his mind, then started again. "I know why you keep asking, and I know it's hard for you—but you don't know how hard it's been for us, especially recently, when we thought you were… when we thought you might be dying." Per Johanssen saw the shadow flickering across his son's face. He really did know how hard Kaia and his son had been trying for a child, and how much it hurt them, never seeming able to conceive. They still hoped, of course, but that light was growing dim, and wore on both of them. "So, dad, tonight, those questions you normally ask… could you please… not?"

"I understand, Kasper. It's all right. I know how much you and Kaia love each other. Really, it's all you should ever need," lowering his voice, he continued. "Maybe I am just the selfish old man Kaia thinks I am, but I just want you two to be happy—to know the joy of having and raising a child, son or daughter. Just never let her think that this means she's a failure, or less worthy—even if we all know the truth. But if we can make light of these things, isn't that a better way of dealing with life—like me being too annoying to die?"

"I know you're just trying to help, but Kaia is still a little fragile—that's why she wasn't here to greet you. We saw the physician a few days ago, and it wasn't good news."

"I'm sorry, Kasper," Per Johanssen wrapped his arm around his son and pulled him to his chest. "It's not your fault. Or Kaia's."

"But why, dad? Why us? What did we do wrong?"

"You didn't do anything wrong. You know that. You never could—even if Kaia might not be the perfect little angel you pretend she is. Sometimes bad things happen to good people. I hate to use it as an example, but look at the Queen and her sister."

"I'm not sure the Queen is that perfectly good, dad."

"She is, it's just hard to see, is all. But no one's going to argue against Princess Anna, are they?"

"No, no, they won't."

"And she nearly died at her sister's hand, lost an arm, and got kidnapped by Weselton. Tortured, too, probably, given their reputation. Do you think she deserved any of that?"

"Well, maybe the freezing thing—she was chasing the Ice Queen after all."

"Whatever you do, don't say that around the Queen, not unless you want to end up as a statue instead."

"I won't tell her if you won't."

"Deal. Now, what's Kaia making tonight. Fish, I can figure that much out."

"Salmon steak, smoked and pan seared, with an infusion of a number of spices that I can never remember."

"You never were much of a cook. Remember the gala dinner of '28?"

"Oh, gods, dad. Don't remind me. And if I recall correctly, it was you that managed that imaginative disaster with the boar head."

"Oh, yes," Per Johanssen rubbed his chin theatrically. "It's all coming back to me now. Something about a flan, custard, I believe."

"Gala dinner, '28, right?" Kaia called softly from the kitchen, her silken voice betraying only the slightest hint of amusement. "I know because every time you talk about my husband's cooking skills, it always comes back to that dinner. So he's lucky he married a real cook, isn't he—dear."

"Of course I'm lucky, Kaia. I found you."

"You're just saying that to keep out of trouble."

"It's a good strategy."

"Pity your father doesn't use it more often. And if you two are done with old war stories, you can finish setting the table while I serve this."

Both men stopped moving as a head of auburn hair peered around the doorframe into the kitchen. "Go on then boys, serving tray, plates, and the chateau du mont, 1789."

Just as suddenly both men were moving, the younger retrieving the requested items, the elder ferrying them to the table. It did not take long before everything was set out, awaiting Kaia serving the food. Two trips and everything was ready, Kaia serving Kasper first, then Johanssen, then finally herself. No one was touching their cutlery yet, sitting patiently with hands clasped and eyes closed, waiting for Kaia to lead them through a short grace.

The rest of the meal was uneventful, small talk and the relating of day to day issues they all had to deal with. Kaia congratulated Johanssen on his return to fencing form, and he applauded her work under mistress Hoeflor. The old bat still did a roaring business—Per Johanssen knew her to be slightly addled, but she had yet to make a mistake measuring or sewing a single garment. It was quite amazing, really.

"She's not that bad, Per," Kaia defended the old woman. "She just gets lost in her own little world sometimes. Just like you do when you're talking about trade deals and mercantile contracts."

"She's right, you know," Kasper winked at his father. "You do that sometimes at work, every now and then when we can make time to visit."

"Do I?" Johanssen asked. His son and his daughter-in-law both nodded sagely. "Teaming up against me is not fair."

"Who said anything about fair?" Kaia countered, rising from the table. "Dessert should be just about ready. Almond kringle, I hope you like it."

"Okay, who did you bribe?"

"Ah, Per, we can remember things too. Just not all those numbers and names and tradable goods you rattle on about," Kaia's voice softened. "We also remembered that it's going to be your birthday in a few days. And like the good friend I am, I remember when it is, not how long ago it was."

Per Johanssen could only laugh; the not so subtle dig at his age. But it was still nice to have it celebrated, even if he wasn't getting any younger. The rest of the night went a lot better from there, even the distant thunder of an approaching storm failing to dampen their spirits.