Commander Merion looked at her sword. Two feet of sharpened steel. An instrument of precision, rather than the maces used by the infantry. They were the blunt edge of negotiation – a show of power. Do what we want, or the Imperial Army will crush you.

The Diplomancers called for more precision. More exactitude. A scalpel, rather than a bludgeon. The sharp edge of the negotiation. She hefted it, feeling the weight. It was as heavy as she remembered the maces being.

Sometimes, the Emperor couldn’t just march in the Legions. Sometimes, the subtler approach was demanded. And then, there were the Diplomancers, with their swords sharpened and ready, and with their arsenal of communicative wizardry. The Diplomancers. Diplomats, spies, politicals, information gatherers extraordinaire.

Their emblem was stamped across the top of the blade in the official sword. A book, partitioned by a sword. The unofficial motto was “Knowledge is power”, and in their hands, the right knowledge was a weapon without parallel.

When the house of Nadir rose to the forefront of the Grand Bazaar, pushing isolationism and pacifism, and barring the production and import of weapons into the Bazaar, it was the Diplomancers who quietly organised the discreditation of Lord Nadir. When Kwisinian barons across the border became too much of a thorn in the Imperial side, the Diplomancers found ways to end the raids.

Do the work of the Empire, and where necessary, draw blood.

Merion ran her thumb carefully across the blade. It was well cared for, this sword. And yet, she could count the times she had had to use it on the fingers of one hand. Most of those were internal matters.

She sighed, sheathing the sword. She stood, walking over to the vast glass wall of her room. Beneath her, the lights of the Bazaar twinkled, like a distant galaxy. Word was there was trouble brewing again down there. Not amongst the First Families this time, but in the tribal Horse Lords. Kwisine was being fractious too. The Grand Duke was slowly cutting down the good steel exports. Amongst the Gaarder, ripples of revolution were spreading. And the Emperor and the Chief Librarian were at loggerheads, causing a schism across the Imperial Court itself.

And Merion was assigned here. To the Institute, watching over training youngsters. She spat. She wasn’t too old. At thirty five, she probably had another ten years of Diplomantic service left. She turned up the lamp, and looked at herself at the reflection on the glass. One hand absently traced the scar down her left cheek. It had been a deep cut. Again, not a retiring injury.

The anger flared in her. She was a good Diplomancer, and they were leaving her to rot in the more banal posting across the whole of the Empire. She could feel it, the place was a powderkeg, ready to blow, and she was stuffed here in cotton wool, unable to even keep a finger on the zeitgeist. Babysitting the junior officers. Giving them a little history. A little geography. A little political nous.

In anger, she swung a fist at the glass. With a rattling crash, it fell to the floor. Ah, fuck. Now she’d need another mirror too. That was the third one this week. Again, she sighed.