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than later.
    For every Harold Varm, once a destitute pig farmer, there were hundreds of others whose inventions would never see the light of day. Many would starve to death on the streets or turn to violence and contribute to the growing culture wars bloodying the alleyways. And of course, most Arkadians would simply be trading a hard-working but earnest life on the farm for a dark and dangerous one in a factory. They would exchange their plows for machines that would almost certainly leave them crippled before they grew old. Was that really an improvement? Was that the future they were willing to fight to protect?
    Perhaps, Amaya mused, the promise of change by itself was enough. Thousands of kilometers away in her home country of Talam, her people tried desperately to plant crops in fields ravaged by reckless magi. The Lo’Sai Dynasty had thought nothing of the so-called torbos—the common folk—that made up the bulk of their population. Even now, decades after the dynasty’s fall, her people still suffered. It was why she was forced to work for a man like Chaval to bring home Arkadian drakes…
    Amaya finally caught her employer’s eye as he schmoozed with some of the other inventors. He nodded fractionally, and she stepped off to the side of the crowd and waited for him to break free. Fortunately it only took a few minutes.
    “Problem?” he asked softly when he got close enough to slide an arm around her waist.
    “We received a message from one of our men in Lushden. I think you’ll want to talk to him personally.”
    Chaval nodded knowingly, his carefully-crafted smile never waning. He turned to the crowds behind him and clapped his hands together.
    “Ladies and gentlemen, I’m afraid I’ll have to leave you to pamper Mr. Varm with praise on your own for a little while. I have some urgent business to attend to, but I’ll be back as soon as I am able.”
    Most people in the crowd smiled knowingly. To them, the life of a politician—and a presidential candidate at that—was excusably busy and prone to interruption. His legend had grown to the point where the hosts of high class events like this were simply honored to have him stop by at all. It was both staggering and disturbing, since not a single one of these people knew the real Simon Chaval.
    Amaya wasn’t entirely sure she did, either.
    “Walk with me,” he instructed, and she followed on his arm. The reporters jotted down notes as they left, undoubtedly planning to spew more useless rumors in the paper tomorrow. She could almost see the headlines now: does Chaval have a Talami mistress? Has he finally found true love? When she had first read the drek they wrote on a daily basis, she thought it might hamper Chaval’s campaign, but then she realized how little she understood Arkadian politics. Very little hit the papers in this city that Chaval didn’t personally approve of, and if rumors of his romantic life were circulating at all, it was because he wanted them to.
    They ascended the long, gold-plated staircase up to the building’s second level and the offices where they could get some privacy. Amaya was tempted to complain about having to walk so quickly in the ridiculously restrictive shoes and dress he insisted she wear, but she decided it wasn’t worth it. His mood would turn foul soon enough without her provoking him.
    They entered his office and she gestured to the sending stone mounted on the northern wall. A glowing crystal floated in the air above the foot-long piece of metal, indicating that the attuned stone was trying to connect with it. The devices were amazing but ridiculously expensive, especially considering how much the price of varium crystal had gone up over the past decade, but they remained the only reliable method of maintaining long-distance communication with another party.
    As much as Chaval liked to tout the power of recent inventions, the telegraph, while perfectly functional, was a distant second for numerous reasons