The Riskbreaker and his charges did not return that morning. The sun peaked in the sky, announcing the noon hour, and with little further incident, the Blades were briefed of their officers' intentions. Grissom was given cause to be impressed watching Neesa's two star lieutenants hacking at eachother's heads with claw-hilted axes. He was a bit too preoccupied betting over the outcome with Tieger to give Duane more than a brief Goodbye upon his and Lukas' departure to Ratteesser. The sundries of millitary campaign were around every corner like old mates, and he embraced them heartily; little of his mind unoccupied enough to provide either pleasant conversation nor the trivialities of entertaining his brother, his co-commanders-- or even Captain Guildenstern when their finicky leader finally emerged from the Cathedral.

        After Neesa was through letting her soldiers show off before the new addition, Grissom busied himself putting the rest of his own charges through their evaluations, assuring himself at last that even with the new blood, his men were not at a terrible disadvantage besides Neesa and Tieger's masterfully trained knights. His brother's men were sharp and magickally-inclined themselves, but were today dispersed among the other three Commanders in Duane's absence. Grissom walked among the nervous knights as they acclimated themselves to the fickle climates of their temporary assignments, and he seemed every bit the intimidating officer as he challenged random soldiers and left them bleeding every time. Any with a watchful eye would have seen him stray far from Neesa's ranks however. Simple prudence of course. If Sydney Losstarot and his heretics were truly the force they were described as, he'd have plenty of reason to work his muscles this day yet without resorting to the risk of challenging Neesa's aces.

        Not with his rapier, but rather his eyes did Captain Guildenstern challenge all present upon entering the greens. At his side hurried the Bishop with his arms full of his skirts so they would not trail in the mud much of the field had been reduced to. He dropped them as he and Guildenstern entered the courtyard, and Grissom hid a smile when the officers all were summoned. All ready was the sun at the apex of the blue dome above; mid-day had arrived and the cicadas were buzzing like steel against grindstones, honing senses here and not arms. Knights pounded eachother's armour for the sheer joy of hearing iron crash. Weapons were in sheaves in the grass and the banners were unfurled like sleeping flowers, blossoming here upon their polearms and baking scarlet in the sun. It had been too long in training for the Blades; this mission, vague though it was, found itself welcomed in their hearts. Every eye cast favourably towards the officers who'd given it to them.

        Bishop Robinson, master of Valnain's Cathedral and intelligence-gathering patriarch of the Blades, exchanged a few words with the Commanders before hiking up his robes again to descend into the mud. The faint sounds of his blessing the eager soldiers and taking confessions from an anxious few were backdrop to Captain Guildenstern's sudden displeasure upon hearing of the morning's Parliamentary invasion.

        "Curious, "he rasped softly, and his thin blue eyes sounded the dark corridor leading towards the front gates, as though expecting to see a brigade of Riskbreakers thunder through at the mention of their bevy. "Indeed, there is a breech of confidence here within our walls. LeSait knows then of today's small purge. But he cannot be aware of specifics."

        "I do not imagine it likely, Captain, "Neesa murmured, "But if so, what degree of warning would they give Müllenkamp? They'd benefit nearly as much as we from the sect's dissolution."

        "To an extent, "Grissom added boldly, "You must remember that though Müllenkamp does cause grief within Parliament, they still are always a grief to us. I think LeSait would go a fair bit towards keeping Losstarot's dogs in one piece. Weakened perhaps, but he'd never let them fall entirely. Not while Iocus still stands in strong power within Valendia."

        "Aye. LeSait keeps his swords sharpened." Guildenstern's trimmed dark brows writhed snake-like upon his forehead in thought. "But he would never have risked embarassing himself this morning as he had unless the fact that we were preparing ourselves for battle was the only intelligence to come his way. No. He simply would have acted as he deemed appropriate towards Müllenkamp, and kept his Inquisitors--"

        "And that brain-numbed blaggart Z'Farley--" Grissom added venomously.

        "--At home." Guildenstern finished, nearly laughing. "No. LeSait played his card this morning, I do wager. We called his bluff and now claim the pot. Müllenkamp has too long cast their filth into Valnain's streets. They have no place in this Holy capitol, too close to our Home, and have for too many months evaded our swords. We evict them today. Let the survivors flee to the Greylands if they will. But by God, let there be no survivors."

        The Commanders agreed loudly with this impromptu prayer. Guildenstern looked quickly about to his officers, then glanced behind as a door in the east wall suddenly came open, emitting Lady Samantha, quiet and modest against the pageantry of war. Grissom found his attention pulled easily from thoughts of righteous bloodshed and the glorious feeling of standing again with comrades in arms; Samantha today was as fresh and beguiling as the emerald throes of a sky torn by nor'easters, the likes of which he'd seen on a voyage once in warm southern waters far from here. She shared the same ability to displace him utterly; Grissom felt again slightly seasick, slightly intrusive; as though he should not be sailing upon these waters, in this latitude, before this beauty.

        "We march in twenty minutes, "Guildenstern was saying quickly, his tone so weighed with authority it was like audible Scripture, demanding obediance. Grissom came out of the sight of Samantha as though pulling himself from a river. His green eyes struggled drunkenly to remain affixed to his Captain's countenance. "The lunch hour sees the streets free; nevertheless we do not march in tandem. Lady Neesa, you shall come with me and bring your knights. Grissom, I'll see you seven blocks behind, never any more or less, following the river. Tieger, you flank him to the northwest by Karter, then snake along by Garsche; this will bring you upon the mark from the rear..." Guildenstern calmly and earnestly laid out the plan of attack. Part of Grissom's mind easily followed his; with interest did he trace their route as the Captain produced a well-drawn map and pointed out their routes, giving positions, times, and alternatives; but this campaign was nothing like the great sieges and wars he'd seen and it was not difficult to allow a part of his attention to remain with the Lady.

        Samantha too seemed absorbed by Guildenstern's words. But her blue eyes finally peered through half-lowered lashes and saw Grissom gazing solely at her. Strangely, those eyes were red and raw with tears; haggard, if it was possible to associate such a word with a creature as she. Had she been awake all night? Grissom could swear it was so. She touched her lip subtly, gesturing to the wound Z'Farley had left him with. Grissom shook his head, smiling in assurance. In return, he touched beneath his eyes before thinking, but Samantha apparently didn't understand his meaning and only smiled faintly, turning back to Guildenstern.

        "...I do not believe Losstarot will prove a problem, "he was saying, "In all likelihood, he is not even in the city. Leave him to me should you spy him however; more than sharp steel and wits must back that dog into his corner."

        "Losstarot's head would be a fine gift for the Cardinal, surely, "Tieger laughed darkly, "We could nail it on 'is chamber door, smilin' in greeting upon 'is return, eh?"

        "Mind you do as I've said, "was Guildenstern's only answer. He turned abrubtly for the greens, leaving Tieger blinking. An enigma was their Captain; at least to his Commanders. There was some boundry line with him and he was always changing its location. "Methinks this mission displeases him, "Neesa murmured. Before Grissom might ask why, she'd dashed after him with Tieger close behind. This left the younger Commander alone with the Lady, an occurance he found great pleasure in.

        "How does this day see you then, Milady?" he asked, refraining from putting his lips upon her hand and stretching them into a smile instead. Samantha returned the greeting, but it seemed strained beneath her red eyes.

        "It sees me as it sees yourself, Grissom, I should think. I am anxious for all of our safety today; something about all of this... especially now with Parliament's interference-- my thumbs are prickling."

        "No fears, "was the only lame reply he could think to give.

        "The Captain finds little joy in this expedition, "she went on as though he hadn't spoken, her gaze cast down now to two fidgeting hands, "Pursuing the cults at all displeases him; he feels that by doing so we aren't as much defending the sanctity of the country as acting as cheap labour for the VKP because they cannot lawfully work to repress the sect's preaching. At the same time, he cannot stand Parliament's meddling. He allows their poor policy and biased council too deeply to wound him."

        "He is sensitive to all of the country's dilemmas, "Grissom answered easily, "And that is why he is such a competant leader."

        "Yes, I suppose so..."

        Over Samantha's shoulder, Grissom could see into the greens. They were transformed. With half a dozen horses pawing at the dirt and sixty knights trampling the grass, even the unclouded afternoon sun could not make the lawn glow emerald as it his eyes were accustomed to. Neesa was barking at her men for their marching order, and lambasting those not jumping into place quick enough for her liking. The blue sky above, steely and barren, made it feel as though all the heavens were watching them. All of the heavens or all of Creation; the latter possibility made Grissom nervous, and his head jerked sharply towards Tieger's voice as he bellowed to know where Private William was. Drunk again, apparently, for he was not on the greens.

        Grissom heard his own mount calling for him and he took a step out of the courtyard, fingers itching to clutch her reigns. "Do you accompany us?" he asked Samantha, startled to find her hand on his arm. Neesa's voice grew faint suddenly, drowned by armoured feet as her garrison moved into the streets.

        "No..." Samantha whispered, so softly he had to strain to hear it, "'Twould not do to have these walls completely unprotected."

        "Then fortunate they are to have you, "Grissom answered lightly, eager suddenly to depart. He did not understand her malaise. The air was too scented with the smell of oiled leather and the promise of battle. Hearing Guildenstern calling for him, Grissom reached graciously for Samantha's hand, dipping his face close to hers to bring his lips to her fingers. He paused, curiously, upon closer examination of her red eyes. But not simply red. Nay, her left was swollen, the delicate veins there broken and apparent. But the injury looked a week old, and already he could see, just beneath her fair skin, the faintest traces of a blue bruise nearly wholly healed. Nothing had marred her face last evening however, and Grissom remembered suddenly reading of the nature of healing magick; the magick merely accelerated healing. A powerful enough spell might go through the process entirely, wiping all trace of a wound. But a weaker spell only began the body's work for it. Here then Lady Samantha had all that was left of a recently acquired black eye.

        "Barbarous, "he muttered, raising a hand to caress her face before decorum halted him by the ear. A crooked smile broke across the Lady's lips; she pressed his hand to her cheek and darted forward, capturing his mouth with hers.

        For a few brief moments, it was like a misplaced bouquet in the midst of battle. Grissom's eyes slipped shut and he pressed his body against hers, parting her lips with his tongue, knowing mild surprise when she countered the action and clasped his throat-- but Guildenstern immediately called his Commander's name again and Grissom broke away, panting. The smell of her lingered in his nostrils. She wore some faint creme upon her skin, and her blonde hair was lightly perfumed. He might happily occupy himself for hours trying to label the scents. He licked his lips, dizzy with-- things he could not even name. It was too odd to be dressed for conflict and yet have the taste of a woman on his lips. Odd to feel Samantha's breath warm upon him even as his hip was weighed with his thirsty sword, and in the near distance armour joints could be heard protesting against eachother. Odd and intriguing.

        "You..." Grissom nearly laughed aloud, "You should not do that again. Not... not on duty, milady. You know better than that. Not to say it wasn't completely welcome."

        Lips flushed, Samantha quietly nodded. The burden of maintaining her thin smile seemed to bow her shoulders. Her gaze fell along with her posture, as though all of her wanted to melt into the pavement like dew. "Stay away from him, "Grissom murmured suddenly, "I shan't ask what's caused the distemper between you and Captain Guildenstern, but if it results in... in..." He touched his own eye mournfully. "Please do keep him well off to leeward."

        She began to nod but was disrupted by their Captain's sudden entrance into the courtyard. The breeze apparently found this hilarious; it rattled the leaves until it seemed the trees were laughing. Samantha swept airily past Grissom, dropping her chin once to Guildenstern before disappearing through a door. Perhaps he was only yet startled by her actions, but Grissom thought her expression to be strangely... triumphant, as it had flickered past him and settled into obediance before the Captain might see. Guildenstern himself paid her very little attention, concentrating more on the sheaf of papers in his fist. He did glance up to Grissom keenly for a moment however; perhaps wondering why his calls had gone unheeded. Thoughtfully his blue eyes darted to Samantha's closed door, as though considering the possibility. Whatever the verdict, he merely gestured to his errant Commander. "You'll fall behind Lady Neesa, "he warned, "I cannot be your shadow today, Grissom. I ride ahead to join her with my seconds."

        "Aye, Sir."

        "Ten minutes. With stealth. Should the city dogs try to delay you, you are under the Cardinal's edict; no less than LeSait himself may keep you and your men from your orders." Guildenstern moved gracefully towards his horse, signalled to two oily-looking knights already mounted, then called a reassurance to Tieger before glancing again to Grissom. "Watch yourself, Commander," he spoke, and his voice was so dead in tone that his officer felt his brow dampen. Grissom did not dwell on the warning. After all that remained of Guildenstern was the dying sound of his horse's hooves against pavement, he turned and put on the face of a tyrant for his men.

        All living things are easily scarred. If Valnain was anything, it was alive; it slept, it devoured, it killed, and it cast its favour fickly to all its many suitors. It could also be hurt; a century ago, the last great plague had left its scar upon it in the form of Ratteesser.

        Across the city while the Blades were intense in their duties to God and the people, here Duane and Lukas acted out their mission with a different sort of intensity. Immersed now in the tarry pit of Ratteesser, they did not move with fanfare but with discretion, making their way down a street so filthy it was uncomfortable; even with the thickness of his bootsoles between himself and the road, Duane winced with every footstep. It hadn't rained since yesterday morning, yet the way was silvered with puddles of the district's signature brew: dishwater, ale, and urine. As much to protect his skin from the putrid air as to conceal his unwelcome vestments and face, Duane tightened his thick woollen cloak about himself, tucking its hood down snug into his collar. Only his eyes were visible past the brass-studded disguise, and these moved constantly between the untrustworthy Lukas at his side, and the countless rabble that oozed past them both, intentions worse than bad but unknown. Lukas himself in his scholarly blacks had needed only a ragged hunter's cape to appear suitably shabby. The arrogant tilt of his head was all that gave him away.

        One couldn't be arrogant in Ratteesser. Anyone with business there had nothing to be arrogant about.

        Geographically, Valnain was roughly circular in plan. Behind its high walls it was divided into districts, each like a piece of pie or a section of spoked wheel. In the southwest and leeching into the north now (a phenomenon that had put Parliament especially ill-at-ease over the last decade) Ratteesser was easily the largest portion of the city. It was not difficult to distinguish from the neat lines of the Merchant's district, nor the ordered hedges and clean streets of the Centre Road and its offices, as a single misstep into Ratteesser introduced one to its cracked pavement, imploding architecture, and the singular ferocity of its denizens. For only the destitute and dirty called it home. Criminals. Forgers, confidence men, murderers, thieves, and smugglers. Most specifically it was the domain of claw-faced Master Mortechae, dubious and despised head man of northern Valendia's rogues. He headed two dozen of them inside a tannery hidden somewhere within the district's bowing flats and empty shops. His men orchestrated half of the country's assassinations, everything from the most diabolical political homicidal coups, to jealous husbands after their wives' paramours. There wasn't a penny stolen in Valnain that he didn't somehow see a percentage of. Nor were there many aristocrats who didn't own some small piece at least of his expensive leatherwork. This latter, people speculated, was tanned in the blood of his unfaithful clientele. Others wondered if he used calf or children in his finest creations, delicate skins the tailors often turned to clothing. Curious that he was nearly as reknowned for his leather as he was for his murders. He took equal pride in both. He was perhaps the only man working in Ratteesser who might rightly lift his head.

        Duane was well-aware of the fantastic lore surrounding Mortechae. He'd lived in Valnain most of his life, he'd heard all of the speculation. But never had he cause to meet the man personally. Few ever did. Yet he had a sick feeling in his stomach, and the sweaty palms to back it up, that the Cardinal's name would see them through to the Master of rogues within the hour.

        "He is all but deified where I come from, "Lukas muttered darkly, his face pale like paper as he shied away from the figures brushing by on the narrow street. He was shining with perspiration, and seemed as uncomfortable to be here as any righteous man of God would be. Duane managed to hide his unease a mite better, but he still found it difficult to suppress shudders. They passed a dilapidated Church, its roof fallen uncleanly into its aisles. The side chapel and baptistry had been converted to card rooms. He could see the silhouettes of men seated and smoking inside. "He isn't merely human of course, but some giant who sucks a pipe carved from living bone. All the lads wish to travel to Valnain and cut throats for him. All of the ignorant lads who read lewd poetry behind their hymnbooks on Sundays, that is."

        "All of the lads that spent their childhoods beating upon lads like you." A sexless child held a plate out from the curb and Duane dropped a few coppers onto it. Behind, its mother was trying to nurse an infant too weak to cry. He turned quickly from the sight.

        "You've not seen him, have you, Father?" Lukas asked, ignoring everything but his own curiosity.

        "Mortechae? Nay. But I do not imagine him to be any more or less a man than you or I."

        "Do you know the path to this shop of his?"

        "Aye. Years ago the Cardinal employed a man of Mortechae's, an old colleague that had fallen out of favour with him. There was a bit of trouble, and the fellow was killed. Afterwards I was made to head the effort to repay Master Mortechae for the trouble he had gone through in losing him, so that in the future the Blades still could look to him... in emergencies." Duane remembered those few visits into this place very well. Alone, carting a pouchful of gold once a week. Leysa acquired grey hairs from worrying for him.

        "So you Blades employ rogues, "Lukas mused, and Duane didn't have to glance over to know the calculating, amused expression dancing in his young eyes. He'd seen it already this morning, and he saw it again every time the brat pondered his burnt hair and face. "The more I learn of Valnain's Order, the more I am intrigued, Father. The more I am... amazed, I must say."

        "Why is that?" Duane returned, nearly whispering. The streets were not crowded, but those out this afternoon were more intent upon hearing the conversations of strangers than most commoners usually seemed. Opportunists here, every one. And when opportunity was denied to a fellow from every outlet, he became... creative, in searching for alternate routes out of hell. "The Cardinal hands down destinations, Lukas. He does not include maps on how to reach them. Captain Guildenstern does whatever is necessary to complete what is asked of him. And those he commands do not ask very many questions. We're armed clergy, lad; shedding blood for God. We are already prepared to look like hypocrites. Fortunately every Blade possesses exceptionally strong faith to combat doubts laid by gentlemen such as yourself."

        "That sounds like a speech you've given too often, "Lukas answered snidely, doubling his paces to walk a few lengths ahead. If Duane were not so busy keeping an eye on unsavoury strangers, he might have cuffed the younger man upside his head. He spoke exceptionally rudely of the Crimson Blades for a cleric so longing to gain the Cardinal's good graces.

        Finding his right boot ankle-deep in odd-coloured mud, Duane was forcibly reminded of his surroundings. He began looking for the alley leading into Mortechae's shop.

        But this damned wasteland was so ill-kept, he was hard-pressed to keep his concentration. The road stretched for barely three meters at a time before some enormous pothole or crack rent it from curb to curb, fouling his feet. These rifts swelled with filth and sewage, though at odd patches the occasional brown weed stretched feebly towards the sun above. This sun was there only on faith however, and unseen behind the buildings crowding the narrow street. These, sagging and ill though they appeared, still loomed high enough to block out a better portion of the afternoon sky. Like living giants they stretched, forming an uneven skyline to induce claustrophobia in the street below, casting dark shadows ripe for throat-cutting and thievery. They could have toppled with the slightest wrong breath. They seemed to threaten it, bowing further towards the street in Duane's peripheral vision, and the burlap-covered windows glared when he turned away, like patched eyes. This was more a forest of buildings, than a neighbourhood; there was so little civilization here.

        But there were a few trees in this forest. Duane shivered to recognize them, anticipating the sight of the few dead and naked forms he could see rising at him from down the road. A line of them girded Ratteesser's graveyard, which spread now at the right of the roadside, stuck with tombstones like crooked teeth behind a rusted iron gate. These trees echoed their laments on windy nights. If you were hanged from one, the story went, your soul would find itself eternally tangled in the branches.

        The story was a century old. For a century ago, the plague had come to Valnain, cutting this scar in the city that even a hundred years later still was festering. Quiet and deliberate, the illness had subtly snuck its poison behind the walls; a few isolated cases among the younger children of the region's farmers. Dark gossip it was at Market for weeks as the hollow-eyed labourers came with their produce and left with the empiric's best suggestions and strongest herbs. Perhaps it was the produce itself that eventually spread the malady to the heart of the city. The peasantry suffered with it first, complaining of headaches and stiff joints minutes before dropping dead in the streets, or simply rolling over in bed and never rolling back.

        Ratteesser had been named after the age's Grand Steward then, and had boasted the largest population of any other district in the city. But it still was poor, suffering under the tenantship of widows, Valnain's inumerable unemployed, and the peaked parentless children who often showed at the Cathedral doors begging their dinner. When the deaths began, the district's hospitals became flooded, the dying stacked atop the dead for lack of beds, and the same boards used to support the ill as became their slabs when they finally ceased their struggles. As the days dawned darker, and the clergy preached penance, and the plague spread to infect the merchant class and the Market was shut down for the first time in its history as three-quarters of the city refused to leave their homes, those with a voice in Parliament instigated a quarantine. Naturally, Ratteesser was made into the Hell.

        Duane gazed morosely across the cemetary as his footsteps took him quickly past. He could see the water in the far distance between a break in the dock warehouses. The sight was sublime for a moment, before he glanced again to the road. Only this main boulevard had ever been paved; from it dirt roads snaked leading back to the flats, warehouses, and lightless pubs. The flats seemed paper boxes; decades of rain weighed the ceilings in the middle and streaked the sides so it seemed the walls bled black blood. Ten to a room sometimes, it hadn't taken long for the plague to devour entire neighbourhoods. When the symptoms spread beyond the poor, Parliament's desperately enacted quarantine threw sufferers into the dying district, strapping them to beds inside a monstrous hospital at the heart of Ratteesser that had never shut up for the screaming. There had been a time when a twenty-four hour guard had stood at the perimeter and the streets were blockaded with furniture and corpses.

        Valnain was all but abandoned then. All that throbbed was this single heart, agonized and dying, and eventually dubbed Ratteesser in honour of the starving. A physician whose ancestors now still were filthy with money eventually cured the disease. The plague became a passage in history books. Battered and weary, the poor district remained with its burden of dead. It was said four thousand people were heaped beneath the single scrubby cemetary Duane was so eager to leave behind. The breeze this afternoon was thick, and seemed especially adept at making the tree branches scream.

        He could have told anyone that might ask exactly why it was he didn't like to come here. Exactly why.

        In fact, he felt the need to tell someone, immediately, just how desperately he hated Ratteesser. He hated the thick, rancid air, and the stink this place emitted like the oil off a fat man's nose. A half hour since crossing into the district and Duane felt absolutely ill for lack of fresh air. He did not want to be here, but with the Blades, and sudden anxiety thundered in his chest. He held his breath as though he might be able to hear his knights moving towards the ambush. Surely they'd left by now. If only he could see the sun. His eyes ached for something other than the drab rags of the dregs and the blacks of the decaying buildings, the dull brown of the ruined street. They darted from face to face in the steady passing torrent of damned, demented, and destitute, who for all the future they had, they may as well be the district's previous tenants, dying in filth.

        Like a splash of cold water, Duane realized he did not see Lukas.

        He halted in his tracks, and an old woman walked into his back, glaring sourly at him when he apologized. The narrow street contained not a single arrogant figure in a dark green cape. But Duane did hear a particularly loud and irate voice coming from around the bend a block down from the graveyard.

        "Wot, do I look so old t'yer eyes there, lad?"

        Racing past the last stretch of old headstones, garnering evil looks, Duane found an old shed rising from the side of the road, abandoned, with its rusted iron door swinging idly at its hinges. He slowed and stalked past, turning down the dirt path past its northern wall. At the end stood Lukas, back pressed against a plank fence seperating him from the street behind. Pinned he was, effectively, and he who'd pinned him was a short and whithered fellow wearing nothing save an unravelling blanket clutched feebly at his throat. As though ready to flee, he'd a foot dipped in the shadowed side doorway of the shed at his back. The expression on his face was not so prudent. Thin lips drawn up over rotting teeth, eyes watery and blurred with cataracts, he snarled his words as he crushed one of Lukas' pamphlets in an indignant fist. "I dunno ye... ye 'ave a name? Spare a penny or two and I'll say a prayer for YOU!"

        Duane advanced but was immediately blocked from them both by the appearance of two sudden broad backs and a pair of shoulders reaching past the top of his head. The three new arrivals were not so feeble-seeming as their friend. One of them grabbed Lukas' hair in a fist like a block of mahogony. He snapped his head back as though ready to cut his throat. Indeed, a knife flashed from his belt. "I see a rood 'round yer neck!" he observed delightedly. It was broken free of its fine thin chain with a single sharp yank. "Feed the poor, eh?"

        "You will return that!" Lukas demanded, "If you are hungry, sir, the Church kitchens cook for your like. They would welcome you."

        "Is that what this rubbish says..?" was the answer, and he grabbed the stack of pamphlets from Lukas' pale hands, scattering them into the mud. "Yer annointed, aye? Like a walkin' Church yerself. I'll 'ave yer rings. Right pious man like yerself don't need 'em. Jus' hide yer pretty clasped 'ands so God cain't see!" The rings were skillfully slipped from his fingers. Lukas saw them pocketed before he might protest further.

        "Go right ahead and clasp 'em now, say a lil prayer and we'll tell ye how't looks."

        "Oh stars and planets, 'tis silk beneath this pig fabric, mate. Feel that? Like water."

        "Aye, aye, I reckon this'n's from th'Palace. Anymore gold on 'im? Check 'is teeth." They crushed him backwards against the fence, the blanket-covered man at the forefront rubbing his face into the silk chest of Lukas' black robes. Their fingers raised, scrabbled for the cloth, and the knife was unsheathed. Lukas cried out to see himself ringed by murderers. The sound of ripping silk, and then Duane broke into their midsts with a right-hook that scattered the muggers like bowling pins. Before they might react, he tore the blanket from the instigator, snapping him forward and sprawling him in the dirt with a blow to the face.

        "WATCH yourselves!" he roared, and a few faces popped from behind the burlap flaps of windows across the street to peer interestedly down the alley. He was a head shorter than two of these murderers, but there was something unmistakeably commanding about the tilt of his head and the squaring of his jaw. It wasn't enough to save he and Lukas from robbery and murder, but Duane's next words perhaps were. "Take us to Mortechae's, "he demanded with complete confidence, "Two silvers for each of you if we reach the place in one piece. If you delay us another instant, the rogue Master will have you both cooked alive, I do not doubt it. You don't bear his mark and yet you were about to take a life and rob a man. Now hurry. We've an appointment."

        The three thieves were stupefied for a moment, glancing from the unconscious figure of their comrade in the dirt, back to their pale mark, then finally to his indignant saviour in his brass-studded, ragged brown cloak. Obviously they were wondering how anyone could go quite so insane-- but the clink of coins from Duane's hip snapped them quickly from the reverie. "Give the cleric back his rings, "was his next command, "And his rood. Lest I have the constables hang you upside down from yonder trees."

        A quick moment of consideration, and the rings clattered to the road before Lukas' feet. He cautiously retrieved them, lips parted in wonder.

        "Pay up front, sir, "one of them attempted, glancing guardedly to Duane. Duane nodded curtly, extracted the requisite coins from his purse, and dropped them into the thief's grubby palm. The three of them took off quickly down the path towards the main road and Duane plucked at Lukas' shoulder so they might both follow.

        "That was much appreciated, Father," Lukas whispered into the older man's ear as they were taken into the very bleeding heart of Ratteesser. The buildings crowded closer here and the poor children, the starving in the gutters, were replaced by cold eyes from the shadows and suspicious glances from cloaked men. Duane glanced quickly to Lukas and saw the young cleric was sincere. The mocking had gone from his eyes. For whatever reason, Duane didn't really care.

        "You offered him a pamphlet, hmm?"

        "Aye, "Lukas murmured back, staying close, "I called him "grandfather". In an affectionate manner, of course. I suppose he was not truly as old as he appeared. He took... offense."

        "Then nearly took your life." Duane grabbed his shoulder reassuringly. "Just keep quiet, Lukas. This place is deadly."

        It was ten minutes more down Ratteesser's main boulevard, Duane and Lukas struggling to keep their dubious guides in view, before the three thieves finally took a sharp right turn. Duane was afraid for a moment that they'd fled, until he spied the tenantment across the street and recognized it from his previous sojourns here. He remembered then what would greet them when they turned the corner, and he wasn't as surprised as Lukas when they did so.

        Black brick stretched from the buildings on either side of the alley, shadowing eachother so that they could not see even the mortar grooves despite it still being early afternoon. The ground was packed dirt paved with planks laid length-wise and covered in muddy bootprints, but it was oddly neater than the other paths of Ratteesser; not littered in papers and bottles. There was even a length of handrail about the middle that ran for a few meters before abruptly dying off. No other adornment gave relief to the walls save for a single doorway that was in the process of opening by the time Duane reached it. He heard their three guides pattering off through the building, and he shut the door in their wake, so that he and Lukas might pass unhindered through the narrow alley.

        "Knaves, "Lukas cursed and Duane thought it amusing that he'd waited till they were away to speak against them.

        "Peace, "he assured, "This is the place."

        Lukas only nodded to show that he'd heard, and his paces became stilted, his eyes affixed to a single door some nine meters deep into the alley. Windowless and thick, it was less than welcoming. A single plank sign swung from a bit of elaborate ironwork at its left. When they were close enough to see, Lukas made out the profile of a scarlet deer, one hoof raised, emblazoned into the wood. Beneath, it read "Tannery". Simple enough.

        For only a heartbeat did Duane hesitate. After a bit of thought, he mounted the short set of steps leading to the door, then rapped sharply upon it. The only sound for a moment were scuffles from the street they'd left, then an amused voice from behind the door yawned, "Everyone's still asleep. Come 'round later, be a mate."

        "By the grace of God, "Duane growled, and he kicked the door irritably, "It's an hour past noon, ye slovenly rogues. I have an urgent request from his Eminence Cardinal Batistum and require an audience with Master Mortechae at once."

        The words fell with the weight of a weapon against the guard's ears; Duane could nearly hear the rusty gears grinding inside his head. Someone's name was called and Lukas took a step backwards when the noise of approaching footsteps pounded beyond the door. A muttered conference then. A bit of contemplative silence. "This is urgent!" Duane reminded snippily. One had to play these rogues in the proper manner. Just as he'd tackled Lukas' would-be murderers. Never back down. Never give an air of anything but confidence, lest they fall upon you like jackals and tear open your belly.

        A full three minutes passed, punctuated by muffled conversation, then a panel in the door hissed open, revealing a tiny square and the glint of a black eye. The two of the Church remained still and allowed it to examine them, running from head to toe before the voice said again, "Show me a mark." Easily was this accomplished; Duane merely pulled down his hood and unlaced the front of his cloak. His fingers snaked down his collar and produced his amulet, which flashed with heartening brightness against the alley's gloom. The black eye bobbed up and down as its owner nodded. There was a sneer of yellow teeth. "Who's the pixie beside ye?"

        "Brother Lukas. A friend in God."

        "No' a friend in flesh, eh? Don' blame ye, Father, he looks right fit ta wet 'is knickers."

        Duane might have laughed but he was a bit put-off to hear anyone of his faith insulted. He insisted, "Open the door."

        "Right, right. Keep yer halos on."

        Unfastening the tannery door was quite a procedure; it took nearly a minute to do and produced such a series of locks scraping, bolts clunking, and hinges grinding that Lukas wondered if there was some mechanical contraption perhaps with a hand in keeping intruders out. He saw nothing as he followed Duane inside the shop however, not even the shop itself.

        The room inside was windowless and unlit. Those rogues at the door shied from the meagre light its opening cast; they drew back into the blackness with only their chesire cat grins and the whites of their eyes catching the daylight. Not a word of direction was given, they merely backed away from the two men's path, staring at them both with manic intensity, full-ready, it seemed, to pounce upon them if they strayed. Duane spared them a quick glance, his own green eyes narrowed sharply. Every inch of him was coiled like a spring and his head jerked sharply 'round as the front door shut itself, plunging the room into near darkness. The only sound was a distant drip and the steady breathing of half a dozen rogues, invisible in their shadows. He felt Lukas nearly treading on his heels unable to see; or perhaps he merely wanted to stay close. Duane could not truly blame him there.

        There were grand shapes and sharp planes in the shadows. Display cases, they finally saw, glass at right angles seeming like monstrous teeth. Whole skins papered the walls, held by pegs. Once their vision adjusted, it was easy to see the scatterings of tables stacked with leathers of domestic and exotic beasts. Some of the patterns Duane could not even identify. Most of these were behind the glass, crouching in the shadows as though possessed by the spirits of their former owners. A whole lion skin, complete with hoary head, fangs, and claws, hung from wires further into the room. Its eyes had been replaced with small beads of jade and the movement of faint light from a hallway beyond made it seem the creature was following the two intruders' every twitch. The room had the feeling of a jungle; so surrounded by predators, Duane could not help but feel like prey.

        Beyond, it was more bearable, though the rogues followed quietly at Duane and Lukas' backs. A hallway was lit fitfully with strung lanterns, opening past a few doorways to reveal the tannery workshop itself. It was pleasantly untidy, though it smelled faintly of decay and the strange stink of oil and braining solution. Racks were rough with half-finished leathers. Huge casks rippled quietly as skins soaked inside. The scraping table seemed as though it hadn't been washed in ages. Hairs of every colour littered the floor about it, and clumps of fur were wafting like lazy fairies in the draft.

        "I do wonder where he acquires his skins..." Lukas mused, very interested in the shop. He saw no unpleasant signs of blood.

        One of the fellows behind him growled, "Ye wanta see? I kin show ye th'brains, sirrah. In th' paddock."

        "Quite all right, thank you." Most tanners used the brains of the former owners of the skins to soak their leathers. Lukas had heard so many stories of the specific brains that Mortechae used, that to see the frothy pink solution newly mixed in its kegs now, he felt his stomach turn and the bile rise in the back of his throat. Duane too refrained from examining anything in the workshop very closely. He let memory guide his steps, taking himself and their silent escorts through the workshop and finally through a portal that had been cut through the raw plaster of the back wall. The very beams were exposed here, and the rough, unfinished floor. It emptied them into the warehouse next door through a similar rough passage cut through the wooden wall and they found themselves in a dim hallway panelled and floored in pine. It stretched darkly to the left and right. After a moment of consideration, Duane led them left. The only sound was the hollow clunk of footsteps against wood. The ranks of their rogue escorts seemed to grow at every turn. It was not so early as the guard had claimed apparently. They all were eager to come from their nests and tail the two quiet clerics from Iocus. No one felt the need to light a lantern. No one felt the need to speak. Duane spared a glance behind and saw only vague faces in the darkness, and the flash of a dozen pairs of eyes, all thirsting. The effect was eerie. Lukas began to think they were being led to their deaths.

        If death was to come, Duane discovered where it was they'd be executed. The hallway ended at last in a massive greatroom, quadrangular, adorned with a single small table and at least thirty scattered stools. Nearly half of them were occupied by men of such fiersome dispositions that it took every dram of courage Duane had in him to enter at all. Drawing a shallow breath, he crept slowly inside, praying no one would look up. But every head turned his way, and the eyes were narrowed and staring, like a forest full of owls. It was dark here too. He could distinguish no particular features, only the impression of faces. They might have been only the spectres of men for as silent as they were. They swivelled about to follow he and Lukas' careful approach to the center table, and their stares were palpable as the rancid Ratteesser air. One of them slid a greasy dagger from his belt when Duane stepped too close. He waited to be attacked, but the rogue only grinned, showing off a mouthful of black teeth.

        Duane melted onto one of the stools pulled beneath the table edge. Lukas copied his action. "They are going to kill us!" he hissed into his ear, glaring wildly about, trying to see every man in the room at once.

        "Perhaps, "Duane replied, barely giving breath to the word.

        Lukas wriggled in his seat, muscles writhing about his jaw as though he wanted to suggest fleeing, but his common sense knew too well that they'd be dead before they could rise. Their escorts from the hallway took the remaining stools, sitting down stealthily only to stare with quiet intensity at the two clerics in their midsts. They were surrounded by a sea of thirty killers. The stink of tobacco, rum, and blood was like an incense. For a moment, Duane imagined what it must be like to be born in Ratteesser. To be a child here and be unfortunate enough to become a man. To see nothing but the power of the demon rogues around you, and to gawk at whispers of the Master of them all. This was all they ever had to aspire to. This thought replaced any fear for his life that he might have at that moment. Instead he was infinitely sad, and before he might stop himself, Duane traced a rood over his chest and murmured a quiet few lines. And he didn't ask that any of these people be shown the grace of God, but rather that God look upon them with mercy. After all, there was no practical hope for salvation here. Not unless Heaven opened itself above and God stepped down to show Himself to the lost. A few of them laughed at the curious-looking priest's action, but he was beyond embarassment.

        At last, there was a distant shout and-- and the strange airy sound of women laughing. Half of the room looked sharply towards the hall and every man seemed to breathe the same breath as though searching for the same familiar scent. Lukas gave a start and stood from his stool, clutching the table anxiously. "I have had enough of your blasted drama!" he roared at the room, "This is not some ritualistic sideshow! Where is--"

        "Master Mortechae!" half a dozen rogues greeted as a brute of a man swept suddenly among them from the warmly-lit hall. A voice recognizeable as the guard from the front shop door called, "Right on time fer th' meetin', Master! Ev'ryone's assembled plus two. Sorry lookin' chappies from the Cathedral sayin' ol' Batty sent 'em. One of 'em's that Duane chappie only he's done somefink Gor-bloody-awful wit' his hair he has."

        "Gawd-bloody-awful! Look's like a turkey's plucked ass!"

        "No eyebrows!"

        "I do fink 'is mate there is dyin' o' consumption; thin as parchment, pale as creme."

        "Cor, fine these ladies some sittin' utensils!"

        Ten men raced to steal stools from eachother as a pair of very painted, pretty women accompanied Master Mortechae into the room. Duane and Lukas slid around the table to squeeze beside eachother as these two approached, daintily anchoring themselves to the seats provided. The two clerics avoided their curious glances and instead regarded Mortechae as he stood in earnest discussion with the guard. Lukas expelled a quiet, intimidated breath. Duane merely maintained the appearance of extreme impatience and aggravation, turning a lip up at any rogue that glanced his way. The attitude was a mite harder to feign when Mortechae finally swivelled his head towards the table, and the entire room faded silent.

        Unmistakeably the tallest of them all, the Master of rogues had girth to match. A slightly dumpy build for he'd put himself out to pasture after reaching his fortieth birthday, he nonetheless radiated might and self-assurance. An invisible force worked his every gesture, as though each joint were steam-powered and mechanized, operating with perfect elegance. His massive arms strained against the sleeves binding them and a bushy black-haired chest rippled between the open flaps of his shirt. The clothes were rich, but ill-kept, rumpled from being slept in, and scarred, ripped, from a night with the two ladies. Mortechae's face was as broad as his build. Deep brown from a lifetime in the sun, a long horizontal scar pale across his forehead, a nose that had been broken at least twice, full lips, sunken black eyes. He looked very much like a pirate. His thinning coal-black hair, oiled and wet, was combed back against his scalp and his beard was cut like a five-taloned black claw reaching upwards to grasp his jaw. The fingers of it danced when he spoke, as though reaching to tickle his lips. Duane would have liked to show his little daughter Sierra this man; only so she might have an idea what a true, evil pirate really looked like.

        "Well!" Mortechae exclaimed, waving off his men and swinging onto a stool at the small table's head. Both his hands he rested before him and Duane hid his own in his lap, not liking how small and fragile they appeared in comparision. In fact, 'small and fragile' was exactly how this man made him feel. "You, I've heard of," Mortechae said, softening his voice to a surpisingly acceptable low purr. He prodded Duane's shoulder with a finger, seated across from the two clerics so he might survey their every movement. "Yer the priest that brought all those payments years ago after Murkoph disappeared, aye? It really was unnecessary. I told the Cardinal as much."

        "He did not want to lose your fine services, "Duane answered carefully, "It was a small price to pay."

        "Please, please, let me remove my trousers if you're going to kiss my ass, Father. Don't want you mussin' yer tongue with cotton fuzzies on my account."

        "Th-that's quite all right, "Duane said quickly when the man started unbuttoning his fly, "The Cardinal only wanted me to express his gratitude to you for your leniancy in the matter. I wasn't involved with the fiasco between the militia, ourselves, and Parliament, but I'm told that your camp turned the tide and kept our institution from weakening considerably under the militia's assaults. And your man was valuable against LeSait."

        "Murkoph?" Mortechae asked skeptically, "He was a fool. And little known to Cardinal Batty, he betrayed you lot even after you betrayed him." He straightened slightly in his seat, flames kindling in the backs of his dark eyes as he glared first as Duane, then at Lukas, as though confronting every man of their creed, "He was in my service again and ready to run away with his precious when they were killed. He'd left you lot behind. And what could the Cardinal expect after you try executing him for a murder you KNEW he hadn't committed--!!"

        "Peace, peace, "Duane soothed, a ticklish bead of sweat running down his back, "Honestly, I know nothing of those times, I was out of the city. 'Twas merely my appointment to be sure you were properly reimbursed for the inconvenience."

        "He was my best knife, "Mortechae growled, and about him, the rogues moved hands towards their weapons, expecting some order to attack. Rarely was the Master made this angry without someone dying for it. But the man merely spat, "There hasn't been another like him since and not all the fuckin' gold in the banks is going to make up for a good knife. If I didn't know what I know, I might take both of your throats as payment."

        "The Cardinal would be most displeased, "murmured Duane hesitantly, meeting Mortechae's snapping black eyes. "I did not come here today to discuss old grievances. Cardinal Batistum requests simple information from you, sir, and I'm prepared to pay you for it." Deciding the time was appropriate and a distraction desperately required, Duane reached into his cloak and extracted a heavy pouch of gold. It clunked satisfyingly against the tabletop. There was an appreciative whistle from somewhere behind.

        "That'll buy a lot o' knives, Master."

        "Aye, "Mortechae answered, and he watched the pouch carefully after Duane took his hand away. He didn't immediately respond. He gazed thoughtfully instead at the gold, thoughts visibly twitching across his countenance. Nervously, Duane flickered his eyes about to the rogues just visible in the smoky room. Apparently he and Lukas had stumbled into arrival in conjunction with some blasted meeting. No wonder there were so many throat-cutters eager to stay and watch. A hundred bloody scenarios played themselves out in his head, most of them involving he and Lukas thoroughly ventilated and left dead in an alley. He wondered how the Blades were faring, and hoped Grissom wouldn't do anything foolish against the cultists. He was certainly trying his best not to do anything foolish against the rogues.

        "Tell me what it is you want to know, "Mortechae answered at last, dragging his gaze back to Duane though it was apparent so much gold had weighed it down considerably.

        Duane sighed in relief, and Lukas echoed the sentiment. "Three days ago, a very valuable book was nearly stolen from the Cathedral's private library. Circumstances lead the Cardinal to believe your lot worked the job. It is imperative that the Cardinal learn who hired you, and why."

        "Aaahh..." Mortechae sighed. Lazily, he gestured to one of his women, and she rose to stand at his back and knead the muscles of his broad shoulders. "Aye, I had a feeling it would have something to do with that. Would either o' you gentlemen care for a drink? Ah, never mind, forgot you only drink wine. Zach'ry, bring me rum. You two-- I don't want your gold." To the dismay of every rogue and both outsiders, the pouch was pushed unceremoniously into Duane's chest. Mortechae only settled back against his woman, nestling his head between her breasts as she chuckled throatily and ran hands down his shirt.

        "Is it not enough?" Lukas asked in mystification, daring to speak for the first time. Mortechae cast a whithering eye his way.

        "Speak again and I'll rip out yer tongue."

        "Excuse him, "Duane said quickly, "Sir, the Cardinal is prepared to give you whatever you like for this simple information. It would be of extreme importance to us, you see."

        "And why is that?" The Master of rogues sipped from a crystal of rum and water now. "Because it was a magickal book stolen? Because you think it was those Müllenkampers been skulking 'round the city for the last few months? And you don't want your precious secrets to get out into the public? God forbid the people know their Churchmen mutter Dark incantations. Well, I tell you something, Father; this isn't "simple" information. I tell you the details of the job, means I'm betrayin' my client. Clients tend to get pissed off at betrayal. And this is a very important client, Father. A client what can pay me more than you pious sons of bitches can. And I ain't talkin' about gold."

        Duane cared not for the harsh words. Lukas had stiffened at his side as well, and the older man had to wonder if he'd work past his fear eventually and bark something that would see them both killed. Mind racing, he crafted his sentance carefully, squeezing in as much humility as he could, and phrasing it to extract as much information as possible. "What in the world could Losstarot and the heretical Müllenkamp possibly offer you?"

        "Whoever said it was cultists?" Mortechae answered easily, "I never said such a thing."

        It could be a bluff. Mortechae was so thoroughly engaged in his drink, there could be no reading his poker face. Duane had been so sure the thievery had been Müllenkamp's doing though, some inane and proud attempt to steal their history back from their enemies. He'd suffered too much yesterday, between anxiety over the theft and the burns that blasted evil book had left him with, to leave this place without some shread of information. "Master Mortechae, "he began reasonably, "The Church has oft overlooked your transgressions in the past. If you refuse this simple favour now, the Cardinal and Captain Guildenstern may very well decide to refuse you in the future."

        Wise were the words for they produced a pregnant pause amidst the rogues and their Master. What the priest said was true; though they knew that carelessness could only result in persecution, the pillory, or prison, plenty of times had the Crimson Blades glanced elsewhere, though they could have rightly made arrests. "That's right devilish of ye, "Mortechae said at last, stroking his clawed beard with two fingers. The unoccupied woman at Lukas' left was gestured to suddenly, and he spread his legs beneath the table when she dropped to her knees out of sight, chuckling. "I like you, Father. You've a silly, honest face that makes me laugh."

        "...thank you."

        Smiling stupidly, most likely due to the noisy ministrations going on below his belt, Mortechae did indeed laugh at Duane's response and the irked expression his compliment caused. Dirty hedonist, the priest cursed silently, and he pinched Lukas hard in the leg when he caught the young man bobbing his head to see beneath the table. "I'll tell you what, "Mortechae said slyly, pounding the flat of one hand against the tabletop. His every motion denoted complete laziness and apathy, but Duane did not miss the cunning in his eye. His hackles raised, and he cocked his attention like a bowgun. "You want to know who has it out for your people, Father? You really want to know?"

        "Yes."

        The man leaned close to Duane, so close that his flushed lips nearly tickled his nose. He pushed Lukas aside as though he were a paper doll, then he slid his lips around to Duane's ear. His words were whispered, private between the two of them. Breath held, the priest didn't dare move as the Master of rogues spun out his wants. His hands only clenched in his lap, and his eyes fell blankly to the floor. Drawing as close as he dared, for now he feared Mortechae's temper, Lukas thought he saw not harsh surprise in his companion's eyes, but the softening of understanding. Duane nodded slowly, and Mortechae drew back, red-faced and panting. His thick fingers clawed absently at his shirtfront.

        "...I can give you that, "Duane said at last, quietly.

        "Mighty handsome of ye."

        "...but only if you truly want it."

        "I want it as much as you want this information, "Mortechae replied seriously.

        "Different sorts of wants, those. Qui vult dare parva non debet magna rogare."

        "Aye, well, magna rogare to you to, you f-funny-looking little man." Mortechae winked and Duane sighed, deeply.

        "Very well, "he relented, and Lukas knew that whatever this was, it was not something Duane wanted given. He burned to ask what had been said, but wisely bit his tongue when the Master shot him a warning glance. "Now tell me who you are working for, Master Mortechae. I assure you, your name will not be used in conjunction with the information. We do not want you involved, sir."

        "Oh, f-fuh-fuck off, "was the answer, but it was distracted and stilted. Mortechae hid his face in his hand a moment, biting his lip, before a violent shiver wracked him and he pounded a fist against the table. "TIME!!!" he bellowed, and the woman beneath the table rose suddenly, wiping her mouth daintily upon her skirts.

        "Three minutes and twenty-seven seconds, Master!" a voice at the back of the room exclaimed.

        "Give the woman alms!" Mortechae bellowed, throwing his head back and laughing, "Ye whalloped Agnes, my pretty, and very skillfully done too!" She kissed his cheek almost chastely, and exchanged dirty looks with the whore still massaging the Master's shoulders. Duane was thoroughly disgusted, alternating between pity, anger, and half-formed prayers for his own soul in even having witnessed such a thing. He wondered if Mortechae had arranged this especially for them, but he doubted it. Rising from his stool, he leaned forward over the table and spoke coolly in the other man's face.

        "You shall not have what you so desire if you do not forego your sinful ways, Master, "he hissed, "Nor shall I remain another moment unless you SPEAK what I wish to hear!"

        "Sit down, Father, "Mortechae advised, and shoved Duane back in his seat with a hand to his chest, "I'll behave appropriately when I must. Until then, there's nothing in the world quite like having a tart nibble at ones--"

        Duane abruptly stood to leave, but Mortechae stretched across the table and threw him back onto his stool. "Fine, fine, "he relented amidst loud laughter from the rest of the room, "Lads, shut your ears for a moment." With that, the rogues all stuck fingers into their ears and began humming to themselves. Wisely, the woman at his back stopped her work upon his shoulders and covered the sides of her head. Two dozen broken, disparate songs dully assaulted the air, and it was one of the strangest sounds either Duane or Lukas had ever experienced. Mortechae took it all as old hat; he flopped forward with his chin in his hands and stared the two clerics down as he spoke.

        "Fortnight ago some little orange-headed rat bangs upon the shop door at two in the blessed mornin'. Bobby turns him away, flung broken bottles at him actually, but the squeek insists he has a monumental task for the tannery lads. Asks for me specifically. After a lengthy and tiring round of questioning and rigmarole, he convinces me to accompany him to the Parliament building--"

        Both Lukas and Duane frowned. "Aye, the Parliament building, "Mortechae continued, "And I tell you I was not lead into Sydney Losstarot's office."

        "Who's office?" Duane asked tersely.

        "Does it really matter?" Mortechae asked breezily, "It's Parliament that wants to butt into your affairs. Again. Ye shouldn't be surprised. House elections coming the end of the year, half a dozen of you clergy in a position to be elected to office, LeSait still reeling from his last internal coup, trying to put his business back together and in no position to launch a successful attack against you to the voting aristocracy when he can't even explain why he's lettin' three-quarters o' the city starve because he can't pull his own eyes away from his own fuckin' paperwork hassles. Now, you lot for Iocus-- you clean up this stolen book business and I say you're well-prepared to deal with Parliament. Fuck me, take the whole institution down and raise the King again. The counsel's useless anymore, I say we dissolve 'em and let his Majesty sort it all out. Now's the perfect time to stick a knife in 'em."

        "Of course you say that, "Duane snapped impatiently, "The King is not in Valnain and cannot hassle with your business as effectively as the VKP can. You would enjoy seeing Parliament fall. Master Mortechae, you aren't as clever as you used to be."

        "And I don't find you quite as endearing as before, "the rogue sneered. He was silent for a moment, almost as though listening especially intently to the cacophony of humming about him, "Paco! I don't hear ye humming, boy!" One more voice, soft and terrified, joined the melee. Mortechae swivelled his shrinking attention back to the clerics. "I don't give a rat's ass what you suppose I'm about, Father, "he snarled lowly, "I tell ye now that if you lot don't plant your pretty eyes t'Parliament, they'll cut yer hearts out through yer backs when yer not lookin'. It's God's honest truth." And he crossed an unpracticed rood over his chest awkwardly.

        Duane met his eyes with calculating scrutiny. He wasn't sure whether Mortechae was lying through his yellow teeth, or mixing a bit of truth into his self-beneficial spiel. It would take a fair bit of counsel with Cardinal Batistum and Captain Guildenstern before he decided which was the case. Though part of what Mortechae had said struck home, especially the bit about the upcoming Parliamentary elections and the trouble LeSait was in after last spring's scandel, arrests, and following Council rifts, Duane knew he himself was correct in seeing an underlying scheme in the rogue Master's words. But Parliament... LeSait... what would they want with a small magickally-protected tome describing Müllenkamp's history? "You swear that you've been visited by no cultists then?" Duane asked suddenly, "You were never contracted by Losstarot?"

        "Not concerning this, "Mortechae answered easily, "Though remember the dozen horses stolen from your stables last winter?" He grinned pleasureably. "That was us. Sydney needed them, and thought you lot had been especially stingy with your Yuletide dolements. Can't say the clawed one's taken much interest in books as of late though."

        A secret, smug smile tickled Duane's lips. If things were going well, Losstarot and Müllenkamp would not be taking much interest in anything after today. He wanted to impart such knowledge to Mortechae, if only to gain some dram of respect for his cause, but it was a selfish, foolish desire, and Duane felt ashamed for it after a moment. "Very well then, "he said after a pause. Lukas' arm was captured and Duane pulled them both to their feet. The rogues, still dutifully deaf, nevertheless followed their every movement with hawkish eyes. "Master Mortechae, "Duane said imperially, standing and watching the man darkly. He'd come for an answer and was certainly leaving with one, but there was an entire new set of questions snuck into his back pocket in the bargain. "I trust if the Cardinal needs anything further you will oblige?"

        "Of course, "Mortechae answered, draining a third glass of grog, "Though I do draw the line at giving it to him up the ass; that just ain't natural."

        "Vile, noxious man..." Duane swore, pushing rogues aside so he might reach the hall.

        "Aye, aye, you say that now. Next time you want something you'll be offerin' to pick my nose for me." Mortechae let a peal of laughter follow the two clerics from the room, and he settled back against his woman, patting her arm fondly. "All right, lads, uncover yer ears. Bobby, see the two gentlemen outside safely and send one of the pages to escort them from th' District. Father! I'll be coming 'round to see ye now for yer end of our bargain! Don't forget me!"

        Lukas nearly had to run to keep up with Duane's enfuriated paces. Peering into his face, he was unnerved to see him so pale.

        In an infinitely more bearable section of Valnain, the afternoon offered few confrontations to Grissom and his sixteen knights. He'd set off from the Cathedral astride his dark charcoal mount, flanked at either side by two lads he'd hastily chosen as his lieutenants, and the rest of his raw brigade fanning from behind like a tail. The city was eerily quiet. Following Captain Guildenstern's directives to the letter, he kept the shining river to his right, leading his men along the deserted paved bank. He'd ordered them to tread stealthily and they lived up to the task admirably, so that Grissom could actually hear the silence, and perhaps pick out from whence it came. It was only when they neared their meeting point with Tieger's men though, that Grissom began to suspect something was wrong. Coming out into a neighbourhood known to be a breeding ground for polytheistic thought and ecclesiastical rebellion, Grissom saw no one on the streets despite the bright sun above and the clear weather. He sighted seller's carts left to catch the dust, and windows latched against prying eyes. His men were not so loud that an entire District would have heard their march. This was uncommonly strange, and Grissom kept a hand close to the sword at his side as they advanced along the snaking river.

        Everything about the nature of this campaign put him ill-at-ease. In the King's service, he had been more adapted to large-scale movements of army against army. Subtley had been left up to the General's spies and assassins. Though he'd been an asset to his officers due to a keen wit and sharp eye for strategem, Grissom had largely relegated his concerns to his own performance in the field; to his swordwork, his daggers, and the careful eye he kept eternally cast to those poor souls around him, so he might be at their side with God's perspective should they fall. This new position with the Blades confused the new Commander somewhat. He found it difficult to grasp the concept of having to tread so cautiously on friendly ground. Guildenstern seemed terribly concerned with Parliamentary awareness of their movements. Was the feud between Church and State so advanced now that they would fight eachother over the destruction of a common enemy? The cults were nothing but trouble for the VKP, Grissom knew this with a certainty. But futile competition between the Cardinal and Grand Steward LeSait might doom this mission easily, and cost both sides the loss of a useful sect extermination. It seemed not only monumentally stupid to him, but also short-sighted, ignorant, and immature.

        What was worse than not understanding the orders that kept Grissom and his men from moving freely through the city this afternoon, was Grissom's knowledge that he was being asked to face foes undeniably skilled in an offensive craft that he had only dabbled in. The persistant image of himself charging a cultist with sword drawn, and having that cultist burn him to a crisp before he'd even crossed the room, stood clear in his mind. He didn't fully understand the Dark, didn't like it, didn't trust it. But he knew as he rode to face a bevy of men and women who'd completely mastered it, that he'd have to embrace this heretical lore and add it to his personal stock of armaments soon. Perhaps he relied too heavily on his cumbersome weapons. They'd seldom failed him before, but that didn't mean God would continue to allow him to survive battle after battle without Grissom taking the trouble to learn this gift and use it in His name. God had some purpose for everything; and leading Grissom here to the Blades must certainly result in his taking advantage of all the tools the Blades had to offer him.

        Seven blocks ahead, doubtlessly Neesa had reached the corner between Oak and Snelgrave, the supposed location of the rogue cultists. Grissom stiffened on his saddle, raising his head high as though he might peer over the uneven skyline and see her. He hurried his men forth, spurring his horse. There was a guardhouse between the next crossing and the opposite bank, where Tieger awaited. It would be manned by the city Watch, which knew any assemblage of knights was to be mistrusted. Perhaps the group from this morning had already warned every guard in the city of a Crimson Blade attack. "Do you suppose they'll challenge us, sir?" Grissom's first lieutenant, a capable man named Faendos, called the question from a level with his Commander's heel. The guardhouse roof rose in the near distance. A kilometer ahead, a broad sandstone bridge stretched to connect their side of the river with the awaiting guardsmen. Grissom snorted.

        "I believe I would like them to, "he answered, "A skirmish before dealing with the heretics might raise the men's spirits. I've every indication that the Blades have not seen real battle in months."

        "S'true, Commander, "Faendos sighed, "Though slaughtering the city Watch would no' sit well in God's eyes nor my own. I dare hope they'll see our numbers and hold."

        Grissom grunted, not feeling the need to say he hoped otherwise. His confrontation with Z'Farley that morning, and the hassle of Parliamentary interference in general was certainly lowering his opinion of the country's Council. Only a select camp of the aristocracy could vote on Parliamentary representation at all, and nomination of representatives themselves was confined to higher clergy, nobility, and wealthy landowners who might buy themselves a title. The King passed wise decree within the slight sphere of reign law had left him after the last great revolution; what difference did it make then whether he passed all legislature with the aid of his advisors, or whether a select group of blind and arrogant Representatives passed their ignorant ideas of what Valendia needed? Parliament was a sham to keep the masses satiated. But they had grown too selfish over the years and dared to attack the Church, the only force in the country that could control the people nearly as much as they. Grissom could not bear this thought. In centuries past when Valendia had been strictly a monarchy, relations between the Crown and the Church had been superb; indeed, the two were one and the same. But what God was there in Parliament? What place was there for spirituality in an institution that based itself on greed? In fact, what was to stop the Blades from assaulting Parliament outright? By its very nature, VKP and the Council stood in the way of Divine Right.

        Oh, but this was a heavy concern, and this was no day to be concerned with it. Grissom instead catalogued the indignity away in the back of his mind.

        "Ah!" Faendos exclaimed softly, and he raised a gauntlet to point off across the river. "Sir Tieger's banner!"

        Just beyond the guardhouse roof, Tieger's banner indeed rose scarlet. Grissom's green eyes brightened at the sight. "Hands on your weapons," he said just loud enough for his men to hear. His horse broke into a trot, and he led them quickly onto the bridge.

        The occupants of the guard station at the other end had seen their coming; half a dozen watchmen bolted from the slanted wooden structure only to stand on the stones and watch the Blades' approach in confusion. Grissom saw Tieger's unit on the opposite street; they wisely advanced to give aid should it be required, effectively intimidating the Watch with a pincer maneuver. Grissom raised a hand in greeting to distant Tieger, then he rode his horse boldly to the blue-badged Sargeant of the guards, reigning her sharp before him. "Clear the way so we may pass, "he commanded, "By Cardinal Batistum's writ we shall have free passage through the streets this day, Sargeant."

        "I- I've received no word of this, "the bearded man sputtered, though there was distant realisation in his eyes that unnerved the mounted Commander.

        "You are receiving word of it now. I can write it out for you as well, if you need it."

        "Please, Father, "the guard answered, bowing his head slightly. Grissom caught the sign of a crude wooden rood looped 'round his throat, and he immediately regretted his previous tone, "Ye should know the law, as I know th' law. Without Parliamentary consent, there is to be no assembly."

        Grissom nodded, unaffected. "If we pass one by one past your checkpoint... would that appease the law?"

        "Nay, Father. Mayhaps..." The Sargeant turned towards his men and ordered them suddenly back inside the guardhouse in a strange, panicked tone. But when he turned back to Grissom, he was smiling slyly. "If you would, good Father; place your blade to my throat as your knights cross o'er. I'm afraid I can do naught 'gainst ye if you are threatening me life." Grissom laughed softly, noticing a few faces pressed to the single slitted window in the slanted shack's side. The watchmen watched intently, and Grissom decided to give them a show. He drew his slim sword in a single fluid motion, sweeping it so quickly down towards the Sargeant's head that the man gave a frightened gasp. But the blade was halted perfectly against his throat and it hung there, gleaming. "Advance!" he shouted to his men, and they marched quickly past. Grissom left the Sargeant with a blessing and rode hard to Tieger's side.

        "The streets are strangely quiet today, "he said by way of greeting, already busily surveying this side of the river.

        "There always be friends about, "Tieger replied, ordering his men forward.

        "I do wish all those who might be my friend would wear the word tattooed 'cross their brow. Too difficult to guess at it. We come upon Neesa's knights soon, aye?"

        "Aye, "Tieger answered, on foot yet still nearly at an eye-level with his fellow officer. Horses, he claimed, did not appreciate him. "The next turn is Garsche Road. Nothin' but one long old decrepit steeryard across from the back wall of a line of empty warehouses. Müllenkamp's been hiding at the end of 'em, in a two-story house with windows painted black, 'cording to the Bishop's source which is 'parently a fine one as I ain't ever seen him so excited. Street's too narrow to march abreast."

        "Of course. Let my unit lead; you follow close behind."

        "If'n ye insist, Commander."

        Grissom rallied his men together and they moved en masse to the front of the ranks. The river jerked sharply to the north here, and the street wrapped 'round, offering only a narrow passage onto Garsche Road between the banks and the buildinged block of the adjacent residential neighbourhood. This latter was filled with people too eager to see the marching Blades. Though no one gave voice to their excitement, dozens of figures crouched in their doorways or stood at the corner with wide eyes watching the knights. Most crossed themselves and murmured prayers; others were less trusting, though the banners flown were inscribed with the holy Rood and boasted Scripture not a man of them could read. Tieger smiled to them in passing, not sure whether to feel proud or uneasy beneath the assault of eyes. Grissom merely kept his face forward, too intent on seeing what awaited them around the bend.

        Garsche appeared to be as deserted as Tieger's brief description had alluded. A flash of scarlet caught Grissom's keen eye from ten blocks down, but then it was gone. Had it been Neesa's banner? Grissom quickened pace, sensing foulness in the air. It was a clear stretch down the cobblestones to the back of the next block, with a length of ruined grazing ground to their lefts and the sparkling river beyond. The warehouses at the right were falling to ruin. Enough dark crannies had been formed between the wreckage that Grissom ordered half his unit to train their sights upon it for fear of attack, while he rode further ahead with the other half to reach the rear of their mark. It was too quiet; certainly Guildenstern and Neesa had not initiated conflict yet.

        "Take care!" Tieger hissed from behind when Grissom was far enough ahead with Faendos and the rest that he could barely hear the call. He could see the stronghold better now, though terming this ramshackle structure a 'stronghold' was a blatant exagerration. Faced from the rear, it was an unsteady two stories tall with a crooked peaked roof and four windows looking out onto Garsche. These were painted black however, and Grissom did not fear discovery as he rode forward with his men. He supposed the cultists had seers in their ranks, and physical visibility was hardly a concern. In fact, he idly wondered if there were some invisible heretic standing at the roadside watching them now. He smirked at the thought, then he called his rear phalanx to him and halted the entire unit in the shadows of a porch adjacent to the building.

        "To me, "he whispered, dismounting and drawing his sword again. The derelict house and the alleys to either side were deserted. He could not see a single sign of Guildenstern, Neesa, nor their knights. They could not be too early; nay, Grissom knew he and Tieger were perfectly in synch. They might be tardy, but not enough that the others wouldn't have tarried a few moments in wait. Of course, with Captain Guildenstern's reputation, he likely had sprung upon the infidels the moment the building was in sight. If that was the case, Grissom saw no reason why he shouldn't join him. "Take the east wall, "he whispered to Faendos, and motioned five of his knights to accompany him, "I shall enter by the west with... you, you, and you." Aggravated that he still couldn't remember their blasted names, Grissom merely jabbed the shoulders of his least promising recruits, wanting to keep a personal eye on them in their first mission. The rest he motioned to stay at the rear. "Anyone exits this building not of the Lord's crest, you slay them. Go with God's blessing."

        Tieger had apparently issued similar commands to his knights. A moment later, the massive Commander was at Grissom's side, battle-axe in his fists and a thrilled grin tickling his lips. "Into the frey."

        "Indeed."

        Grissom sanctified his sword, kissed the crossguard, and crept like a panther into the dark west alley.

        No sound at all came from within the weathered building's grey plank walls. The quiet was so immense both he and Tieger could hear the breeze above rattling the cock upon the weathervane. Their footfalls through the dead weeds were like thunderclaps, each one. Grissom lead them through the alley, then about to the front street, where a few idle men and women traipsed by, unheedful. Guildenstern and Neesa's horses were tethered to hitching posts near the boardwalk. Grissom nodded at the sight, suspicions confirmed. "They're inside, "he whispered to Tieger.

        "Then let's go, eh?" Tieger doubled back around gesturing to his three knights. The place wasn't big enough that every Blade of Neesa's could be inside in secret without the cultist inhabitants knowing. This silence meant something awful, and Tieger saw no reason why smashing the west window could add to it. His axe connected with the painted glass and he tore out the entire frame, causing his fellows to jump back for their lives. "Shoddy construction, "he grinned, shaking splinters from his axe-head. He climbed through the gap and Grissom followed, sword drawn, not quite certain whether he should be amused or annoyed.

        The room inside was bare, dusty, and completely devoid of life. Dim as well, save for the slant of light their entrance cast through the stale air. "I am beginning to think this a complete false alarm, "Grissom sighed, standing at a loss in the patch of sunlight. The adrenaline was dripping from him like water from a leaky pump. Stealthily, Tieger crept to each of the three doorways, though the way his bulk made the floor creak, he may as well have been wearing a bell 'round his neck. Grissom tailed him, ordering his knights to secure the broken window, and begin sounding the plank floor for hollows, or hidden passages. For all that was worth. The rooms beyond were equally dusty and empty. They did see fresh footprints through the--

        "HOLD FAST!" Officers and knights audibly yelped when three Blades leapt from the stairwell in the south wall with spears bared. Seeing the newcomers to be their reinforcments however, their weapons were immediately withdrawn.

        "What in God's name--?" Grissom began, but the tallest of the three knights cut him off in great excitement.

        "Cap'n Guildenstern wounded, sirs-- Commander Neesa bleeds-- culprits in the building, sirs--!!"

        "Lady Neesa?!" Tieger echoed in horror. Without another word, he thundered up the stairs and Grissom could immediately hear his heavy footsteps through the ceiling overhead, sending down puffs of dust and shards of plaster. His men hurried after, apparently used to their Commander's rashness. Grissom saw no rush. He could not help either of the officers with healing magick, and apparently Neesa's entire brigade was already securing the second floor. He looked expectantly at the three intrusive scouts, waiting for the rest of the story.

        "Place was abandoned when we got here, sir, "the same who'd spoken before said, and from the grin on his face he was glad to be the one to tell the tale, "Commander Neesa and Cap'n Guildenstern went upstairs but were ambushed on the second floor by a pair o' cultists. Slashed the Lady's arm, whallopped the Cap'n a good 'un upside the head, knocked him out. Then they split fer God knows where but none o' these ruddy eerie black windows're smashed so they must still-- Good GOD!" And he pointed to the window Grissom and Tieger had entered through. Grissom rolled his eyes.

        "Think again. We only just found entrance through there. Stand your ground, search these rooms for passages; if the knaves are still inside, there is some cupboard or nook that isn't as obvious as your stupidity. Calm down, Private."

        "Aye, sir, "the knight answered sheepishly, and he scattered into the next room with his comrades to do as bid. Grissom saw Faendos peep his head through the shattered glass, obviously having found no entrance from the east. He called him inside, put him in charge of the first floor, and hurried upstairs to see things for himself.

        The stairs lead out into a carpetted hall, moth-eaten and water damaged. It did not take long for the noise of ten knights and three officers to guide Grissom to a large bedroom at the end of the passage. What he saw inside was certainly sobering; Captain Guildenstern was sprawled upon the floor bleeding heavily from the side of his head. Lady Neesa, though standing over him, was grasping a deep slash through her upper arm. Tieger was fussing so intently over the wound that one might have thought her dying. Seeming to care very little for the safety of the Church's secrecy, his fingers glowed faintly green with healing magick as he closed the gash. Grissom said nothing upon entering the room, only glanced carefully about, nonplussed. Knights filed past at Neesa's command, searching for 'two elusive attackers', she said. "Cloaked in brown. Thin and short like weasels. I'll have their heads, by God's Grace." The oath was said through clenched teeth. She wrenched her arm from Tieger's hands and met Grissom's eyes darkly. "They're hiding here, Commander, "she said loudly. Raising her head back she said even louder, "You're HIDING!"

        "Peace, "Grissom soothed, "You are injured. See to Captain Guildenstern; your skills in the healing Arts surpass everyones. I know where they are."

        "Like Hell you do!" she answered. Grissom was taken aback; he blinked blankly and let Tieger put a comforting hand on the lady's shoulder. Neesa threw it off, crouching down to Guildenstern and taking a kerchief from her pouch, binding the gash across his brow. Her hands trembled as she knit the wound upon his blonde head together with whispered Kildean. From the walls of the bedroom, her knights watched her intently but there was no bewilderment in their expressions, nor was there any in Tieger's. Apparently, Grissom thought bitterly, this was something else concerning the Blades he knew naught of. "Tieger, "he said softly, calling him out into the hall. The other Commander looked up with a sigh and followed.

        "I'm going to go downstairs, "Grissom whispered, taking his arm and setting Tieger at the very end of the passage, "When I call your name, walk heavily across the floor and come to me. Notice you that we could not hear the others' treads from below?"

        "...no?" Tieger shrugged, "But aye, come when called. I can do that, Brother."

        "My thanks, "Grissom answered, sighed, and hurried downstairs.

        Walking again out into the main room of the house's first level, the new Commander kept his head craned back and his bright eyes affixed to the ceiling. The disappointment in finding this entire mission had culminated in naught but two injured officers and being berated by Neesa, faded out of his expression, and Grissom instead narrowed his eyes in keen concentration. Faendos came to his side and asked faintly of matters above but all his Commander said was, "I doubt you lot have thought to sound the ceiling, eh?"

        "Pardon, sir?"

        "Sir Tieger!!" Grissom hollared. The ceiling above shook and the walls rattled as though this were ancient Lea Monde and the quakes were upon them. But not until the weighty treads of the knight above had lead him nearly to the stairwell, did the eaves begin to creak and Grissom actually be able to hear the sound of his footsteps. "See how the ceiling slopes?" he murmured, sword in hand. He walked to the west wall, crunching broken glass beneath his boots. Indeed, the ceiling was lowest here, sloping in a smooth angle down from the east wall. If Grissom stretched his arm, he might just touch his fingers to it. This he did, running them lightly against the cool, pale surface. Then, as though he'd felt exactly what he wanted, he drew his sword back and jabbed it into the soft plaster. A scream was his reward, and a steady fount of dripping blood as soon as he retracted the blade. "I do not know how you've gotten in there, little rodents, "he said calmly but in a voice loud enough to travel through the ceiling. He could not help the smug and satisfied upturn of his lips. "But I do advise you both to come out before I strike again."

        "Brilliant!" Tieger laughed, swinging out of the stairwell. Every knight in the room had their eyes to the ceiling now. Above, there was a faint cry, sounding very much like an angry growl from Captain Guildenstern as Neesa revived him and he rose to his feet in a fury. There were no other shouts from the hidden chamber in the ceiling itself, and Grissom warily circled 'round the tiny pool of blood upon the dusty floorboards, sword poised. "You s'pose there to be some trapdoor 'neath the carpet upstairs?" Tieger wondered, "Ach, 'tis all tacked down tho', isn't it?"

        "Aye, Sir," one of the knights confirmed, and Tieger grunted.

        Grissom rubbed his chin. "A passage outside perhaps? Likely not, actually, that would have required a window. Nay, I do believe--" His speculation cut off mid-sentance when a flash of blue light lit the room like a lightening strike. He barely avoided the sword slash of a lithe and ragged figure melting into existance before him like a shadow. Another powerful blow ensued, this one fierce and desperate enough to disarm the Commander immediately. With a choked cry of surprise, he fell backwards into his lieutenant and there was a glimpse of a bloodied figure at his attacker's feet. Though he had most obviously ceased to breathe, the swordsman had his free hand wrapped around the fellow's shirt. Grissom saw his own reflection, indignant, pale, and startled, in the dead man's glassy eyes, and for a moment he deliriously wondered if he would die with his own eyes open or shut when this descending sword cleaved his chest open. Tieger left the question unanswered. His axe flew through the air with a horrible shriek, connecting sickeningly with the swordman's head and rocketing him backwards into the wall. For a moment he teetered there, with the axe sticking from his shattered forehead like some extra appendage; then gravity caught them both and the heavy weapon sent itself and its victim sliding slowly to the floor. There the head cracked open entirely and thick blood began to pool nearly black over the dark floorboards. As though thirsting, Tieger's axe clattered into the gore. Panting, too disturbed to even try to piece together how any of that had happened, Grissom merely watched the puddle spread.

        Tieger shuffled forward immediately to reclaim his weapon, asking anxiously, "Only two, eh? Only two?"

        "Aye, "Neesa confirmed from the stairs. Guildenstern entered the room with the Lady on his heels. The Captain's rapier gleamed naked in his hand; his eyes were deadlier. Sharp and crystal-blue, they settled for a moment on every figure frozen there in the house's first level: Grissom leaning much too heavily against Faendos, who had retrieved his Commander's sword and held it now as though he didn't think he should be allowed to hold such a thing at all; Tieger, standing in the insides of a dead man's head; and ten Knights of the Cross, not quite understanding the situation, but ready to act at a single command. The side of his face slick with blood, Guildenstern made no movement to wipe it away. A bead dribbled from his goatee, spotting his breastplate. His eyes widened disturbingly as they examined the bodies from afar.

        "Müllenkamp snakes!" Tieger swore, though he would have said anything to break the silence.

        "Not of Müllenkamp, "Guildenstern announced quietly.

        "Sir, how do you know?" Neesa ventured. She took a single step after him when the Captain approached the dead men, kneeling carelessly in the blood. There were two snaps, and he rose holding a pair of roods dangling from twine and dripping blood. "Cultists do not wear the Lord's Sign about their necks."

        The men were too well-trained for the revelation to cause more than a collective sharp intake of breath. Grissom however, treated the news like an arrow to his heart. He shoved Faendos from him and rested his back against the wall, staring and staring at the bodies limp in the dust. This was not noble warfare, was the accusation in his mind, This was not one idea against another. This was not how battles were fought. Two men loving of God and St. Iocus, dead upon the floor. One of them speared by his oh-so-sanctimonious sword. One of them killed by a priest even as the Saint's symbol sat warmly just left of his heart! He'd come here to kill blasphemous cultists, not a Brother in God! And even as he made this accusation against an unknown foe-- Grissom was unsure whether to hate himself, the failed mission that had caused this, or the internal bickering within Valendia that blurred the lines between friend and enemy-- even as he struggled not to drop to his knees and ask God's forgiveness for true murder-- Grissom still trembled inside at the magickal attack that had nearly killed him moments before. There was something dearly wrong in Valnain, he knew. There had to be, for he to have just slain a man who shared his faith.

        Guildenstern was either entirely ignorant of his Commander's sudden grief, or entirely uncaring. There was alarm in his expression, and he stared through the air as though watching invisible horrors. "Commanders, "he breathed, "We fly to the Cathedral." He glanced up and met Neesa's eyes, his own narrowed with realization, "This was not only an ambush, but a distraction. Home. Now. I pray to God we are not too late."

        "It makes perfect sense, "Lukas insisted, shaking water from his hair. He and Duane were back in civilized territory at last, specifically in the Cathedral's washroom. The young man had insisted on not only changing his clothes after emerging whole from Ratteesser, but on sitting in a hot tub of water for half an hour. In futility and aggravation, Duane perched on a stool as the other man dressed, a bit of mirror clutched in his hand as he struggled to make his mangled head of hair lie with some degree of decorum. He was failing miserably, and this only added to his annoyance with Lukas' tired, ignorant arguments.

        "Of course it makes perfect sense, "he snapped back, "Mortechae would have us take all he says as honest truth; and lies are easier to swallow if they click logically in ones mind."

        "You do not believe then that Parliament was the culprit behind the book thievery, Father?" Lukas also groomed his hair. He swept a bone comb back luxuriously through damp black locks. Just looking at the older priest for thirty seconds gave him a whole new appreciation for his own handsome countenance. He shook his head and tiny beads of water and soap flew in every direction, most especially in Duane's face, which was nice.

        "I am not quite certain what to believe in that realm of thought, "he answered, passing a hand over his wet nose, "The possibility that Mortechae only told us that to steer us away from this client of his is a distinct possiblity. Yet the more I consider the possiblity of cultist blame, the more I find it difficult to believe they'd have been capable of it. Unless they've some master thief in their ranks; and the only master thieves in this part of the country are to be found right inside that vile tannery working for that vile man. Nay... nay, I almost do believe that the Council is somehow involved in this-- and if that is the case, then considering their sudden appearance this morning in conjunction with worming a way inside the Cathedral, past the sigils and past the wards, past the magickal eyes of half a dozen high clergy, all to steal a lone book-- I do believe then that they've the help of an insider. Of a Blade, or of a cleric inside the Cathedral."

        "Traitor in our midst then, eh?"

        Duane eyed the young man meaningfully. It could be Lukas. It could be. Duane would not understand his motives, but the man was certainly ambitious enough. Helping Parliament could only set him favourably in LeSait's sights and he'd already openly expressed his interest in the upcoming elections... yet the Cardinal had chosen him himself and Cardinal Batistum was all but a seer of souls; he'd have detected treachery in Lukas... would he not have? In any case, Duane dare not accuse him now, not yet. Not when he was held so close by the Cardinal; it would only be disasterous should the Commander be proven incorrect. "...I do not know..." was all Duane would eventually murmur, and he put the mirror away and straightened to his feet. Around him, the Cathedral stretched very much empty for the evening. The training greens were barren with the Blades yet away, and it was too late in the afternoon for the scholars to still be sitting in the halls or the higher clergy to be at study in the library. Too quiet. Much, much too quiet. He and Lukas had passed Lady Samantha in the front courtyard in conversation with Bishop Robinson. The old man had told Duane to hold his tongue when he'd attempted to report his findings at Mortechae's. The Cardinal of course was still away and wouldn't return till the end of the week. Duane's head was all but bursting with speculation, and at the moment, the only person he had to share it with was an untrustworthy young cleric who enjoyed taunting him. Even Grissom would have been better to talk to than no one at all. Though Duane had always had a feeling that his brother disagreed with him in all matters not necessarily because of a difference in opinion, but because he found great satisfaction in being an irritating little toad.

        "I do know, "Lukas was saying, setting his robes in order and nicking Duane's mirror to gauge his own reflection, "I already know for hard fact that your Order practices the Dark magicks and employs rogues to handle your more unsavoury tasks. Thus you see, Father, you are already equipped with liars at every corner. 'Tis only one step further to treachery."

        Duane hmmed softly, crossing his arms. "You shall clean the stables again on the morrow, Brother. With your tongue."

        "Wh-what I mean to say is, "Lukas negated quickly, paling, "Perhaps it is not treachery at all. Perhaps Parliament is only extremely clever. They have every reason to be with so many qualified and capable men here under God and willing to weigh His numbers in Counsel at the year-end elections. Certainly you are a default option for the Cardinal in nominating a Representative out of his Order. You handled that diabolical Mortechae most skillfully. You've a politician's savvy."

        Duane hid a smirk, remembering the Master of rogue's line about removing one's trousers to save one's ass-kissers the trouble of fuzzying up their lips-- but he refrained from testing it out against the young cleric. "My calling was to God and His army, "was all he said, "Not to be some fat cat in the Parliament building. I have no interest in it whatsoever." Of course Leysa would be ecstatic over such an eppointment. Representatives were extremely well-paid (considering they levied their own salaries) and the esteem of working in government did indeed beat that of translating Kildean and chasing cultists for God-- but Duane was the one who had to work the job, and he'd never take such an offer. He wouldn't be happy there, and he knew it with all his heart. Lukas didn't believe his claim however; Duane saw his smug, and slightly envious smile.

        "You will look smashing in a cravat and waistcoat, "he laughed softly, "And with any luck, properly at your side will I be to tell you so. Now, what of this dead man of Mortechae's?"

        "Pardon?" Duane asked, startled.

        "Cannot recall his name. It sounded unpleasant. The one who died in service to his Eminence. The one Mortechae seemed fit to snap your neck for."

        "Ah... I never knew him. His name was Murkoph. There was a spot of trouble a few years ago-- also concerning Parliament, oddly enough-- this man Murkoph, working in secrecy for the Cardinal, apparently lost his mind and committed violent murder of a senior clergyman. He was captured but freed on the day of his execution by-- well, no one was ever certain whom it was. 'Twas his old master Mortechae, like enough. In any event, the Cardinal offered him a second chance, a chance to prove he was as innocent of the crime as he claimed."

        Nodding, Lukas threw his soiled robes in the laundress' bin, and followed a distracted Duane from the washroom. The carpetted hall outside was immense and empty, ricocheting the sound of their footsteps from the high ceiling and walls like a bounced rubber ball. "Did he truly murder the man?" Lukas asked with a distracted yawn.

        "So it was chronicled in the records, "Duane answered dutifully, "Thus he did."

        "Guilty until proven innocent, I see. Whom was he asked to assassinate?"

        "Ah, sharp, "said Duane in woeful approval. The fact the Cardinal personally involved himself in assassinations at all, even the assassinations of terrible felons and heretics, unnerved the priest deeply. "He was asked to dispose of Sydney Losstarot and his own dear Master Mortechae. Mortechae he flat out refused; Losstarot he attempted. And both he and a woman with him at the time were killed in the act. His body was never even discovered; though as a murderer, 'twould only have been strung up and burnt in the Square. Perhaps that is why the Cardinal was so terribly upset when the corpse could not be recovered."

        "Well, Mortechae yet feels put-off for the rogue's death, yes? The woman that died with him, perhaps she was some favoured whore of the rogue Master's, and he still misses her touch."

        "Such talk, "Duane reprimanded sternly, "I don't know who she was. It isn't important. Mortechae would use any excuse to claim hate for the Church. And that is why I cannot trust what he said today."

        "Will you still give him what he asked you for then?" Lukas wondered slyly. He'd already questioned him on this the moment they'd left that tannery rathole in their wake. He was refused again.

        "Never you mind about that, "Duane answered, and he used a tone of voice that wasn't vague in its intention not to be questioned of the matter again. Oh, this was tortuous. Duane glared at the darkened walls of the passage, cursing the time of day and the circumstances. He supposed he could go home and discuss things with Leysa, but she really should not know of these matters; not when Church affairs began to concern treachery and cultists-- nay, 'twas for her own safety to remain blissfully unaware. If he hadn't come home yesterday with a faceful of burns and missing hair, he likely never would have told her about the book at all. Actually... actually, aye, he probably would have. But still, he would have gone into the matter attempting to keep her from the knowledge. 'Twas intentions that counted. Not a man's inability to keep anything at all from his wife. She was such an interested party and astute listener, it was terribly difficult to deny her questions... these were special matters though. And the only real person available for discussion was Bishop Robinson. Whether he was interested or no, this Cathedral was under his jursidiction until the Cardinal returned. Fine then. Duane would go and petition the old man, as much as he disliked his company.

        "Where are you off to now?" Lukas asked when his companion suddenly switched directions, from heading towards the side chapel exit to pushing aside a tapestry and revealing a dark passage of stairs which he swiftly climbed. The young cleric hurried after.

        "Do go to your quarters, lad, "Duane answered irritably, "I dismiss you for the day. Go and plot your political career."

        "There is no rush. You go to speak with the Bishop? I was there as well, Father. Let me come. I can assist you in fully recalling the tale."

        "As you wish," and Duane sighed as though he could not possibly be less enthusiastic about the prospect. With any luck, the Blades would be back within the hour and bearing news of a fantastic victory against the hidden Müllenkamp threat. Perhaps the ensuing celebration would occupy the annoying young man for the remainder of the day. Though Duane had a difficult time imagining Lukas engaging in any sort of activity that wouldn't either please the Cardinal immensely, or further his own political and hierarchical ambitions. One and the same, really.

        The battle between secular and ecclesiastic representation at Council was one as old as Parliament itself. A lengthy and bloody revolution three centuries prior against the Monarchy and the country's mother Church had spawned the institution and established it firmly in Valnain. Thus from the beginning any Grand Steward at its head kept a wary eye on clergymen vying for office. The entire point of the National Council was to keep powers of the Church reigned, and provide a supposedly more just alternative to the King's high hand. At the same time, the only way the Church saw to increase its own hold in politics was to up its representation in Parliament. It was no wonder at all that the two bodies were constantly at odds. Political power was the most potent in Valendia; though much of the population held firm beliefs in the religion of St. Iocus and gave her servants certain privliges (as well as a lot of money), most of the State figureheads were cynical and practical atheists, who saw only too much cunning in the way Cardinal Batistum ran his Church. These were the men with power, and so long as they held it, the best the clergy could manage were subtle pushes for their needs in Parliament, and the gradual gathering of a personal army.

        Duane thought that if the caste system currently in effect for voting in Valendia were to be dropped, giving every man equal say no matter their position-- the Church and Crown would be reestablished, and Parliament could go lock itself in a closet with a rabid dog. Of course they would never allow that. Most of the population was simply too aligned with the Church, and the higher-ups knew this well.

        Kicking the baseboard fiercely as he emerged from the stairwell, Duane indeed hoped that Parliament was the culprit in all of this. Perhaps it might trigger the confrontation that had been dying to erupt for decades.

        It was ten minutes to reach the Bishop's office, as it sat higher even than that of the Cardinal's private quarters. Lukas was out of breath from climbing stairs, and Duane had officially decided to ignore him. The Cathedral was so quiet that they seemed the only figures inside. A silly thought since the building was so immense and the stone walls so thick, but the stillness was complete enough to make it seem real. Dark and abandoned were the passages as the sun was just dipping in the west and the Bishop made his home on the structure's east side; the windows all were darkening and there were faint stars just twinkling above the late afternoon Valnain skyline. Duane breathed shallowly as though it might help him hear the Blade's return. A slight and mainly repressed anxiety had eaten at the fringes of his heart all day; he'd feel much better to see his brother returned whole from the day's campaign. Stupid of him really, Grissom a seasoned soldier, but old habits died hard. He pushed the thought away when they at last reached the Bishop's doors and he rapped upon the shut portal, the report of his knuckles horribly loud against the wood.

        "Not here, "Lukas assumed after a few moments with no signs of life from within. Duane knocked again but to no avail. Well, wasn't that just his luck? He'd have to hold his concerns to himself till morning after all. Else Leysa was going to get an earful of half-coherent speculation over supper. "Suppose I shall retire to my rooms after all."

        "A pity, "Duane answered, turning on one heel and heading towards the library. Perhaps the old man might be there. His heart sank when Lukas' steps shadowed his immediately. "Why must you follow me? Really, I am not planning anything diabolical against you. And I'm not a terribly exciting man."

        "What?"

        Duane turned 'round and saw Lukas not behind, but already on the opposite end of the shadowed hall, indeed heading towards his quarters. At once a dark figure brushed by out of the corner of Duane's eye and by the time he twisted about to see, it had disappeared down the stairwell. "Did you see--?"

        "Yes..." Lukas breathed thoughtfully. This time his treads did indeed follow Duane's and both men hurried quickly down the stairs after the unnamed figure. Three floors below, there was the faint sound of a door slamming and-- at least three pairs of running feet. But they were the distinct treads of men trying not to be heard. Duane looked out onto the Library's floor, breath held.

        "Something's afoot, "he whispered, drawing a stave from a belt at his hip. He left his sword where it was. Mere show, that.

        "I'd say three somethings are afoot rather, "Lukas answered. He seemed to pale at the sight of his comrade's bared weapon. "Perhaps--"

        "Hold. Hold..."

        And he swung lightly out into the dim passage. A check at his back to be sure the right end of the hall was clear, and Duane put his shoulder to the wall, advancing carefully towards the library. Something in the air was... was prickling his skin, for lack of a better word. Something magickal, but not the constant buzz of the wards and sigils protecting so much of the Cathedral's upper stories. This was raw and intrusive power and he didn't understand how it had managed to sneak its way into this well-guarded place. Coiled and coolly angry, he reached the Library doors to find them ajar. A flurry of footsteps distracted him for a moment, but it was coming from down the hall and had gone by the time he jerked his head about. Yet the magick was coming from inside the library; he'd have sworn to it. So with a quick and murmured prayer, he pushed the door the rest of the way open and slipped through.

        The main room was bereft of people. Only the familiar cluttered square table and two fat tallow candles lit behind screens of green glass so that they threw up a strange light. High shelves stacked with books blocked off the desk to the right. Duane slipped past them and hugged the wall again as the source of the magickal disturbance doubled. The thick carpet muffled his boots. A cough exploded from ten paces over and he nearly slid out of his skin. Hefting his stave, he swung around the corner just in time to see an unidentified figure disappear down another aisle of shelves; half a moment later, the side door clicked open and shut. With complete unsurprise, Duane saw a hidden cabinet behind the desk swinging open, books and parchment scattered like leaves about it. An ugly spot of fresh blood lay gleaming in a puddle. The magick had died but so had the ward guarding the Church's books of the occult from intruders' eyes. Duane wanted to call "Thief!" at the top of his lungs but he knew the Cathedral to be all but empty. There were sentries up front and in the courtyard, but none so near the Library. After all, who in God's name stole books?

        Apparently in the future, they would have to be less assuming.

        A furious glance towards the damage, and the blood, then Duane swept after the thief, listening for footsteps when he'd again reached the outside passage. However, swinging to the left to rejoin Lukas, he was cut off from the path by a sudden explosion of fire. Blinded for a moment, he reeled backwards into the wall and the heat of the flames at his front was like a fat, hot hand shoving him away. His eyes squeezed themselves apart and he saw the cherry-panelled hall inexplicably consumed. This was akin to some nightmare, to see the inside of the untouchable Cathedral buckling under the assault of flames; a small part of him panicked, remembering his burns of the day before and having no desire to lose the rest of his hair; yet the passage at his back led only into a storeroom and he'd be trapped if he didn't flee now. So putting his arms over his head, he raced through the small path of floor yet to catch alight until the tunnel of heat about him receded and he came out into the fork where he'd left young Lukas--

        Only to find the dark-haired young man on his stomach in a pool of blood.

        "Lukas!" he shouted, nearly dropping his stave. The cleric responded to his name, though feebly. He lifted his head as though it were wreathed with stones, his hidden hands clutching his stomach. Sliding to his side and forgetting the fire chasing him from down the hall, Duane saw the cruel steel bolt of a crossbow embedded in the poor man's navel.

        "F-forget it..." he gasped, "Saw him run... run towards the east stairs."

        "By the Saint, "Duane lamented, cupping his hands over Lukas' wound. The blood soaked through his white gloves like wine.

        "St. Iocus isn't g-going to catch him!" Lukas spat irritably. Duane didn't remove his hands but he did glance down the hall to where the young cleric gestured. He could not see the stairwell on the other end however as the passage there was burning bright with fire now as well. He had no clue where the flames had come from, but the way they had appeared suggested either magick or extremely clever arsonwork. They had effectively cut off the thief's escape however-- or had they? Duane rose from Lukas' side on instinct when he saw an open door just at the edge of the fire. It could be merely the draft from the flames but the door was swinging on its hinges, and-- and upon moving a few steps closer, Duane saw a smear of blood upon the handle. "Go on!" Lukas insisted, and Duane was sorely tempted.

        "Only a moment, "he assured the young man, and he meant it. Sending a speedy healing spell his way, Duane then grasped his stave in a bloody hand and clipped quickly down the burning hall.

        Through the red haze and impressive heat pulsing from the burning passage, the small spots of blood leading back upon the floor were difficult to see. It seemed as though the very air were inundated with blood. Duane was forced to put a sleeve to his face when he finally stopped just left of the open door, to protect himself from the nearby inferno already stinging his eyes and strangling him. Pausing for a moment, he kicked the flimsy interior slab open so hard it crashed against its inner wall. But there was no volley of crossbow bolts from inside, nor any flung daggers thrown as a last ditch effort from a cornered cultist. Nay, nothing came and the flames simply roared louder, as though to compensate. Steeling himself, Duane raised his staff threateningly, and he turned into the room in one quick motion, ready to attack-- but what he saw inside surprised him so he could barely keep a little tremor from rising up through his stomach.

        William Robinson, the young knight that he and Grissom had discovered ill in the street the morning before, was crouched here amidst the Library's stolen tomes. His face was ashen and afraid, dripping sweat, lips smeared red; a stream of blood trickled from them. More disheveled even than when Grissom had found him sick outside the tavern yesterday, his hair now was plastered to his brow with sweat and he wore only dirty trousers and a torn cotton shirt, open at the throat but sticking so closely to his flesh the hue of his skin was visible through the fabric. Duane approached prudently, sighting no weapons upon the boy, not even the crossbow he assumed had been used to injure Lukas. "Private," he greeted softly, but still loud enough to be heard above the dull thunder of the encroaching flames, "What are you doing?"

        "C'mander Duane..." William sobbed, bowing his chin into his chest. He had both arms wrapped around a particularly large leather-bound volume of spells, one Duane recognized immediately as he'd studied it himself. He shook against the book so hard that it rattled against the golden rood 'round the knight's neck. "I think this is the one, "he cried quietly, the words interrupted by sobs, "I think this is it..."

        "It may be, "Duane carefully returned. He was not quite certain what to say. The boy was mad. But he was also a figure fit to break his heart, looking very much younger than his nineteen years as he crouched there with his burden. "The wards were too powerful for you, "he added, gesturing to William's bloodied mouth and recalling the gurgled cough he'd heard in the Library, "Next time... next time ask an officer for help, hmm?"

        "Aye, Sir, "William said dully. His blue eyes, shining with tears and with the fire beginning to lick at the door, sunk slowly to the floor as though condemned. Duane merely stared at him a moment, not sure whether to arrest him, execute him, or merely put a hand upon his shoulder. He was saved from having to make a decision by the arrival of the Blades. Never before had Guildenstern's raging voice sounded so much the comfort. He was hollaring in the stairwell, calling for the mages to douse the fires. He heard a collective noise of surprise when the knights walked upon Lukas, but Duane merely stayed where he was, waiting to be discovered. It was Grissom that did so, and Duane felt double the relief at the sight of him.

        "Thank God, "he breathed, and his shoulders visibly sagged. Grissom was dusty and sweaty and did not look particularly pleased to have come home to fires and Bedlam, but that was all swept from the younger Commander's mind by the sight of William crouched amidst the books.

        "What the blazes--?" He blinked hard in surprise, glancing to Duane for an explanation but only receiving a particuarly puzzled shrug. After a moment he summed everything up with, "If my first day had been anything like this second one, I swear by God I'd be back in the trenches at this moment. The Captain calls for you. I shall take care of this one."

        "Lukas all right?"

        Grissom shook his head. "Dead."

        Duane had the smoke as an excuse for his sudden bout of choking. He ran from the room, leaving Grissom to furiously swing his sword into the lintel, and pull William dazedly to his feet.

Notes:
It worries me when I write things too fast. The latter half of this chapter was written in three days, so if I had a brain, I'd set it aside and wait a while before editing it again. But I don't have a brain.

Valendia is not a real country. Its religion is not a real religion. Its government is not a real government. Certain things about it are modelled off of pre-existing facts and ideas, but much of it is pulled right out of my own feeble imagination. So don't write me stupid emails. Also, I realized I wasn't giving the lovely Amanda any props for Grissom. I'm more or less stealing a lot of him right from her version. If you're going to steal after all, steal the best. Also also, though mine's a bit of a departure, I'm still pretty indebted to Gio (currently without a homepage unfortunately) for Samantha. Also also also, Biccy too for helping me piece together the tanners all those months (a year?) ago. In other words, I didn't write any of this. Sue me. Sue me!

Sorry this chapter plummetted sharply in the "cute" category. The next chapter is cute again, promise. Things are going to get hairier for the brothers though, especially as they dig into stuff they aren't supposed to be digging into. Ratteesser is German for "Rat eaters" by the way. Because the dying ate rats and mice when no one would bring them food due to the quarantine. Thanks to my brother for the German services. Can't think of anything else. Oh, Duane's little Latin comment to Mortechae is basically, "Someone who gives a little shouldn't ask for a lot." And people should be pleased to note that both Sydney and Rosencrantz appear in Chapter 3. Yay. I really didn't wanna kill Lukas. I liked him. Damned demanding plot structure; I couldn't figure out a way around it -_- And I still don't have a spell-checker.

--GlassShard January '02