1: The Shadow Of A Million Swords

The inn was packed as ever. At one table, the recent immigrant Arech Malifex picked at a plate of food, his bright eyes taking in everything that went on around him. In the corner, a ruggedly handsome (if very damp) man in strange dark-lensed glasses and a floppy hat seemed more preoccupied with removing seaweed from the recesses of his heavy coat than drinking from the tankard before him.

At the bar, the imperturbable Denning was speaking to a broad-shouldered man in a leather jacket whose scarred olive-black face was framed with dreadlocked hair which hung to his waist. The man, whose name was Garath Chant, appeared to have got the information he needed, and moved to the corner where his wet drinking companion, William, was sitting.

"It appears from the barkeep's information that my immediate destination is the domain called Melmoth. Perhaps you would care to accompany me into the city as a fellow stranger in these parts."

"Oh yes, very much so," said William, taking up his umbrella and shaking it free of a tenacious crustacean. "Before it gets much darker. Though I probably won't accompany you all the way."

"Where are you headed for? It would seem to me that friends in this city will prove to be important. As we are both new here, it would stand us in good stead if we were to turn our chance meeting into an fortuitous advantage."

"That's very nice of you," replied William with a cautious smile, his slightly bloodshot eyes regarding Gareth Chant with some interest. "I don't know anybody here, so that would be good. In fact you're the first person who's spoken to me... perhaps it's the smell of fish."

William pondered this for a while, shrugged, and then continued. "I don't really know where I'm going to go. I suppose I'd better find a place to, erm, live."

Garath Chant swept the woven cords of hair away from his face and gulped thirstily at the tankard in front of him. For a long moment he leaned back, eyes closed, an expression of contentment on his face, before turning his pale grey eyes to William once more. "I think Melmoth will suit me better than the others. I'm no librarian, and it sounds as if most of the other magi in the city have a penchant for either cheap theatrics or playing with things beyond their understanding. I have studied the magicks of dead spirits, and know enough to not use them whenever possible. "

William blinked nervously and took a sudden interest in the crab, which seemed to have altogether to many legs for comfort.

"Yes, Melmoth will suit. If I can I shall gain accommodation near to the edge of the allegiance, nearer the cheaper sections. What say you to meeting here tomorrow and comparing notes? I must confess the beer is good enough to bring me back on its own."

"Okay, I'll meet you back here... funny sort of place. I thought it was somewhere else entirely when I saw the sign." William took his dark glasses off and rubbed dirt from the lenses with a suspiciously long fingernail.

"Hmm. This ale is good; I cannot remember the last time I sat in an inn and enjoyed a mug more. It has been too long..."

William peered doubtfully at the ale in front of him, which brought back foul memories of the harbour waters. He shuddered. "Yes, it has been a while since I enjoyed a good beer," he said with a sigh. He rummaged in his coat, removing an odd selection of belongings from various cavernous pockets. A soggy pack of playing cards, a rusty old pocket-watch, a couple of padlocks, a tarnished silver ring, some seashells and a collection of knucklebones spilled across the table.

"Damn," muttered William, peering at the bedraggled remnants of an old dogend. "That was my last one." "Any idea where you're going first? I'll certainly come along... if you really don't mind, that is."

"I am as much a stranger in this world as you are. I think that exploring the place would be the best idea first. Those towers intrigue me most, although I would also like to find a market place of some kind.

A change of clothes would be welcome, these have seen better days I am afraid. Beyond that, I am as yet unsure."

William looked down at his loyal old trenchcoat as if seeing it for the first time. "Perhaps you're right... I ought to find something more appropriate. I wonder what I should get. I suppose I ought to find some way of earning money as well."

Chant glanced around at the other patrons. Leaning closer to William he whispered "Although looking around here, it would seem that the fashion is either blousy shirts and leather trousers or wearing your purse as cloth. I suppose the dead cat draped across his shoulders is to discourage anyone from stealing the coat. You know? A sort of 'Don't mess with me, I wrestle leopards' symbol. Either that or he pays for things by tearing a strip off his hem." He leaned back again, and watched a man wearing a thick black silk shroud ordering wine from the barman. "Still, when in Relgen Tower, as they say."

Garath Chant and William finished their ale and walked on to the torch-lit marketplace. The market itself sprawled out along many of the adjoining side streets so much so that it was hard to make any headway at all for all the stalls and bustling people. A small boy bumped heavily into Garath, and turned to run back into the crowd. Garath reached down and grabbed him before he could leave, however.

"Not so fast. Anyway, you waste your time. There is nothing of value in *that* pouch." he said, grinning intently down at the child and pulling a small black bag from his hands. The child sped off once more, the instant Chant released his shirtfront.

"Children." said Chant, and grinned at William.

After an hour of wandering though the hubbub, and another hour spent arguing over the value of a Gold Telac, finally Garath and William had bought all they needed and made to depart.

"I will see you at the tavern tomorrow?" asked William.

"Yes. Tomorrow, at noon. Take care, my friend!"

A surreal image greeted Deinos as he entered the family's largest meeting room. Barlius stood by the large, arched, windows holding up what appeared to be a pair of golden wings which gleamed in the morning light. Beside him Palus, Barlius' personal minder, was lifting a small boy into the air, supporting him with one of his great hands. Barlius seemed to be attempting to cause the wings to flap in a convincing fashion.

As Deinos stepped into the room, Palus noticed his arrival, and set the child down to the floor. The boy - Deinos guessed him to be around ten - quickly scuttled away, letting out a small cry of relief. This seemed to raise Barlius from his contemplation, and he swung round, greeting his younger brother with a wide grin, "Deinos! Come, see what I'm preparing!"

Deinos walked over slowly, his mind had been clouded with thoughts of family business, and he didn't really want Barlius to distract his attention, but he felt he should make an effort to seem interested. His dark eyes gazed at the golden wings, the length of golden braid, the golden paint, but he said nothing.

"Well?" said Barlius, expectantly.

Deinos looked over the items again, idly wondering what conclusion he was supposed to be drawing. He looked up at his brother’s wide, expectant face, but didn't speak, giving only a small shrug.

"Cherubs! We will have cherubs, *real* cherubs!"

"We will?" Deinos' voice was low.

"Yes! At the party! Cherubs suspended from the ceiling! They will have wings that flap... hopefully. Some even play horns and flutes!"

"You'll be using real children for this effect?"

"Yes, of course! They will look magnificent! So beautiful and exotic, as they hang in space above the stage!"

"Sounds... interesting." Deinos turned to leave, and behind him heard the slow 'wump' of Barlius experimenting again with the wings. But then a thought struck Deinos, and he stopped and paused. His mind raced ahead through swift considerations, playing out different scenarios. He stopped, and turned back to his brother.

The double doors of Castellarc house opened to reveal a large hall lavishly decorated in black and gold. Thick tapestries lined the walls and multiple candelabras made the room a blaze of light. Standing in the doorway, between Dominic and all this indulgent splendor was a tall thin figure which was reminiscent of nothing so much as an antique candlestick. On closer inspection he appeared to be an elderly man in black and gold butler's livery.

"May I help you?" he inquired in sepulchral tones

As Dominic explained who he was and why he had come, the butler showed no response. At the end of the explanation he looked down the long driveway to where the gates of the house were hidden behind the trees, as were the defaced statues.

"Ah, yes, the vandalism," he says. "A great shame, to see his grace's master work so desecrated. But unfortunately the Castelthane is not available at the moment. He has been called away from home on a personal matter. I am Meschaur, his Head Butler. May I convey a message?"

As Dominic handed over the letter, Meschaur bowed politely, a rare occurrence for a member of Vermiform, and then shut the double doors firmly.

Titus Ruen took his place behind the podium slowly and with dignity, as befit a man of his age and position. Looking out with steady blue eyes, his voice was that of a man in his thirties as he began his announcement. He had brought a prepared speech with him, but he barely glanced down at it, as if it were an annoyance some petty official had saddled him with.

"People of Zehazel, I am pleased to announce that Vermiform shall, on a trial basis, be enhancing our services, in light of the recent death of Mr. Clius Shandarhas, a low-ranking member of the Sardanapalus who died last week. Mr. Shandarhas had been drinking in his local pub, when a still unidentified patron took a dislike to certain of his political opinions, and decided to enter into a spirited debate, employing his pint glass as a tool of persuasion. The merchant, being none-too-skilled in such rhetorical tactics, was cut, and died between half and hour and an hour later.

"The wound would not, of course, ordinarily have been fatal. However, Mr. Shandarhas was lunching in Daedalus territory, for still uncertain reasons, and was thus a fair distance from Gethsemane. Without any of his fellow merchants to accompany him, and lacking his purse (which had been "liberated" from him in the political dispute, according to witnesses) to pay for transport, he died still trying to reach a place of succour.

"Vermiform, of course, has up until now not been responsible for the treatment of injured victims of crime, as Mr. Shandarhas was. However, in light of this recent event, we have decided to introduce a new policy, on a trial basis, for one month: any victim of a violent crime who is injured, shall, upon request, be escorted free of charge from the place of their assault to the Gardens of Gethsemane. We cannot, of course, guarantee treatment, as that is not within our remit, but we will carry any who are unconscious, and do not have relatives or fellow members of their Allegiance who object, to the gardens, where they shall be treated. Any who object to this are urged to wear alternate instructions in a locket around their neck, preferably of silver: Vermiform guards will look for such lockets in cases where crime victims cannot be questioned as to their wishes.

"This is anticipated to be a relatively expensive program, and will be operated on a trial basis for this month. However, Vermiform can obviously not withdraw too much from its main policing functions, and if it is deemed to be too expensive after this month, the service will be withdrawn, unless the costs are assumed by some other institution.

"Thank you. As always, our Allegiance is pleased to provide our services for the good of Zehazel and all its inhabitants."

A lonely figure stood at the docks. He was motionless as the babbling crowd streamed around him; sailors and traders and stevedores and hawkers and beggars. A sweating merchant tried to push past the ragged, long-bearded man. "Out of my way, trash!". He shook his fist. "I'm in a hurry!". The man slowly turned to face the angry little man. The merchant winced as the icy blue eyes cut into him. He lowered his head and slunk off into the safety of the noisy, faceless throng. The man let out a quiet hiss from between his teeth and loosened his grip on the sword secreted under his filthy cloak. He caught the glint of steel from across the road. Two armoured guards with spears and cudgels. Were they looking at him? He wrapped his cloak tighter around him and let the crowd carry him away from them.

He wandered the streets frowning at the strange architecture, the towering buildings, the bewildering array of dress and accents. He stared up at the spires that dominate the skyline. A statue, a palace, a marble monument. He paused for a while when he noticed the dark Gothic tower rising towards heaven and his expression lightened. But then he caught a glimpse of the golden bell-tower with its domed roof and its hint of eastern opulence. His smile disappeared and uncertainty furrowed his brow once more. He muttered a prayer and headed quickly in the direction of the distant ancient, dark-stoned steeple.

The narrow streets became wider and soon the road opened out onto a great plaza. In the centre a crowd of people were yelling at a man standing beneath the shadow of a gallows, a noose about his neck, his hands tied behind his back. He was half naked and his body was bleeding and bruised. Guards in similar garb to those seen at the docks pushed the crowd away from the platform where the sorry villain stood. Indeed, the place seemed to be crawling with guards. Across the way was a menacing brick building with huge gates of iron and a myriad of tiny windows barred with steel. Guards paraded in front of the stern gates. Their tabards were emblazoned with the same motif as the flag that flew proudly from the roof of the building; a black wyvern. He cursed and ducked back into the street. He could hear the insults of the crowd erupt suddenly into cheers.

A mailed hand grabbed his shoulder as he turned. "No beggars here! You know the penalty". Like a serpent his sword flashed through the air and cut down his assailant. The guard's five companions stared in disbelief at the bloody body of their friend. Another jab, and one more fell to the ground clutching his belly. The remaining guards readied their spears, but the man was already running down an alley. They gave chase yelling for support. The man vaulted catlike over a wall twice his height. The guards stumbled to a halt, panting, looking helplessly at the crumbling brickwork that towered above them.

The man cleaned his blade on his rags and sheathed his sword beneath his cloak. They would never have dared to treat him so had they realised exactly who he was. He curses the day that had forced him into a life of flight as though he were a common criminal. Now he had been forced to kill a Christian man who was only doing his duty. But he could not afford to wind up in gaol. Not with their agents scouring Christendom for him. He had to seek the comfort of mother Church immediately. God would keep him safe. He looked up. The steeple was much nearer now. He checked that the way was clear and hurried towards it.

Chant left the marketplace, and travelled south, through Bartholomew. The many houses and shops here seemed somehow less alive than the other parts of the city Zehazel Chant had seen. Most of the people found here were in their later years, and beards seemed to be the fashion. What shops there were sold either food or writing materials and books. With some of the change he had accumulated in the market place itself, Chant bought a sheaf of writing parchment, a small bottle of ink and a goose feather that the shopowner claimed was a quill. Laiden down now, the leather thong of his sling bag pulling free of its seams, Chant entered the territory of Melmoth.

The border between the two was almost invisible, but the mood began to change. The buildings began to grow in height the further down the street he progressed, each building becoming less and less a simple home, just another collection of bricks on a regular street, and more individual in nature, as if the owners here felt that the building they lived in represented their personality on some level. Chant walked around the territory for a while, taking in the scenery and looking for the central area, eventually arriving at a peaceful square with old stone buildings on each side. Chant approached the hall, only to find that the doors were locked, and nobody answered his knocks.

"At least no one can say I did not try." muttered Chant, and headed further south.

The Tattered Lion stood on Golden Bull Street. As taverns went, it was a well cared for building, the sign a beautifully crafted portrait of an old lion, straggly and unkempt, sleeping on a hillside to a backdrop of a cityscape. Inside, the bar had two sections, one laid out carefully with red velvet chairs and sofas, low tables and hanging drapes, the other with simple wooden furniture and solid tables, each one tilting at a different angle. Only the public bar had any patrons in it, and the only bar staff visible; a woman of middle age and considerable size, leaning on the bar talking to two of the locals, bakers by the looks of them.

Chant walked in, headed up to the Bar itself and balanced himself on one of the stools, unsure of if it would carry his weight.

"What can I get you, love?" she said, voice deeper than many men Chant had met.

"An ale, please." The barmaid began to fill a deep metal tankard, an action that caused her to lean forward, revealing a more than ample cleavage. Chant noticed that the bakers were sat at the right place at the bar to get the best view, and grinned. "I was also looking for somewhere to stay, do you offer lodgings?" He added.

"No, we don't. Not much call for it, around here. But there is a room up for rent, next door. Old Smiler used to live there, in the basement. Knock on the door of the house above it, Jason Granford it is that lives there, he owns the place." The barmaid placed the mug down on the bar in front of him. "Although he'll want the money timely, you know."

"It looks like we shall become neighbours, then. Garath Chant." he said, offering his hand.

"Eleria." she replied, shaking his hand. "And that'll be eight pennies, love."

There was a low buzz of conversation in the Port Of Call. The Port was just getting its first flow of custom for the evening. The fires burnt in the hearth and Colm O'Brien was sat in his chair by the fire telling his stories to any who would listen.

The door to the Port Of Call burst inwards with a blast of cold, salty sea air. In the doorway there stood an Antioch guard. There was another behind him. The customers at the port of call began backing away from the door. The guards stepped in followed by Li Tsao Tse Tung who was flanked by two more guards each carrying a small wooden chest.

Li Tsao looked across the bar and motioned the guards to make a path towards the fire. The guard clubbed anyone who was in the way until they moved aside or were battered aside. One of Li Tsao's servants rushed through and gathered a chair for their master, dusting it as he set it next to Colm O’ Brien, who took another swig of his ale. Li Tsao spoke softly to Colm. "So, Colm, I have come to see this artefact. I do hope that it is worth the sum you mentioned, or I will not be happy." He motioned to one of the guards who opened the chest in O'Briens direction. The smile that lit the Gulliver’s face said everything.

"I can see that you are interested in my offer. Let me see the artefact."

O'Brien produced the artefact from a bag on the floor next to him. Li Tsao took it in his hands and closed his eyes. Blue light crackled between Li Tsao’s fingers and splayed over the object from his finger tips. Li Tsao opened his eyes and returned his gaze to O’Brien. "I am interested in your trinket. Do we have a deal? You will find the full fifty thousand in that chest."

"I think I can live with that," responded the Gulliver, eyes glinting avariciously.

Li Tsao motioned for the second of his laden guards to approach. The guard opened the chest and Li Tsao placed the artefact inside. "It has been a pleasure doing business with you."

Li Tsao Tse Tung turned and walked from the Port of Call, two guards in front and two flanking him. His servant followed. A blue swirling light filled the alleyway around the corner and a second later was gone, along with Li Tsao and his entourage.

"Hello," said William, leaning out of the shadows of his corner of the Port of Call and peering at Malifex's basket-hilted rapier with curiosity. After some thought he placed his slightly soiled umbrella next to it. "I'm William... how do you do?"

"Very well, thank you. I seem to have secured some moderately lucrative employment recently. Have an apple."

"Erm, thank you," said William. He considered the apple for a while, and then placed it carefully on the table and gave Mal a cautious smile. "Employment?" William sighed. "I could do with some of that. I seem to have mislaid my last job."

Mal grinned. "That was careless. You should keep better track of such things."

William looked vaguely cross. "I know, so people keep telling me. It's not my fault. It's probably still where I left it, but I'm elsewhere. I do hate to neglect my duties like this. So what are you doing?"

"I'll be guarding someone's door. I don't think I should say more than that, though," replied Mal. "He strikes me as the sort who doesn't like his business being discussed." Mal looked at the umbrella. "An interesting device. What is its function?"

William looked thoughtful. "Well it keeps the rain off," he replied, "and you can prod things with it."

"It seems a little elaborate. A good oilskin cloak will do just as well," commented Mal, slicing a chunk off his steak and munching it with gusto.

"Well it can keep the sun off too," said William defensively. "Besides, you can't poke people with an oilskin cloak."

"I knew a man who stitched razors into the hem of his cloak once. Killed himself with it eventually, though."

"How ghastly. Now that really is a fashion statement. You see, that could never happen with a good, honest umbrella." William patted his umbrella fondly, the end of which did appear unusually sharp for a supposedly harmless instrument. He watched the apple for a while, making no obvious attempt to eat it.

"It's not poisonous, you know. You can have an orange instead. Or some of my steak."

William's eyes lit up at the mention of steak. "How's it cooked?"

"Medium rare, lightly seasoned. The cooking here is fantastic."

"Hmmm. Thank you for the offer, although it's not really my taste. I'm feeling hungry now though...." William shrugged. "Well, good luck with the job. Will you be here a little later? I have to pop out for a few moments. Oh, and if Garath Chant comes in looking for me, say hi and tell him I'll be back shortly."

His father's shouts greeted Deinos as he entered the room, "This man will die, and die, and die! A thousand deaths upon him for daring to touch a member of our family!"

Deinos had already been informed of the 'package' - a hand written threat, and evidence that his cousin, Varlen Lorenzo, had been killed. Emotions would be highly charged, a situation that made Deinos uncomfortable, but he knew his presence was required. The room was laid out as he expected - his father pacing back and forth in the middle of the room, his brother Nanik standing to one side looking furious, Barlius sitting down looking upset. They paid him little heed as he arrived.

Nanik broke in, "Then we take men, and we hit him *now*! We can find his house, overrun it, he'll be dead by dawn. No one touches a member of a Lascari family, they all know that!"

Deinos felt he had to cut in, "And presumably he knows that too."

Both his father and Nanik turned on him, suddenly becoming aware of his presence. Deinos continued, "Let us assume he isn't a fool - he would not have taken this action unless he was certain he could handle our immediate response."

Nanik interrupted angrily, "He *must* be a fool to start a blood feud with the Lascari!"

"Perhaps. But I think it would be wrong to act before we know more."

"But we must send a signal to the other Allegiances," replied his father. "They must not think us weak in this matter."

"They are very foolish if they think us weak. But, let us consider - Varlen was of our blood, yes, but he was on the outskirts of the family. Most who knew him thought him a fool. He was never cautious in his security. Some would say it was a matter of time before something like this happened."

"You are speaking of your own blood!" Nanik stormed.

Deinos remained completely calm, "Yes, and I respected him for that. But for little else. He is dead, and something must be done, something *will* be done. But let us not be hasty. I have a few ideas I wish to explore first." He looked at his father, seeking permission.

"Very well, Deinos. But act quickly. This act must not be forgotten. Or forgiven."

"It will not be. I can assure you of that."

Garath Chant sealed the chamber with a few softly spoken words and caressed the surface of the door with his hand. Tiny amounts of light broke through the fingers of his gloves, lighting the many small crystalline particles imbedded in them like frost in torch light. With only a cursory glance at the rest of his room, he walked out onto the street, pushing the gloves back into a velvet bag attached to his waist.

The streets outside were dark now but still busy. The night life of Elsewhere clustered in small groups, unlike the daytime when each person felt safe to be an individual. Chant walked past them all, out to the edges of Melmoth and into Lascari. Chant walked with the determination of a man with a destination, but circled the area, mapping it out in his mind, scanning the walls and tavern signs as if looking for something hidden in them. Finally settling on a tavern called 'The Halberd', he walked in and approached the bar.

The tavern was busy, filled with an assortment of men from the tabarded mercenaries and soldiers off duty to the dock workers and local toughs, with a small group of more well-to-do patrons sitting by the fire. The barkeep, a small dark man with the expression of a sea water taste tester, was moving quickly from customer to customer, pulling beers and taking money as fast as the pumps would allow. The only barmaid visible was caught, bottle of wine in her hand, in some kind of 'argument' with one of the nobles but with a smile of allure on her face, clearly in her element.

Chant waited for the queue of customers to clear, and carefully ran his hands over each pocket where things of value were kept, checking that they were there with the off hand attention brought by a lifetime of bad company. "Sir?" called the barkeep, finally through the press against the bar.

"Ale, please." Chant watched the thick brown liquid slowly climbing the edge of the tankard and looked again at the barman. The barman's attention was on a group of ordinary appearing men who had just started conversation with the nobles. "I'm looking to meet someone around here. How do I arrange such a thing?" said Chant softly, and the barman snapped all his attention back to Chant.

"Depends who you're wanting to meet." His eyes showed the same continual distaste, but now held an edge of aggression and nervousness.

"Oh, just one of the Lascari family. I don't know which one yet, I'm fairly new here you see."

The barman looked somewhat taken aback at the casual tone of the question, and his curiosity forced him to ask, "Why would you be looking for them?"

"Work," replied Chant, "I'm looking for work."

The barman paused before saying anything else, his eyes slid up and down Chant whilst his mouth twitched spasmodically - he was clearly not a man able to hide his thought processes from his face. "I hear the Lorenzi may be looking for... people such as yourself."

"And where will I find the Lorenzi?"

The barman smiled.

It had taken a large tip to get the details of the address that Chant now stood outside of, but it had seemed the simplest way. The house was large, well built, and clearly designed with more than decoration in mind. The wall was high and wide, and topped with metal spikes. The large double gate was surrounded by a gate-house which, although designed enough to still be pleasing to the eye, was clearly practical enough to keep out unwanted guests. The gates stood open, and a large drive led up to a wide, tall house - Chant's experience told him that this, too, had been constructed with defence in mind, but the balconies, large shuttered windows, and white stone cladding made it look rather attractive. Thin vines of bright green leaves climbed the walls, and the gardens around the house were filled with flowers and low shrubs.

Everything was well tended and well cared for - a good sign, as it was a sign of money.

A brief conversation with a gate guard resulted in Chant being led to a small, low building beside the main house - some kind of summer house, perhaps. The 'servants' he saw patrolling the garden were all smartly dressed, but all tended towards the large size, and looked somewhat uncomfortable in their neat clothes. Chant suspected that they were not lacking in practical experience with the heavy swords they carried. Chant was shown into a small room, and invited to sit down. The waiting room was small, plain, and uninteresting. The white walls, and light coloured furnishings made the room very bright and clean looking, but Chant found himself quickly growing bored with it and wanting to get on with the business of the day.

Thankfully the wait wasn't too lengthy. A door opened, and a bulky figure filled the doorway. "Mr Chant," his low voice, sounding more used to cursing than polite enquiry, raised Chant from his momentary reverie, "If you would step this way please?"

Chant followed him through into a large office. To one side Chant saw a settee and a number of comfortable chairs, to the other a large fire-place, but directly ahead a large table dominated the room. It sat in front of large, shuttered, windows from which bright sunlight streamed in beams between the slats. Behind the desk stood two men, one tall and languid, the other short with an aggressive stance. And in the large chair behind the desk sat a third man. It was a few moments before Chant could make him out fully, but he appeared to be of medium build, with dark skin and darker hair which was pulled tightly back across his scalp. His eyes were steady and unmoving, and he seemed to consider Chant carefully as he entered the room.

A single swift gesture from the man indicated to Chant that he was being invited sit down. The man behind the desk clearly didn't feel the need to be polite or welcoming.

"Mr Chant," he began, his voice surprisingly soft, "I am informed you are looking for possible employment?" Chant nodded, but before he could speak the other man carried on. "Mr Chant, I am Deinos Lorenzo. Usually my father would handle this business, but he is currently otherwise engaged. There has been a death in the family, and a funeral is being arranged. However, I, too, consider myself able to judge a man." He shifted slightly in his chair, before continuing, speaking quite quickly, "You will understand, Mr Chant, that the Lascari are never short of volunteers, or applicants for our various businesses. Every thug in the city capable of picking up a sword thinks they are qualified to work for us. They are, however, wrong. My family is very careful about who it employs. My family is very careful about who it works with. Mr Chant, my family is very careful."

Garath Chant leaned back deep into his chair, hands stretching across the leather upholstery, his face breaking open into a wide smile.

"However, it is true that we do offer work to those who we feel we are able to depend upon. There is always much that needs to be done, and we do pay *very* well those we employ. It seems clear to me you are not some thug or mugger who wishes to break into the big time by making a name for himself in the Lascari. You seem to me to be a man who already knows himself, and knows his skills. So perhaps you are a man we can use... but you will have to tell me what it is you can do, what it is you can offer us, and what reason in all of Elsewhere I have to even consider trusting you and employing you on family business."

Deinos Lorenzo sat back in the high-backed chair and waited for an answer.

"Once, many years ago now, I was a simple thief. I lived on the streets of Relgen Tower by breaking into places that interested me. At the time, of course, I believed I was invincible, the best there was. The arrogance of youth. Oh, I survived well enough, and was good enough never to get caught, but the true professionals refused to deal with me. Now I understand why.

"But that was a long time ago, on a world very far removed from this one. I offer my services in the form of magecraft, and I think you will not be disappointed with my abilities. I know well the importance of trust and I would be sorely disappointed if you were to welcome me with open arms. Before you trust me, I will no doubt have to earn that trust, so let me start by trusting you with what I can do.

"The first skills I learned were in the elements. I can light flame, guide the breeze. I have power over stone and metal, and can shape them to my will. Useful for both making jewellery and breaching walls. These are the things which come easily, with little cost to myself.

"As I grew into my power, I looked for other sources. I learned the arts of summoning, communication and binding. On the simplest level I can ward against such creatures, and strengthen or weaken the spirits in men. I can bring forth the spirits of the ether, talk to them, learn what they know, for a price. I can take the smaller spirits and bind them to this world for a time, use them as my servants and spies. These powers come with a price. I have seen things that would have driven most men mad in horror, and do not care to repeat the experience. The cost for such is greater, both to me and to any who would ask them of me.

"Lastly, I learned of the Netherlords, and the magic of Rifts. This I could only use with a great power source, and so is closed to me. Nor can I see the relevance to yourself.

"All these things I can do, for the right price.

"You talk of trust, and ask why you should trust me. This I cannot answer. Nor can I make you trust me, such is not in my power. I will say only these few things; you will probably never meet another Magus with the powers I have, nor the will to work in such a manner. My aims are my own, but they do not include power or great wealth, and will not interfere with yours. Employ me, and I will not fail you.

Deinos had listened carefully to Chant's words, his eyes steady upon him throughout. "You have an interesting way of expressing yourself, Mr Chant. I appreciate your candour in these matters, as it will give us a firm footing upon which to build our working relationship. I will give you a chance to earn my trust, and respect - although it will, as you so rightly say, take time."

Deinos moved his chair back a little from the desk, and there was a wooden scraping sound as he drew out a small drawer. From it he fetched what appeared to be a letter, sealed with simple black wax. "Mr Chant, I wish you to deliver this letter for me," Deinos threw the letter onto the table in front of Chant. "It is to Sir Pascale the knight protector of the Palatine. I wish that he will wake one morning and find it lying next to him on his pillow, but that he will not be able to tell how it got there.

"If you feel yourself capable of this, and succeed in completing it, we may perhaps move on to other matters. You will, of course, receive suitable payment for the completion of this task. What do you say Mr Chant?"

At the Old Spire, the knight paused a while before deciding what to do. What was this? There was the holy sign of the cross, to be sure, but he saw many other symbols, some of which were surely blasphemous. Had he come to a land where Holy Mother Church had been desecrated by heathen fanatics? He felt he was being watched and turned. He shuddered at the small band of black cowled figures which were staring at him from the shadows. Monks? But where was their abbey? He noticed for the first time the dark, oppressive buildings of the quarter. He caught the faint whiff of sulphur in the air. He examined the huddle of men closer. They were thin and their faces are deathly pale. Heretics? He crossed himself and backed away from the eldritch tower that loomed before him, keeping his distance from the sinister group. They slowly moved towards him. He growled and his hand slipped under his cloak. One of the black-cowls, wraith-like, waved a hand and muttered a word. A cold claw seized the knight’s heart and squeezed. He whipped out his sword. For a moment the huddle backed away from the silver light of its blade, but one stepped forward, hissing, and lashed out with a withered talon. The sword tugged itself out of the crusader's strong grip and clattered to the floor. The knight screamed tearing at his face, turned tail and fled down the dark streets. Terror's talons scratched at his mind. He knew not where his legs were taking him. Then suddenly he found himself leaping down from the top of a crumbling, ivy-covered wall and landing painfully into a soily pit. All went black.......

Dominic was barely aware of wrinkling his nose. The smell was of boiled cabbage, with a vague undercurrent of unwashed flesh, and it seemed so thoroughly part of the workhouse atmosphere that those within barely noticed it any more. A ragged half-queue straggled at one end of the hall, waiting for the morning soup handout. Fewer than usual today, mostly just the regulars - it was odd how easy they were to spot, with their air of uninterested resignation. A single guard of Vermiform stood overlooking them with a bored expression. Vermiform ran both the workhouses and the prisons, and there were some strong resemblances between the two.

The pot of soup arrived from the kitchen, carried by one of the staff. Although the workhouses were run by Vermiform - one of the first social initiatives to be set up - the staff were of Tatterdemalion. While in theory any of the recipients of Vermiform's generosity could help run them, in practice the staff regarded their jobs as permanent, and presented a united front against attempts to oust them. The man carrying the soup Dominic recognised as Villsen, a short and wiry man with the face of someone who has bitten into a lemon. Setting down the pot, he began ladling out its contents to the waiting beggars. The lack of enthusiasm was striking.

The third to be served was a man Dominic didn't recognise, and rather than simply holding out his bowl he began to remonstrate with Villsen. "Mix it, damn you! It's all at the bottom of the tub - you're serving us water!"

Villsen's face flushed, and he raised the soup ladle in preparation to swing at the man. Then he noticed Dominic stepping forward, face harsh.

"Do as he says." Turning to the guard, he added, "Find me some people who'd like to work here. I'm reviewing the suitability of the staff and it seems there's going to be some replacements needed."

Chant returned to his home late in the night, the chill of the drizzle stabbing pain into his shoulder front and back through the scars, white ghosts of a sword blade many years before. The tavern was closed and quiet now, and the civilised streets of Melmoth were deserted, so unlike the Lascari streets just one minutes walk away. Glancing behind him revealed only a woman standing by a doorway who he had passed earlier, ahead nothing moved. Satisfied, Chant climbed down the steps to his home.

The apartment was mostly one room, lit from high thin windows peering out at pavement level, with simple wooden furniture pushed against the walls. Opening the bag over his shoulder he removed many items, placing them in the draws of the desk, and placing a lantern on the hook in the ceiling. The warmth from the fireplace wall shared with the tavern slowly took the edge off his chill, and the tranquil emptiness of the room replaced some of his energy. Chant groped deeper into the bag bringing out several half burnt candles. These he arranged them about the desk, lighting each one with his fingers while murmuring soft words under his breath. Sitting down by the desk, Chant opened a new bottle of ink, and began to write on fresh blank parchment.

The Honourable Angello Earl of Castellarc,

I understand that you were recently subject to a defacement of your image by an unknown group of vandals. I offer my sympathies for this, and further my services.

My understanding of the incident is that the statues have suffered minor defacement, but have also been broken. To repair them in a non-magical way would mean replacement, at considerable expense, or the use of other materials to fill in the sections removed, which would permanently damage the artistry of the work. I would be able to properly add stone of the correct type seamlessly to the areas of damage, and could also make other improvements to the artifice which a stone mason could not. I am not an artist, and as such you would still require a stone artisan to sculpt the shape into the original form, but I think that the results would more than rectify the damage, perhaps even improve upon the original work.

If you wish to employ my services, send for me. I am living in Melmoth, on Golden Bull street next to the Tattered Lion tavern.

At your service,

Garath Chant

'Tomorrow.' Thought Chant, placing the finished letter to dry next to the block of black wax.

The man dressed in formal black waited patiently beside the gates as his employer studied the damage to the two stone figures which guarded them. Angel paced up and down, surveying the damage from all angles, before turning and heading back to Castellarc House. Meschaur followed, a respectful two paces behind.

"When did this happen?" Angel enquired.

"Some days ago, your Grace, you were away at the time. I do apologise. I should have kept better watch."

"Is it simply unpopularity?," Angel asked, ignoring Meschaur's apology, his eyes focused on the twists of the path as it led back to the house. "Or must we look for some deeper reason?"

"But you are not unpopular, my lord," Meschaur replied. "The nobility admire you and the canard can hardly form a dislike for a figure they have so little knowledge of."

"Hatred can feed from the slightest sustenance," Angel replied absently. "You informed me there was correspondence pertaining to this matter?"

"An official of the Vermiform and a Mage of the Melmoth have both left letters."

"I will be replying to them within the hour, have a servant prepared to carry my response." Angel paused, as Meschaur opened the great double doors of the house, then continued as they passed into the hall beyond. "I will need to re-engage the original stone mason..."

"It shall be done," Meschaur replied with a bow.

"...and I think it is time to begin recruitment for my personal guard. I will be looking for experienced fighters of some renown, but make sure the offer is open to the more impoverished scions of the noble houses as well."

"Are there any other requirements?" Meschaur asked.

"Only that they be attractive," Angel replied, already heading towards the library. "Once we have more than ten recruits we can begin arranging uniforms. Oh, and see if it is possible to hire a political advisor..."

Meschaur bowed to the disappearing figure of his master and went to draw up the required notices. It could be sent for copying with the messenger who would take Angel's letters.

In the meantime Angel took a black quill pen from a stand on his desk and dipped it in a well of golden ink. Drawing a blank leaf of paper towards him he began to write.

William whistled a happy tune quietly to himself as he walked past a particularly impressive crypt, swinging his umbrella to and fro. His search for employment had been pleasantly successful – there had been a vacancy for a nightwatchman-cum-gravedigger at the great cemetery standing between Revenant and Antioch, a position that suited him very well.

He made his way past an ancient group of crumbling statues to the cemetery wall, and came to an abrupt halt.

A body, clad in the humble rags of a pilgrim and somewhat dishevelled, lay in a freshly dug grave at the base of the high wall. William considered this for a while, standing in the oppressive gloom with his flaps of his trenchcoat flapping softly around his boots. Reaching a decision, he straightened his floppy hat as best he could, and walked over.

"Hello?" he said tentatively, prodding the body with the tip of his umbrella.

The knight stirred. Alarmed he leapt up and swiped the umbrella away. "Point not your sword at me, you knave..."

He sensed the friendly nature of the stranger and straightened up. The man looked not like a Moor or a peasant. Perhaps he was an Italian, judging by his bizarre dress. The knight greeted him in Latin, which the stranger could of course understand (it being assumed that everyone can understand any spoken tongue on this magical isle). "My apologies, sir, I thought you were a ruffian seeking to slit my throat. Well, were that so, you would soon discover that I have nothing that would make the effort worthwhile. I beseech you sir, in what part of the world do I find myself? What part of Christendom is this? I am, er, Aimeric de Guises, a pilgrim, lost on his way to Compastella. If you could help me out of this pit perhaps you could introduce yourself to me..."

"Happy to meet you," replied William, in somewhat rusty Latin. "I'm sorry to appear like that, but I couldn't help notice you lying there. Take hold of this, we'll soon get you out...."

Offering his sturdy umbrella as means of support, William leaned over the grave and with surprising strength helped the knight to the surface.

"Watch out, it gets a bit muddy around this edge... shoddy workmanship really."

William frowned at the grave and peered at the headstone: "Varlen Lorenzo"

"Anyway, I'm afraid you're nowhere near Compastella. It seems to be called Elsewhere, and I'm a stranger here myself. My name is William McCarthy. In fact, I was just on my way to an inn," he said, pointing vaguely across the gloom of the crumbling graveyard. A few trees rustled in the darkness. In the distance, a dog howled. "You look like you're in need of some refreshment. If you'd like to come with me, I can let you know what I've managed to piece together about this place. And maybe there's someone there who can figure out what happened to you. It's called the Port of Call, and it's not far. I can give you a lift in the hearse which came with my job – well, it’s more of a dogcart really, but you take what you can get…"

In the last half an hour, the sound of voices had subsided a little, less as if those conversing had relaxed, but rather as if they had settled into earnest undertones. A thin rain had set in, giving the cobbles an oily lustre, and scoring dark lines like claw marks into the dust on the faces of the gargoyles that adorned many of the buildings.

Had any person been standing in this very location on the pavement, they might have heard at this time a sound of running feet and, in velvety accompaniment, a soft, manifold pattering that was not rain.

There was a muted cry, the sound of a crossbow being fired, and then a prolonged hiss like steam escaping. An instant later, a figure appeared on the top of the wall, swung both legs over, and dropped nimbly down the other side. As the figure fled, the hypothetical watcher might have noted that its cloak had apparently been torn to ribbons. As the fugitive vanished around the corner of the nocturnal street, something slid down the wall he or she had just descended, with a sound like ice being scraped from glass.

He (if we can presume his sex) had only dim recollections of what he had heard and seen within the house. There was smoke, rather beautiful, scented, red smoke which melted faces if you looked at it too hard. The smoke made it hard to think, and the voices of the two men had echoed as if they were in a cathedral. The words that he had overheard were a mystery to him.

Who was Kalgravex, and why would these two men have wished to kill him?

For now, he had other concerns. He was bleeding from a slight scratch on his right thigh - he hoped that the claws of those... those _things_ were not poisoned. Two of them he believes he had dispatched with his crossbow. He chanced a glance behind him down the street, then doubled his speed. In his belt were a dozen crossbow bolts, barely enough to slay half of the shadowy shapes snaking with incredible speed along the darkened street behind him.

Then, the sound of salvation – the clatter of a horse’s hooves on the cobblestones. The fugitive barely had time to take in the rather ramshackle nature of the dogcart before hurling himself into it. "Drive like the devil, before we’re all ripped to shreds!" William, pleased at how many new friends he was making in one night, did as he was told…

The ritual started at mid day, deep in the sub basement that Chant alone knew of. First out of his sack came the cloak of animal skins, the wolf’s head frozen in a perpetual snarl. After that came the powders and the painted bones. These were then arranged around the room in places where they could easily be reached. Finally came the cage from the corner of the room, inside of which the white feathers of a chicken could be seen.

The ritual of warding took hours to complete. Each of the chants had to be recited in order, perfectly, whilst each of the barriers was built. The bones acted as the points of focus, the powders joining them and forming the actual barrier itself, drawing down from the bones. After each phrase Chant referred to the book, old and tattered, filled with his own spidery script, to ensure that his memory of the process had not failed him. It was hard to tell if the barriers had worked or not after each phase, and so Chant wanted to be sure that nothing could have gone wrong. If one of them broke under attack by a powerful spirit, there would not be the time to repair or repeat the ward.

At the end of it, three concentric circles filled almost the entire floor space of the room, with only a little space at the corners, and by the doorway. Tired now, voice beginning to crack, Chant lay down and rested for another hour before continuing to the next phase.

Next came the summoning. Sitting cross-legged Chant called out to the walls, asking those that could hear to approach. Offering some small amount of his own magical energy as bait, and drawing the spirits towards him through force of will, slowly he felt the circle fill with something. Ending the summoning, Chant opened his eyes, now bright blue, seeing that which no others could see.

Inside the circle was a collection of animal shapes, each fighting for the energy pool glowing in the centre. One of them immediately took Chant’s interest, a snake-like figure straining against the barriers. Unfortunately, even as he watched, something with tendrils reached out and enveloped it, as it was the others in the circle, until only the one being remained.

Forcing down his revulsion at what was to come, Chant reached out with his will and forced the strange creature to the floor of the chamber, and began to enforce his own pattern upon its thoughts. The struggle was brief, as the creature succumbed to his will. It was little more than animal in intelligence, and offered no resistance before the Arch Mage. With the second part successful, Chant once more released his grip on the spells, and leaned back against the stone walls in exhaustion. The vision of the creature vanished from his eyes, and he was once more looking at a bare stone floor, encircled by painted bones and lines of white powder.

Some time passed, Chant was unsure how much. Exhaustion had claimed its toll, and Chant quickly invoked the power of seeing once more to find out if the being was still within his power. The sight of it faded back into view, smoke-like and translucent, twelve long strands waving gently in mid air like weeds in a pond. Chant opened his pack once more, and pulled free a length of rope. Cutting off a length about two feet long, Chant unwound the rope into eight cords, which he then tied together in a vague parody of the ethereal thing before him. Tossing the ball of threads into the circle, he began the final part of the ritual, the Binding.

When he was done, the ball before him rose onto four of its rope legs, standing like a spider, its legs curving up from the ground and almost completed a half circle, to hold the body hanging half an inch from the floor. Its other four legs waved in the air, the ends frayed into to widened clumps like mittens. Breaking the circle, Chant reached in, and picked up the thing, pushing it into his now empty bag. Leaving the chamber, too drained to seal it again, Chant headed out towards Palatine territory two hours before dawn.

Angel Castellan slit the message from Krychael Aeraphis open with an ornate silver dagger and read it swiftly, before folding it once more and passing it to Meschaur, his butler.

"Will there be an answer, your Grace?" Meschaur asked, as he followed Angel to the main courtyard of Castellarc House.

"No," Angel shook his head, "I'll discuss it with Krychael in person". He paused at the entrance to the courtyard to consider the gathering of black clad soldiers who awaited him. "But for reference, we are to expect a Prince of the Sands, accompanied by a million swords, within the week. I suggest you add him to the invitation list for the Vervain reception."

Angello Castellan's auburn hair was caught by the afternoon sun and turned red gold as he addressed the assembled troops before him. All were soldiers, twenty of them came from Angel's own personal guard, but all now wore the same black uniform with the Vervain device.

"...Is that understood?" Angel asked, concluding his speech, and answered by nods and a "Yes, Sir" in unison from the Castellan Guard members. "Are there any questions?"

"I have a question, my Lord," one of the new soldiers stepped forward from the front row. "Won't we be interfering with the Vermiform?"

"On no account should you enter into any conflict of interest with the Vermiform patrols. You are intended to protect the city from criminals, not from each other," Angel informed him. "You may offer a Vermiform patrol assistance if they seem to require it, but for the main part I expect you to render assistance in those areas of the city where there is no Vermiform presence. Endear yourselves to the Tatterdemalion, assist the Vermiform and don't unnecessarily antagonise the Lascari. Your most important duty is to gain respect."

As the soldiers departed Angel walked back to the main house in silence, the sun was low in the sky and his hair seemed the dark crimson of blood.

"What is it Pops?"

Nanik leant over his father's shoulder in an attempt to read the newly arrived letter.

"Oh, some whining about how the city is going to be overrun by a million swordmen," Pactus' voice was a low growl, "They want to have some meeting about it. Why they love their damned debates so much I'll never know."

"You going?"

"Why the hell should I? As long as they aren't here to set up business, what do we care? Besides, I thought the only reason we put up with the idiots in Antioch and Palatine was because *they* dealt with this kind of thing."

"Yeah, but they wrote to the Lascari too..."

"Well, get some of our agents to talk to the other families – maybe *they'll* be stupid enough to send out some of their men to get killed. Would make me happy to see it."

"Sure thing, Pops."

"A million swords?" Frode Wellmeant frowned, scanning the brief message again. "Who is this Prince of the Sands, anyway?" He turned to his niece Rodica. "I don't suppose for a moment that this is anything more than a clumsy hoax -- some newcomer trying to make a name for himself in Zehazel -- but all the same it would serve us to know more."

Rodica, a slender, quiet maid of some nineteen summers, nodded, scribbling down notes to Frode's dictation. "Take a letter to all the other Allegiance leaders, to the Gatekeepers and anyone else whose business this might be at this stage. Say that we of Sardanapalus are cautiously concerned at this new intelligence, and will do whatever we can to aid efforts to learn more about the threat, if any such genuinely exists. We are happy to offer a chamber for a meeting, if it is thought desirable to discuss this matter face to face: I should think the Agate Court would do -- have it cleaned. No, you stupid girl -- that's not part of the letter!"

As Rodica, frowning, tore off part of her page, Frode slumped back into his chair, chin in hand. "Now let us think on what else might lie behind this message, supposing it to be false... no! This is not for the letter either! Did your mother teach you nothing?" He slapped her warningly around the side of the head. "Pay attention!"

The mood in the square was turning ugly. A Demagogue of Tatterdemalion had taken a stand on a central heap of crates and was holding forth with great enthusiasm.

"That’s right, my friends! A million warriors bearing down upon us, and our leaders in their wisdom decide that the people don’t have a right to know about it. Yes, it’s true! I have the very words of the messenger who brought the news right here. ‘Blah, blah, blah, I was racing to your city to warn you of a vast gathering of warrior tribes advancing on this place, bent on destroying and looting the city of the spires. When I looked upon them, they filled the horizon from north to south, and the noise they made was like the din of thunder. I got here this very day; expect an army within the week. Some great enchantment has befallen this land (whatever that means) but do not expect it to protect you from a million swords. I must consult with your master - his slumber will mean an end to us all unless he wakes and marshals his armies.’ As you can see, there’s no time to lose! We need to take immediate action to save ourselves. I suggest…"

"Alright, mouth, down off the box." A red-mailed Antioch soldier had forced his way through the crowd and stood there, axe in hand. "We’ve had quite enough of your sort’s opinions this week already. So if you don’t keep your mouth shut from now on, I’m taking it as an invitation to cut your tongue out."

The Demagogue spluttered with rage. "An army a million-strong is coming our way and you think you can silence the voice of the people? Let me tell you…"

"No," growled the Antioch. "Let me tell you. Some property belonging to the better classes in the city was destroyed this week, by one of yours. Now Lord Fleischer doesn’t approve of wanton vandalism, so from now on any time any of you scum take a step out of line we break both your legs. Are you volunteering?"

The Tatterdemalion licked his lips and glanced nervously around the square. Sure enough, the square had been encircled by heavily-armoured figures in red. His shoulders slumped. "N-no, sir."

"Very wise!" With a backhand swipe of his meaty arm the Antioch dashed the man from his crate. "The rest of you, listen up. There’s going to be proper respect in this city from this moment on, we’re going to make sure of that. And any of you who think otherwise had better start praying that those million swords are well-disposed towards you, because that’s how many it’ll take to protect you from us. Do I make myself clear?"

He smiled. The fear in their eyes, that was the best reward of all.

The fourth day dawned across The City of Five Spires, the blazing sunlight poured across the horizon and flowed down the east/west streets; those leading north and south dammed against the tide by the buildings lining them. Some of that sunlight trickled through the gaps in the shutters of a house beside the Tattered Lion, spilling across the face of Garath Chant, slumped asleep across his desk. Slowly he woke, feeling returning to his face, finding the quill pen embossed into his face. Rubbing the sensation away, Chant rose and stretched.

An hour later the sunlight was filtered by the presence of low-slung cloudbanks, and Chant walked East, squinting into the bright morning. Stopping briefly at a bakery in Sardanapalus to buy a loaf of bread, Chant headed into Palatine.

No marker heralded the domain of Palatine. No sign proclaimed its borders, yet the change was tangible almost to the footstep. The buildings gleamed with sanctity, the almost universal facades of white decorated with flowers and the symbols of the Church of the Higher Purpose finished in bronze or steel.

The rays of Sun danced and played on the waters of numerous fountains, and whilst children ran and laughed on the streets as children do, they played with swords and talked of the glory of battle, each to be a knight and ride forth as Captains in the Eternal Host.

No one was seen to clean the streets, yet the streets were pristine. No one was seen to repair the damage of late night revelry, yet the lines of the buildings and statues are unblemished. She was perfect. Too perfect.

The building that housed the Eternal Host was as opulent as it was unmissable. Serving as training ground and accommodation for many of the knights its white marble columns tracked across its grandiose veneer, interspacing its carved relief of great stories, hunts and quests of nobility and purpose, edifying the themes of unity and common purpose, spiritual striving and the triumph of the greater good.

The guards gave Chant a brief glance as he passed the portal into this place and a clerk gave him very precise directions to the location of Sir Guillome. He was studying the ancient tome of the, some would say, legend of the third basilica and the clerk was sure he would not mind being disturbed.

"Brother, this is a *party* why do you dress so drably?" Barlius grabbed Deinos by the shoulders, and shook him, as if trying to inject some of his own overflowing enthusiasm into his younger brother.

"I like the way I dress, Barlius," replied Deinos, glancing down at his dark grey clothes. They were well cut and expensive, but not what you would call flamboyant. Barlius by comparison stood out even in the heady and extravagant crowd of his party - his white jacket streamed multi-coloured ribbons, his britches were rainbow coloured, and the headdress that rested somewhat uneasily on his head pushed his height above seven feet, whilst its sculpted extravagance threatened to burst any of the numerous low flying balloons that came near.

Barlius put one of his arms around Deinos, and propelled him further into the room. Deinos was never comfortable around so many people, and his eyes skidded uneasily about the crowd, half his mind looking for security threats, the other for political opportunities. There was Roscoe Davenport of the Melmoth, in a suitably splendid outfit, and there the society beauty Therese de la Quintesse, in a rather charming, pale, sky-blue number, and a fine veil with tiny crystals in the shape of dew drops woven into the fabric. Looking rather ill-at-ease, actually. Verdigris and his new-found protégé Meymian, of course. Someone had even come in fancy dress as an authentic-looking Jugurtha barbarian. Unless… but surely no-one would have invited one of such an uncouth breed? Deinos put the thought to the back of his mind. The crowd *was* impressive - everyone dressed up for a Lorenzi party. But his brother had dressed the room more extravagantly than anyone could manage for their person - streamers of every colour crisscrossed the ceiling, floating balloons commissioned from the Daedalus bounced lightly above the crowd, strange and exotic statues acted as rests for drinks trays and bowls of picturesque food. The centre of the room held a stage, upon which a small orchestra currently performed, providing music for the dance floor beyond. The stage was round, and raised up a few feet. Streams ran all around and over it, and from the ceiling above an number of small, beautifully painted and dressed children hung as living cherubs, occasionally blowing shrill notes upon their pipes and horns to add to the general hubbub of the room.

Barlius made an expansive gesture, taking in the stage, the crowd, the whole party, "You like it, Deinos?"

"It's... striking certainly." Deinos' keen eyes suddenly paused on a new arrival, just descending the steps into the main room. "Barlius, that's old man Lacaza just coming in, does Father know?"

"Sure, he's expected. Papa says he wants a word with him some time tonight. Ensuring peace between the families, that kind of thing."

Deinos smiled to himself, "Yes, that kind of thing. I'll tell the boys some of the Lacazi will be here - don't want them getting drunk and taking a swing at one and starting a family dispute."

"Hey, our boys wouldn't do that, they know that there's never any trouble at my parties."

"Still, best to be sure."

Later:

"How *dare* you come here!" Nanik's voice bellowed across the room, instantly stilling many of the gentle conversation the ongoing party was generating. The sheer rage and brutality of the emotion gave the words power beyond their volume.

Deinos was moving in an instant, checking the rapier at his hip, and the knives in his belt. He cut quickly through the crowd, but Barlius had reached his eldest brother first.

"Come now Nanik, you know the truce - nothing happens at my parties, right?" He seemed to be speaking more from optimism than realistic hope of calming the situation. Nanik's face was contorted in rage, and his sword was already half way out of its scabbard. Barlius tried to move between his brother and the men he was facing off against, but Nanik, the stronger of the two, pushed him out of the way, and took another step forward, ready to draw.

Deinos reached the group, and his own rage stirred as he saw the new arrivals - Banco Luchenzo, and two other members of the Luchenzi family, with their minders. One of Deinos' hands snaked to a dagger, but he tore his eyes away from the hated newcomers, and concentrated on his brother.

"Nanik, no! Father wouldn't want this!"

Nanik turned to him with rage still etched onto his face, "Who gives a damn!"

"Nanik! The family will lose status! Do you want that? Not here!" Deinos saw that Nanik was literally shaking with fury as his eyes whipped from Deinos, back to the Luchenzi, and then returned to Deinos. Deinos concentrated, willing his brother to be calm, to make the right decision.

"Can't you keep the Lorenzo's mad dog under control, Deinos?" the voice of Banco Luchenzo was silky soft, but it's heart was all bitterness. Deinos felt his own anger stir again, but concentrated on grabbing for his brother as he lunged forward again. Deinos caught him bodily, but it was only with Barlius' help that he was able to hold him back from attacking.

"Enough, Nanik, don't give him what he wants!" Deinos hissed into his brother's ear "You know what he's trying to do, just don't let him beat you!" Deinos felt his brother relaxing a little, then tense again as he spat at the Luchenzi. Deinos guided him backwards, and finally Nanik turned and strode away, idly cuffing at a waiter as he passed by.

"Close," Barlius breathed quietly. Deinos nodded in return. "I'll go after him," continued Barlius, and walked away.

Deinos stood for a moment with his back still to the Luchenzi, but then he heard the same silky smooth voice, "You don't want to try for me yourself, Deinos? Ah... perhaps you didn't love her that much after all."

Banco turned and walked back out into the midnight air of Zehazel, having achieved all he wished to. He did not see Deinos watching him go, his apparently calm face not quite concealing the pure hatred that burnt in his eyes.

From the memoirs of Edwardo Cantle

The tasks of a chronicler can never be completed. It may be that tomorrow the world will have changed in such a way that what I have written will be seen as naive, contradictory, obscure, or the subject of universal mockery. For this reason, I have chosen to set down in these pages an account of a short, personal history; insignificant in the greater scale that rules our lives in the cosmos, yet of great importance to myself. You will not read here much of the cataclysmic events that overtook Zehazel in that time, nor the tumultuous politics which scoured that city, nor the ways in which the outer worlds resolved themselves with the inner universe, except where these pertain to the individuals whose lives affected mine so greatly.

I shall commence my tale by describing the events one night when I was in the employ of the sorceress Salomolas.

I was sitting at my writing desk, quill freshly sharpened and dipped, poised above an illumination of the seventy-third Charter of Territory of Vervain, when there was a knock at the door. Not a polite knock; not a quiet knock; a brutish clatter of booted feet against my front door. My guess as to the identity of the visitors was confirmed as a loutish voice boomed "Open up, Candle-man." Even as I struggled to my feet, a second voice spoke, softly and clearly, seeming to emanate from directly in front of me. "Open the door please, Edwardo dear, I'm in something of a hurry."

I hastened to release the latch, and a small army marched in, with my lady Salomolas in their midst, wearing her ceremonial white vestments. Her black face almost radiated the shadow that filled the cowl, until she pulled her hood back and her delicate features silhouetted the room. As the last man in kicked the door shut, I noticed what else they had brought with them: the limp body of a wounded man. Sweeping aside the vital clutter on my desk, the bodyguards laid the bleeding man on my writing desk with grudging carefulness. "I have sent for healing salves," said Salomolas. "Fetch water and I will instruct you in the tending of his injuries."

I should point out that I was quite perplexed by all this, being unaccustomed to acting as a hospice even to the poor wretches that Salomolas frequently dealt with. I made some of this known to my mistress, and she answered "This was the closest suitable place available to me." Seeing that I was unenlightened by this, she went on.

"I was returning to my tower from another interminable conference with Chief Rawley and his nominal justices, walking through your less than wholesome neighbourhood, when I espied in the distant shadows a conglomeration of degenerates emerging from what I assume must be one of the conduits to the Undercity, and sidling up a darkened alley. Something told me that the misdemeanour they obviously planned would be no ordinary crime, so I resolved to attend the scene in person, and exercise the weight of the law more directly for once. I caught up with the scoundrels to find them beating at the unfortunate gentleman you see before you, and although he had evidently defended himself with no little skill, as several prone bodies attested, he was injured and overwhelmed, and the thieves were already plucking the jewels from his body. I lost no time in commanding my guards to take these felons into lethal custody.

"Concerning myself with the health of the victim, I discovered that his injuries were not fatal. In need of a place to administer treatment, I thought of your domicile, for although it is but a hovel, it is at least a well-kept hovel."

By this stage, we had cleaned the man's wounds and were salving them with a thick, blue balm. He was tall, wiry, bronze-skinned, and his black hair was braided into tight spines. He wore silk and cotton robes, and we had removed from his fingers and throat a number of jewelled rings - at a sharp look from Salomolas, her bodyguards added a few more ornaments to the pile – and a decorative, but bloodstained, sword and spear lay beside him.

"Lady Salomolas," I asked, "What will you do with him?"

I have seen the fates of some of the souls entrusted to her care, and indeed was often made to watch their unpleasant and undignified deaths, and record them in meticulous detail. But this was no Tatterdemalion street-thief, or captured Barrabas murderer, and I was quite alarmed when she replied: "I think I may take him to the Spire, when he is well enough."

"But, my Lady, who is he? Will he not be missed? He is surely someone of import, and no doubt a great and good man."

Her thin, charcoal lips almost twitched into a smile. "That is precisely what I intend to discover. He is not a citizen of Zehazel, and travellers from beyond the sea are always most fascinating subjects. There is a power in them which you do not find in most people. I have to know what it is."

I held my tongue.

Three burly warriors stumbled, slowly, out of the Roc’s Nest, arm in arm. Behind them, a fourth, smaller member of the band struggled, sticking his head between open places, trying to get noticed by his comrades. The runt of the litter, he looked comically eager to please.

"Oh, she was a rum one, certainly she was" belted out the first, madly inspired by too much wine.

"And I plucked her like a grape from a vine!"

"And I left her a beggin’ for the taste a’ my lash!"

Finally, they looked down to the runt, who burst in front of them clamoring off-key: "And I sent her, once ravished, back to sweet Palatine!"

The three picked their smaller companion up over their heads, and bounded down the street singing the refrain:

"And he never knew that the grape that he grew

Had already been plucked from the vine!

Had he known, he’d disown her, that humorless dolt,

That mad bastard from old Palatine!"

The last line was almost lost as all three of the giant men stopped, almost pitching their fellow forward. He looked down from his perch to see three rapiers making small, almost ornamental circles in front of the thick beards of the men from Antioch, helpless now, since their hands were busy supporting the smallest rascal above their heads.

"What an interesting song," said the largest of the swordsmen. "I’d have almost thought you were talking about Palatine."

"Oh, no, no, no," stammered the largest man from Antioch. "I’d never do that. Never talk about people I don’t know in Palatine. Never would."

His rather foppishly-dressed assailant cracked a smile that went straight up into a handlebar moustache. "Good. I had thought I’d heard that incorrectly." The swords went down, and three backs were turned on the men from Antioch.

A second after the gentleman turned away in triumph, the smallest rascal was precipitated to the ground, and three large broadswords flashed out in readiness. "Of course, ya’ skirt, I’d never say that about someone I didn’t know in Palatine. I was talkin’ about your sister."

The knight’s nostrils flared. He turned and launched himself into the fray.

Taking his evening stroll through the harbour district, Horatio Tolgus, the city’s foremost purveyor of maps and artefacts from foreign climes, wrinkled his nose in disgust. The place was awash with people queueing for the attentions of Gethsemane healers, something to do with a rat-borne plague that had been brought in from some filthy island or other. Nothing a man of his own iron constitution needed to worry about. He elbowed his way past a man he remembered vaguely to be called Val Tannen, and scowled at the druid’s apprentice, a scrawny little boy with long, tangled red hair. What with all this nonsense and the Harbourmaster’s men setting up defences while looking worriedly out to sea for some reason, a gentlemen could hardly make his way home unimpeded.

On the other side of the Gullivers’ domain, Hendrik whistled to himself as he made his way towards his rendezvous with Colm O’Brien. Together they would seek out the fabled isle of Torment, scale the cliffs and plunder artefacts aplenty… His reverie was interrupted as a squadron of Antioch marched around the corner.

Their Captain looked up at Hendrik. Down at the orders clenched in his mailed fist. Up at Hendrik again.

"Loincloth… barbarian helmet… skulking around the misty regions. Looks like our information was correct, lads. This must be one of their scouts. Take him!"

Hendrik barely had time to open his mouth before he went down under the Antioch charge. He fought heroically, but in the end the odds were too heavily against him and he lay bloody and unconscious on the floor.

"Shall we slit his throat?" asked one of the soldiers venomously, spitting out a tooth.

The captain considered it. "No, I don’t think so. Strip him of valuables then take his arms and legs, we’ll throw him off the edge of the docks. Maybe the tides’ll wash him up wherever his friends are, so they’ll think twice before coming to terrorise this city. That’s our job, eh?" He nudged the man in the ribs and chuckled unpleasantly. "Right, grab him…"

In Arbiter, the aged Master Kalgravex moved slowly through the streets, leaning on Arech Malifex’s arm for support. "Ah, here we are," he said, indicating a dusty old building, a courtroom by the look of it. "Remember, if I am undisturbed tonight you will have the bonus we agreed."

Malifex took up his position, drawing his tattered green cloak around himself for warmth, his basket-hilted rapier close to hand…

The night was overcast and the streets slick with rain as a slim figure moved through the dark towards the domain of the Lascari. Any passers-by on so foul an evening would not have given the traveller any particular notice. The citizens of Lascari whose business begins in the evenings might give him an extra look for his exceptional beauty, but turn away when he does not halt his progress…

In the middle of the night, a massive eruption shakes Zehazel, stirring the city from its sleep, though there is no structural damage. At the southern edge of the city, a huge outcrop of stone, humdreds of yards high, erupts from the ground. It would seem the city has gained a new spire...

...to be continued...