THEAH 2000
CHAPTER 6 - ABSORPTION
Home
Broken Glass
CHAPTER 1 -- PARALLAX
CHAPTER 2 -- IMMINENCE
CHAPTER 3 -- ACCELERATION
CHAPTER 4 -- IMPACT
CHAPTER 5 -- DIFFUSION
CHAPTER 6 - ABSORPTION
CHAPTER 7 - CONSUMATION
CHAPTER 8 - GESTATION (Double-Wide)
CHAPTER 9 -- THE FIRST
CHAPTER 10 -- THE SECOND
OTHER TALES
RESOURCES
CARDS (CCG)
STUFF

THE HANGED MAN (s. 1668)
 
Originally a Castillian sloop in service to the Vaticine Church, the Hanged Man was appropriated by Allende and his fellow escaped prisoners shortly after the revolt on la Bucca, or as it was then known, La Palabra del Dios.  The small craft aided Allende and his pirate crews early in the history of the Brotherhood of the Coast, bringing much in the way of potable goods to Allende's coffers.  The Hanged Man was sunk in 1668, the same year Allende was captured by forces unknown.  Only the timely intervention of Jeremiah Berek prevented Allende's men from going down with their ship.  The cause of destruction was allegedly an accidental fire, but the nature and timing of the incident indicates sabotage.  Berek, proving himself a capable leader, steal another Castillian ship to replace the Hanged Man shortly thereafter.  Sean McCorley, frequent bosun of the Hanged Man, retrieved this lone piece from the original craft.
 
- On a plaque next to a very old piece of water-damaged wood in the National Museum in the State of the Coast

Royce flexed an arm, as instructed.  Several firm pumps, and his blood pressure evident.  "Utterly normal," the physician commented, jotting down a note.  "Who's this?" he asked, indicating Jacqueline.

"My-" Royce hesitated, looking at her in askance.  She waved him on.  "Girlfriend.  Recently acquired."  She smiled a lopsided grin at him.

Dr. Moine smiled disarmingly.  "Congratulations to both of you," he said, winding up the instrument.  "You're much different than the last girl he brought here."

"Am I?" Jacqueline asked, leaning on the armrest of the chair was currently slightly reclined in.  "You will have to tell me some about this last girl, Dr. Moine."

Royce made rapid cut-off motions from over her head, where she couldn't see him but the doctor could.  Moine smiled vindictively, then said "Not nearly as tall as you.  Black hair, pierced in more places than I'd be comfortable letting my daughter puncture herself in, had the look of a panther about her."

"Would this be Chantel, wouldn't it?" she asked, turning her eyes to Royce again.

"Yes," Royce said.  "You know all about that."

"I don't know everything," she said.  Back to Moine: "So how close were they?"

"I had to pry her off of him," Moine said, sorting through a handful of charts to find where his most recent recordings went.

"Ah, so that whole 'she's just a friend' you told me was not true then, Royce?"

Royce dipped one hand under the chair so that only Moine could see it and made a very rude gesture towards him.  Looking at Jacqueline, he said "It's more complicated than that."

Jacqueline smiled.  "I'm sure it was."

"I'm afraid, Miss, that these next few tests have to take place behind closed doors.  You're free to wait in the lobby, however."

Royce gave her the he's-serious-sorry-you-have-to-go look.  She nodded.  "It's all right.  How do I get back to the lobby?"

"Take the hallway right all the way down, elevator down to the first floor, go down the hallway until you come to a crossing, take a left, walk down that, up the steps, turn right, turn left again immediately, down the hall, take the first door on the right, that should take you past the security office, from there, just keep going, and you'll eventually find a door with a window and no label.  That's the one."

After taking the hallway right all the way down, the elevator down to the first floor, going down the hallway until she came to a crossing, the taking a left, walking down that, up the steps, and turning right, then the first hallway crossing to the left, Jacqueline was very lost.  Theus damn all men, she thought.  Why couldn't they just put guides on the walls?  As per Royce's advice, she kept her eyes forward and tried to look like she knew where she was going.

After a bit more wandering, this time with her plotting out a mental map of where she'd been, Jacqueline eventually reached a door with no label.  It had no window, but no label.  Maybe this is it, she pondered, considering how much attention Moine was not paying her while sorting through documentation.  If it isn't, I can always apologize for barging in.

She tried the door.  It was locked.  Damn it all, she cursed inwardly.  More searching.  She turned to continue, but a voice called "Hey!  Gossian!"

Hearing her nationality addressed, she turned to see who called her.  An officious looking woman in a conservative suit was approaching hurriedly.  "I'm sorry about the lock.  I can let you through."

Well, that worked swimmingly, Jacqueline thought, standing aside so that the employee (Catherine Eslaix, her namebadge proclaimed) could let her in.  A security card slipped through the black box beside the door.  The door unbolted noisily, and Eslaix opened the door for her.  Jacqueline nodded, smiling a thank-you, and stepped through.

Into darkness.

Eslaix came through behind her, closing the door.  Jacqueline looked about at the darkened room.  Three windows to her right were illuminated, or, more accurately, the rooms they led to were.  Craning her neck, she saw down into the rooms.  They looked like a military training facility's indoor equipment rooms.  Everything a fitness gym would need, alongside the rack after rack of weapons, both guns and more archaic armaments.

"You work for Monsieur Avion?" Eslaix asked, walking to the far side of the room and opening another door.

Realizing she was likely getting herself in a great deal of trouble and lying her way out might be the best way, said immediately "Oui."

"Oh, you lucky girl," Eslaix continued, jealousy evident.  "A man that handsome should be locked up."

"It can be a problem, sometimes," Jacqueline said, following her.

"He looks like a runway model, not a bounty hunter."

"You're not the first to observe that."  They continued through another room like the first.

"Oh, I assumed as much.  Will he be here again, today?"

"I don't think so," Jacqueline guessed, taking a shot in the dark.  "He said something about an errand in town."

"Ah," Eslaix sighed, sounding crestfallen.  They continued through a third room like the first two, but this one had something going on below.  Jacqueline stole a glance down as she followed Eslaix.  Two men, both about twenty, she guessed, of stature similar to Royce, were sparring quite competently with savate.  The short match came to an end one of the two managed to hit the other squarely upside the face with a kick that made Jacqueline's legs hurt just thinking about how high it went.  The loser went down in a heap.

The fourth room contained other people.  One was another employee seated on the lone chair in the room, banging away dedicatedly at a laptop computer.  The second was leaning on the railing by the windows, observing the action below, and speaking animatedly on a cellular phone.

"No, of course not.  I just want him watched.  Discreetly.  I'd appreciate it.  Yes.  Yes!  This is not difficult, Henri.  I realize Monsieur Avion is very competent, but you do know how to stay out of sight.  Yes.  Yes.  Deal with it!  Avion's been in town for three days and hes now an hour late to our meeting.  Find him, follow him.  That-"

"Monsieur Deschaine," Eslaix interrupted.  "This woman is here on Avion's behalf."

"I am so far in," Jacqueline thought.  "Think, think, stay clam."

"She is?" Deschaine said, brightening considerably.  "Never mind, Henri.  The situation has been taken care of."  He clapped his phone shut and tossed it backwards, which the man sitting at the computer caught with one hand.  "Valery Deschaine," he said, extending a hand.

"Eleanor Ramsay," Jacqueline lied, shaking his hand once.  His grip was uncomfortably warm.

"Well, Mlle. Ramsay, I've never heard of Monsieur Avion operating by proxy, but you can never be too careful these days.  I trust you understand the details of the contract?"

Jacqueline's mind worked furiously.  "I understand the documentation you sent Avion, but I would like to hear it again in your own words, to be certain that nothing was lost between you, your personal assisstant, and the fax machine."

Deschaine smiled.  "Very well.  Your team is to find and return the gentleman in the photo, one Hugo Verts, as close to unharmed as possible, but if he will only be taken dead, then so be it.  But he must not be allowed to leave Montaigne."

"Why?"

"Not important," Deschaine waved her question away.  "He is dangerous and very competent when it comes to avoiding capture.  We have people watching the airports, but that may not necessarily stop him.  He-"

"No, why mustn't he leave Montaigne?"

"If he makes it to the State of the Coast, we can't bring him back."

Jacqueline nodded, then tried a little creativity to give herself more creditability.  "That picture you sent us was terrible."

"And we are sorry for that," Deschaine nodded.  "We're working on getting better references for you."

"Good."

"So, has Avion reached a decision yet?"

"Time to dissemble.  He seems favorably inclined," Jacqueline said.  "He'll make a decision soon, most likely."

"Excellent," Deschaine smiled, showing eerily pearly-white teeth.  "We have a final question.  We were wondering if Avion would mind taking on a second project along with the first."  Jacqueline let a perfectly executed weight shift from one foot to the other be his indication to continue.  "One of our operatives could prove quite useful in tracking down Hugo."  He gestured towards the far door, which led to a staircase.

A few minutes later, Jacqueline was standing in the fourth room she viewed from above.  It was larger than it appeared from a higher vantage point.  Currently there were only two occupants besides her and Deschaine, a man on the front leg of his fifties with a patrician air that held a stopwatch carefully, observing the second, which was an athletic-looking young Montaigne woman, currently a bit dishevelled and sweating like a horse, as from a long and thorough workout.  When Jacqueline stepped through the door to the gym, the woman was running at her top speed, then leaped fully eight feet forward with barely any effort to catch the lower of two uneven bars, swing up once and catch the higher, swing around once and push off, tumbling through the air.  The trainer took an unloaded pistol from his belt and tossed it at her, but an odd angle that would make it impossible to catch.  There was a ting sound, and Jacqueline realized that the woman had flipped a coin at the pistol.  A ripping sound followed, and the woman was suddenly commando-rolling across the ground, pistol in her hands and ready to fire.

She just used Porté, like Royce, Jacqueline thought.

"Very good, Fenętre," the trainer said.  "Very good!  Come here now."

The woman rose, flicking the safety of the pistol on, and brushed some flyaways back.  She directed baleful stares at Jacqueline and Deschaine as she marched by.  Turning the gun over to her trainer, the woman addressed as Fenętre received a pat on the head and a piece of chocolate produced by the trainer, which she siezed anxiously and devoured instantly.  "That's a good girl.  Attention.  Mr. Deschaine is here to see you."  At the word attention, she snapped into a rigid stance and ratcheted her eyes to the far wall.

"This is Fenętre," Deschaine explained.  "She has the unique talents that run equal to Hugo's.  She has also the benefit of the best combat training in the world.  She follows orders absolutely, though sometimes literally, so you'll have to watch what you say to her."

"Does she not speak?" Jacqueline asked.

"Not since she was six years old," Deschaine explained.  "She had some form of traumatic experience, and she's stopped since.  It hasn't damaged her ability to function as a weapon.  She listens to whoever holds her chain.  She knows a rudimentary system of sign language."  He turned to Fenętre.  "Say 'dinner,' Fenętre."

Fenętre held up a balled fist, knuckles up, then turned it ninety-degrees until her knuckles faced to her right.  "See?  Whenever she does this, she's hungry.  It's really quite simple.  She has performed admirably here in a closed environment, but we'd like to see how she fairs in a real situation."

"Does she have some form of mental deficiency?" Jacqueline asked, rapidly becoming more uncomfortable by the minute.

"We suspect so," Deschaine said.  "But she can't talk to us, so we don't know.  It's best to think of her as an extremely smart and dangerous hunting dog."  He turned to the trainer.  "The chain?"  The trainer turned over a length of chain, clearly meant to be worn about the neck, on which there dangled a single, well-cut quartz crystal.  "Fenętre," he said.  "Give me a hug."

At this, Fenętre's entire attitude towards Deschaine changed.  She went from dark suspicion to filial love.  She broke her stance and wrapped her arms around him, smiling.

"As I said, very obedient."

<(_-|-_)>

Stephen Devereaux sipped his coffee and buried his face back in his text. He wasn't very good at studying, but he wasn't about to slack off. Not after the rather disastrous results of failing a class last semester. He was dedicated to taking his classes deadly serious from now on. Still, however, he retained the mentality of a less intent student.

Stupid Royce, he thought, his roommate making his way across his mind. He starts chatting with a girl in another country and it turns out she's sexy, rich, and then comes to see him. Stephen was involved with someone else, but keeping Jacqueline out of his mind was no small task. Some guys have all the luck. He's probably making her laugh with his consistent humility and reticence. What is it about being shy that women love? How is that in any way impressive? Women - no more sociology, Stephen, put your mind back on psychology.

He was just getting back to thinking about psychology when another distraction presented itself. A stack of books and notes hit the broad armrest of the chair he was in. His girlfriend, Emmanuelle, hunkered down to a kneeling position beside him, leaning on the armrest by her elbows, steepling her fingers, and resting her head on the tips. "Good morning, lover. How'd you slip the drink past the librarians?"

Stephen was about to open his mouth to answer when he realized he didn't know. He stared at the styrofoam cup with a baffled look on his face. He didnt remember getting coffee this morning. He remembered coming to the library, sitting down, and burying himself in his schoolwork. He remembered wishing he had some coffee at some point, and there it was, and
he congratulated himself on being so thoughtful and went right back to work without thinking about it.

"I don't know, Manue," he answered truthfully. "I just did."

Unaware of how freakish the incident was because of her limited understanding of the situation, she gave it no further thought. "It's our six month anniversary. I know you're not going to spend it buried in a text."

Stephen groaned internally. What makes women feel the need to celebrate every single hurdle in a relationship? Maybe I'm not supposed to understand them. He snapped his book shut. "Of course not. What does my little chocolate torte want to do today?"

Emmanuelle's face brightened considerably. "A better question might be what don't I want to do today," she said vampishly. "There's a new-" Her words died when the quiet in the library did.

Stephen liked privacy when he studied, so he often chose the universitys library with its many spare desks and quiet atmosphere. He especially liked one particular booth in the back of the library, towards the the southwest of the building. It was behind a bookcase that contained a great deal of paleontology and archaeology books, and thus was not disturbed often. Thus, neither Stephen nor Emmanuelle saw he source of the gunshots until a moment later.

"Three Prophets!" Emmanuelle cursed and was behind Stephen in the blink of an eye. "What was that?"

"A gun, I think," Stephen hazarded. He'd never heard an actual gun fired, how was he supposed to know?

There was a series of words barked in Eisen, which neither of the two were familiar with, and Stephen's legs fought the instinct to remain motionless and hope he was ignored with the urge to bolt. Then another figure danced backwards, between the bookcases, firing a dozen rounds from two automatic weapons. He ducked to his right, towards Stephen and Emmanuelle, keeping his head down, allowing two clips to slide out of his guns. A moment later, more automatic fire tore up the books he was running past.

Stephen and Emmanuelle reacted predictably, hitting the floor quickly. The man who appeared a moment later produced two more clips from his pockets and clapped them into his weapons. He looked up to see Stephen, and looked quite startled. Pulling his ski mask off, he revealed a fairly young man, perhaps a little older than Stephen himself, with a mat of sweaty blond hair and a slightly frantic look. "Listen to me," he said, trying his best to pronounce his Montaigne correctly. "Take this," he said, tossing Stephen a small pouch, which Stephen was very afraid not to catch, and thus did. "I will come back and take it later. Please do not give it to anyone who works for Reiseker." That done, he rose up again and began backing away from the central aisle.

In a perverse moment, Stephen wondered if the man knew that he was a Reiseker test-tube baby. When the gunfire started again, he stopped thinking in multiple syllable thoughts and went back to ideas like Run and Hide.

No less than sixteen people followed the first, all attired in gear Stephen would expect of marines and riot squads, armed to the teeth with weapons he would expect to see on a battlefield, not in a civilian sector. They spread out and moved like professionals, making certain they missed nothing. One came over to Stephen and Emmanuelle and took off her helmet, shouldering her rifle and extending hands to help them up. Not knowing why, Stephen palmed then pocketed the pouch. He then tooked the hand. The woman had the look of someone who chewed boot leather for breakfast and actually swallowed it. "We are very sorry about this," she said. "But we are pursuing a very dangerous fugitive. Are either of you harmed?" Both shook their heads numbly, afraid to speak. "Please exit the building by the front doors. We should be done here inside of an hour."

They did so, not looking back until well outside of the library. Stephen wondered what was inside the pouch the entire time.

<(_-|-_)>
 
"Donata?" Lugh called, sticking his head out the back door, looking around. "Miss Corelli? Are ye-" And then he saw she was.

Donata was sitting in the MacGowan's backyard, looking quite detached and not a little upset. More accurately, she was sitting at the corner, staring at the rapidly darkening sky, knees pulled up to her chest. Her head rested on her knees, and the slight breeze presaging a storm stirred her black hair. Lugh was familiar with the look on her face; he'd seen it many times in his young life, typically from other people. "Are y'all right?"

"Yes," she said, not looking up at him, sighing slightly. "No. Yes. I feel fine."

"Yuir either lyin' or confused," Lugh accused, walking over and hunkering down next to her. "I'll bet some of both." He sat, one leg raised, and looped his finger-linked arms around it. "Ye want to talk about it?"

"No," she stated.

"Perhaps ye misunderstand me," Lugh continued. "'Ye want to talk about it?' is Highland-talk for 'I want an explanation.'"

"You are bold to order people about, Lugh MacGowan."

"Now, see, you tried to throw me by talking the way me mum does when she's mad at me, but it's not going to work, because I know something's wrong, you need to talk about it, and yuir cousin ain't here to talk to. I might be young and a bit of a cold fish, but I'm no idiot."

Donata turned and regarded him. "Cold fish? You are joking, yes?"

"At school, that's what I am. I'm up to here," he tapped the underside of his chin, "in morons and poseurs, and because I recognize this fact and sometimes point it out to people, they brand me outsider instantly. I've stopped pointing it out, but you can only dig a hole so deep before you can't climb out again. So now I'm Weird Lugh and no one remembers why. As a consequence of keeping my mouth shut, I've gotten the chance to watch a lot of behaviors as they develop, mostly from the edges of wherever I am. I don't pretend to think a secondary-school mentality applies to all levels of life, but I think even a complete idiot would agree that hunching up in the backyard and looking miserable and sorry for yourself is not the start of a healthy day.

"What's more, I think I know why you won't tell me, and that's because you're afraid I'll think less of you if you tell me. Well, maybe I will, and maybe I won't, but that's not really going to matter in a few days, is it, because I'm probably not ever going to see you again, after some long black limousine comes to pick you up, right?" He cleared his throat.

Donata went back to staring into space. "I do not want to ask you for help again."

"And I don't want to give it to ye," Lugh smiled. "But if that's what ye NEED, then it's my Theus-given duty to provide it. Or get Graham to, anyway."

"I may actually have to go to Luthon to get home."

Lugh whistled. "You're right, that is rather heavy. I think we can manage it, though."

"Really?"

"No, I'm joking because I want to see your heart broken, yes of course I mean it." He leaned forward conspiratorially. "Truth be told, though, I don't think it will take a great deal of convincing to get Graham to agree. I think he's a bit taken with you."

"That would be unfair, using such a thing to convince him to help me."

"What would be unfair about it? In case yuir not paying very close attention, you don't precisely seem repulsed by him, either."

Donata opened her mouth, then closed it. "That is not your business."

"If it concerns me brother, then it's my business. I don't know how you run things in Vodacce, but here, if our family needs help, we help them."

"So you are here to play advocate for your brother?"

"Well, I hope I'm not playing and I'm sure as shite here because I'm worried about Graham. As I said earlier, I like to think of myself as a good judge of character, and I think my brother could do all right by you. It was my sincere hope that what I saw in your eyes was serious, but I see now I was mistaken." He rose dusting his pants off, turning to go back inside. "Try not to leave any frost on the doorknobs or silverware, eh?"

Again, Donata's mouth worked, then didn't.  Ordinarily, she'd hurl another insult after Lugh, but something dragged her to a halt. I cannot seriously believe what he said, she thought, in shock. I can't!

<(_-|-_)>
 
"We are alive," Styrke stated, patting the unconcious Sinne's head gently, which now rested in his lap. "In a manner of speaking. I rested in the underworld for how long?"

"It is immaterial," Krieg replied, waving the question away. "What is important is that we all live again."

"I have a theory," Storsćd cut in, seeming to not hear either of them. "In the Early Days, some of us perished after and during the battle with the Wyrm. We did not die as mortals do, but remained on the bridge between the Grumfather's throne and Valhalla. There, we were assaulted by everything imaginable."

Krieg grunted in answer. Of all the Living Runes, he suffered more than most. "Yes, this is true."

"Perhaps this was a forge of some sort. A test of our temper. We thought that when you died, Krieg, that even we could be defeated, despite wielding powers greater than any man yet imagined. Perhaps the Grumfather thought we are not ready, and thus cast us through another forge."

"Ready for what?" Schuyler asked, brow wrinkling in confusion.

"The Final Battle," Anika reminded him, solemnly.

"Improbable," Gregor barked, sounding louder than he was in the quiet of the room. "The Final Battle! And the Grumfather sent us back in these bodies! Yied to these souls! My body is barely acceptable. Styrke's is miserable. We-"

"My body is not miserable!" Schuyler thundered. "It is acceptable. What is important is who I was before Styrke joined me." He sat back down, having half-risen at the challenge. He studied his hands. "This boy - I - fulfilled the prophecy."

"What prophecy?" Anika asked, brow furrowing.

"The one Reise gave when he left for the final time, long ago," Styrke said, voice immeasurably grave. "About blood self-spilled in mistake rising to some righteous cause or something similar. I didn't take him seriously; when Varsel didn't, I assumed he wasn't to be heeded."

"Varsel is not the only one of us with the gift of foresight," Krieg noted. "Perhaps we have been returned for a righteous cause."

"Indeed," Storsćd seconded. "We need not anticipate the end of days right away. Maybe you are right."

"But we are not all dead, are we?" Styrke wondered, ceasing his repetitive action and lifting Alene's head from his lap so that he could stand. "Some of us must yet live. We were unaging after taking the scales, were we not?"

"That depends on your definition of unaging," Storsćd said solemnly, recalling Ensomhet. "If the last of us died, could that have facilitated the return of the rest of us?"

"Or perhaps it had to happen first," Schuyler ventured. "Either way, we have returned, and we can bring the rest with us. Here, or at the apartment."
 
"But to what end?" Gregor demanded. "We have not yet decided!"

"Then we must make our own path, if the Grumfather will not reveal it," Anika insisted. "We fought the Great Wyrm once, why not again?"

Schuyler and Gregor stared at her, uncomprehending. "Vehl Industries logo is a coiling green-and-white serpent. It is not dragon, but it will be just as hard to slay, yes?"

"But does it need slaying?" Krieg asked.

"Come here," Storsćd motioned, spinning around in her computer chair and calling up a directory of picture files.  "Look. You see this girl? She is ten years old. That stripe of boils on her head is there because a pharmaceutical company owned by Vehl Industries decided bribing the right government officials was preferable to paying to dispose of their waste properly. The government built a residential zone on top of the dump site, which they thought was just a vacant lot, unused by the company. There are thirty-two children like this now." She scrolled down further, and opened another picture. "This bridge was built using Ussuran steel because it was cheaper than buying from Castille. Now it's not much of a bridge, is it? Twenty-six people died when it collapsed." She scrolled down again.

"Vehl Industries is responsible for all of this?" Krieg asked, eyes narrowing.

"They could have stopped it," Storsćd asserted, turning to regard him.

"Enough," Styrke said, drawing their attention with a dismissing gesture. "If this is true, then something as foul as the Wyrm has raised its head and threatens our people. It is our duty as jarls to defend our people."

"How?" asked Anika. "They will not understand. Our people will stand against us out of fear."

"Then we will make them fear us more than their ignorance," Schuyler asserted, eyes set with determination.
 
Storsćd immediately stepped in again.  "I know of a man.  A great man.  He is a foreigner, but he opposes the serpent.  He is a rich man, with a great hall and many warriors."
 
"This Edmund you spoke of?" Styrke questioned.
 
Gregor stroked his chin.  "Do you trust him?"
 
"Yes."
 
"Can you get word to him of our plight?  Will he be sympathetic?" Schuyler asked.
 
"Yes.  I will deliver the message personally."  She whirled about and began typing.
 
After a few moments, wherein Krieg shifted a binder out of his chair for a better seat and Styrke checked on Alene again, the Rune of Strength looked up and asked "Storsćd, is your message sent?"

"Edmund knows who we are," she said, nodding.  Three clicks from a mouse and it was true.

"Draft new messsages," he said. "To those you trust. It is time that we organize an insurrection."

<(_-|-_)>

If Tadicia Corelli were the screaming type, she would have let loose and ear-splitting cacophony that would have sent every creature in the vicinity diving for cover to protect themselves from her ensuing rage. Her eldest daughter was gone, plucked off the streets of Numa in broad daylight by some unknown agency, the most powerful organization in the world, in which she was quite highly placed, could do nothing to return Donata, and she had drag herself through the dirt to beg at the feet of immoral despondent materialist who was the person (according to the best strega in the world) with the best chance of finding her daughter.  On top of this, Vehl was able to avoid being tied in with a Tether strand by his own ignorance. If only the fool hadn't eaten the entirety of the treated bread! she railed inwardly.

She stared out the window of her beautiful estate in Vodacce, a storm brewing in her thoughts. This is the most inconvenient time for a disappearence in the history of the world, Donata! Even the second Prophet had the decency to leave clues. Realizing her momentary blasphemy, Tadicia crossed herself. Her cat, Caramella, began to rub up against her legs, mewling loudly. Without thinking about it, Tadicia bent down and picked up her pet, petting her idly and bringing forth a contented purr for her effort.

A startling ringing brought the elder Raggia to her senses. Setting Caramella down, she answered her cellular phone. It was her sister, asking after a piece of financial advice. Tadicia replied, mechanically, without thought. She shifted her position in front of the glass windows of her house, staring at the fountain visible from where she stood.  As she clapped her phones mouthpiece shut, she saw she had a message waiting yet. Reopening it, she punched the numbers that would call up her messaging service.

Donata's voice: "Mother! This is Donata. I am in Reymoor in the Highland Marches, I'm fine as far as I can tell. I'm going to see if I can get to the Luthon Academy soon. If you get this message, you can call me at-" There was pause, in which Tadicia heard some Avaloni spoken. The phone number followed. "Please call me soon. I love you."

Tadicia fought back tears. My daughter is alive, she thought, relieved beyond words. She had known through her magic, for Donata's life strand had not snapped, but no amount of magic compares to hearing your child's voice again. She punched the speed-dial for Vehl's office. Something for him to go on. Then it occurred to her what she was doing. As the Raggia she consulted foretold, no member of the Ruota could act to bring about Donata's return. Telling Vehl she was in Reymoor would just make certain she would leave before Vehl could get anyone there. Damn the circumstances! she cursed, squeezing her phone shut. Theus must feel my patience is wanting. With a trembling hand, she punched the speed-dial for her husband, Giacomo. "She is safe and alive," was all Tadicia said.

<(_-|-_)>

"Graham and Lugh tell me you were found by the roadside," Molly MacGowan commented, neatly rolling her spaghetti noodles into a tight bundle and sucking them off her fork. "You must have quite a trip."

Donata, eyes perviously buried demurely in her meal, looked up. "Yes. I assume it was, I don't remember it. I think I may have amnesia."

"Safe assumption," Peter MacGowan said, shoveling a pile of noodles and salsiccia chunks into his mouth with no ceremony. "I've read about that sort of
thing. It usually arises from brain damage or attempting to block out a traumatic experience."

"Peter!" Molly said at the exact same moment that Lugh exclaimed "Dad!"

"What?" Peter asked, inhaling the last of a noodle. "I'll lay cones to coppers it's the second. Ye don't see a scar on'er head, do you? It's kind of difficult to rattle someone's brain, it's locked up nice and tight in the cranium."

"Dad's right," Graham remarked belatedly. "An impact that could scramble yuir brain would certainly split the skin, not to mention what it would do to your skull." He looked up and turned to Donata. "You're likely perfectly all right from a medical standpoint."

Donata turned her fork over in her hands, then scooped up another bite. "I believe you. Blocking out what happened is probably why I cannot remember how I speak Avaloni."

Peter nodded. "Well, there ye have it." After a pause, "So, what d'ye think of the Highland Marches?"

"It's beautiful. I see now why this country is called the Emerald Isles. And it rains often."

"When Theus was laying out the lands of the world, the first Highlanders were drunk when He asked them how much rain they wanted," Lugh explained, quoting an old legend. "They said 'all of it.'"

Donata smiled in amusement, drawing a set of nostalgic grins from the rest of the MacGowans. "Ah, is that how it went?"

"More or less," Lugh said, wrapping his hand around his glass of milk and downing half of it. "I personally think Theus was upset that they'd passed out, so He sends us plenty of cold water to make sure there's always some about for sobering us up."

Peter cleared his throat. "So, Donata, he said, making certain he pronounced her name correctly. From what Mum tells me you'll be staying with us for a while. Any idea how long?"

"Not long," Donata said quickly. "Once my family finds out I'm here, they'll send me enough money to get back home quickly and pay for any hospitality you have given me."

"Oh, shush, dear," Molly said, looking hurt. "We don't need any money. It's a blessing to help out someone less fortunate."

"My mother will at least want to pay for the cars repairs," Donata added. "If not for me, that damage would not have occurred."

Lugh and Graham's heads both snapped up. Peter's brow furrowed. "How so?"

"If they had not stopped to pick me up, they would not have stopped later on where the damages were done," Donata said, suddenly realizing she was not present to hear Graham and Lugh's story on how the damages were done and thus could not corroborate it. She hoped the elder MacGowan wouldn't catch that.

"Well, that's certainly generous," he said. Graham and Lugh relaxed. "We'd be in they're debt then. You're a Corelli, you say?

"Si," Donata replied.

"As in, Giacomo Corelli?"

Donata paused in her eating, looking at him. "My father is named Giacomo."

Peter chuckled. "I think I might know the man, then. Does he work for Motores del Dragacciao?"

"Yes!" Donata announced. He's-"

"Chief of Manufacturing in Laurentio? Yes, I do know the man." Peter grinned broadly, taking up another fork full of noodles. "He orders from us all the time."

"Us?"

"I'm a Supervisor of Operations at the metal plant you saw on the way into town. The metal is mined in Eisen, sold to us, we make it into something useful, then sell it to your father, who makes it into Temporales for the filthy rich to drive. I see what you mean about your parents being able to pay for your passage back home."

"My father buys parts from your company?" Donata persisted.

"Yes," Peter repeated.

"Then you can reach him. You can call him from your work, yes?"

"Tomorrow, certainly," the MacGowan patriarch conceded. "Plant's're not open on Theus' day."

"Well, now I am sorry I didn't ask about your parents earlier," Graham commented smoothly.

"Now that I think about it," Peter considered. "He did seem a little distraught back in Primus, when we were talking about the last shipment I sent him. He wouldn't talk about it. Maybe he was upset over you disappearing."

"I would believe that," Donata replied. "I cannot believe neither he nor Mother has called me yet. I left a message. It is well past when they get home."

"Safe!" Lugh blurted out suddenly, a bit loudly. Graham looked surprised, as everyone else did, but his eyes narrowed afterwards.

"Safe?" Donata asked, looking baffled.

"I'm safe from having to do the dishes," Lugh explained. "Poppa's idea of deciding which one of us has to do the dishes after supper is to see who says 'Safe!' last. In this case, Graham gets the honors. I forgot about it, what with havin' ye as a guest and all. I just remembered now." He looked quite pleased with himself, until Graham shifted slightly and then Lugh winced, hand darting down to his leg. "Ow!"

"I will help," Donata said, smiling, putting a hand on Graham's arm. Lugh's and Molly's eyes met for a second, and they shared an equally brief smile.

Peter leaned over and nudged Graham. "I need to talk to ye after dinner, son," he announced gravely.

<(_-|-_)>
 
The Grey Queen smoothed the diaphonous folds of her dress and knelt as quickly and decorously as she could. She was late for her appointment with the High Kings, and neither took well to excuses, much less delays. Tossing her grey hair over her shoulders, she squared her kneeling position, breathed in and out slowly, then placed her hands on the white crystal sphere mounted on a dais in one of the many halls of Bryn Bresail.

In a brilliant flash of light, two faces snapped into existence before her, luminous busts of the High Kings of the Seelie and Unseelie court. The one on the left was tilting back a goblet of wine to his lips, and sputtered upon seeing her appear. His counterpart smiled obsequiously and said "Good afternoon, Grey Queen. As always, your tardiness is cause for some distress."

"I came as quickly as I could," the Grey Queen said, trying to keep the archness out of her voice. "Moving across the continent is not as easy as it looks, your Most August Majesty. If I might have my pole back, it would be easier."

"Adapt or deal with the consequences, Queen," the wine-drinker said tartly. "Give your report."

"Belief is no longer an issue," she said, a note of relief garnered earlier in the day creeping into her voice. "Jack was difficult to turn, but he handled his first hurdle well. I thought shock therapy might work, and it did. He is adapting."

"A basin of the cold water to the face can do wonders for rousing the restful. And of the other Champion?"

"Alec took it in stride. I'm shocked to see a man take the news so well. He barely batted an eyelash."

"This is good," the other said. "Of their training?"

"Jack is being taught his magic by Dame Barcleigh, per your request," the Grey Queen sighed. "His mortal life is interfering with his focus. I am working on adapting one, the other, or both if necessary. Alec's formidable thought processes are sharpening. I've dealt him a set of tests not unlike Orwyn's." The two Kings ought to enjoy the irony of using a forgotten faerie tale's plot to train a man to teach the rest of the world to remember.

"Once again we call on you for answers and we receive polite dissemblences," one of them said. "The question remains this, then. How long until they are ready?"

"I don't know. Perhaps you have some former Champions I can measure them against?"

The High King that asked the question harrumphed, recognizing he was rhetorically beaten. "Your reports had best become more detailed soon, Grey Queen."

"May I remind the High Kings," she stated archly.  "That they have many personnel infinitely more qualified than I for this task?" She paused a moment, letting one of the High Kings open his mouth to reply before cutting him off. "But neither of you would let your man be trained by the other court's tutor. So you came to me, the Doubly Condemned."

"You trained a mortal hero with more than passing competency three hundred years ago, Grey Queen," one of them pointed out.

"Beginner's luck," she snapped. "If you want me to this, we do it at my pace, and not a second faster. I'm a fool to even submitting to the idea of daily reports. From this day forward, I give them on a weekly basis, if that. If either of you don't like it, you can train your Champions by yourself."

<(_-|-_)>
 
Carolina was right, she was rather enjoying herself in Alec's house. Spacious as to be nearing uselessly large, she was getting rather tired of having to walk a kilometer from the home theatre to the pantry, but she had no choice if she wanted to eat while watching television. She was piling the ingredients high on a panini sandwich she'd made after having to go to the market to fetch some olive oil (that must have caused quite a stir, not many people tie up a horse near the bicycle rack apart from the police) when the barrel of a gun came up against her temple.

"Good evening, Alec, how was your trip?" she asked, licking some juice from the sliced tomatoes off her fingers. "Dangerous, I wager."

Alec tightened the grip on his pistol. "Bloody terrible," he snapped, removing one hand and sliding the plate the sandwich was on away from Carolina. "A long walk, a long train ride, two brushes with the Soachers, and one armed robbery later and here I am."  He picked up the top slice of bread and mashed it down on the sandwich. That done, he picked the sandwich up and bit into it with great relish, chewing and swallowing before saying "The one charity in this situation is that the description that poor clerk is giving probably doesn't look anything like Alec Westin. Now change me back."

"Of course. If you would terribly mind setting the gun down?"

"No." He took another bite of his sandwich.

She sighed dramatically. "I'll warn you, I don't do my best work at gunpoint." Alec cocked the hammer. "The mission is done, our spy is here, take his disguise from him, for now he is near."

There was a strange noise, a bit like a popping reversed, and Alec's eyes flickered to the window across the kitchen's island. He looked like himself again. He was about to say something else when Carolina wrapped her hands around his gun and twisted it to her left, stepping away from the barrel and rabbit-punching Alec in the kidney. She made another twist and Alec was now flat on his backside on the kitchen floor, firearm behind him and pointed away from both of them, her other arm wrapped around his head by the chin. "Seeing as how I can snap your neck with a minimum of effort, Mr. Westin, I think it might be in your best interest to drop your weapon."

A suggestion which Alec was amenable to, obviously, since he dropped it with a minimum of hesitation. Carolina immediately snatched it up with the hand previously holding his arm and threw the length of hallway they were near, making it extremely difficult to get to. Sure that she was safe, she released Alec and stepped back. "So, a long trip with some excitement. I see it went well. You're back in five days, I expected far more. You are above and beyond the expectations of the courts."

"Stop," Alec barked, holding up his hands. "You have done nothing but make my life into the Abyss since you met me. Why are you doing this?"

"You are to be the Hemi-Evanescent Champion of the Seelie Court."

"That means precisely nothing to me."

"Do you have a palmtop computer, Alec?"

"What?"

"I'm drawing a comparison here, Alec, do try to keep up. Do you have a palmtop computer?"

"No."

"Why not? They're terribly helpful, a directory, calender, and a notepad all in one."

"I have all those things."

"Yes, but a PTC could do that and it's small enough to fit in a trouser pocket."

"I don't want to learn to use the bloody thing."

"Precisely. We've cut to the crux of the matter. Now, imagine something like a PTC was added every day. Pretty soon, you'd have a very upsetting and confusing situation on your hands. Imagine that you had to learn something new and all its attachments every day. Not an ideal future, eh?"

"No," Alec replied guardedly.

"Good, use the brain Theus gave you," she said. "Once you have that in hand, you will have half an inkling of what it's like to be us."

"Us. The Fair Folk. We are immortal, Alec, we can live forever if we so desire. But none of that means much anymore. We are dying of broken hearts. The fact that you mortals don't believe in us anymore just hit us. It took two hundred years, but we have accepted it. And it's killing us. Slowly but surely. Some of us are sick of hugging our knees in a corner and rocking back and forth, telling ourselves that this isn't happening. It took a very long time by your standards, but we finally convinced the High Kings of the two courts to try opening up relations with humans again. It teetered on the edge of being approved for the longest time, but when my mistress abstained from voicing her opinion and the O'Bannon gave his approval, that pushed them over. The plan was approved, and my lady was named as the executor of the plans."

"Who is your lady?"

"The Grey Queen of Bryn Bresail."

"Why her?"

"The enemy of everyone can be trusted to side with no one," Carolina quoted. "The Grey Queen can be trusted not to be trusted, thus both courts know where they stand with her."

"Okay, okay, so I'm the hemi-what-have-you of the Seelie Court. What about the Unseelie? Do they get one?"

"Yes, his name is Jack, he lives in the State of the Coast."

"Hold on now, he lives in the State? Why him? You told me why me, but what about him?"

"He has the breeding."

"Breeding?"

"He's the bastard son of Mad Jack O'Bannon."

"Oh. Well, I guess that would be quite the pedigree." There was a long silence. "So I'm supposed to help your people get acclimated?"

"Among other things. Your primary function will be as an advocate."

"Advocate?" Alec seemed to remember his sandwich, and bit into it again.

"We need someone to argue our case. Your people are likely to react poorly to faerie tales stepping right out of the books and demanding an hour to speak before Parliament. I won't even get started on the Graal."

"The Graal? It's real? No, don't tell me, that is a dumb question. What about it? The stories say it disappeared in--"

"It did," Carolina finished. "To be more accurate, it left. It was upset, hurt, and confused. So it decided you mortals didn't love it anymore and left. If it was returned, I think that might help our case."

"Is that my next 'test?'" Alec asked.

"Hardly," she said, smiling. "I have some old friends working on that problem. Your next test is very different."

"How different?"

 
<(_-|-_)>

"You remember the last time we were in Vodacce?" Neil asked, standing with Eliza at the bow of the Grey Horizon.

 "Of course," she replied, pulling up her sunglasses and looking at him.  "The Tourmaline Mantis.  Yakov Dostevich stole it right out from under our noses in Kodengrad and left us that inane trail of clues all the way to Castille.  We got stopped here at the border because Bridget lost her passport and we had to call in the Society to clear him."

"It felt like a vacation for a few days," Neil mused, remembering the incident clearly.  "With the exception of Rory pacing back and forth like a cat with too much caffeine in his system."

"Poking fun at him didn't help," Eliza remarked dryly.

"I have made it my life's quest to upset anyone who takes themselves too seriously."

"No, you've made it your life's quest to prove to everyone that you know something about everything."

"I can have more than one life's quest, can't I?"

 "You're impossible."

 "And you're beautiful."

 "Be careful how you say that.  I have a husband now."

 "Yes.  Isn't it odd how he sent an entire camera crew with you to make sure you didn't have any fun without him?" Neil remarked casually, stepping back from the bow and moving astern.

Eliza began to say something, but then stopped.  Richard sent a camera crew to film our Project, she stated mentally.  Not to keep an eye on me.  But he could if he wanted to everyone on this crew is a friend of his.  No!  Don't think that.  She shook her head firmly, discarding Neil's observation.  That was not meant to nettle, she mused.  Did he actually mean that?  Richard would never-

 "Liza!" called Bridget.  "Straws!"

 That single word brought her astern and down onto the main deck of the Horizon without a moments hesitation.  As has been often the case with Rory's team of Explorers, occasionally duties arose that were so enjoyable that all of them wished to do it or so odious none wished to.  In both cases, the lucky or unlucky party was chosen by the traditional drawing of straws.  It was done so often in an Explorers lifetime, however, that some teams, such as Rorys, had a specific and permanent set of straws for it.  And said straws were being shuffled by Rory this very instant.

"What's the honor?" Eliza called as she closed on the event.

"The submersible jaunt, Rory stated.  He nodded towards a nondescript young crewman who was hauling a great deal of equipment towards the aft-port side of the ship.  "Everyone say hello to Robert, he's the gent you'll be with if you're the lucky victim."

With no further ceremony, he held up the shuffled stack of straws.  The other Explorers plucked their straws quickly, examining the length.  Rory looked at the remaining one.  "Looks like you're the lucky lass, Liza," he said.  "Check with Amaretta for instructions on how to work the thing.  It's a great deal like the ones we used with the Society, but the labels are still in Vodacce."

<(_-|-_)>

Erica'd never been pirating before, she was as close as she ever came to the emotion of eager to see what was going to happen next, so when her men began swinging their legs over the railing of the freighter, Erica made certain she was the next up.  While not precisely certain what she was expecting, she was still eminently disgusted with what she saw.

Apparently, their coming was telegraphed.  Because fully three-quarters of the freighter's crew was on deck and not looking terribly upset.  Virgil, who preceeded Erica, barked out over the deck "Top o'the morning, lads!  We'll just be helping ourselves to the hold, if you don't mind!"

Erica rose up beside him, scowling.  "They're not going to fight over it?"

Virgil looked at her as though she'd asked why the sky wasn't turning brown.  "Of course not.  Most of the commercial shippers that come through this lane are so insured that it doesn't matter if we steal everything they've got, shirts off their backs inclusive.  They'll be compensated and we walk away without having to fire a shot."  His look faded.  "Why, Captain?  Were you hoping for a blood-spattered melee?"

"I was hoping to garner at least an iota of respect," she grated, staring at the bored and impatient faces of the freighter's crew.  "These men are treating us like a case of diarrhea."

"We're getting free money, what's wrong with that?"  Erica, for the first time in a long time, was without words.  "I think I know what the problem is," Basto hazarded, crossing his arms.  "I filled your head with too many romantic tales of swashbuckling through boardings, didn't I?"  He grinned wryly.  "We're almost to a new millenium, Captain, things are handled differently."

"It's 2000, Virgil.  We're in a new millenium."

"Not actually, Captain.  The new millenium doesn't start until 2001.  Everyone just assumes 2000 because it's such a round number.  I call it 'odometer syndrome.'"

Erica resisted the urge to blackjack Virgil and his cheeky smile.  "You're right."

"I'm always right.  But I hardly think you need reminding that people are stupid."

"No, I mean about my misunderstanding about how this would be going.  I'd like to shoot someone, at the very least."

"You shot Lasseter, didn't you?  Isn't that good enough?"

Erica sighed and consolled herself with the fact that Virgil would never understand what she meant.  The man probably screamed like a little girl when afraid for his life.  He certainly seemed cool when she threatened to kill him several weeks ago, but he could have simply schooled his face.  Erica knew about that, she was an expert at it herself.  "Is that going to adversely effect morale?"

"Depends on what you do about it.  If you randomly kill people without explaining yourself, it will probably have a very adverse effect."  A little explanation would probably make your idea of corporal punishment a little more palatable to your troops.

"Mmmm," was her only comment.  "How long will this take?"

"What, cleaning out the hold?  An hour, maybe two."

Erica's head tilted slightly.  "You're serious?"

"We don't have a great deal in the way of skilled manpower here, Captain.  These men are criminals and con artists, not dockworkers.  Not all of them are precisely in great shape."

"Please inform everyone that I shoot one person for every minute it takes above and beyond twenty."

Virgil's eyebrows rose.  "Why?"

Erica tugged her right hand backwards across her neck, catching a wire and taking an earpiece out of her aural canal.  She caught it and held it up.  "I've been monitoring the military frequencies since we set out.  There's a UWP ship headed for us right now, and it'll be here in a half-hour.  I'd like to be ten minutes gone by the time they arrive."

Virgil gawked openly.  "That's categorically impossible," he sputtered.  "Ronnie checked the Vodacce navys records for today and there isnt supposed to be anyone of a nonmercantile nature in the area for miles!"

"Your man checked the navy's frequencies, not the UWP's.  If I didn't have my ear to the wind, we'd all be dead or rotting in prison in a day.  Now please inform our men that they have eighteen minutes."

<(_-|-_)>

Jack shoveled a chopsticks load of rice into his mouth and sighed.  He was making progress, that was for sure.  He was not approaching his apartment with overwhelming dread, just a great sense of foreboding, having gotten used to seeing faeries there for two weeks.  And hed bought his own food, so the boggrins could leave.  And then he'd only have Barcleigh to deal with.  Skillfully balancing his white carton of Cathayan food and chopsticks in one hand, he fumbled his keys out and opened the door to his apartment, praying very hard for an easier day than yesterday.  His initial forays into the world of magic were rather difficult.  Jack had no idea what Barcleigh was talking about half the time, and the other half he spent very confused.  He wondered what a psychologist would say about this.  He stopped seeing his therapist three years ago, when stress ceased to be a problem for him.  He wondered if he should start again.

Upon letting himself into his apartment, he found a note waiting for him.  More accurately, a note dangling from the light fixture in the middle of the opening hallway into his apartment.  Taking it in the hand with the keys, he dragged it close so he could read it.

We are going into town today.  I am waiting in your coachhouse.  Hurry.

Jack growled some words, not all of them fit for gentle ears.  How on Terra does she expect to get anywhere without making a scene? he pondered.  She can't even wrap her mind around the concept of a faucet, how am I going to explain the monorail?

After he changed, it occurred to him that he had no idea what she meant by coachhouse.  He thought about it as he dropped the last of his meal into the garbage.  The parking garage, he realized.  She referred to my car as a fiery coach before.  And, sure enough, he found her in the parking garage, arguing with the attendant.

"See here, you obese lummox," she shouted through the screen.  "I have every right to be here, as I am waiting for Sir Van Huizen to appear.  I don't care what mortal institution vested you with authority, I'll have your skin for boot leather if this disrespect continues!  What's more, you-"

 Jack caught her by the arm and hauled her away from the guards booth with little difficulty.  "Dame Barcleigh," he hissed, ready at any instant for a warning rap from her cane.  "Please do not harass Willy.  He's already the violatile sort."

Barcleigh shed his grip with ease, using her cane as a brace to pry him off.  "Harass him!" she snapped, smoothing out an unnaturally smooth dress.  "He began this absurdity!  I was simply waiting for you, catching up on my Watterly when he accosted me!  Is this country so backwards you cannot even stand in one place without being molested?"

Turning back to look at her, Jack realized how ridiculous this looked.  Her high-collared dress and riding boots were more appropriate for a ride in the country in the early 1900s, not going into town.  While she would have been the height of fashion in such a time, the anachronism was disturbing.  "Why are we going into town?" he asked.

Squaring her shoulders, Barcleigh looked on with the regal disdain he was coming to know and loathe.  "We are going to meet Her Majesty, the Grey Queen for dinner.  She will be evaluating your progress.  "I need you to be in good form this evening, and this attire," she said, directing a contumely sneer at his white polo shirt, khaki shorts, and white tennis shoes, "is already tantamount to visual sadism."

"Should I get something better?"

"I have a better idea," Barcleigh grinned.  "We have a few hours before the meeting.  We should visit a clothier."

Jack smiled, too, but not for the same reason.  "Why, what a splendid idea, Dame Barcleigh!"

When they arrived at his card, began to enter, then realized that the idea of the door might very well be beyond her as well.  Leaving his door open, he rose and walked over to her side and motioned for her to step aside.  Pressing the button that released the latch and pulling on the handle, he swung the door wide.  "See?  None too difficult."

She nodded primly, having ignored the entire process, and stepped underneath his arm, settling herself into the seat precisely.  After a moment of Jack staring dumbly, she said "Close the door, please."

Jack closed the door, realizing that she was expecting to be let in, not that she couldn't figure out the door.  Gritting his teeth, he walked back around, counting to ten under his breath.  He sat down in his seat.  Inserting his keys into the ignition, he started the car and pulled backwards out of his parking space.  "Any idea of where we're going?"

"The Grey Queen said that we should meet her at the Marquis."

"The Marquis?  That place isn't cheap."

"I should hope not."

"You're not following me here, my lady.  I'm not sure I can afford to eat there, much less pay for two more people.  You seem to be unaware of the demise of chivalry, so I assume-"  He trailed off when he saw the extremely baffled gaze she directed at him.  He put his mind back on maneuvering through the parking garage.

"The Grey Queen will handle the expenses," Barcleigh said, turning her eyes back to the windshield.  If Jack were lazy, he'd've let it rest at that, assuming that his ignorance was what shocked her.  He read the look in her eyes, though, and she was truly surprised by what he said, above and beyond her normal misunderstanding of the modern world.  He made a note of this and filed it under Things To Be Investigated in his mind.

As he pulled out of the parking garage, he checked the oncoming traffic and turned left.  "When are we supposed-" he began.

Barcleigh siezed his arm tightly.  "Slow down!" she demanded, fingers constricting about his left arm.  "This is not a race!"

"I'm barely going 40 kph," Jack said.  "We'll be run down if we don't speed up."

Barcleigh ignored him at first and looked out her window, at the other cars using the road they were on.  One flashed by her at nearly twice their speed and she made a fearful noise deep her throat and moved away from the window.  "Did you see how fast that one went?  The streets here are-"

"That's nothing," Jack said, catching on.  "Watch this!"  He made a sharp right to an on-ramp for the freeway, then gunned the accellerator all the way to 140 kph.

At this Barcleigh squeaked in terror, and shuffled closer to him.  "Stop this at once!"

"What?" Jack said, pretending not to hear.  "Faster?  My, aren't you the little daredevil?"

"NO!" Barcleigh shouted.

"Are you paying attention?" Jack demanded, jerking the wheel to the left and passing another car with a margin of inches to spare.  "Well?"

"Yes!"

"You do not run the world," Jack said.  "We do.  Humans are in charge."  He made another harrowing pass.  "Just because you're older than we are does not give you the right to treat us like a word I won't say for fear of offending your delicate ears.  Do you understand?"

"I-"

"Yes or no question, do you understand?"

"Yes!"

"So what's going to change?"

"What?"

"Faster?"

"No!  I . . . I will endeavour to treat you with more respect!"

"And?"

"I will not use physical reinforcement in your instruction!"

"One more . . . "

"I will explain myself at your request!"

"There, now was that so hard?"  Jack whipped the wheel around, pulling onto an off-ramp at the very last possible second.  He slowed to a more temperate speed before coming to a stop at a corner nearby.  "You'd be astonished at how nice we humans can be when you don't treat us like pets."

"Your conduct is beyond tolerable!" Barcleigh spat, cane rising as a spell began forming on her lips.  Jack slammed the power locks down and toed the accelerator.  For a moment, the two stared each other down.  Barcleigh's will broke first.  "You are too much like your father."

"Loosen your corset," Jack murmured under his breath and turned right, headed downtown.

<(_-|-_)>
 
"Mr. MacAllister?"
 
"Who are you?  How did you get this number?"
 
"Shhh, keep your voice down.  You'll upset your coworkers.  I assure you, I gained this number through entirely legal channels.  I'd like you to set down that pile of computer printouts and listen to me very carefully for a moment.  There is a matter of national security I am trying to assist you with, and your cooperation will make it infinitely faster and easier to deal with."
 
"National security?  Avalon's or Vendel's?"
 
"Very good.  I'll bet you can even tell me where in Vendel I was born, too, but that is not why I called you."
 
"Why did you call me?"
 
"National security, my boy.  I'm trying to help your government cover up a colossal accident."
 
"What kind?"
 
"The immigration kind.  There's a Vodacce in Avalon who doesn't belong there.  I've been hired by Vodacce to retrieve her.  As I said, your help will make this process go much faster."
 
"I can't release any information from this office."
 
"I've already had the building sweeped.  This line is the most secure on the planet.  I know, because I have the best of the best of the very best working for me.  As long as you keep your voice down, this won't be an issue."
 
"How do I know that?"
 
"You're at your desk, correct?"
 
"Yes."
 
"Are you looking at your computer screen?"
 
"I am now."
 
"Go to your bank's website and check your account information."
 
"Oh Theus!"
 
"I said to keep your voice down, Mr. MacAllister.  That money is pending transferral into a Gossian account in your name.  My hand is currently poised over the mouse click that will transfer that two million pounds into your account, but I'll only make that motion if you do something for me."
 
"I can't release-"
 
"Think very carefully about this decision, Mr. MacAllister.  You have a great deal of trouble by way of your recent divorce, and having two million pounds will probably convince the court that you are better suited to raising little Connor and Melissa than your witch of an ex-wife is.  Twins can be a burden, Mr. MacAllister, I know, I have twin sons."
 
"I-"
 
"Fine.  But not a shilling more!"
 
"Five million pounds!"
 
"Please keep your voice down Mr. MacAllister.  Borderline hysteria doesn't make for good negotiating tones."
 
"W-W-What do you need?"
 
"You work for TSB's intelligence division, correct?  Your team monitors telephone traffic all over the isles.  I need to know how many times in the last four months you have heard the following words or names: Donata, Corelli, disappearence, missing, Vodacce, Numa, Montaigne, and Ruota."
 
"By when?"
 
"You have search engine, man, use it."
 
"Right.  I'll need a moment."
 
"Fine."
 
"There's one hit for Donata, coming our of the Highland Marches, and one hit for Corelli, same house.  Outgoing to a cellular phone registered in Vodacce.  For disappearence, there's-"
 
"The hit for Donata, where is it?  Where in the Marches?"
 
"Uh, Reymoor.  247 Eastrow, it looks like.  What do you need-"
 
"Thank you, Mr. MacAllister.  Five million pounds, as promised, are yours."
 
Bonifacius Vehl used the earpiece of his phone to click the button that killed the signal for the call to Jason MacAllister's office, then raised it and dialed another number.  "247 Eastrow, the Highland Marches."  The voice on the other end gave an assent, and Vehl hung up the phone by the more conventional setting of the ear- and mouthpieces in the respective wells on either end of the telephone's console.  "Frustratingly simple," he mused to himself, turning in his chair and staring at the sunset over Kirk's skyline.  "Bah, never complain about efficiency."

<(_-|-_)>

Royce was part of the way through yawning when Jacqueline mashed on the gas pedal and very nearly tore his stomach from his chest by the lurching of the rental car speeding up rapidly to meet her demands for speed.  Three sharp turns later, and they were back on the highway leading them into town.

"Three Prophets!" Royce cursed.  "What's wrong?"  Jacqueline's elegant features were pinched together in concentration, as though she were focusing on something to prevent her from thinking about something else.

"I got lost on the way back to finding you," Jacqueline said, showing no sign of balking as they met and exceeded the speed limit.  "I think I saw something I wasn't supposed to."

"What did you see?" Royce asked.

"A girl," she began, shifting.  "About your age, but trained like an animal.  She had Porté, like you.  She was moving like a special forces soldier."  Her green eyes shifted back to Royce.  "Are you allowed to tell me about your Porté?"

"They never said I couldn't," Royce admitted.  "But I don't think there's any real need.  Anyone who believes me will probably be too scared to want to have anything to do with me.  'By the way, I know magic.'  Sounds a little strange.  If I proved it, what would they do?"

"You're probably right," Jacqueline replied, returning her eyes to the road.  "I don't like the idea of men in labcoats playing Theus, but I like the torture of people even less."

"Torture?"

"The girl - her name was Fenętre - was ordered to demonstrate her ability to kill someone, then given a chocolate for success!  She was taught to love whoever is holding a necklace!  A bloody necklace!"

"What?" Royce asked, looking baffled.

It occurred to Jacqueline that she'd said the last two sentences in Gossian-Avaloni.  "She was taught to love whoever her master is, as told by whoever's holding a necklace.  How many people do you know like that?  They are teaching machines, not people!"

"You're sure you saw this?"  Jacqueline gave him the what-possible-reason-could-I-have-for-making-this-up look.  "Okay, okay.  Let's not lose our heads, though, there's probably a reason."  Another skeptical look.  "You know, maybe-"  Then Royce stopped.  He swivelled and looked out the back of the car.  "All right, I don't understand it.  What do we do about it?"

"We leave, right now."

"And go where?" Royce asked, wondering how it long it would be before they were pulled over.  "If the Reisekers are planning something similar for me, then we've got some problems.  They know where I live."

"We won't be going back to the university.  Not permanently, anyway.  We should probably get some of your things, though."

"My question is once again: and go where?"

"How far are we from Charouse?"

"About sixty kilometers.  Why?"

"The State of the Coast's embassy is there.  Once we're in there no one short of Theus himself can drag us out.  The State will grant asylum to anyone."

Royce slapped himself mentally.  He was planning to do the same thing someday.  "Ah.  I see.  What about the Gossian embassy?"

"Also a possibility, but I think well do better with the State."

"Why the State?"

"My people have a sort of 'You dig your grave, you lie in it!' policy when it comes to foreign affairs.  They might just say 'Stay off of private property,' and slam the door in our faces."

"That's not very helpful."

"No, it isn't.  That's why we don't travel much."

<(_-|-_)>

"For the love of Theus, hold still!" Norda said, holding his head to the ground.  "You're making this unreasonably difficult."  She stretched a slender arm up and plunged a blade of unremitting darkness through his arm.  "Look at this, you made me miss."  She tutted, shaking her head.  "I hate sloppy work."
 
"Je ne . . . " he started, then cut off into a scream as she punctured his arm.  He struggled under her, trying to free himself, but the combination of Norda's unholy strength and the fact that his arm was stapled to the bed made his attempts in vain.
 
"I know you don't understand,"she said, ruffling his hair with one hand.  "That's because I'm speaking in Eisen.  You liked me much better when I spoke Montaigne, didn't you?"  Without waiting for a reply, she produced another blade and punctured his other arm, wrenching the sword through the muscles of his arm and down into the bedsprings.  "I think I like this.  Now you can't move.  You couldn't before, but now you're definitely not leaving.  Not that you were before."  She glanced up at the restraints keeping his arms attached to the bed and giggled.
 
She rolled backwards, momentarily placing her weight on the young Montaigne's chest, drawing a wet grunt from him.  She swerved sideways and tumbled off the bed, landing on her feet.  "You were such a good boy, Claude.  Such a good boy.  But that's not your real name, is it?  Is it?"  She brought up a third blade, this one shorter than the other two, more like a knife, and plunged it into his chest, tip skittering across his sternum.  She dug diligently, searching for something.
 
Claude's cries went unheeded by the staff at the mental hospital.  He was known to be a screamer, and that was the primary reason he was in solitary right now.  The one staffer paying attention had his nose buried in a magazine and switched off the speaker after Claude failed to quiet down quickly.
 
"Here it is!"  Norda said, squealing with delight.  She held the tiny circle of silicone close so that Claude could see it, even in the dark of the unlit room.  "Your nametag!  Let me see, your name is . . . " she leaned in close and pored over the small chip.  "14R-0071!  What a silly name!"  She became impatient with his constant screaming and cuffed him.  "Shh! I'm talking!"  She regarded the 'nametag' again.  "These aren't very pretty.  I almost feel bad making them into jewelry."  She poked a hole in it with her knife, then put the knife away.  She then set it down on Claude's chest, away from the blood rapidly pooling there.  Unhooking a chain around her neck, she threaded the chip onto it, beside twenty-three similar chips, then refastened it a round her neck.
 
"You were very fun to play with," she said, wiping his sweat-slicked hair away from his face.  "Better than Pascal, Florian, Jean, Guirado, and most definitely Jonas."  She made a dissatisfied face at the mention of the final name.  "But I'm afraid you were just a distraction.  A diversion.  I needed someone easy and vulnerable to play with for a while.  I've had my rest and my shoulder feels better, so now I'm going to try and find Hugo again.  I need to punish him."  Claude whimpered piteously.
 
"I hope you've learned your lesson, Claude," she said with distrubing as she swung a black-leather-clad leg over his hips as she crawled on top him again.  She wrenched the swords out of his arms and the bed, drawing a fresh moan of pain.  "Never lie to me, never disappoint me, but most importantly," she raised the swords high above her head, "never open your eyes in a Porté hole."

My apologies for the tardiness, but this Chapter is done and better than I had planned.  This is the start of the second cycle of Theah 2000, and we're going to stick to the five chapters-a-cycle plan for a while.  Nothing big has changed in this episode, but soon the Legendary Character Guide will be completely filled out, and, God willing, I'll have pictures of some of the characters for you.  Until then, you know who to call.