CHAPTER 2 -- IMMINENCE

"Three Prophets!" Graham exclaimed, dropping out of cruise control immediately and wheeling his DSG Shieldman over to the side of the road. Lugh, who had been reading, started at his brother's exclamation and sudden change of course.

"Damn it, Graham!" Lugh spat, looking up. "What?"

"That!" Graham pointed with his right hand, keeping his left on the steering wheel, to the side of the road.

Lugh squinted. "There's someone there!"

"Exactly!"

The Shieldman squealed to a halt some fifty feet past the unconscious woman's position on the roadside. In a flash both brothers were out of the car, running to her. On any day, either brother would've been amazed to see this woman. Standing, she'd not be too tall or short, but the tattoo on her neck would make her very memorable. A spider web, complete with the spider, stretched from the back of her neck to well below the collar of robe she was wearing. At least, it appeared to be a robe - it was made of a thick, heavy, material similar to wool. Dozens of cuts and bruises marred her otherwise flawless, though pale, skin. If Graham had to guess, he'd say she was pushed out the door of a car travelling at least 140 kph.

Two fingers on Lugh's right hand went to her neck. "She's still alive."

Graham dipped two arms under her slim form and hoisted her up. "Then let's see her to a hospital. She ain't going to find one out here."

They took her back to Graham's car and continued their drive home, though at a greater speed. "Think Mum and Dad will wonder what kept us?" Lugh asked.

"I think they'll wonder plenty if we show up with her in tow," Graham answered.

"What d'ya think happened to her?"

"Check her arms."

"What?"

"Just do it!"

Lugh complied. "Scratched up, just like the rest of her."

"No needle tracks?"

"None."

"Well, she's probably not a jenny, then, though that would explain the robe and how she's thin as a flagpole."

"Nay, she looks too well off to be a jenny. Her watch's a Kristoffi. It's probably worth more than this car."

"She could've stolen it."

"That doesn't explain why she can afford Calini soap," Lugh countered.

"Calini soap?" Graham demanded. "How can you tell she uses it?"

"I can smell it on her. It's the same stuff Nessa uses."

Graham held his tongue. He didn't particularly care for Lugh's new girlfriend. "Well, at least we're gettin' somewhere. I'd give my left arm for some smellin' salts right now."

And, as if in reply, the woman sat up from her position in the backseat next to Lugh and stared blankly forward, eyes glazed over.

"Miss?" Lugh asked, tugging on her left hand. "Are y'all right?"

She turned and stared at Lugh blankly for a moment, then said "Che cosa?"

"Are y'all right?" Lugh asked again.

"I am fine," she replied, in a thickly Vodacce accent. "Where am I?"

"Inismore," Graham answered. "A few dozen kilometers outside of Ballyjaen.
How'd y'get here?"

Silence. "I do not know."

"Where're you from?"

"Numa. I think."

Graham sighed. I dinnae need an amnesiac, he thought. Lugh jumped on the next question. "What's your name?"

"Donata," she said, more firmly. "My name is Donata Corelli."

"Well, y'certainly sound Vodacce. Once we get back t'our home, we'll see what we can do t'get ye home."

Donata didn't reply. She was too busy staring.

Jack Van Huizen squared the papers he was holding on his thigh and looked about himself. The Red Suite. He did it. He was finally there. Right inside the Prime Minister's house. He was standing in the Red Suite, where, in an hour, dozens of TV cameras would be wheeled in to interview the new Prime Minister of the State of the Coast.

Granted, that was not him, but Jack was (he liked to think) a personal friend of Ambrosio Benitez. Benitez leaned on him for the majority of the pointless grunt work during his meteoric rise to the highest office in the land. Whenever he needed files arranged, Jack was called in. Whenever he needed his schedule ironed out, Jack was called in. Whenever he needed someone to stall the press before he could appear, Jack was called in.

Jack looked at Benitez, who was sitting not ten feet from him. The new Prime Minister was having his face polished for his first TV appearance since he was a candidate by a dedicated staff of personal groomers. "About ten minutes, sir."

Benitez's eyes flickered to him, then back to the attendants. "All right everyone, shoo! Shoo! I have other Prime Minister preparations to attend to." As quickly as they had converged, the staff dispersed, somehow managing to find their separate ways out without making a sound. Benitez turned to Jack, straightening his suit. "Please, Jack, don't call me sir now that I'm the PM. You've been with me from running for mayor in San Lucas. Sio will work as it always has. Anyone who thinks you're being informal can deal with me."

Jack smiled. "Thank you, s-" he caught himself, "Sio. Feeling ready?"

"I'm shaking," Benitez replied, holding up his left hand. It was, indeed, shaking. "I never thought I'd get the past first Paring. I never thought I'd get past Quintus. Yet, here I am, in the Red Suite, waiting for the muckrakers to try and pick me apart." As he spoke, the cameras were being brought in. "How long before they start making fun of me still being single?"

"They already have, Sio. Checked the papers recently?"

"I made a habit of not doing that when I became a mayor," Benitez smiled. "Anyway, aren't you required up in the booth to remind me of what I'm supposed to know?"

Jack looked up at the booth and the scrolling marquee underneath, constantly displaying STANDBY. "I can take a hint. Good luck."

"I'll need it," Benitez replied.

Jack left the Red Suite and mounted the stairs that carried him up to the media booth on the second floor. After checking with the broadcast crew, he sank down into the marquee operator's chair and set his files down beside the keyboard. They were on in two minutes.

Most everyone thought Jack was an intern working for Benitez. At twenty-four, he was easily the youngest of the Prime Minister's staff on the payroll. Truthfully, Jack had been an intern for Benitez, when he was eighteen. A remarkable prodigy in school, Jack had his high school diploma in hand at the age of sixteen and went straight into the Coast's finest university for political science the next year. Therein he discovered that being in a direct position of power (like Prime Minister) was not as appealing as he thought it was, but any position within the infrastructure could be satisfying. And by all accounts, it looked like he threw his lot in with a winner.

"Good evening, Citizens of the Coast," began Benitez with his trademark dazzling grin. "Today marks a new day in the State's history."

Alexander Westin threw the envelope down on the Assistant Director's desk, heedless of the work he was currently in the middle of. "What is this?" he demanded.

"It looks to me like a suspension," the AD replied, setting down his pen, leaning backwards, and propping his feet up on his desk. "It's something we give to our players when they get out of line. It means you can't play for a while." He enunciated slowly, as though speaking to a child.

"Over what?" Westin demanded.

"How about this?" the AD asked, picking up an issue of FOOTBALL MONTHLY. He flipped it open to an earmarked page. The article therein featured two pictures. One was Westin himself letting loose with a ripping sliding tackle in a game two months ago. The other was him at the post-game party at a nightclub in Charouse, standing on one of the Fifteen tables, a champagne bottle in each hand, attempting to sing along (quite unsuccessfully, if Westin remembered the incident correctly) with the most recent Nell Wynnson single. The title was PLAY HARD / PLAY HARDER, with the left half in white and topped by a proportionate halo, while the right half was deep red and featured horns on the P and R. "You can make a fool of yourself all you want, Westin, but when you play for us, you conduct yourself in a business-like manner."

"So I had a little bit of a celebration," Westin countered. "Everyone does. All of my mates on the team where there, too."

"You're the star. That makes you a special case. Also, all of your teammates didn't have a drink with the pretty Montaigne reporter with the blue eyes and discuss at length how many 'tarts' they'd 'bagged.'"

Westin's mouth ratcheted shut. "I never did that."

"Ah, the old 'I was too drunk to speak correctly!' defense. I've heard that goes over well with most magistrates."

Westin clenched his hands to keep them from shaking with rage. "I'll be back."

"Yes, you will," the AD called after him as he stalked out.

Tasya Tvarovich put her foot against the edge of the desk she was working at and pushed off, causing her to spin full around and glide across the room. She put her hands down as brakes, bringing her a gentle halt as she reached the desk across the room. She hammered away at the keyboard attached the computer, punching commands into the global tracking system it was connected to. After a moment, the computer triangulated her target's location. These things get faster every time, Tasya swore. She saw her intuition was correct, her target was headed directly for her.

Pushing away from the other desk, Tasya glided to the far wall, where she used her foot to stop, then picked up a pistol and slapped a clip into it. Shoving it into the waistband of her sweatpants, she left the surveillance room, stopped in the bathroom to wet her face, then stepped out of the safehouse onto the street, shrugging on a light jacket as she went, pretending to be just another jogger out for an early weekend constitutional.

Without actually looking, she spied every other pedestrian on Pavtlow's streets, looking for her target. She was jogging for three minutes before she saw him.

He was fairly easy to spot. A suit in this part of town would draw attention; a designer suit was like a bonfire in a blizzard. He was beating a fairly brisk pace, and carrying a Garadite briefcase. If that wasn't screaming "Mug me!" loud enough, he was wearing expensive leather shoes and the bulge of his wallet was evident even from a quarter-block away. He was heavily preoccupied. He barely noticed when Tasya smiled at him as she jogged by. He did seem a little surprised that a pretty woman would smile at him.

He was very surprised when she grabbed him by the neck and hauled him into the adjacent alleyway. He likely would've protested further if she hadn't jammed a pistol into his neck.

"Good morning, sir. I believe you have a parcel for me?"

He dropped the Garadite case on the ground.

"Thank you. Please tell Rachanov that the Owl is watching him." She whirled him around again, and back out into the alley. She kneeled and steadied her aim by placing the butt of her gun in the palm of the hand not holding it as she crouched. The agent went for his own gun.

Tasya swivelled slightly and clipped his ear with a shot. Realizing how close that shot was, he bolted rather than return fire.

Once she was sure he was gone, Tasya picked up the case. Another day, another state secret, she mused.

Pietro Trilliani was almost nauseated. Almost.

Rachanov was as subtle as an angry typhoon. As if he wouldn't notice one of his most trusted men suddenly taking a vacation and coming back with different opinions. Trilliani took care of the problem himself, something he rarely did any more. Of course, taking care of it in the middle of a meeting was something altogether new and different.

The rest of the Vodacce Dons of Artiglio della Notturnus flinched when Trilliani pulled out a revolver and put three neat holes in Nicholas Falisci's head, but none of them worried overmuch when the man slumped dead at his position at the table. Everyone knew Trilliani was a little "erratic" so this behavior was hardly anything strange. Two of Trilliani's guards picked up the body without hesitation and hauled it out without so much as a prompt.

Trilliani put his revolver away and continued on as though he had not just committed murder. "As Signore Falisci just pointed out, Rachanov has telling resources despite the relative collapse of the Union of Ussuran Representative Authorities. Possibly because of it. With no one to police him, he's almost turned into Ravynyar." Some at the table chuckled; this was not the first time someone had drawn a parallel between the ancient mad Ussuran and the Penta Primadon of the far eastern Artidenot. "And the problem with no one policing criminals is that they get a very high opinion of themselves. So it is with Rachanov. I'd say he probably thinks he'll own this continent in five years. I take personal offense to this. Anyone else?" Nods from the other Dons. "I thought so. Rooting out Rachanov would be comparable to trying to throw a snowball with your tongue. For this reason, I suggest we let someone else do it."

"Such as?" one of the Dons asked.

"Patience, my corpulent underling," Trilliani smiled. "I suggest this man." The twelve-centimeter television screens implanted into the table at which the Dons sat came to life, displaying a graying, middle-aged man, features consistent photos many had seen before.

"Bonifacius Vehl?"

"Precisely. An old strategy, really, but still an effective one: the enemy of my enemy is my friend. Rachanov hates Vehl. Damned if I know why, but don't be seen in Ussura with a Vendel name these days. Vehl himself is a businessman first and foremost, so he will probably understand us quite well. If he doesn't consider us a fanciful fairy tale. Either way, I suspect the opportunity to put his foot in slightly larger international markets will make his wallet rumble. If not, there are always less conventional ways of gaining a man's confidence."

Murmurs of approval sounded. Trilliani smiled. Like handling a drugged ferret, he mused, watching the Dons. Rachanov may not even present a problem.

"Three Prophets," Catrice breathed, shielding her eyes from the sunlight with a clipboard. She was overlooking the Faqidir Mosque in western Kardobbia. Or rather, what was left of it.

"The Right Hand was thorough," said one of Kardobbia's few liaisons assigned to this project. He was a short fellow, with a corporal's bars on his shoulder. Answered to Bayyin ibn-Haqar. "They knew they wouldn't get the chance to use any of their explosives again, so they set up everything they had on the Faqidir. Even with enough C4 to wreck a shopping mall, all they could do was cave in her ceiling and rattle the walls. The problem is, no one likes praying amidst rubble. That's our job. Cleaning it out."

The clipboard came down and Catrice returned to filling out the forms, adding three months to the estimated time of completion. "Thank Theus this building was built so well. Otherwise we could be out here for ye-"

Bayyin turned and stared at Catrice after the first two words were out of her mouth. Her teeth slammed together when she saw the look he gave her. Bayyin cleared his throat, then said, in a very jovial tone: "Yes, thank Theus indeed. If you really want to die of shock, come inside."

He wasn't lying. The interior did look like a warzone. Bayyin picked his way through it relatively handily, whilst Catrice had a bit of difficulty hiking over the collapsed stone columns and other such debris. "Remind me again," she called after the Crescent. "Why do you need our help for this?"

"We don't," Bayyin replied, pausing in the central room, looking up at where the cathedral-like ceiling used to be. "But your government offered to help, on the off chance that you or your people find something about the Right Hand." He turned and grinned at her wryly. "I thought you were briefed on this."

"What I was told amounted to 'Clean temple. Don't disturb the locals. Report anything strange.' The Foreign Legion isn't high on the list of people to trust with important knowledge." Catrice wiped her forehead with handkerchief and considered throttling Bayyin. He wasn't bothered by the heat at all, despite standing there in a dark green uniform with immaculately pleated pants.

"It always makes one feel loved when one's superiors see fit to dole out such a tome of information. At least you can go about it however you desire. My orders came to me on seventy-three sheets of paper."

Catrice had never heard of orders exceeding sixteen pages, in any military. "Seventy-three? Did they have to explain to you the proper way to sweep a floor?"

"My orders are very - specific," Bayyin explained. "Most of it's what I can and can't do with foreigners about."

"Foreigners, huh? Not 'infidel task force?' Not 'clumsy relief support?'"

"You're not Kardobbians. That makes you foreigners in their eyes." He smiled again. "You've been here before, haven't you?"

"Once. For a week. I was stationed at Tuyameed."

"Tuyameed, eh? Isn't that a sea base?"

"It is."

"I thought you were Foreign Legion. Doesn't that make you part of the army, not the navy?"

"I am Foreign Legion, I was in the Navy. That's a messy story. I'd recommend getting a few drinks in me before asking about it again."

"Noted, Captain Arrent-Lopez. Now, if you'll come with me, we have work crews to instruct."

Amaretta Vignor held a silk handkerchief over her mouth and nose. It didn't do a very good of keeping the smell out, but it was better than nothing. "Oh Theus no," she prayed under her breath. "Let that not be him. For the love of all of your servants, please let that not be him." The photograph she held was from six years ago, but the similarity was undeniable. She spoke again, this time to her bodyguard. "That's him, Renzo. Pick him up."

Her bodyguard turned to look at her. "What?"

"Pick him up and put him in the car," she said, as though speaking to a child. "It's not that difficult."

"Shouldn't we wake him up first?"

"Why? I'd like him nice and addled when I start talking to him. The more confused he is, the more advantage I have when trying to speak to him. Now do it."

Shrugging, the hulking Vodacce man bent down and hoisted the Inishman lying on the pavement up by the waist, grunting at his burden. A few of the streetwalkers walking past looked at what was going on, but something like this wasn't all that out of place in a city as big as Ballytarr. The driver most smartly picked up on what was going on and opened the door to the limousine. Renzo lugged the Inishman inside, then signalled to Amaretta that all was well. Once she was inside, the driver started the car and they were off.

When the Inishman came to, Amaretta steeled herself for what would no doubt be the command performance of her lifetime. She'd only been a Raggia for four years, but they dropped this apparently highly important duty on her shoulders without blinking. She signalled that Renzo should remove the Inishman's bottle of rum from his left hand. No need to let that interfere with the conversation.

"Rory Cathal," she began, after he looked up, then snapped his head around, wondering where he was. He fixed his eyes on her.

"Look," he said immediately, eyes wide with fear. "If this's about Dante's money, I already put it to the Post, it's on the way, he just needs to wait two more days!"

He's a drunk and a gambler, Amaretta noted. Great. Next time, read the entire profile. "Signore Cathal, please pay attention. We're not from Dante."

The Inishman looked relieved. "Thank Theus," he whispered, looking upwards. He crossed himself, then looked about for his rum. Then he saw it, in Renzo's hands. He gave a pleading look, and when Renzo's chiseled face failed to move at all, he sighed and turned back to Amaretta. "Not that I'm tryin' to impose or anything, but I'd prefer if you didn't call me Signore Cathal. Or Rory Cathal. Or Rory. I'm trying to forget."

"We know," Amaretta snapped. "We've been coming the streets of every major Inish city for the last month looking for you. Your government was eager to help but not very helpful." Calm, she chided herself, repeating Ruota doctrine mentally. Nothing is more unnerving than a calm opponent. "And now that we've found you, we can leave this freezing, sopping wet cesspit you call a country."

"Eh, it ain't Paradise, but it's home," Rory replied. "Sure is nicer than that sauna you people call home. I don't know why I ever put up with the place. Or the inhabitants. And-" His diatribe ended when Renzo's free hand locked on Rory's trapezius nerve. "Ah, ah, ah!" he squeaked, trying to pry the larger man's hand off his shoulder. "I'll be good! I love Vodacce! Great food, excellent wine, mild weather all year!" Satisfied, Renzo leaned back, smiling slightly.

Amaretta had to hide a smile behind her Raggia's still-face training. Were all Inish the same? "Now, Signore Cathal. I understand you've had a colorful past." He returned her regard with a sullen glare as he rubbed his shoulder. "Academically, you were fairly impressive. Top of your class, as I recall. You had a brief stay with the Royal Air Force, as well."

"Air Marshall Cathal," Rory finished.

Amaretta nodded. "Right. Honorably discharged. After that, the crowning achievement of your career. Pilot for the Explorers' Society."

"Crowning achievement'd be actually joining the Society, Miss," he corrected.

"Which, I would think, would be second to meeting your wife, one Arlene O'Tweed." Amaretta couldn't resist this time, she grinned at the anguished expression on his face.

"This can't be about her," Rory pleaded.

"It isn't. Your wife is alive and well, and now owns the restaurant she used to manage. She couldn't care less about where you are, and hopes she never finds out. She almost called the authorities when we came looking for you."

"That's Arly," Rory nodded. "So what is this about?"

"This is about Rory Cathal the Explorer." She reached into a compartment in the limo's wall next to her seat. "Take a look." She threw the folder she produced to Rory, who caught it.

The Inishman opened the folder, then turned as pale as the moon's face when he saw the topmost document. "What is this?" he asked, holding it up.

"That is the certificate which cites your honorable reinstatement into the Explorers' Society. Sign it, and you're an Explorer again."

"Why on Earth would I do that?"

"The next document ought to make things clear."

So Rory looked again. Amaretta didn't think it was possible for his face to become more ashen, but it did. "That's a lot of lira," he managed out of a strangled throat.

"Yes, it is," Amaretta replied. "And it's your comission. You take on a mission from the Ruota, and we'll give you ten times that on completion."

Rory's head snapped up. "You're serious. You want me. Not a sober, member-in-good-standing of the Explorers, you want me, the slobbering drunk, hideously indebted, discharged Explorer."

"We have our reasons," Amaretta stated. "You have the highest success record of any nonretired member."

"Yeah, I also have the highest mortality rate for my teams," he added.

"Sacrifices must be made," she shrugged. "You've never lost a thing once you put your hands on it."

"And it didn't always come back in a usable condition," he countered, tossing the folder back. "What do you need me for, again? You're the Ruota. Can't you just 'tug some strands' so that someone'll sell it to you?"

Amaretta's face darkened as though a storm cloud rolled over it. Renzo tensed. He'd seen this before, and it was never a pleasurable experience. "If we could, do you think I'd be out here, in your outhouse of a province of Avalon, combing the worst quarters of already unsanitary cities, rolling over every drunk that fits your description, just so we can find the best of the best of the best? DO YOU?"

Cathal set his jaw. "And what makes you think I want any part of your little games? My own life be screwed up enough without dragging you and your bloody Wheel into things. I've got six-hundred-some people who want me dead, ruined, or both and worse, and they'll know how to find me the instant you put me in a crisp white uniform again and I get on the news. You think I need money? Think again. All money ever got me was more trouble. Find any reason you want for me to help you, I guarantee you, it won't move me."

The personality section of Cathal's profile was correct. He walked right into the most simple of traps. Amaretta bit down on the rising smirk. She fished out another folder. "Your daughter," she said simply.

"What?" Rory demanded. "What about her? If you've-" He half sprang from his seat before Renzo jerked him back down again.

"We haven't done anything yet," Amaretta said. She opened the folder so that he could see the interior. "Riona just enrolled at the Luthon Ruota Academy, at your wife's behest. She's looking forward to her education there, and hopes very much that she'll qualify for a position in our Avalon branch after she graduates. She's thinking about going into business."

Rory gritted his teeth. He hadn't seen his daughter in three years. And rarely before that, thanks to the rather messy problems he and his wife were going through. "My daughter is at the Academy?"

"Yes. And if you agree to help us, you can visit her on campus whenever you feel like, and there's nothing your wife or her restraining order can do about it. Part of our agreement with Avalon is that we can waive laws we feel are 'inappropriate' at our property. We've already talked to the Avalonian government, and given the nature of our request and the nature of your wife's motivations, they have agreed that 'inappropriate' is a good term." She plucked a photograph of Riona Cathal looking over the campus on the day she enrolled from the folder and handed it to Rory.

He took it as though he were holding the Heirophant's miter. He ran one finger over the silhouette on the picture. "Riona," he whispered. "She's so tall. No one in my family's that tall. It must come from her mother's side." He sniffed loudly, reaching a hand up to his eyes. "What do I need to do?"

Amaretta smiled, for herself alone this time. Like handling a fussy terrier. "Just help us find a few things, is all. Shouldn't be anything you and your team can't handle."

"My team?"

"We've taken the liberty of assembling your old command staff from when you were an Explorer. Which reminds me, don't you have something to sign?"

Rory Cathal took the pen offered by Renzo signed the certificate so quickly he nearly snapped off the tip of the pen.

They both stared nakedly at the wall of the apartment. Schuyler pulled his arm from the wall, showering the orange shag carpeting on the nearer side of the wall with plaster. He looked at his fist. The skin was barely broken. Punching through a wall hurt him not at all, but he managed to cut himself in three places by crushing the beer can he was holding. He dropped it.

The blood flowed over the wall as though following canals. At first, the rivulets seemed to follow random patterns, but soon after it became quite clear that they had a very definite pattern. Alene took a shaky step backwards, watching in the same muted shock that Schuyler did.

The patterns spelled out were words, but none any had seen in centuries. Schuyler's brow creased as he read the first word in a strangled voice that was his and yet was not. "Styrke?"

The concussion that followed blew both him and Alene clear out their fourth floor apartment by the sliding glass patio door.

For a moment, Schuyler stared at the ground rushing up to meet him dumbly, wondering if he would feel his death, or if his brains would be dashed on the concrete instantly. Then it dawned on him. He would not die here. He could not die here. He did not think it, it was only there.

His arms darted out, one hand closing around the collar of Alene's shirt and another dug into the painted wooden boards forming the second floor's patio. To his surprise, his arm was not wrenched out of the socket as it stopped his fall. He felt nothing; it was as if he caught a grasshopper. Alene gagged loudly her shirt's collar was suddenly rammed into her throat. The force of the explosion carried her about even after Schuyler's catch, causing her head to thump rapidly on the underside of the deck from momentum.

When they ceased swinging, Schuyler looked upwards, blinking in the direct sunlight. He dangled from the balcony by his single-handed iron grip on the wood. Yet he was able to keep both himself and Alene up with little difficulty. Indeed, almost no difficulty. Once he was certain he had a firm grip on her, Schuyler hoisted Alene's unconcious form up by her shirt. Lifting her was no task. Checking his distance from the ground, Schuyler released his deathgrip on the deck, causing them to fall the remaining two meters to the ground.

Hoisting himself up Schuyler checked Alene's pulse. At least, he tried to. He pulled back a burned hand, cursing. Alene's skin was as hot as a pot left to boil for hours. The grass beneath her was beginning to catch. Still cursing, Schuyler hoisted her up and did his best to get her to the sidewalk, scalding his hands the entire way.

For a moment he was not carrying Alene, but a taller woman. Her hair wasn't bobbed brown, but long, messy blond braids. His hands were not charred from her skin, but from the blast of wyrmfire she took for him. Once he set her down on the concrete bordering the parking lot of the apartment complex, the vision disappeared. Schuyler fell backwards, landing in a seated position, still in shock. What had happened? He spoke one word and the world exploded.

"Three Prophets!" someone shouted in disbelief nearby. Schuyler looked up. Gregor Andreas, one of his other roommates just slammed the door shut on his car. "What happened? Sky, are you all right?" Schuyler's mind still refused to take in what had just happened. He remained sitting. "Is Alene hurt?" Gregor crossed distance handily, crouching beside Schuyler. "Sky? Can you hear me?"

"Get back," Schuyler replied bleakly. He pushed Gregor back. He meant to, at least. With so much as a light nudge, Gregor was completely bulled over. Not a small man to begin with, it would've taken some doing to get Gregor off his feet, but a small push from Schuyler knocked him end over end.

Schuyler closed his eyes, put his hands over his ears, and tried to shut out the world

Alec Westin, being a young man, a famous, rich young man, was prone to some very ardent relaxation when he felt the time was right. As a result, being in a strange place when he woke up in the morning was not an unfamiliar occurrence. So when Joe sat up and found himself staring at the cabin of a yacht, he was only stunned for a moment.

He looked around. The soft rolling motion told him he was on fairly calm waters. He swung his legs around from the bed he was laying on and stood. He was in a white dress shirt and blue jeans, but wore nothing on his feet. He ran a hand over his chin. He needed a shave, badly. But first, he'd better find out whose boat this was.

He walked up the steep steps out of the cabin and looked around. It was a beautiful day, with only a handful of wispy clouds in the sky. He looked up to see the sails of the yacht, white with yellow trim. The boat was positively gleaming, it must've been new. Westin didn't know much about boats, but he did know what a clean one looked like. And it was a fairly good sized one, too.

Westin walked astern, looking for the pilot. And he found her.

Westin, being a young man, a famous, rich young man, could nearly shop for the features he found desirable in a woman and find them in one of his many fans. He tried to rein himself as much as possible, but having beautiful women waiting on his word was often a temptation he could not resist. He would readily give up his swinging lifestyle just to have the pilot favor him with a smile.

She stood as tall as he did, a feat in and of itself, considering Westin's height. Her long, chestnut brown hair trailed out behind her in the sea breeze, tied loosely into a ponytail. She affected the same clothing as Westin though the shirt was considerably larger on her, and she wore leather boots. Resting on her head at a slightly rakish angle was captain's hat, perfectly trimmed and pleated and decorated for an admiral in Avalon's navy. Her perfectly sculpted, aristocratic features shifted slightly as she regarded Westin, and her lips quirked sideways in a half-smile. Had Westin not been enormously curious about what had happened last night to put him here, that half-smile would have brought him to his knees. She handled the ship's wheel easily, eyes flickering to the instruments every so often.

"Top of the morning," she stated, in a voice that made Westin nostalgic. He wasn't quite sure, but the lilt sounded similar to the one his grandmother spoke with. "I trust you're doing well. Did you find the tea and muffins I left down there? The jam is fresh, by the by."

Westin remembered seeing no such breakfast waiting for him. "No, ah, thank you, though. I don't have the sharpest recollection of yesterday night, and I was wondering when you'll be taking your yacht back to port. I have an awful lot of paperwork I need to deal with and-"

"This isn't my yacht," she added, cutting him off brusquely.

Westin suddenly felt very cold, and not because of the cool breeze. "You stole it?"

"After a fashion, I suppose. You weren't awake for me to ask, so I can't truly be blamed for assuming I had permission."

Westin's brow furrowed. "I don't own a yacht."

"You didn't until last night. I was there when you bought it."

"I bought a yacht while I was drunk." He stated it simply, though it was heavily laced with skepticism.

"Yes. I confess that I did a wee bit of persuading, but the end result is as it is."

"Can you get us back to shore?"

The woman nodded smartly. "Of course. I've been piloting boats for years. I know my way around a little pleasure boat like this well enough, thank you."

Westin paused. "Then could you do so NOW?"

The woman nodded, though more icily. "I could. But I won't."

Westin was suddenly very cold again. "Why?"

"You need an education in how to sail, and I aim to give it to you. We're about a hundred kilometers west of Inismore. All you need do is find your way back to port, and I'll be waiting there."

"Wait, wait," Westin exclaimed, holding up his hands for emphasis. "How're you going to get there?"

"I'll fly."

"How?"

"Magic."

Westin blinked. She appeared to be utterly serious. She turned her blue eyes to him and fixed him with a stare that made him feel distinctly like a slab of beef being eyed by a woman at market. She left the wheel, walking over to Westin. She doffed her hat, then placed it on Westin's head deftly. "Hopefully, I will see you very soon. Finding me will be easy." She produced a business card from nowhere and placed it in Westin's hand. "Carolina Jaspers. Godspeed, Alec Westin." With that, she mounted the railing on the port side of the boat, took a great leap into the air, as though for a swan dive. However, quite abruptly her form dissolved, seperating into many parts, each a black-tipped albatross. The birds circled for a moment, then fell into formation, the flew off. East.

Westin made the curve and points of the Cross of the Prophets in the air before him. How long had it been since he crossed himself?

Royce surveryed his dorm room. Everything was pristine. Books were in order, laundry where it belonged, he even made his bed, something even his parents couldn't get him to do. Of course, he had to. He had a guest coming.

Royce (or rather, his chatroom alias, Reloj186) had met a nice girl by the handle of Dove7224. The two of them began talking, and what was once an acquaintance became a friendship. Over the next year, they traded conversations and e-mails relentlessly, becoming fast friends despite never having met one another face-to-face. When Dove7224 mentioned she had some vacation time forthcoming, Royce jokingly suggested that she come visit him in Montaigne. She agreed without a second thought, and oh, by the way, I'll be there in a week. One hasty exchange of addresses later, everything was in order.

Allegedly, she was supposed to arrive at noon this Wednesday. Here it was, 11:57. Everything was in order. Royce wiped the sweat from his exertions off his brow. He hated procrastinating, but seemed addicted to it. The doorknob turned. Royce held his breath, quickly pitching the dusting rag he wiped his forehead with up onto the topmost shelf beside the door and arranged himself to be the picture of casualness.

The door swung wide to admit Stephen Devareux, his roommate. Royce exhaled. "I'm thrilled to see you, too," Stephen joked. "But you didn't have to clean for me." There were times when Royce absolutely hated Stephen. Right now was one such time. He hated jokes when he was under stress. And that seemed the time Stephen was most likely to make them. Stephen's tall, angular frame was slightly stooped under his burden. A fat, white drawstring laundry bag. Royce tried not to grit his teeth.

"My guest is coming AT ANY SECOND," Royce said, trying to smile. "I cleaned for her."

Stephen nodded sagely. "Right, the 23-year-old stalker," he observed in utter seriousness.

Royce felt like punching Stephen. He hated the running internet-stalker joke about Dove7224. "Yes. And don't leave that on the floor."

"Don't leave what on the floor?" Stephen teased, deliberately stretching and dropping his load of laundry directly in the center of the room in the process.

Royce growled, low in his throat. Theus, but Stephen was being irritating today. Calm! Centre yourself, he repeated to himself. It won't do to have Dove7224 see you all flustered. He took a deep breath. Which caught right in his throat when the door opened the second time.

He'd heard Dove7224 brag about herself a bit. Well, brag wasn't the right word. She described to him, in soul-crushing detail, the hoops she jumped through to look good. She alluded to it having to do with her job. Royce guessed she was a model. She said 'something like that.' Royce guessed that if he saw her on the street, he'd stop and stare.

Dove7224 was indeed gorgeous. Even laden with a half-dozen pieces of luggage, sweating from he climb up all five flights to Royce's room, and a bit jet-lagged, both Royce and Stephen felt they should be kneeling in worship. She stood a good height, not too tall or short (making her taller than Royce but shorter than Stephen). Her fair skin seemed shaped from porcelain, the surface blemished only by a light sprinkle of freckles above her cheekbones. Her timberwolf-gray eyes were large, taking in everything without a blink. Her body seemed carved out of a mold, though not terribly obvious from her loose-fitting cherry-red ROISTECH T-shirt and equally loose-fitting blue jeans, Royce could tell that her slim form hid some well-toned muscle underneath her clothes. Her long, wavy-blond hair was tied back, out of her eyes. After the initial spell of her beauty wore off, both roomates' eyes dropped to her hip, where rested, quite obviously, a sword.

Not seeing anyone leaping to help her, she dropped her burdens to the ground with no ceremony. "Reloj186?" she asked, looking back and forth between them.

"That's me," Royce squeaked. He cleared his throat, then repeated "Me. Royce la Due," in a more firm voice. He extended a hand.

Stepping over he bags, the visitor swept Royce's hand (and the rest of him, for that matter) up in an embrace that would've crushed the life out of almost anyone caught in it. "Jacqueline Gosse!" she replied, while still holding the shorter man up in the air. After setting him down, she said, "Theus but it's good to finally meet you. I expected you to be taller."

"Everyone does," Royce commented dryly. "Size doesn't matter."

Jacqueline's lips quirked upwards in a grin. "Most men wait until later to tell me that, but I'm glad it's out of the way now. Who's this?" she inquired, turning to Stephen.

"My roommate, Stephen," Royce supplied.

At the mention of his name, Stephen seemed snapped out of a trance. "Delighted to meet you, Miss Gosse!" he announced brightly, holding his arms out for the same embrace Royce got.

Jacqueline didn't quite giggle - she seemed to sophisticated to giggle, Royce thought - but she took Stephen's right hand and shook it. "The pleasure is mine, Stephen. Are you the constable that keeps this scoundrel out of trouble?"

"Not likely. I lead him into most of it," Stephen said, looking crushed that he wasn't getting a hug from the guest. "Little Royce would lock himself in here and study from dawn to lights-out if I didn't drag him out for some fun now and again."

"That's because I intend to succeed," Royce snapped, a little more harshly than he wanted to. "Unlike you, you lazy stork. Don't you have a class now?"

Stephen whirled about, looking at the digital clock beside his bunk. He cursed. "I'll be back," he promised, shouldering his previously discarded backpack from its position near the door.

After he had been gone for twenty seconds, Royce heaved an over-dramatic sigh. "Poor, poor Stephen. I wonder how long it will take for it to dawn on him that he doesn't have any classes on Wednesday."

Jacqueline buried a laugh behind a cupped hand. "You're cruel. That's cute, in a sadistic way."

Royce turned to face her. "You know, you could've buzzed me from the bottom floor. I'd've come helped bring all of your baggage up."

"Ah, I needed the workout. I haven't exercised yet today, and I don't intend to after now."

"Okay, first face-to-face question. What do you workout for?"

"Health."

"Seriously. I know the names of your goldfish and their eating habits, but I don't know what you do for a living."

Jacqueline regarded Royce carefully. She gnawed her lip a moment. "I'm an escort."

Royce felt his insides hit the floor. "An escort?" he eked out. "As in-"

"No," Jacqueline smiled. "I'm not a jenny. I'm a professional date. C'mere." Despite her verbal beckoning, she was the one who stepped closer to Royce, over her suitcases. "Imagine for a moment, you're someone important. A banker, a businessman, a government official, an ambassador. You've been invited to a large event, something you would use 'gala' to describe. Now, imagine you're not married. As is often the case with the riche, they are sometimes 'between wives.' In Gossia, you can't just show up with out a date. It's just not done. You need someone to carry in to the party. Who better than a beautiful woman who charges you a modest fee for-" at this, her hand flickered to waist and unsheathed her sword, putting it to Royce's throat in the space of time it would take him to blink, "bodyguard services?"

Royce recoiled when realised there was a sword to his throat, which was comedically far too late, had Jacqueline wished him any harm. "Theus!" he cursed. Putting a hand to his neck, he looked back to her. "You're a bodyguard in camouflage? Doesn't the sword give it away?"

Jacqueline stared at him as though he just suggested that no one should leave the house for fear of rampant tiger attacks. "Of course not. Everyone in Gossia carries a sword. The distinction is which of us knows how to use them."

Royce stared again. "Everyone?"

Sheathing her sword, Jacqueline reached out and patted Royce on the head. "That's a good little parrot. Yes, everyone. Everyone over sixteen, anyway. You need a license for it, just like owning a gun," the disgust rolled off her tongue at having to use that word at all, "or running a store."

"Why do you all carry swords?"

"Because guns are not permitted."

"No, why do you ALL carry swords?"

"Oh, that. It's the Equality-Through-Danger Principle. No one's going to start any trouble if he realizes everyone is armed. That's why we have the lowest crime rate in Theah."

"What progress have you made?" the first voice asked, a deep and melodious one, used to singing. "How goes our Champion?"

"Well," the grey figure replied. "In his mundane training at least. I go to complete his training tomorrow."

"And ours?" asked a second voice, this one stentorian and authoritative, more used to oratory. "Where is he?"

"In the Trade Sea, actually," the grey figure replied, bracing herself. "Hes learning sailing currently."

"Learning, or did you strand him out there?"

"I prefer to teach by necessity."

"Your methods are reckless."

"Is there any part of me that isnt reckless?"

There was no reply from the second voice. Instead, the first "And why have you waited so long to begin with our Champion?"

"Hes a gentle soul. I have to be more temperate with him. Too much too quickly will earn you nothing." She turned slightly, addressing both voices. "You must trust me. I didnt complain two figs when you two put this task in front of me. I realize you are anxious, but this is a delicate matter. You cannot just yank-and-tuck heroes into existence."

"And of the Accord?" asked the second voice.

The grey figure sighed heavily. "The Ruota beat me to him. When he wants to hide, he can hide very well. But the good news is, they have done most of my work for me. All I have to do is steer him, now, and he will accomplish what we want without even knowing."

The first voice harumphed. "We want him to know."

"I am aware," the grey figure replied archly. "But you also said you want these tasks completed as efficiently as possible. That is what I am striving for."

"Good," both voices said at the same time.

Jacqueline grunted in a satisfied fashion, stretching long and hard. "Whew! City of Illumination is right," she observed, staring out from the top of Royces building. "You'd think someone poured a night sky onto the ground."

"Yeah," Royce observed, planting a foot on the edge of the buildings roof and leaning on it. "Most people never get to see this. I get to see it every night."

"Damn right," she agreed, nodding. "I should come back here for Yule. I'll bet this place glows even brighter."

"It does," he seconded. "With more colors, too."

Jacqueline sighed. "I've been here, what, 12 hours? I feel like I've had more fun in those twelve hours than in the last six years of my life. And how much did we spend?"

"Not much," he confirmed. "I'm a student, I know how to operate on a budget." When she looked at him quizzically, he explained "Some private universities have 'standards of living,' which is a fancy way of saying that they terminate your stay unless you save some of your money." He sighed as well. "I don't know about you, Madamemoiselle Gosse, but I'm exhausted. It's time to sleep."

"For the last time, call me Jackie. I've known you for a year if not more. Don't treat me like a lady, because I'm not."

Royce gnawed the inside of his cheek. He did that when nervous. It sounded for a moment like he truly did offend her by not calling her by her first name. "Sorry, Jackie."

"That's better," she replied, socking him on the arm. "We've talked about me all night. Let's talk about you before you disappear off to bed. What're you here for?"

"What?"

"What are you studying?" she clarified.

"Oh." Royce cleared his throat. "The arts."

"Wait, aren't we at the University of the Arts?" Jacqueline observed sardonically. "Oh yes, we are. Be more specific."

"Graphic design."

"Ah. You could do that at any public college. Why did you go to this university, one that's ridiculously selective, even if you do pass the entry exam?"

"I have the talent and I can afford it."

"How?"

"The Reiseker Foundation is funding my education."

"A company? Why?"

Instead of answering vocally, Royce tossed one of his blooded coins behind Jacqueline. Not realizing what was going on, she looked behind herself to see what it was. Meaning she was facing Royce when he stepped out of the Porté hole he made to the coin.

"Mère de Theus!" Jacqueline exclaimed, surprised at his sudden disappearence and reappearence. "You're a Porté sorceror?"

"I'm a master," Royce replied, bending to pick up his coin. "The Reiseker Foundation is interested in Porté and the science behind it." And they genetically engineered me to help them, he added silently. Lies by omission are not as bad as deception. "I yield to their research for two weeks every summer, and they pay for all of my education, put me up in this splendid building, and even give me a little bit of a stipend, if you can believe that."

Jacquelines eye widened. "I see. Well, I guess I'm not the only one with a dark secret. I thought Porté was extinct."

"No, the bloodlines for it have remained pure through the three hundred years since the revolution. Mostly due to the diligence of said bloodlines." Royce usually hated repeating this litany of history, because he had to repeat it so often whenever he demonstrated Porté to someone. This particular instance didnt overtly bother him, though. It took him a moment to realize why. Jacqueline wasn't staring at him like he was some freak. Within her grey eyes glinted with intense curiosity. He cleared his throat. "The Reiseker Foundation found out about this back when it was just a medical supplier seventy-five years ago and offered them protection in exchange for the right to study their unusual talents. One of the families that accepted eventually brought forth me."

"The La Dues, obviously," Jacqueline nodded. "I had no idea"

"Not the La Dues," Royce replied. "I'm adopted."

"Really?" she asked, intrigued further. "Your life sounds like a Rawlins novel."

"Yeah, I know." Royce ceased leaning on the edge of the building. "Stephen's in the same boat."

"Who? Oh, your roommate. Hes a Porté sorceror, too?"

"Oh, heavens no. He's adopted." Yawn.

"Ah. I understand. Well, if you're tired, I suppose we should retire."

"Yeah, did you get a hotel in the city? It's the not the weekend, so I imagine--"

"No. I thought I might stay here with you."

"Ah," Royce minced. "These buildings are campus property, so they make the rules. One of said rules is the apartments are strictly divided by sex. If they catch you here after dusk, therell be the Abyss to pay."

"Then I guess I'd better not be caught." She favored him with a sly smile and began walking back down to the interior of the building.