CHAPTER 4 -- IMPACT

Gwendolyn Brooks swept past the security checkpoints of TSB with effortless grace, favoring the friendlier of her coworkers with a winning smile. She never needed to stop in the TSB building for anyone save Howitzer and her commanding officers, and even then she rarely did. Picking up the portfolio she had requested from the Intelligence Division from one of the clerks assigned to disseminating such information, she smoothed a blond flyaway back into her loosely secured bun and ducked into the office of the Director of Operations.

Keystone, as he was so dubbed by the Internal Security Division to prevent foreign powers from trying to root out his already carefully concealed identity, stood, hands clasped behind his back, staring out the shaded windows of his office on the fourteenth floor of the TSB building in Avalon. He was given to staring and contemplating, as Brooks knew from her long years serving the TSB. The problem was that he typically turned and greeted her when she entered his office, and if he did not, then something truly was wrong. And shed never known Keystone to shake easily.

Assuming that the customs were still in place, she slid into her customary position in a comfortable leather chair opposite Keystones desk. "Sir?" she began.

"I've asked a lot of you, over the years, Ms. Brooks," Keystone said, not turning around. She immediately updated the situation to from very bad to bad beyond words. Keystone never failed to face someone while speaking. "You have nearly single-handedly delivered us out of every tight scrape in the last few years." He turned, his blue eyes positively in anguish. Seeing that from such a chiseled veteran of national security as Keystone was enough to make Brooks uncomfortable. She shifted her grip on the folder she was holding. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you for another St. Morena."

Brooks' jaw tightened. The Arms Summit at St. Morena was ten years ago, where most of the Union of Western Powers was meeting to discuss the growing Ussuran threat. TSB was to see the security of the Triple Crowns delegates, as providing such services was very much a part of their charter. Brooks was in Eisen looking into rumors of a coordinated set of attacks on the Eisen government perpetrated by extremist Inish groups set on taking revenge on those that betrayed them at the end of the Great War 20 years after the fact. What she uncovered was not a simple set of terrorist actions, but an intricate smokescreen designed to throw her off the fact that said extremist groups wanted revenge on the UWP instead, and were going to hold the entire summit hostage to do so. It was by the grace of Theus and sheer luck that Brooks was able to get to Montaigne in time and kill Donal Lirnan, the man responsible for the plot. While the incident could not be swept under the rug because news crews from seven different nations were there to film the event (and instead wound up with footage of Brooks trading gunfire across Rue de Charonne with Lirnan), Brooks words to the media of the nations afterwards had made the TSB international heroes instead of bumblers that had failed to catch the situation before it happened. Parliament approved a sizable allocation of the taxpayers' money to go to the TSB this year. Brooks had a feeling Keystone was asking for her to make it some place just in time, not talk to the reporters.

"Have you read your portfolio yet?"

"I apologize, sir, I just recently arrived. Physicals are this week and mine was this morning."

Keystone nodded. "We have a very serious problem, Brooks. Two days ago, the H.M.S. Valiant was sunk in the eastern Trade Sea." Brooks waited for her superior to continue. "We don't know by whom."

"What?" Brooks said, arching an eyebrow. "You're telling me we lost a battleship and we don't know why?"

"Yes. She was showing up perfectly and serenely on sonar and through radio contact right up until tea time. Then all we heard over the radio were screams and Abandon ship! as if they'd been struck by the hand of Theus. We scrambled Carters right away. There was nothing when we got there."

"Nothing? What did the survivors have to say?"

"I see I'm not being clear enough, Brooks. There was NOTHING. No ship, no submarine, no lifeboats, no survivors, no flotsam, nothing. Without the final radio transmission, I'd swear the Valiant just disappeared out of the ocean."

Brooks blinked. Once. "What about underwater?"

"The Mallet is on her way. She was running along the Montaigne coast when the call came, but she turned about and is coming as fast as she can. She's not equipped to do deep sea surveys, but unless the Valiant well and truly did disappear, she will find something."

"So what do we have?"

"This man." Keystone stepped forward, to his desk, picked up a picture and cast it through the air to Brooks. "His name is Richter Graben. He was a dockworker for an Eisen shipping company until a week ago. Reportedly, one day he just dropped the crate he was carrying and started screaming about the black daughter of the sea. Hes been institutionalized since he manhandled his overseer, but all further reports state that hes very sane, just slightly delusional. Nothing worth keeping him for. He's set to be released in two days. He was also the last person alive to physically be aboard the Valiant."

"What would a dockworker doing aboard an Avaloni vessel?"

Keystone shook his head. "Peace is bad for business in the lower echelons of the military, Ms. Brooks. The Navy's taken to hiring out deck space on military vessels for commercial use."

Brooks stared at her commander with unalloyed shock. "You're serious, aren't you?" After a moment: "The years seem to leave us all by, don't they?"

Keystone nodded. "You plane leaves tonight after supper. See Howitzer before you go."

"Aye, sir."

"Bloody hell," Richard spat, flipping another card into a hat. "It's dead out here. Hasn't anything come in yet?"

His answer was a heavy pair of military-issue binoculars circa the Great War crushing his card-filled hat. "You want to watch, Rich, you do it! Sitting up here isn't a bloody walk in the park, either!" The voice belonged to Rich's best friend, William, who was currently seated far above him, atop a natural rock formation on Avalon's southern coast. Both youths watched the docks religiously, waiting for one of their fellow Channelers to arrive.

"Looks like it's going to be you, me, and the dead fish again," Rich said disgustedly, heaving the binoculars back up to Will. "Damned shame. I was hoping there'd be something else to celebrate tonight."

"Whatcha mean, something else?"

"It's my birthday today."

"It is not!"

"As if you'd know!"

"Like you do. You can't remember your own mum's name, what makes you think you can remember your birthday?"

"At least I have a mum," Rich muttered. Then, louder: "So what if I don't know my birthday? What if I want it to be today?"

"You don't get to pick your birthday," Will announced imperiously, bringing the binoculars up to his eyes again.

"Well, it's not like there's a precedent, now is there?"

"Spell 'precedent.'"

"Sod off!"

"You sod off!"

"Mother of Theus," Will said. He scrambled to his feet, dusting off moist and sandy jeans. "There's a bloody yacht out there!"

"A yacht?" Rich asked incredulously (though he still packed up his cards and set his hat on his head). "After yesterday's storm? What duke'd be dumb enough to be out on the sea after that mess?"

"Not one, apparently," Will said, sliding down the rock, keeping the binoculars ratcheted to his head. "No one's on the boat."

"Give me that," Rich insisted, pulling the viewing instrument from Will's hands. "I'll be damned. So there isn't. Think the duke got washed overboard?"

"Serves him right, the idiot. What kind of fool doesn't check the weather report before taking out?"

Rich hesitated for a moment, then took one hand from the binoculars and pointed towards the little white speck on the horizon. "Him, apparently. He's lying on the bow. Looks like maybe he bumped his head."

"At the bow? What on?" Will took the binoculars from Rich, adjusting them slightly. "Sure, there he is." He shifted up, adjusting again. "He did a shite job tying those sails, but if the wind keeps north, he could beach himself here."

"I know that! And if he does, he's Channeler property. That's a Zephyr S14. It's worth a small fortune."

"And we found it," Will said, thumping his mate on the chest. "Biggest shares go to us!"

"Theus bless that poor fool on the boat," Rich said, pushing Will back. He took off at a dead run. "Get your gear! And tell the Coast Guard to sod off if you can get the radio to work!"

A scant twenty frenzied minutes later, both Rich and Will were standing on the beach where they estimated the yacht would run aground. "What'd the Guard have to say?" Rich asked, unshouldering a long coil of rope.

"That they've been trying to hail him for about an hour. They've got a situation in Eiregen and can't afford anyone to go steer the boat in themselves. He's not registered on any pier. Their best guess is he got drunk and decided to take a ride."

"Well, of course," Rich replied. "Were they nice about it?"

"Almost. They said 'You're welcome to the idiot.'"

"Ha!"

"Oh, and they said something about checking to see if he's trying to smuggle drugs in from Vendel. If he is, we are officially deputized to deal with him and turn him over to Highland Yard."

"Ha and ha again!"

"Right. Here he comes."

Both youths turned to look back at their mooring lines' anchors, as they had been trained to do since the age of six, then turned back to the approaching boat, ready to dash forward and tie her down should she be one of the few boats capable of dislodging herself from a beaching without any help. Both Rich and Will were eminently familiar with boats of all kinds, from rowboats to ocean liners, which is why they were baffled when the yacht came to a dead halt twelve meters from where they thought it would.

"What in the name of Theus?" Will began.

Rich did not speak, but instead hauled out some extra length from his line and strode into the water. After it became too deep, he stroked the last few paces. Taking a deep breath, he ducked under the water. After a moment, he came up again, retrieving his hat from when it fell off his head at the dive. "This thing's got a monster of a keel! Is the S14 supposed to have Tiburon's fin?"

"Not unless he ordered it customized. That's about two more zeros on the pile of pounds it took to buy it in the first place!" Will called back.

"I'm going to try and roust him!"

"Right!"

Rich took the weighted end of his rope, and with all the leverage he could muster treading water, hurled the end up onto the boat. A dull thud rather than a sharp one told him he hit home. A piteous moan told him he was right.

Alec rolled over, rubbing the back of his head. He already wasn't feeling terribly sterling from getting thrown against the mast last night, but now he felt like Brian Mayweather had just kicked him in the back of the head. Abruptly remembering that he was supposed to call his teammate yesterday, Alec sat up, only to remember that he was on a boat. Upon rising, he saw the sky was a thick and overcast gray, and that he was in port. Yes! he thought inwardly. I'm alive! I made it back alive!

"Ahoy the yacht!" called someone. "Ahoy the poor bastard! Can you hear me?"

"Wha-?" Westin managed to eke out, rolling back over and looking over the side. There was someone beneath him, in the water. "Yes!"

"Grab the rope!" the youth said, pointing to Westin's right. "If you're not strong enough, tie it to the gunwale! I'm coming up!"

Westin, still too addled to argue, complied, doing his best to secure the rope to the railing. Five overhand ascensions brought the youth over the side, where he crouched next to Westin. "You're a lucky bastard, sir. That storm should've torn this little skiff apart. It's a wonder you're still on it."

"Please shoot me," Alec managed, finding his way to his feet with the youth's help. "Just shoot me dead. I didn't even want to take this damn thing out."

"Well, I guess you have a spoonful of sense," the youth commented. "I'm Richard Richten. My mate on the shore is William Fields. You're on Channel
Beach."

At this, Alec's head snapped up. "Channel Beach? So I'm near-"

"Hadrian's Landing? Of course."

"Then you're-"

"Channelers? Right you are. Have a problem with that?"

"No," Westin replied, shaking his head. "Quite the contrary. I'm thrilled to hear it. In fact, I'm so thrilled that I'll give you my boat."

Rich cocked an eye at Alec. "You're giving us your boat?"

"Take it. I don't want it."

"I guessed that second part. But come on, let's get you inside, I can't imagine you're too terribly warm all sopping wet like me."

"You're right. Have any aspirin?"

"Will Trots do?"

"No. I'm done drinking for a while."

"Well, I'll see what I can do."

Ernst really had no problem with easy money. Sometimes he felt bad about it, because his parents, his mother especially, had done their best to drill into his head the worth of a good day's work, and doing nothing and getting paid for it seemed to him to be fundamentally wrong. He tried not to let it bother him too much, though. He stuck his nose back in Trilliani's schedule and tried not to think about it.

Trilliani's allegations that his 'organization' was experiencing 'internal security difficulties' was rubbish, as far as Ernst could see. Everywhere Trilliani went, everyone smiled, fawned, or at the very least ducked out of his way. With the exception of the word of the Primadon, Ernst saw no particular reason to believe Trilliani was in any danger until he shot Niccolo Falisci in the head a week ago. And even then, all Falisci did was express a dissenting view. If Ernst dispensed corporal punishment on everyone that disagreed with him, he'd soon be a lone mercenary. Still, he supposed comparing mercenaries to Artidenot was a bit silly.

At least the man was regular in his way of going about things. Being a creature of order, Trilliani's schedule was hammered out on an anvil and never shifted. The rest of his personal staff knew a dangerous amount about his habits, things Kramer would never let anyone know except his own unit, men he could trust implicitly. And for a man with many enemies, Trilliani was astonishingly free with his schedule, goings-on, and whereabouts with the hired help.

Ernst supposed that was his problem, but Trilliani never seemed to care overmuch about who knew what. Kramer had never broached the topic, as he was afraid of the truth and Trilliani rarely had a free moment. Now, however, was a free moment. They were in the back seat of a limousine headed north out of Numa, towards Trilliani's spring home, which was almost all the way to southern Eisen. Ernst considered skipping across the border for a bit when his shifts guarding Trilliani's person were done, but decided he could cross that Bridge when he came to it.

The Primadon of Artidenot was staring out the bulletproof glass of the limousine's windows, chin buried in a fist. He was never idle; Kramer learned that in the first two days guarding him. "Is something wrong, Herr Trilliani?"

Broken out of reverie, Trilliani turned to face him, looking startled. "Hmm? Wrong? No, not precisely, Signore Kramer. I am simply speculating on a rather bizarre event, one I can't make sense of."

Kramer did his best to look curious. Attempting to prompt or in any way command the Primadon brought a lecture on respect for one's superiors.

"Bonifacius Vehl, the owner of Vehl Industries, just came to Numa yesterday. To meet with a Raggia."

Ernst held his tongue. He had his own opinion about the Ruota, and it likely wasn't precisely the same as Trilliani's. "Is Vehl a Penta Primadon?"

"No," Trilliani shook his head. "He's no part of us at all. I try to keep an eye on him, though, he owns the largest conglomerate on Theah and has his steel hooks in all of his competitors. I won't say he could challenge me, but if the man wanted to throw his weight around, I'm not sure I could fight a two-front war with confidence."

A two front war? Kramer wondered. He suspected there was more to Trilliani's 'internal security problems' than met the eye. "He is not doing anything threatening, is he?"

"Not per se," the Primadon replied. "But meeting with a Raggia is always dangerous in some fashion. I've told you how I feel about the Ruota, and we both know what Antonio Bernoulli says about powerful enemies meeting in secret."

Kramer nodded. Like Trilliani, he was intimately familiar with RIGHT TO RULE. "I see. Do you think Vehl intends to throw his weight around?"

"Possibly. The man is completely inscrutable. He hardly does anything worthy of note, so I have to keep reminding my ESD to keep someone near Vehl."

Kramer would not trade positions with Trilliani's External Security Director for all the gold in Cathay. "So, you are upset that you can't figure out what he's up to, because he doesn't appear to have any reason to be up to anything?"

"Not upset, more curious," Trilliani commented. "I don't think he's foolish enough to start a fight with me or Don Rachanov. I don't think he's clever enough when it comes to warfare. He's a damn fine businessman, but I don't think he's of the opinion that he's capable enough to take out his competitors. We make a tidy profit off him, and that's good enough for this Primadon. Why he's rocking the boat so suddenly is beyond me."

Catrice leaned against the unforgiving stone of the mosque and stared out at the two other mosques, clearly visible in the distance, from her perch. The city of Maqra-Shil was in miserable repair, but it was rebuilding. For every blasted building and pile of rubble, three Kardobbians and a foreigner labored to reassemble what the Right Hand had torn apart. Though depressing, it was a still a sign of optimism, of a phoenix rising from the ashes. Catrice supposed her part in it was small, but by the time she was done here, there would be three beautiful structures standing. At least, the blueprints the Kardobbian- and UWP-hired architects made the new mosques look beautiful.

"Salaam, Captain," said a voice, startling Catrice. She sat up, dusting off her uniform. It was late at night, but the moon was bright out, casting its pale brilliance about the open-air ruins. In this unusual light, she saw the one who addressed her.

Abdul Karim ibn Kusef was some sort of cleric for the Crescent faith, as Catrice recalled, one of the men raised nearly from birth to have an encyclopedic knowledge of the Book of the Prophets - or, at least, the Crescents' opinion of what it should be. She'd heard good things about ibn Kusef, but they were always spoken with a quick glance around, as though someone might be listening. Much the same way she and fellow sailors complimented their commanding officers.

"Honored scholar," she said, bowing her slightly and hitching up the veil she was required to wear on Kardobbia's ground. She had let it sag shortly after dark, as that was when she ate dinner. 'Dinner' was a bit of a misnomer; she'd wolfed down something hummus-like on a pita that Devaque had brought her.

"Are you often given to contemplation under the moon?" he asked smoothly.

"At times," Catrice confessed, shocked at how gracefully the words had slid out of her mouth. She was by nature a private person, telling anything about her habits was something she'd never do. Suddenly, the cold desert night felt significantly colder.

"I am, too, I avow," he admitted. "Theus made the moon for ones such as you and I, I think." He smiled towards the nearly full moon. "Something to look on while we fathom His Creation. When I was a boy, I thought the face on the moon was a set of holes in the walls of Paradise that He would use to watch us."

"Maybe they are," Catrice supplied. "It is late, scholar. I should be returning to my men."

"Indeed," he acknowledged, gesturing with a calloused hand towards the stairs down from their perch. "I would like to speak with you, if I may."

Catrice nodded her assent as she stepped down, followed soon after by ibn Kusef. "Of course, scholar. On what matter?"

"Your faith, Captain."

Catrice's head rose slightly. "My faith?"

"Yes, Captain. You are a person of unusual character, as I have heard."

"Perhaps."

He stroked his beard once, then said "Indeed. I believe Hassad mentioned your tragic past to me."

Mentioned or was grilled about it? Catrice wondered. "I have had my share of trials."

"And this has not damaged your faith, has it, Captain?"

Shattered it, Catrice said to herself. "Theus invented men. Men invented blame. How can men blame Theus for anything?"

Ibn Kusef paused for a half-second, missing a step. "You are very wise, Captain."

Catrice smiled weakly. "Coming from a scholar, that is no small compliment."

"Al-Hariq the Sagacious is not a man often quoted by sons and daughters of the Vaticine Church," ibn Kusef fished. "I am intensely curious to hear where you read any of his words."

Catrice looked at the scholar as they navigated the streets of Maqra-Shil. "Al-Hariq? I have not heard of him. I thought that I spoke common sense."

"Perhaps here, in Kardobbia. But the Church has mutilated much in their quest to bring the Prophet's message to all."

"Common sense isn't always common," Catrice said.

"You seem full of quotes this evening," ibn Kusef remarked. "You are a remarkable woman, verily."

"Save the flattery for someone else," Catrice said, shaking her head. "I am here to help, scholar. I am not here because I believe I have something to prove."

"I never implied as much," ibn Kusef replied, retaining a smile despite the accusation.

"Good night, scholar," she finished, dismissing him by quickening her pace.

Had she stayed, she might have seen ibn Kusef nod and heard him say "May Theus have mercy on your soul, Herald of the Prophet."

Jack woke with a start. "No!" he squeaked. He rolled over in his bed, looking for the window just above it in his apartment. He saw it and sighed with relief. He was just dreaming, that was all. Sighing, he rolled over and looked at his alarm clock. And very nearly loosened his bowels. If he didn't get up right this instant, he was going to be extremely late for work.

Whipping the sheets off, he leaped to his feet, scrubbing his fingers through his hair. And stopped dead when he looked in the tiny mirror he kept on top of his bureau.

Jack didn't fancy himself someone who dwelled on sleeping very much. To him, it was a necessary function of his biology as a human. Go through your day, sleep to recover energy. Thus, he never made a big circus out of the sleep process, such as getting an alternate set of clothing for it, which some people seemed to do (to his lack of understanding). So when he saw himself in the mirror wearing a pair of deep purple silk pajamas, he was very confused.

And as disbelieving people are often do, he reached out and touched them, to make certain they were real. And they were. He ran his fingers over his chest, make absolutely certain. He was indeed wearing silk pajamas. Someone else's no doubt. His eyes fell to the breast, were there were the initials JLV. James Lloyd Van Huizen, he realized bleakly. His initials.

He heard a clattering outside of his room. Someone's in my flat, he thought, a fearful heat pouring over him. His eyes flickered about the room, searching for a weapon. His hands closed around his keychain-sized can of pepper spray. Turning and holding it at the ready as though it were a pistol, he toed the door to his room open and stalked down the short hallway, trying to be stealthy and, at the same time, appear menacing. In his purple silk pajamas. If he wasn't so afraid, he'd've laughed at the thought.

When he reached the kitchen adjacent to his living room, his jaw dropped.

The two folding metal chairs that served as seats for him (and any guest he might entertain) had moved from their position at his table and were now perched before the stove and the nearby counter. Because the people standing on them needed the extra boost in height.

Standing next to the counter and stove, on the chairs, were two nattily attired (for the year 1867) gentlemen, perhaps a handspan past a meter in height, merrily working away at preparing breakfast. Both wore grey coats, white shirts, and brown breeches, capped off by buckled shoes and lacy cravats. The elder looking of the two (looking so because of his thinning hair and gnarled hands) was vigorously stirring something within a pan, pausing every so often to scoop it up and rearrange it. The other, younger looking one, was busily dicing vegetables with great speed and dexterity, turning tomatoes, peppers, garlic, and onions into a picante right before Jack's eyes.

The younger asked in a deeply Inish accent "Ready for the greens?"

"Certainly. Pour'em in."

Which he did so, using the knife to scrape the most stubborn pieces off the cutting board. The elder went back to his stirring and flipping. Two halves of a muffin popped up from Jack's toaster. The younger procured them and buttered them with surprassing grace. "I haven't found the jam. Should I wake his lordship to find it?"

"Nay," the elder said. "If'ee wants jam, he'll find it. But do roust'im. He'll be late to his office if he doesn't get up soon."

The younger turned to do precisely that and was surprised to see Jack. "No need, Mr. Reilly, he's already awake." Regardless, the younger hopped down, bowing deeply after he touched the floor. "A merry morning t'ye, good Lord Van'Izen. I'm Mr. Hannigan, and this is Mr. Reilly. We were sent'ere by the Grey Queen, because she says you can't cook to save your life. We're preparin' your breakfast right this instant. If you'll give us a moment, we'll have it served proper."

Jack's mouth twitched. "What are you doing in my house?"

Hannigan sighed. "Like I said, Lord Van'Izen, we're'ere to cook for ye."

"Who let you in?"

"The Grey Queen. We've all got keys!" He produced his from a coat pocket.

Jack blinked. "Who's 'we?'"

"Your staff, milord. Your butler, your cooks," he indicated himself and Reilly, "your tailor, your scheduler, your driver, your tutor, your staff."

"I have a staff?"

"Most o'the time, sir. If ye want your supper after seven, you get it on your own, because that's when Mr. Reilly and I go home. Your organizer knows the complete schedule."

"What are you?" Jack asked dumbly.

"We're the Fair Folk," Hannigan answered spritely. "Mr. Reilly and I are boggrins, more specifically."

Jack was about to ask another question when the door to his apartment swung open and another figure strode in. She was significantly taller than the two boggans, indeed, she stood over even Jack (though that is no great feat in and of itself). Curls as green as oak leaves were secured tightly in a bun behind her head. Her skin was as smooth, pale, and flawless as perfect white porcelain. Slightly upturned eyes, as orange as flame, surveyed the interior of his apartment, cataloging every detail instantly. A diffident sniff summed up her opinion of the surroundings. She wore a very elegant and proper (for 1912) dress, predominantly amber and white, yet the way she carried herself in it seemed to make it superior to any Jack had ever seen. She had opened the door with her cane, a wooden thing stained nearly utterly black, capped by a brass dragon, which coiled about the wood as though it were surmounting it. It would not occur to Jack until later in the day, but the dragon's exact position and sculpting fit her hand perfectly when she clasped it about the replica. Said cane was currently tucked under right arm, very much in the manner of a riding crop. In her left hand, held across forearm so that she and she alone could see the title, was a thick book, not too large, but a very fine-looking hardcover nonetheless. With one economical motion, she heeled the door shut behind herself.

When her eyes fell fully on Jack, she made a slight noise in her throat, one of surprise, and immediately turned to her left, away from Jack, and held the book up so as to block even her peripheral vision of him. "Misters Reilly and Hannigan, is this the Champion?" her voice had a musical lilt, the accent not far distant from the Grey Queen's.

"As sure as I'm a Reilly," the elder replied, scooping the omelet he had prepared out of its pan and onto a plate. "You like the pajamas? The Grey Queen liked'em a lot."

"I will not see the Champion until he is decent," she said from behind the book.

"You won't get to see'im period at this rate," Hannigan added. "He needs to eat and be off to his mortal job soon."

Jack stared at the events going on about him in stark disbelief. "Get out of my house," he eked out, very disappointed at the lack of force and volume in his voice.

"As it suits you," the third figure stated primly, angling towards Jack and keeping the book between them. "Take your grimoire and I will see you when you are more presentable." She dropped the book in his hands, then, with a hand veiling her eyes, she stalked out, slamming the door loudly behind herself.

Jack continued to stare, then looked down at the book. It was indeed heavy, but not unwieldy. The pages inside were blank, but if he had to guess, he'd say there were six hundred. It was leatherbound, expensive in and of itself, but the leather was further tooled and treated to read, across the cover and spine: Jack's Spells.

He was snapped out of his reverie by Hannigan, who set Jack's breakfast down at the table, moving his chair back over so that Jack could sit on it. "Eat up, Lord Van'Izen. You cannae be late to work. That wouldn't do."

"What's this?" Jack asked, holding the book up for Hannigan to see.

"Your grimoire, milord. Your book of spells and magic and the like."

"Magic?"

"O'course, sir. If you're going to be a proper Champion, I'd wager y'need to be a good wizard, too."

"Who said anything about me being the Champion of anything?"

"You did, sir. The Grey Queen said you'd agreed to become the Champion of the Unseelie Court, she did."

"For what?"

"T'help the Fair Folk learn about the mortal world. Listen, she can tell ye more. I'm just the help. The Lady Barcleigh'll probably have my knuckles in a skillet for tellin' ye this much."

"Was that the Lady Barcleigh?" Jack asked, nodding towards the door.

"Aye. She's your magic tutor. A sassy one, she is. It took her forever to learn magic, so it stands to reason she'd know all about teaching, I think."

"When you say magic, what do you mean?"

Hannigan's brow furrowed. "What d'ye mean, 'What do you mean?'"

"I'll lay cones to coppers he doesn't believe yet. The Grey Queen probably ran roughshod over his intr'duction," Reilly supplied.

"Well, we'd be right poor chaps if we didn't fix that, wouldn't we?" Hannigan continued, grinning. "You watch closely, Sir Van'Izen. This is boggrin magic." With that, he unbuttoned the cuffs of his coat and rolled them up, smoothed his hair back, then recited "The meal is ready, my patience's in knots, I'll be too full to later, so scrub out those pots!" And with what happened next, Jack's already tenuous grip on reality slipped clean off its previously questionable perch.

With a snap of his fingers, Hannigan indicated the dirty pan, knife, spoons, and the sink with a small sweep of his hands. To Jack's astonishment, the faucet turned itself on and the pan took on a life of its own, conducting itself underneath the stream of water, and then turning itself over under the stream. His dishbrush then leaped to, scrubbing out the pot with gusto. The dishwasher yawned open, and the bottom rack rolled out, not unlike a tongue emerging from a mouth. The now scrubbed-out pan deposited itself neatly on the rack. The knife, spoons, and cutting board followed soon after. When it was finished, the dishwasher swallowed up its bottom rack and the faucet turned off.

"See? Magic's really not so bad, once ye get used to it. Now eat up. Mr. Reilly and I didn't prepare this breakfast so you could stare at it. We'll have your lunch sitting on the counter when ye return from changing."

Hoping desperately to wake up, Jack began eating his omelet and drinking his orange juice mechanically, hoping nothing else odd was going to happen. It was not until he was in his suit and halfway to work in his car that he realized he'd been speaking to them in Avaloni, rather than his native State-Castillian.

"This is a standard heavy shoulderarm," Tulio Zepeda said, strapping on a shoulder harness. "It's a Einfluss 224G4." Once the buckles were in place, he whipped the large pistol out of its holster and aimed down the target range. "It's big, it's nasty, it's loud, and it's slow. A lot like the Eisens. When you want someone scared of you, shoot a few of their friends with this." Keeping his rocksteady wide-planted sideways stance, he squeezed the trigger back gently three times, perforating the paper man-shaped target three times. In the forehead, heart, and crotch. "Hear that? Noisy as Legion when his arse is roasting in the Abyss. That's what's good about it. Makes a nice loud boom, everyone thinks it'll hurt more."

Argento Rivera blinked as the gun discharged. He was getting good at not flinching when gunshots started. He was still excitable, though. He was trying to train himself out of it, but it was slow progress.

Tulio spun the gun around by the fingerguard, then held it out to Argento. "Give it a try. It's easy. Point and squeeze. There's no kick to speak of."

Argento, surprised that he was going to be permitted to touch a 'serious gun,' hesitated for a moment before reaching to take the firearm. "Gracias, Señor Zepeda, I-"

Faster than Argento could think, the gun was back around in Zepeda's hand again, and aimed at Argento's head. "If you're getting a gun from a man, Rivera, watch the gun, not his eyes. The first thing Poppa taught me was how to make someone think I'm harmless. Handy for an eight-year-old, eh?" He smiled beatifically. "Watch the gun. If you see it start to do what I just made it do, smack his hand. That'll buy you the second you need to shoot him. Don't worry about him punching you, if he's shooting at you right, you'll see it out of the corner of your eye with plenty of time. Remember: watch the gun."

Spinning the gun about again, Tulio let Argento take the heavy Eisen pistol. "Stick your feet," Tulio said as Argento started to aim. "You won't fire worth a damn unless you're anchored. Steady. Steady. You've got time, put the butt in the palm of your other hand. Aim like you mean it. Squeeze when you're ready."

Argento listened carefully, obeying. He squinted down the sight of the pistol and fired. "That didn't look good."

"That's right in the sternum," Tulio sighed. "It'll hurt like Legion's gnawing on his chest, but that won't stop anyone. Try again."

Argento tried again.

"Better. That'll go clear through his left lung. He'll gurgle a bit for sure. We'll have to work on this some more."

Argento smiled. Praise for him in Artidenot was rare in the extreme. He was still relatively new; he didn't know the world's largest criminal organization had an interest in ancient artifacts until someone called him up about it. They promised a great deal of money, and to a poor young historian like Argento, that was all he needed to hear. That they were truly interested in Theah and, more accurately, Castille's history was just an added bonus. He managed to bumble his way through the Gauntlet; now he was a full-fledged member of Artidenot.

Tulio's cellular phone rang, surprising Argento. He fumbled the gun, which cartwheeled out of his hands. He scrambled to catch it only to see it land in the gentle grip of Tulio's right hand. A disapproving scowl made it clear that Argento should go stand somewhere else.

Tulio answered his phone. Argento moved away, towards the end of the firing range's booths. He looked at the holes he'd punched in the target. They were pretty good shots, for him. He wasn't very good with a gun at all, but the Einfluss seemed to be agreeable, unlike the chromey little wasps they usually handed him. Perhaps the weight was an added security blanket for him.

"Sí. I'm with Argento now. He got the message," Tulio continued into the phone. "Yes, he's coming. He's excited. I know. I know! What? Oh, I thought you said something else. Sí. He knows. Not that. I'll tell him, relax! He's bright, he can figure it out. I'm on the firing range in San Lucas. No, Ricardo isn't here. All right. I'll see you in about three, three and a half hours." He clapped the mouthpiece shut.

"Who was that?" Argento asked.

"My sister," Tulio said, stroking his goatee a moment. He set down the Einfluss, then remembered it was his and slid it back into its holster. "She wants to be ahead of schedule, as usual. Are you packed?"

"More or less. Did you send me the password?"

"No, no passwords for this Operation. Gitana only picked people she trusts for it." He grinned. "Your friend Manuel made the cut."

Argento smiled. He'd met Manuel the last time (also the first time) he'd worked on an Operation for Artidenot. Manuel was a cat burglar before Artidenot found him. Now he's a professional cat burglar. Manuel has a certain undeniable charisma about him, one that Argento was quite amused by. The two got along well, because Manuel could break into anything provided he had an idea of what to expect, which is typically what Argento was brought along for.

From the sounds of things, this Op was going to be a great deal of fun.

"Graham, she scares me," Lugh commented as the two brothers treaded through the halls of a department store.

"Hmm?" Graham turned, after hearing himself addressed. "What?"

"The Vodacce girl," Lugh replied. "She's a sorceress."

"I know," Graham said, turning back to their intended path. "She told us."

"Don't ye think that's a bit bloody odd? I don't pretend to know scripture chapter and verse, but isn't sorcery a sin?"

"Like fornication?" Graham remarked, almost off-handedly.

Lugh turned red, an unusual event. "That was low, Graham."

"Mmm?" Graham turned again, apparently not paying attention.

"Are you even listening to me?" Lugh demanded.

"Yes," Graham said, turning and walking down another aisle. "Because she claims to be a sorceress, you're upset."

"Claims? You don't believe her?"

"Does it matter?" Graham's distant tone was beginning to worry his brother more.

"What d'ya mean, 'Does it matter?'"

"She's not cursing anyone. She's not turned anyone into a toad. What's the harm in letting her say that? If she turns into a problem, then we'll deal with it. What I see," he said, his voice firming and seeming less airy. "Is a young woman that's in some trouble. All she really wants is some real clothes," he continued, tugging a pair of black jeans off the rack in the women's department matching Donata's description of her size. "And some place to stay for a few days. If that's unreasonable, lock me up now, because I'm a bad, bad man."

Lugh sighed. "I give up." The rest of their journey continued in silence, as Lugh watched his brother go about his set task without a flicker of emotion or uncertainty flash across his face. The Graham he was familiar with would be full of bad jokes about the absurdity of what was going on. This one was eerily quiet. The only time he saw Graham's expression change was when they paid for their purchases, a slight grimace tugged across his mouth at how many pounds he was parting with. He said nothing more, merely took the items and marched out.

That was something else Lugh noticed. Graham was marching more, now. He was stroller by nature, given to a laid-back, rolling walk of someone in no particularly hurry. Now he strode with purpose. It made things even more difficult because Graham was a bit taller than Lugh, and thus had a longer step. Lugh had to hurry to keep up.

I'm over-bloody-analyzing this, Lugh thought to himself, quite angry. Graham's just reacting badly to being attacked. By men who feel no pain and spontaneously combust. He's been in funks before. Hopefully this'll pass. As they approached the Shieldman, Lugh directed a baleful glare at the trunk. That sword's related somehow.

Once arriving, Graham tapped on the window. "Apologies for my lack of fashion sense, but you look like someone who'd appreciate green and black," he said to Donata, handing her the green turtleneck and black slacks through the open window. "Lugh picked out yuir shoes."

"Thank you," Donata smiled gratefully. Lugh and Graham took up their agreed positions at either window, facing outwards, while she quickly changed from the previous robe to her newly purchased attire. After a few minutes, she opened Graham's door, causing him to step aside to allow her to step out. Tugging her hair out of the collar of the turtleneck and then cuffing the collar so it still concealed her tattoo, she looked about. "This is perfect. Thank you. Now, let's find a café or something. I'm parched and starving."

Jacqueline yaw-ummed her way into wakefulness, rolling over and stretching slightly. When she felt something prevent her from doing so, she started a bit, but then remembered where she was. She turned her head east, towards the room's lone window. Dawn had come and went, and it was now mid-morning. Deciding that was sleeping in enough, she stretched again and lifted Royce's hand up off her backside by his wrist. How adorable, she mused, smiling at his sleeping form. Trying his damndest to be a gentleman and then foiled by his own sleep cycle.

Royce blinked into wakefulness at the slight jostling, then realized precisely what he'd done. His arm snapped back to his person quickly, as though it were a rabid animal he was afraid to let away from his person. "I am so sorry," he began, trying to stifle a yawn. "I didn't-"

"I can excuse sleep-groping," Jacqueline smiled, patting him on the head. "Think nothing of it." And with nothing more than that, she slipped sideways out of Royce's top bed and landed on her feet. After a moment of stretching, she inquired "Where's Stephen?"

"Hmm?" Royce asked, still a little mortified. "Stephen? He's not down there?" Referring to the lower bunk that was built into the wall a half-meter off the ground rather than Royce's, which was two meters up.

"Not in evidence," she replied.

"Well, he's either started waking up much earlier, or he stayed over at Emmanuelle's place."

"Emmanuelle?"

"I think they're seeing each other. I don't know. He doesn't talk about her. He thinks I don't like her."

"Do you?"

"He deserves better than her, I think." Royce worked his way over to the edge of the bed and leaned over slightly. "Do you always sleep in what you wore that day?"

Scooping a mass of blond curls over her shoulder, Jacqueline rose from where she was gathering her things for a visit to the bathroom. "If it's anything less than an evening gown, yes. Why?"

"Nothing, I've just never seen anyone do that before."

"Oh. Well, I hope I've been a learning experience." Royce minced a bit, unsure of what to say next. Jacqueline filled in the space for him. "I know what I want to do today." This had his attention. She toed her sword belt up and dangled it before him. "I saw it on the way here, I know you have a fencing facility here. I'll teach you, so you don't have to stare at this thing all the time, petrified."

"Are you sure?" Royce asked. "I mean, if that's really what-"

"Yes. Get dressed. This lady needs breakfast."

"Orange juice for the rat," Will said, drumming his knuckles on the bar. Rich came up behind, leading Alec into the Dancing Dog, one of the half-dozen waterfront pubs that catered to the Channelers and their ilk. "Rich and I'll both have rums, straight up."

"Speak for yourself!" Rich said. "I'll have a Reilly, light on the crème."

At hearing the two young men's cavalier manner, the pub's patrons swivelled about to see what was cause for such fanfare. A few thought they recognized the still slightly soggy figure with them, but most dismissed him out of hand.

The bartender, one Katrina Bails, slung her rag over her shoulder and finished her conversation with a regular before ambling towards Rich and Will. Easily both youth's combined ages, she was well-known even outside of the pub's customers for her formidability in all arenas. "Morning, Misters Fields and Richten," she said, leaning her girth on the interior surface of the bar. "Who's this handsome bloke we have with us today?"

"This is the one and only Alec Westin, of the Luthon Lions," Will said as he seated himself. Rich all of hauled Westin onto a stool between them.

Katrina caught Westin's chin in one of her calloused hands and examined his still-drying face a bit. "He's passable, but he's no Westin," she observed, smoothing a grey flyaway back into her hair. "Good job, boys. Who is he, really?" Rich and Will looked at each other over Westin, not ready for disbelief. Westin, silent until now, reached backwards and pulled his borrowed turtleneck shirt over his head and turned around. Three sets of eyes widened, Rich and Will's in surprise and Katrina's in recognition. "I stand corrected, Mr. Westin. What'll you have? 'S on the house."

Alec, looking quite pleased with himself, made a motion of negation. "I always pay for my drinks. And everyone else's!" He said this last part loud enough for everyone to hear. "Next one's on me!" he announced. This, as is often wont to do in pubs around the world, brought on a cheer and inpromptu toasts to the fit young gentleman at the bar. "I myself, however, will have nothing more than your finest tea, if I could. I'm trying to cut down on the liquor."

"Not a problem, sir," Katrina replied, already into the task of producing drinks that everyone would be asking for soon. "This would be the day that Michael wanted off," she muttered.

"Where did you get that?" Rich asked, nodding towards Westin's tattoo underneath the shirt. "It looks painful."

"It was, but it was worth it," Alec commented. "And I got it in Cathay."

"Why did Kat recognized it?" Rich pressed.

Alec smiled. "If either of you was a poofter, you'd know."

Rich and Will looked at each other again, confused. Then it dawned on Will.
"You were in an issue of-"

"Yes," Alec confirmed. "Three pages, and though I wasn't on the cover, I
was mentioned there."

They both looked at Katrina, then back at Alec. "That's more than I want to
know about Kat," Will said.

"Will! Rich!" bellowed a voice from across the room. Both turned to the
source, looking concerned.

Approaching from the doorway was a formidable figure with a none-too-distant resemblence to Will. Taller, broader, and with a great deal more grey hair, he swept between the tables with the efficiency of someone who'd clearly been doing it for years. Reaching the three quickly, he crossed thickly muscled arms and set his feet in the stance of one who was expecting a very good explanation delivered in world-record time. "Morning, pa, this is-" Will began.

"Did you tie down that beached Zephyr?" the elder Fields demanded.

"Yes, me and Rich did."

"Rich and I," he corrected, tweaking his son's nose. "Speak civilized. Who's this?" he asked, indicating Westin.

Will, still clutching his nose, made no reply, so Westin, amused slightly by the situation replied "Number forty-three."

"Forty-three?" Fields parroted. "So what, you're a number? What's that to mean?"

"Number forty-three for the Luthon Lions," Katrina supplied, setting the drinks down. "This is Alec Westin."

"Westin, eh?" Mr. Fields questioned. "You're the football player that disappeared some days ago, then?"

Alec nodded. "That would be me."

"Then that's your yacht in our bay isn't it?"

"Yes, it is."

"Well, it's Channeler property now."

"Good."

Completely unready for the positive reply, Fields was flabbergasted for a moment. "Good? You're happy your boat's salvage?"

"Thrilled. Saves me the effort of trying to sell it. I don't want it."

Fields got a speculative look. "You're not telling me something."

"You're right," Westin replied coolly. "I bought it while drunk and took out within the hour. I woke up on it out in the middle of the Trade with no idea how I got there." Westin blew the steam off his tea and took a sip. "So I had to sail back. Here I am."

"That sounds like a lie to me, duke," Fields announced, still looking speculative. "I haven't bought any boats in some time, but I'm pretty sure they don't just heave'em out on the water an hour after you buy'em."

Alec shrugged. "Maybe it's different when you're three sheets to the wind."

"Maybe indeed," the elder Fields conceded. "Rich, Will, front and center right now." He turned to leave, causing the two younger men to scurry after him.

Watching this for a moment, Alec turned back to Katrina, taking another sip of his tea. "What's turned him into an ogre?"

"You sit through two wars where you watch your best friends die all around you and see if it doesn't adjust your attitude slightly. Dirk's a bit protective of his Will."

"I wish my father took an even distant interest in me," Westin sighed. "Every time I did something, his comment was 'That's splendid, Alec. Where're my glasses?' or 'Good job, Alec. Now run along, Daddy's busy.' I mean, overprotective wouldn't be good either, but-"

"Kirk's not Will's father. Uncle. He semi-formally adopted the boy after his parents died in the Second Rise. Rich has much the same story, though he's not related, and his mum lived for a few months after shrapnel split her skull open." Katrina shuddered. "He doesn't think so, but he's been a good father, given what he has. Rich and Will are both good boys, even say their prayers at night like Vaticines. You know what they say, 'When you have nothing, there's no trouble sharing.'"

"Yeah," Alec noted, agreeing with her wisdom. "They seem a lot better than some I could name."

"Teammates?" Katrina asked cannily, picking up a glass to scrub it out with rag.

"They're all good blokes, don't misunderstand, but I wouldn't ask any of them to help me move a telly or anything. Those two," he nodded towards Rich and Will, visible through one of the bar's windows, "are the genuine article. Rare, that is."

"Mm hmm. You're lucky they found you, and not some of these other sea dogs. You'd find yourself tossed in the back of a truck and dumped off at the
bluehats' office."

"A situation I've become all too familiar with, recently."

At this, Katrina scrounged around underneath the bar and came up with an issue of FOOTBALL MONTHLY. Westin put up a hand. "Yeah, that's what got me suspended."

"I thought so," she nodded, sliding back under again, seeing that he was familiar with what she intended to reference. "You're all over the news. You and that thing that happened in Vendel."

"I'm competing with someone in Vendel?"

"Yessir," she hissed, cracking her knuckles. "Some boy, nineteen I think, lost his mind and heaved his supervisor through a door and start walloping him in the lot in broad daylight."

"Doesn't seem newsworthy," Alec commented. "Scuffles like that happen from time to time."

"Let me be clear, love: he heaved him through the door, not the doorway. From what I heard on the telly, the supervisor's in the hospital on his stomach getting his ribs and face rebuilt and the glass shards removed from his back."

"Ah!" Westin winced, taking another sip of his tea. "What about the boy?"

"Never caught him," Katrina continued. "He and his friend disappeared in an old Walker."

"The Kirk police can't catch a Walker? That's very sad."

She shrugged. "I'm sure we'll hear the whole story when the State or Montaigne decides to make it into a movie and preach about the oppressed proletariat in Vendel."

Westin laughed. "Probably."

"RORY!" Neil bellowed, marching down the ramp from their future vessel, the Grey Horizon. He was toting a tightly bound canvas bag in one hand and was holding a red-stained tissue to his forehead with the other.

Rory, who was busy poring over equipment that'd be loaded on the Grey today. It'd been a week since that day in the restaurant, and Rory was quite pleased to hear that Neil, Bridget, and José all agreed to go. Eliza's lack of response concerned him. She wouldn't answer her hotel phone at all, and another call confirmed that she checked out. Rory could derive no answer from her home in Avalon, either. He hoped she wasn't on a connecting flight back home.

Neil shoved the canvas bag into Rory's hands, announcing tartly "I found these three bastards in the hold, strutting about as though they were the king's own."

Balancing the weight of the bag on the clipboard he was holding, Rory used his other hand to see what was inside. As he opened it, three forlorn and very disgruntled faces looked back at him. In a flash, all three cats, of descending size, leaped out of the bag and began trotting back up the ramp to the ship. They looked wet; it was likely Neil had used water to herd them, which would explain their cross mood. They were the most unusual color, blue and caramel and white, with ears folded forward, giving them a humble appearance despite their officious gait. "Highland Folds," Rory commented in surprise.

Neil squawked in alarm when they leaped out of the bag. "I am not catching them again."

"Don't bother," Rory said dismissively, waving away his comment as he tossed the bag back. "Cats're good luck on a ship."

"Superstition based on their proficiency at eating rats," Neil snorted, taking the tissue from his head, whereon rested scratches as likely done by a cat's claws. He dabbed away at the slightly bloody area again. "They'll just get underfoot and Bridget will spend valuable time doting on them."

"Yer parents never let ye have a pet, did they?" Rory smiled. "Leave'em be. If they're a problem, we'll deal with'em in port."

Neil's only response was a disgusted snort. "Where is everyone else? Aren't we supposed to depart tomorrow morning?"

"Yes, and give them time. The Ruota was likely a little inaccurate about what they had to fetch from home."

"With the money they gave us, can't we just buy it?"

"In theory. But some of us like to have our lucky socks with us." Bridget was the only one with lucky socks, but their status was near legendary in the team.

"More-" Neil began, but stopped when a taxi pulled up to the end of the road at the marina. José's massive form unfolded from the back, chatting amiably with the driver as they rounded on trunk of the cab and began unloading José's luggage.

"The first doth arrive," Rory smiled. "Good'f him, too. We could use an extra hand loading all this up." As if on cue, another taxi arrived and disgorged Bridget, also talking with her driver, though in his native Vodacce.

"We're short only one," Neil nodded gravely. Rory's lips tightened.

"Why so grave?" Bridget asked, wheeling a small parade of luggage behind herself. All of the suitcases were new. "It's almost time to go. I'd thought you two'd be happier than this."

"They're going to pout over Eliza not coming," José stated, toting five suitcases by himself by contrivance of creative arrangement under his arms and in his hands.

"Oh, grow up," Bridget chided, lining up her contributions to the cargo neatly. "We can call and torture her with all the fun we're having while she's home. That'll make her sorry."

Neil looked as though he remembered something. "I left you a present in the hold," he told Bridget.

She regarded him strangely. "Thank you. I think."

"Who do we know that drives a full-sized van with a radio antenna meant to broadcast?" José asked as he rounded up his luggage, staring past the other three, towards the road he just arrived from.

In a small parade, two vans, one with the aforementioned antenna on it, arrived, followed by three sedans of varying make and year (though none more than five years old). Once they all came to a halt, their passengers began to exit. All four members of the team choked down a cry of joy to see Eliza among them, since most of their attention was fixed on the others. The second van issued forth a mess of cables and wires, which were carefully strung along the ground by technicians busy trying to adapt their system to the docks in the marina. The driver of the car carrying Eliza was a patrician-looking gentleman in his late thirties, with a designer suit and a shock of grey hair at his temples, eyes concealed behind sunglasses. After he was outside of the car, he and Eliza embraced, traded a brief kiss, and released her so that she could run to speak to Rory and the others.

"You weren't going to leave without me, were you?" she asked, smiling ear-to-ear. "I just had to get a few things in order."

"That's an understatement," Neil said, staring back at the entourage. "I trust the dapper bloke in blue is your husband?"

"That's Richard, yes," she said, turning back to see him. "I called him to talk about this, and he absolutely refused to do it over the phone, he said he'd come down and see me himself. We've reached an agreement."

"Oh?" Rory looked expectant.

"Richard is perfectly amenable to the idea of me going. On one condition."

"What?"

"That he gets to film this Project."

Neil sputtered. "Film a Project? Whatever for? Is ABC1 so desperate for good shows that they'll try to prop up Explorers rooting through ruins as entertainment?"

"Richard says it's very possible. This show will be filmed live, with editing for length alone. It's a new idea of his, a sort of walk-through-a-documentary, or a walkumentary, as he calls it."

José smiled. "Did you hear that? We're going to be on the telly."

Rory wished he had a bottle of whiskey right this instant. "Wait, wait, wait. We have to lug film crew along with us? A narrator? Their equipment?"

"Of course not," Eliza chided. "The crew and their equipment will have their own boat." She pointed across the docks to another, slightly smaller ship called Silver Dolphin. "That one. And as for the narrator, you're looking at her."

Neil laughed. "You're bloody serious." He laughed again. "Our little Eliza is going to host a show on the ABC."

Directly after this, Richard Wayfare arrived. "Good afternoon one and all," he said, smiling a winning smile as he slid up next to Eliza in a motion similar to that of a snake. "I must say, I could hardly contain myself when I heard I was going to get the chance to meet you all. I've heard volumes about you all over these last years." He put an arm around Eliza's shoulders. "Liza speaks of you all like you were Elaine's own Knights. I'm just sorry she hasn't had a chance to mention me."

"Oh, she has," Rory said, shaking Richard's extended hand. "And we know that you must be a man of remarkable character in the first place if you could get her to settle down and think about anything stable."

He took off his sunglasses and pocketed them, revealing grey eyes. "Ah, you
prop me up too high, Mr. Cathal. I don't think anyone could tame this lioness." He paused, then took his hand from Eliza's shoulder. "I'm terribly sorry, but I've got director things to see to. I'll be back in a moment."

They watched him depart in tandem, then looked back to each other. "Eliza,"
Rory began. "Have you talked with the Society about this?"

In reply, she produced a letter from her satchel. "Of course. They're thrilled with the idea. They suspect it'll help increase our appeal to the public."

Rory looked the letter over until Neil tapped his shoulder. "Captain, if I may have a word with you privately?" Rory looked up, confused, but then followed Neil's lead to an aside far from the group. "Have you ever had the
feeling you just met Legion and don't entirely dislike him?"

"What are you at, Neil?"

"Eliza's husband. He seems friendly enough, but there's something - wrong about him. I don't like this filming idea. Well, I like the idea of filming, but not now, not by his people. I know it sounds ridiculous, but-"

"You're right, Neil, it does," Rory said. "Calm yourself. It's all right that you don't like the man, but don't do anything silly. You hardly get along with everyone you meet." Neil's face darkened. "Oh, don't get righteous. You-"

It was his turn to stop in midsentence, because a limousine arrived at that instant, producing from its interior Amaretta Vignor and her bodyguard, Renzo. The Raggia took six steps out of the car and came to a dead stop as she noticed the rising antenna coming out from the back of the van. When she turned back to making a beeline for Cathal, her face was a stormcloud.

"Oh, bugger." Now he was certain he wanted a bottle of whiskey.

Somewhere within her confusion soaked mind, it occurred to Donata that she should be expressing more gratitude to these two Highlanders who could've just left her by the roadside and kept on driving. In these days, such charitable souls were rare. Graham had paid out of his own pocket to get her decent clothes, as did Lugh for the meal she was now eating. But when you're burying yourself in a foot long submarine sandwich after not having eaten for three days, you tend to forget things like the words "Thank you."

Graham sat next to her, sipping a dark and steaming coffee and watching her intently, as if how she was eating was something important and gravitic. Lugh looked on as well, but in disbelief. "Theus," he said, staring. "She eats like Ian Selkirk."

"I havenent 'ad aneefing for free days," Donata said, picking up a napkin to get the bit of salad dressing at the corner of her mouth. She paused only long enough to say that before diving in again.

"You could chew," Graham remarked. "I'm sure it'd go down easier if ye did."

"I'm sorry," Donata said, and took the time to down a mouthful before saying "Thank you, both of you. Without you, I might still be lying on the highway or worse. I haven't thanked you enough yet."

"Ah, just remembering what the Book says, Miss Corelli," Lugh chimed. "If I was lying on the side of the road in a robe with no recollection of where I'd been for a while, I'd want two beautiful ladies to help me out."

Donata giggled at Lugh's observation. Despite being blatantly self-promoting, it was true. For brothers, Graham and Lugh couldn't be further apart, yet so similar. Graham was an athlete, or at least was, and naturally given to a stocky body structure, as evidenced by his broad shoulders and obvious muscle tone. He maintained a spruce, almost formal demeanor, contrasted a bit by his long brown hair and its loose binding in the back, keeping most of it out of his eyes. His careful, curious brown eyes. He seemed to move with an air of doubt, yet he never failed in an action or wasted a movement. He was what she would term 'mysterious.'

Lugh, on the other hand, appeared completely comfortable in his own skin, as he did not often sit so much as drape himself over a seat. His short, brown hair was a carefully calculated tousle, meant to make him look roguish and irresponsible (not that that was overly difficult). His ready smile was always just beneath the surface it seemed, and any words he spoke were accompanied by colorful splash of body language and an expressive look. There was something disarming about him, a simple inability to stay upset with him. He was what she would term 'charismatic.'

Still, all this would occur to her only when she was between bites of her sandwich.

"So, how we're going to handle going home?" Graham questioned without preamble.

"Good question," Lugh conceded. "I'ven't a slagging clue. 'Mum, Dad, we found this strange Vodacce woman on the road headed towards the ferry and so we picked her up. Don't worry, she hasn't tried to kill us, although we were attacked by zombies earlier, that's why Graham's car looks like shite on a stick.'"

Donata realized she was being discussed. After swallowing another mouthful: "We needn't tell them the truth about the car."

Graham turned an appraising gaze to her. "What should we tell them, then?"

"An accident?"

"That ate the hood and the back window but nothing else? I'd love to hear the explanation for that one. That also doesn't explain this," Lugh observed, indicating his neck and the purpling bruises there.

"Perhaps when we stopped somewhere, someone attempted to steal parts from it."

The brothers consulted each other with one of their now easily-recognizable silent looks. "That could work," Graham considered. "We'd have to doctor the story a bit. And remove the twisted metal from the hinges of the hood." The hood was already long left in a dumpster at Halport further down the coast.

"And we got back when they were in the middle of it. That'll explain the scuffle," Lugh supplied.

"And they were masked, so we could not see who they were." Donata finished. "Perhaps this will take some attention off of me. Do you think your parents will be truly upset?"

Both brothers speculated a moment before Graham spoke up. "They would be, at first. But once they see you're no danger, they'll remember what good people're supposed to do for the less fortunate."

"How far from your home are we?"

"I'd say another hour once we're over the ferry. Which we should hurry about. They won't wait for us. D'ya mind eating in a moving car?"

"These swords aren't worth the plastic it took to make them," Jacqueline observed, hefting one after the other and steadily growing more cross as she did. "These are terrible, even for practice."

When she started heaving them backwards, Royce took that as his cue to start catching them. He had an armful by now, and it was taking some agility for him to catch each one as it was hurled. Jacqueline's discriminating taste finally halted on two of the heavier épées clearly sitting in the section of the equipment clearly not meant for beginners or novices.

"Are you sure about those?" Royce asked. "We're not supposed to have those out-"

Jacqueline caught him by his chin with the arm the swords were held in the crook of. "Don't be silly, Royce. If you look like you know what you're doing, people will generally leave you alone." She released. "It's a trait endemic to the human race; the desire not to complicate things if possible. If we're not doing any harm, then they can hardly have a reason to drag us, can they?"

"Drag us?"

"Drag us. Drag us in, drag us before a magistrate, you know, drag."

"Oh. Never heard of it."

"You have too! I've said it a dozen times in the chats."

Royce shrugged. "Don't remember."

"Whatever," she said, taking an armload of swords from him and returning them to the racks. Afterwards, she led him onto the mirror-bordered practice floor, testing the floor there with grunts of satisfaction. "Good concrete," she mused, referring to the floor directly under the tiling they walked on. "One of the schools I attended made you practice on foam mats. If I had a penny for every time I fell on my arse during that six months." She turned and face Royce, tossing him his sword. "Before we begin, I think-"

"Aren't we supposed to be wearing those?" Royce interrupted, nodding towards the white bodysuits and masks on the far end of the room.

Jacqueline turned and looked to see what he meant. "I don't know." She looked back. "How often do you think you'll have time to put one on before a fight breaks out?"

Royce felt slightly stupid for a moment. "Not often."

"Good," she smiled spritely. "Now, pay attention. Fencing is a like any kind of fighting. There're rules, and then there are those who say 'There're only rules if you get caught breaking them.' We'll start with rules, because you seem like the type that would get along that way best."

Royce nodded. "All right."

"First rule, how you hold that thing."

Royce looked down. "How am I supposed to?"

"Right now, since we're not in a fight, like that is fine. The most agreed on way is with your arm slightly crooked, the blade held at a thirty-degree angle with your forearm. This is relaxed, but it still lets you bring it up quickly." She demonstrated, imitating Royce's stance and snapping her sword up to a ready position with blinding speed. "No one's going to surprise you by aiming for your gut, because then you'll do this," she parried the lunge of an imaginary attacker, "and then punch him right in the nose." She brought her free hand up but allowed it to hesitate right where a slightly taller attacker's nose would be. "Common myth: running someone through is a good way to kill him. If you pierce his heart, then yes. However, the stomach is a slow and painful death that gives him plenty of time to make sure you come with him. Not to mention you having your sword stuck in him."

"What about if they come at my head?" Royce inquired.

"Simple," she replied, returning to the ready-from-relaxed position again. "You sway. Dodging is a dirty trick in the opinion of some schools, since they're used to someone meeting their blade by parry or getting hit. Some of your countrymen would call me a cheating wench for that. The Castillian schools would shrug and deal with it. The Vodacce would probably do the same." She cleared her throat. "I'm getting ahead of myself. How're you with geometry?"

"Fair, I'd say," Royce said after a moment of contemplation.

"Good, because you're going to learn a lot about angles in a three-dimensional plane in a minute. Hold your sword like this." She held hers at a forty-five degree angle between level with the ground and perpendicular to it. She tucked her off hand behind her. Royce followed suit. "Now, I want you to do your best to stop me from hitting you. You are allowed exactly one movement to do it." She took a slow, outside swing.

Royce made what he judged was probably a good attempt at a parry. "Like
this?"

"That's a good start," Jacqueline nodded primly. "You see how our swords meet?" He nodded. "Good. Because if this were a real fight, I'd do this." She slid her blade around and down his, keeping the guard out of the way of her blade, and thumped the dull tip of the practice sword into Royce's throat. "You're dead, because you didn't parry correctly."

Royce rubbed his throat, a little surprised. "How am I supposed to do it?"

"Parrying a sword is like blocking a punch or kick," Jacqueline said, backing up and taking up her stance again. "You do not meet force with force, you divert force with force. Instead of bringing your sword up, do this." She swept hers around in a tight arc. "Can you do that?"

Royce nodded. "I think so."

"Good. Show me." And she swung again, the same as before. Royce hesitated momentarily, but then imitated her parry as best he could, shunting her sword to the side. "Good!" Jacqueline said, smiling. "First lesson learned on the first try. It took me three to figure that out."

Royce felt warm. Very warm. It wasn't the physical exertion he was undergoing right this instant, but Jacqueline's approval was apparently the source. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had this much fun. Come to think of it, he was having a difficult time remembering any other time he'd had any fun. It was well on to eight o'clock and she insisted that they stop for dinner that he realized how long they'd been there.

Vehl was not a man often excited, but he was nearly giddy with anticipation as he took the flight home from Vodacce. He thought about getting some people on the search for Donata right away, but he didn't get where he was by lurching off on the first opportunity, and he hated talking to people he didn't know over the phone.

He was very nearly unable to contain himself when he slid aside the door to the closet-alcove in his office to hang his coat-

Vehl stared at the situation, one hand on the door and the other holding his coat. He'd hung his coat up that way for eight years. It was part of his routine, as riveted in place as Vehl Tower's foundation. If I am to be a different man, Vehl reasoned. I should start doing things differently. He turned to the right and closed the door. He tossed his coat onto the leather couch nearby, used for the rare occasions when he had many people in his office. It landed and stayed, one sleeve draped over the back, the collar just over the back cushions. Vehl smiled. I'm such a rebel, he thought, poking fun at himself.

Still grinning at his own silliness, he sank into his chair behind his desk and nudged the mouse at the computer mounted in his desk. The home site of Vehl Industries appeared from the screensaver. Vehl clicked on the icon that would fetch his e-mail. Vehl didn't get much in the way of personal e-mail, but he was subscribed to a number of news mailing lists, which correlated all of the world and financial news he needed into neat and linked blurbs compiled into orderly messages sent to his inbox. Having been gone for ten days, Vehl had twenty such messages to look through.

He was praying for some obvious evidence that his life was changing, but by the thirteenth message, he was rapidly losing his patience. I suppose it is a bit greedy that I want a change so quickly. Corelli agreed she'd set to work immediately but I couldn't get a cold read on her. She might be holding out until I have her daughter. That thought didn't comfort Vehl. He'd been too long away from the negotiating table. He was making stupid mistakes.

The final new brief, which covered the day before, caught Vehl's attention. He scanned it carefully. Two youths assaulted and nearly killed a restaurant manager right here in Kirk, he summarized. How odd. One was a former employee. Upset about losing his job, no doubt. Vehl checked the name of restaurant. I own that one, he mused. Curious.

Disappointed nothing else interesting concerned Vendel, Vehl reached for one of the phones on his desk and moved to hit the button to page his secretary, Romia. He hesitated, then pressed it anyway.

"Yes, sir?" her voice appeared on the earpiece a moment later.

"Do you have a directory, Romia?"

There was a stunned silence. "For our offices or the city?"

"For Carleon," Vehl supplied.

"Yes, sir."

"Could you bring it in here? I have some calls to make."

"Are you sure, sir? I can take care of that."

"Don't trouble yourself, dear. Bring me the directory. I'll deal with this."