Catrice sighed and reached up to wipe her forehead before remembering that her headwear precluded such an action. She instead settled for readjusting her veil. Some of the workers expressed surprise that she had rolled up her sleeves to join in with the very deepest of the labour, but Catrice found that if she stayed close to her countrymen and other legionnaires, she'd receive little grief about it. While not able to haul as much of the rubble as the men here, she made up for her lack of muscle mass with sheer persistence. The work was proceeding with the same depressingly slow speed that she had estimated a week ago. Given the lack of capable vehicles, nearby places to be rid of the debris, and the constant watch for further terrorism, and it made the work they did get done astonishing.

Shortly after noon, someone walked through the ruins calling out for lunchtime in both Montaigne and Kardobbian-Crescent. Glad for the break, everyone dropped their current burdens. Catrice, at the time standing in the bed of a truck meant for hauling, decided the first few minutes of her lunch would be spent resting, sat down on a brick and leaned against the cab. From her position, she reviewed the floor of the Maqra-Shil. Almost all of the interior was cleared out. At this rate, theyd have all of the mosques clean (relatively) in a month. From there, the difficult work would begin.

She was surprised when she heard a clunk next to her. She thought she was alone after everyone filed out of the mosque. She looked down to see the lasst glimpse of a hand depositing a bottle in the back of the truck. Curious, she stood, walked over to it, and picked it up. It was wine, good wine, too, nearly a hundred years old, and from Montaigne, too. Her briefing snapped into place as she looked at the bottle more closely. No evidence of a Molotov cocktail being the intent, the cork was still firmly in place, and it didnt have the color of nitroglycerin, Catrice could tell despite the deep green bottle. It looked like an ordinary bottle of wine.

She turned around and looked for whoever had placed it. He was visible, but fleeing as fast as his feet could take him. "WAIT!" Catrice called in Crescent. She was over the side of the bed instantly and running him down.

The chase took them out of the mosque and into the streets of the city. Catrice worried for a moment about attracting the attention of the Kardobbian law enforcement, but a woman chasing a man with such fervor was more likely to be a topic of conversation than a cause for fear. The man was obviously familiar with the city and knew plenty of confusing tricks and a few twists that would give a geometrist headaches, but he was no match for Catrice's naturally agile mind (and feet). He was looping around in what he hoped was a clever doubling-back to have his arm nearly jerked out of its socket by Catrices iron grip. She dragged him aside, pushing him up against the building they were nearest.

"Who are you?" she demanded, and without waiting for answer or prompt, pulled his veil aside. Only to feel her stomach hit her feet. "Hector? Hector Passant?"

In a flicker-flash, he broke her grip and clapped a hand over her mouth. "Shhh! Quiet, Arrent!" He looked about. "That is not my name anymore. I am Hassim ar-Rashid. My life belongs to Theus now." Seeing she was going to make no other immediate verbal faux pas, he released her.

Catrice rubbed her face where he had gripped it. "Have you been here these last years?" she asked.

"Yes," he replied. "My eyes have been opened. The message of the Prophet has been made clear to me. I am a new man."

"By the UWP's treaty with Kardobbia, I could drag you back for your desertion, Hector!" she exclaimed. "I just thank Theus that I didn't have to explain your disappearence to your family."

His breath caught on the last sentence. "Hassim," he corrected. "My life does not belong to mortal institutions any longer. I am a citizen of Kardobbia and a follower of the Prophet. It is better this way, Catrice. These people may not be rich in material things, but the Will of Theus lives and breathes in this land. To be here is to walk in His presence. How can you ask me to leave this!"

She sighed. She seemed to be doing that a lot, recently. "I am not asking you to do anything. Is that why you left?"

"Yes."

"Why did you give me the wine? You were saving that for when you could return home and marry your fiancée, what was her name, Elena, weren't you?"

A shadow of pain flashed acrossed his features. "That was my past. I am a new man now. I will not drink the fruit of the vine, nor will I return to Montaigne unless Theus wills it. It is a gift, to you, from an old friend." He attempted a weak smile.

Catrice simply stared. The Hector Passant she remembered was a fellow member of Montaigne Navy stationed with her at Tuyameed. One day, he just wasn't in his bunk. Some noise was made about his disappearence, but at the time her head was swimming with thoughts of her restationing in Barcino. A week wasn't a very long time to get to know him, but she had counseled him when she saw he was having a crisis of faith a few days before his vanishing act. Something dawned on her in that moment. In her counsel, she had suggested that he seek Theus influence in the world. It was possible her advice had resulted in this. The implication staggered her.

"It is best that I go," he said quickly, and left before the ramifications of what she had realized sank in.

"How odd," Erica commented, taking down her binoculars and throwing them to Virgil.

"Something wrong?" Basto asked, catching them handily.

"Nothing in particular," she said, swiveling her head to look down at him. "Just me, I think."

"At the risk of being beaten within an inch of my life, Captain, I would submit that you are rather odd."

Her reply was the flat look that Virgil took to be her smile. "No, I mean that I feel odd," she continued. "I think it's some form of anxiety."

"Oh, you're nervous, then?"

She made the imperceptible shift Virgil took to be her shrug. "I suppose so. It's been a while, I don't remember nervousness very well."

"I reiterate my previous statement."

From then on, silence ruled the air between them. Erica surveyed the men now under her command. The Blackhawks knew their duties well enough on the approach of a vessel. Hidden amidst a small archipelago not far from their base, no one would ever believe that the pirates would be able to move on anyone in this particular part of the Forbidden Sea due to the reefs that abounded. Unbeknownst to anyone save themselves, the Blackhawks had cleared away large portions of the reefs some time ago through the use of military-grade dynamite sold at a discount by Ussura after the collapse of the UURA.

And, of course, anyone foolish enough to come out this way to investigate would meet an immediate and lethal response from the Hawks.

The efficiency of the setup amazed Erica, and she was not easy to impress. From what she understood from Virgil's explanation, the original Blackhawks came into being almost eleven years ago, and at the time were no more than a gang of thugs that hijacked the boats of anyone that struck their fancy and sold said boats to less-than-scrupulous buyers in Vodacce and Castille. In the intervening years, as more and more people joined the gang, men of actual intelligence began to help with the organization. It was still a gang of thugs, but it was a gang that was organized, had a command structure and respectable equipment.

Of course, Erica would hardly call any of those three a credit to those that maintained them. The oragnization was rough and primarily delineated by what little common sense pirates could be said to have, with the weak, unaggressive, and unclever relegated to the less pleasurable tasks. Which meant that ninety percent of the band were broompushers and black marketeers, and the remaining ten actually did the stealing.

The command structure was as casual as the organization. The only clear superiors were Virgil, Miranda Auterstein, and anyone with military training (or an acceptable substitute by way of Artidenot or some other form of crime). Virgil was well-regarded by everyone thanks to his virtually unnatural charisma. No one would dare call him a friend, but no one could bring themselves to hate him, either. Auterstein was the most canny mind in the way of finances amongst the band, and had a decent reputation as a supplier on the black market.

Erica found an immediate dislike of all three immediately. Virgil walked on his belly, that much was obvious. She'd met his like before; they were 'serpent-tongued,' her father would say. That little pink of fold of skin would put such a man in your good graces and escape the headsman's axe with little more than a smile. He was skilled an area Erica herself was deficient in, and that irritated her. Auterstein had only a passing competency in Avaloni, much less Gossian-Avaloni, so communicating with her was virtually impossible, except through Basto, who had a tendency to edit words when he translated. Most anyone who walked with a soldier's swagger was of the opinion that he was the most dangerous thing in the world, and frequently decided to remind everyone of this delusion at every opportunity. Erica had to rearrange the opinions of a few Daniel Learies in the last few days.

Currently, Erica was standing at the bow of a skiff manned by herself, Virgil, and a half-dozen other 'Hawks, approaching a freighter bound for Castille. Erica had only rarely been on boats before that fateful day two weeks ago, and was thus quite impressed with the speed and smoothness with which the cutter coasted through the waves. She imagined she cut quite the picture, standing on the bow, nearly two meters tall, wind blowing back her coat and through her black curls. Reflective blue sunglasses, graciously provided by Virgil, kept the sun out of her eyes. She had always imagined that modern-day pirates would strike at night, when more of the crew was asleep. "No chance," Virgil shrugged. "Half of these idiots wouldn't be able to find their way through the reefs again unless we sent up flares; a very bad idea for people wanting to remain unfound."

It took about ten minutes to depart from the archipelago and intercept the freighter, but it was brief, especially for Erica, who was anticipating her coming experience greatly. In fact, she almost started when Virgil suddenly appeared behind her.

"Ner--" he began, but choked on it slightly. Pushing the pistol that appeared in her hands and was rammed into his throat away, he continued. "Nervous yet?"

"Getting there," she commented. "How do we get aboard the freighter? The railing has to be fifteen meters above the waterline."

"Those ugly things," Virgil said, nodding towards bundles of rope and grappling hooks. "A little archaic, but the old rope ladder is still efficient. We used to have a grappling cannon, but Lasseter managed to render it inoperable when he evacuated his stomach into it after too much rum a few months ago. Ten long hours of cleaning it and it was still worthless."

"He ruined equipment? What was done about it?"

"He was flat broke for two months," Virgil answered. "No shares for him, even though he was forced to go on raids just like the rest of us."

Erica's brow furrowed. "Where is he?"

"On the Hammerhead, over there," Virgil said, pointing at the adjacent cutter. "The blond."

Erica produced one of her guns again, checked the load to be double sure, then sighted Lasseter's head and shot him.

"Theus almighty!" Virgil cursed, dashing to the edge of the skiff in time to see Lasseter fall overboard. "What was that for?"

"He made my life more difficult," Erica said, eyes still on the freighter.

"Everyone comfortable?" Rory asked, looking about the hall. There was no other word for it; most present had never seen a boat large enough to have a dining room, but that was what they were in. The four other members of Rory's team, Amaretta and Renzo, and the on-site director for the film crew, James Reiner, were all seated about a table, portfolios in front of them. A small projector wired to a computer by Rory's position next to a presentation screen held the series of slides he was about to submit.

Nods came from all around. Neil sucked loudly at the end of his cola, procured shortly before the boats put out to sea. "Good," Rory continued. "There've been quite a few questions on as to what were supposed to be hunting down on this Project. A couple of you have guessed, but none of you have come close." He smiled. "The Ruota, kind enough to supply us with everything we need for this journey," he continued, nodding towards Amaretta, "apparently has the utmost confidence in us. Because this is what they want us to find." He nudged the mouse attached to the computer, dispelling the screensaver.

As Rory expected, Neil sputtered on the dregs of his drink. "Three Prophets and the Fourth Behind Them!" he exclaimed, wiping away the splattered drink with his sleeve. "The Chalice of Lethe?"

Upon the projection screen was the electronic scanning of an very old document, dated to the 18^th century, which was transcribed from a tablet found in the 13^th century, transcribed in turn from a Numan fresco dated to the 2^nd century. The most prominent feature was a single cup, the bowl of which measured nearly eight centimeters in diameter and five in depth, the stem of which was another six again, with a base seven centimeters in diameter. It was fairly plain and unmarked, but anyone with the their scholars hat on would know it was far from valueless. Such as Neil, for instance.

He rounded an incredulous glare at Amaretta. "You want us to find the bloody Chalice of Lethe?"

Amaretta vested herself in the frosty manner when used when dealing with the unreasonable. "Yes, Signore Hall. The Ruota needs the Lethean Chalice."

"You don't get much more bloody lost than the Chalice," he spat. "Expeditions for the damn thing have been going on since it was last seen in 1821. Of those five, one made it back with members still alive and they stopped Exploring immediately thereafter. There is someone or something that doesn't want the Chalice found, and from the sounds of things, it is deadly serious about that."

"I would remind you, Neil," Bridget began, shooting him a venomous glance. "That no expedition has been sent since 1928. Exploring has the benefit of much better equipment now. And smarter Explorers."

"I'll concede that, but we still have no idea where to start"

"Yes, we do," Amaretta corrected. She gestured for Rory to continue.

"The account of a one Jorge Rivera made it into the hands of the Ruota recently," Rory said, bringing up a yellowed piece of paper on the next picture on the projection. "Written in 1801, oddly enough. It tells of a journey made by Mr. Rivera that takes him to Altamira, followed by Arisent, then a port town in Eisen we haven't been able to sort out, and finally, to Hadrian's Landing in Avalon."

"Where Renard Colesci was last seen, carrying a treasure he claimed was of great importance," Neil continued. "And he was trying to leave. His loose lips got his throat slit and his precious treasure stolen."

"By one of Rivera's crew," Rory clarified. "Rivera was a merchant, more accurately a shipper and deliverer of goods rare and exotic. The crewman in question was Ibrahim al-Sulam. A hireling from the Crescent countries. This is the last piece of the puzzle that most haven't been able to put together. I don't know how any of our predecessors figured that out, but we have the Ruota to thank for our knowledge."

"So where does that take us next?" Eliza asked.

"Glad y'asked that, Liza," he said, clicking the next frame onto the screen. It was a beautiful, panoramic photo of two islands in Vodacce. "As it turns out, Captain Rivera's ship was docked in Vodacce when it sank. Along with one of Vodacces isles."

"Isla de Caligari," Amaretta put in.

"Precisely," Rory continued. "While many submersibles have been down to pick over the island over the years, I sincerely doubt they looted a sunken merchant ship by the docks. That's our first stop, to see if the Chalice is there."

"And were conveniently near Vodacce already," Eliza said. "I trust this is the reason for the lump of yellow metal were dragging behind us?"

"Yes again, the submersible attached to our arse is also courtesy of the Ruota's seemingly bottomless pocketbook. I hope no one's developed claustrophobia in the last six years, cause itll be snug in there. Especially for you, José." The big Castillian shrugged in response.

The director, silent until now, raised a hand. Everyone turned and looked at him. Rory sighed. "Yes, Mr. Reiner?"

"Will we be able to fit a camera in the submersible?" he asked.

Rory looked to Amaretta. "Si," she nodded. "So long as it is not ridiculously bulky. But a cameraman will preclude the Society's requisite two members together at all times." She looked back to Rory.

"Forget the requisites," Rory snapped. "The Society wants to saddle me with a camera crew, they can deal with their rules being forgotten."

While you could never tell by looking at her, Gwen Brooks felt out of place on the docks of Grauhafen. It had been quite some time since shed been in a civilian waterfront district, and the smell was beginning to wear on her. TSB trained her better than to let such an insignificant thing show, however, and her face remained a lesson in eveness. She wished shes had more time to prepare for this meeting with Richter Graben. He insisted on being where it had happened, allegedly he had something to show her. His tardiness was a minor annoyance. Brooks found she was quite popular in this part of town already; the usual complimentary stares that followed her everywhere were more open and a touch more baffled here in Eisen.

The frustratingly loud shuffle of Grabens approach brought Gwen's head around from her observation of her surroundings for anything that might be pertinent.

Brooks scanned him from heel to head reflexively and was not terribly impressed. Graben looked haggard and without sleep, but certainly not insane. He was attired as all of his fellow workers in this area were, in drab colors that clearly had their stains worked in by years at the job. He was younger than the Eisen government's photo record made him look. He moved with a determined trudge, as though he dreaded where he was going but was certain he would reach it eventually. His eyes occasionally flickered towards the sea, about a quarter mile distant.

"Guten morgen," he said, brown eyes meeting Gwen's blue. "I apologize for the weather, Frau Brooks."

"Nothing worse than what I deal with in Carleon," Gwen replied, returning his gaze with one that could freeze an inferno. "I understand you have been aboard the Valiant, Herr Graben?"

"I have." His eyes flickered out to the sea again, almost too fast for Gwen to notice. "A good vessel. Excellent design. Your navy's pride, no doubt."

"It disappeared not long ago."

"I know."

"How?"

"She told me."

"Who told you?"

"The Queen of the Sea."

"Really, Herr Graben"

"Richter."

"Really, Richter, you dont see the type to believe in fairy tales."

"She's not a faerie tale, Frau Brooks, she's the truth, and she's waiting."

Gwen eyed him carefully. She took a step closer. "For what?"

"For her son to complete his tasks."

"Her son." The anticipation, though nearly smothered by skepticism, was evident.

"The Cxluro," Graben stated, eyes flickering out to sea again.

"Theus, I don't want to have to spell that. Does he have a better name?" she asked, patronizingly.

Graben dragged his eyes back to her. "Call him what you will. His friend sank the Valiant, and he cleaned up what was left."

"Who is his friend?"

"Astor Reinhardt."

Gwen blinked. "Astor Reinhardt? THE Astor Reinhardt? The one that died at the end of the Great War, fifty-six years ago?"

Graben nodded gravely. "Him."

"Perhaps I should reiterate my previous question, Richter. The one that died fifty-six years ago?"

"He's not--" There was a gunshot, and Richter Graben fell where he stood.

Gwen's own gun was out of her shoulder holster in the blink of an eye and she shot upwards, at the crane loading crates onto a freighter behind them. The target was far too long for her to make anything resembling an accurate shot, but she hoped at least to buy herself and Graben a few extra moments. A quick glance down confirmed her suspicions, someone had shot Graben in the back from that far away. The problem was that he was shot in his rib cage, would could mean at best a punctured lung, at worst the bullet ricocheted off his ribs and made an Inish stew of his lungs and heart. She prayed for the former and turned sideways, gun still held high, making herself a smaller target. She kicked him in the side. "Richter, are you still breathing?"

He wheezed his reply. "You've been shot, in case the blinding pain hasnt been enough of a warning. A quick review of the implications: someone wants you dead. I think it would be best if we left. My car is a ways from here, but if we keep our heads about us, we should reach it with little difficulty. Can you walk?" He nodded. "Good. Can you run?" Nod. "Then start," she said, shoving him south, away from the ocean. "Now!"

The next few minutes were a frenzied run which did little to calm any of the other people they saw, since Graben was bleeding from both ends, and Gwen was keeping pace with him, chrome Avalon-issue pistol brandished at everyone not immediately identifiable as not being a threat.

After approximately two hundred meters, the second threat made itself known. A man in a dark blue jumpsuit typical of those issued to commandos and special ops troops jogged his way up to the top of a stack of cargo, knelt, brought a rifle up to his helmet-bedecked head, and drew a bead on them. Gwen took a moment to firm her aim with both hands, the squeezed off a shot into the man's throat, regretting the lack of opportunity to find out who the man was.

Not fifteen steps later, another jumped out right in front of them, this one holding an automatic, and prepared to sweep the entire area. Gwen stuck her foot in front of Graben's feet, causing him to trip and fall. She herself leaped backwards, drawing a second pistol as she went, and nailed him twice in the chest as a spray of bullets soared over her head. They know right where we are, she thought grimly, getting to her feet. Holstering one pistol, she hauled Graben up, too.

Westin smiled into his glass. There was only a diet cola in it, but he had to admit, it met his needs as a drink just as well as bourbon did. The bar he was in earlier in the day had undergone some significant changes since Alec took Katrina shopping after her shift. The previously tinny sound system that was only notionally functional when it was first purchased in the 70's disappeared, to be replaced by a large, state-of-the-art made-in-Cathay high fidelity stereophonic setup with far too many different modes to use and enough bass in the speakers to shake continents. The sparse walls met some cursory interior decoration in the form of higher quality lighting and glass covers about the lighting, which cast unusual radiances about the balance of the previously drab walls.

The elder Channelers grumbled frequently and insulted Alec and Katrina's choices of changes and vowed never to return to this pub ever again, but their children found the ideas quite amusing. Their grandchildren even more so. Attempts to get the sound system were finicky and produced some earsplitting screeches that irritated the patrons. When all was said and done, none could argue that the place was significantly improved without losing its cozy Channeler appeal. Another trip to a photocopier in town and a great deal of tape later and every Channeler for kilometers knew where they were invited to that evening. The fact that said piece of paper taped to each door included the words 'free whiskey, beer, and spirits, courtesy of Alexander Westin' helped even the most skeptical and curmudgeonly of the Channelers to talk his wife into coming to this event.

Now, seven hours after Rich and Will hauled him out of the water at Channel Beach, Alec was hosting one of the most legendary parties ever to be heard of in Avalon's history, all in a pub of no great size in St. Thomas on the southern coast.

A tasteful selection of music (primarily chosen by Katrina) kept the guests in high spirits as music from Alecs grandfathers youth mingled with the following fifty years to create an extraordinary montage that managed not to disappoint anyone. At first, the earliest arrivals were a little disappointed at the turnout, but as the numbers of patrons steadily increased, the mood softened and the gathering turned into a warm, friendly affair where friends reflected on their long workdays and the latest news (most commonly mentioned being Alec Westins disappearence). As the building neared capacity, the affair became a soiree. Roderick, bartender on duty after Katrina, was totally unprepared for what was coming, and insisted that every employee who could be found be called in to help him. Alec, ever valiant, volunteered to learn the table-waiting business to keep things going smoothly. Several women commented that he still looked dashing, even with an apron about his waist and balancing a tray of drinks on one hand. His hastily-cobbled together nametag read only #43.

And since the drinks were free, no one had an excuse not to come. Soon after, the small building failed to contain the throngs of Channelers pouring in to meet their friends for a free pint or two. Alec, fortunately, thought ahead, and got ahold of a distributor directly for the supplies at this party. The space problem, however, was solved by moving some of the tables that had been cleared away for more room out onto the docks not far from the already teeming crowds outside.

"I've seen people I haven't seen in twenty years," Katrina commented, staring in awe at the throngs Alec had brought in. "Thats Peter Tillman over there; he lives in Gracebrook. Thats almost forty kilometers from here!"

"What?" Alec, like most everyone else, was having difficulty hearing over the many, many conversations and bawdy drinking songs the Channelers were dredging up from memory. He scooped up a tray of drinks ranging from gin & tonic to Trots beer and dropped off another order for Katrina and her staff of distributors.

"Forget about it," she called back, louder. "And after youre done with that, take that apron off and have some fun. You've earned it!"

"If you insist!" Alec shouted back. And so he did.

When the music journeyed towards a more modern fare, some of the younger Channelers (those more Alec's age) insisted on a dance floor. There was some grunting and protesting from those already using it as a place to stand, the good cheer of one and all prevailed at the area was cleared. Alec, himself not remembering the last time hed danced while sober, decided that have some fun could most definitely include dancing.

Certainly, he did not lack for partners. Indeed, it seemed every woman from ten years beyond him to a tender sixteen wanted at least some of Alec's attention. Westin, ever the gentleman, was pleased to oblige. In fact, it was whilst dancing with his eleventh partner that his mood soured considerably.

Alec did not get a good look at her, at first, he only had the impression of a tall woman with a tightly-bound brown pony tail dangling out of a weather-beaten red baseball cap, wearing a loose white T-shirt and long, denim shorts that looked like theyd seen at least part of the Great War. He saw a dazzling smile and decided to impress this one, stealthily sneaking a foot behind her legs and causing her to stumble, he caught her gracefully, as though they had mutually agreed on a dip earlier in the dancing. Alec put on his trademark dashing-rogue grin and was about to utter something charming when he saw who he had just tripped.

"Good evening, Alec," Carolina smiled, looking not at all upset at his minor subterfuge. "I see you've met the Channelers."

It would have been the pinnacle of bad taste to drop her, though truth be told, Alec wanted to do that very thing very badly at that moment. Instead, he hauled her up and was about to take her by her hand off the dance floor when he heard her utter the words "Merry are we Channelers most, we owe our joy to no mean host, anger has no place within in these halls, dance, dear Alec, 'til Sir Chaunticleer calls!" And Alec quite suddenly found his body not at all obeying of his commands. Rather than jerking her off to the side as he had planned, he found himself whirling her about in a tight circle again, back onto the dance floor.

"What in the Abyss are you doing?" Alec demanded, finding himself dancing once again.

Once she had her bearings back, Carolina fell in step with him. "You're much easier to talk to when you don't have physical control of the situation."

"When have I ever had physical control of a meeting with you? No, wait, dont tell me. It was when I was drunk and buying a yacht."

"Well, you were drunk," Carolina said, and another careful spin in place carried away the aristocratic features Alec remembered and brought back a gentle, naïve looking Montaigne with blond hair and blue eyes. In a flawless Montaigne accent, she asked "I understand you have no difficulty with the ladies, Mr. Westin, n'est-ce pas?"

If Alec's hands were under his control, he would have throttled her. "You were the reporter that got me suspended!"

"Oui," she replied, and another shake of her head brought back the brown hair and sassy smile. "It was necessary to get you extremely drunk. As in, drunk enough to buy a yacht. By the by, I see that went well."

"I might've died!"

"But you didn't, and that's what's important. Listen to me closely, Alec. You are a very special person. My employers know so. You've been chosen for a monumental task, but if you succeed, I can't begin to list the benefits."

"What task?"

"Do you believe in faerie tales, Mr. Westin?"

"No, otherwise, they wouldn't be fairy tales."

"Faerie tales, Mr. Westin. If thats true, then obviously don't believe I just put a glamour on your feet to keep the dancing until the cock crows, do you?"

Alec blinked. "You're a faerie?"

"Yes. And no. It's complicated," Carolina answered. "Suffice to say, we, and by we, I mean the Fair Folk, are still around, but were equal parts bored, worried, and stifled. We want to see your world again, with all of its wonders and terrors, like we used to when you believed in us. We miss you mortals, and we'd like to come back."

"All right, on the assumption that what you're telling me is true," Alec said, hoping that didn't sound ridiculous as he moved in time with the music. "Then what's stopping you?"

"The culture gap," Carolina sighed. "Our people don't move as fast yours does when it comes to new things. We're still trying to wrap our minds around the late 17^th century, and we've been actively trying. Imagine what we were like we didn't care. That's where you come in."

"Me?"

"You're a hero, albeit a poor excuse for one. You do what you do well, even if that is just play a simple game. Children all over these islands dream of wearing the #43 jersey. Everyone knows Alexander Westin, the star forward for the Luthon Lions. If you were to say something, people would at the very least listen before calling what you say dreck. We want you to tell everyone about us."

"Right. Like they'll believe the drunk football player that disappeared for three days. Such people aren't often believed."

"You're not drunk anymore, and you're not a football player."

"Not until a week from Friday," Alec insisted.

"Not at all. I have it on very good authority that there's a board discussing your behavior right now, and you're going to be suspended for at least another three months."

Alec sputtered. "Three months? What did I bloody do for that?"

"The media is a powerful influence."

"Especially when manipulated by faeries," Alec commented dryly.

"Oh come now," Carolina dissembled. "If not me, then someone else would've." After a dedicated and dexterous move, she came up to face Alec again. "Regardless, you passed your first test with a mediocre performance. This next will be a bit harder."

"Test?"

"I've tested your ability to think in a small situation, Alec, now its time to see how well you think in a situation with many variables. All you have to do is get home."

"Getting home's easy," Alec remarked dryly. "How is that supposed to be a test?"

"I imagine it'll be a bit harder when you aren't yourself," she said. "The second test is one of self for dear Champion Alexander, let him see if he can find home without his normal grandeur!" With this rhyme, she ran a thumb across Alecs chin.

There was a bit of a popping noise and Alec bit back a sneeze. His skin tingled. "Good luck, Sir Westin. There's no deadline, so take your time if you're so inclined. I think I'll enjoy staying in your house. Goodbye!" And she took his head in her hands, kissed him on the forehead, and walked off.

Alec, quite suddenly finding himself not dancing, rubbed his forehead where she had kissed him. Then he spun on his heel and marched towards the bar. "Kat!" he called for Katrina, who had just shouldered a tray of drinks into the hands of a server. "KAT!"

At the second call she looked up, then walked down to him. "G'evening. What'll you have?" she requested over the din.

"Did you see the woman I was just dancing with?" he asked.

"Can't say as I did," she said. "Have a description?"

"Really tall, brown hair, denim, baseball cap?"

"Oh, her! Yes, I saw her earlier dancing with Alec. Had the look of a vixen, she did."

"Kat! I'm Alec. Please pay attention! Now, did you see where she went?"

"You're a credible imitation, sir, but you're no Westin. I saw the man just an hour ago."

"Kat!" Alec began again. He dug into his pocket, pulling out his wallet. "If I'm not Alec, where then did I get this?" he asked, holding up his cards.

With a surprising speed for one of her girth, Katrina snatched Alec's wrist and slammed it down on the bar, causing him to drop his wallet. She then patted it backwards, off the bar and onto the floor. "Devin!" she called over her shoulder to one of her fellow bartenders. The large gentleman in question turned about at being beckoned and came over. "This bloke needs to be shown the door."

Two scant minutes later, Alec was hauled through the interior of the bar and lobbed out the door with a good heave from the neckless thug answering to the name Devin. He rolled once after hitting the ground, bringing him to a stop at someone's feet.

"Three Prophets!" said someone cursed, looking down to see him. He then knelt and set down his beer. "Are you well? Come now, let's have it!"

"Uuuuh," Alec managed, clutching his head. He looked up at the night sky to see Will looking down at him. "Will," he said, taking the younger man by the arm. "Do I look familiar to you?"

"A bit, but I can't place you," Will observed, after pondering for a moment. "Maybe if I had a name?"

"Never mind," Alec said, fighting back a sinking feeling as he found his feet and dusted himself off. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

Checking his reflection in a window not long after confirmed Alecs suspicions. He didn't look a thing like himself. His hair was shorter, darker, and considerably more greasy. His clothes were not as they were before, instead being replaced by the grease-stained garments of a factory worker. He grabbed a lock of his hair and brought it around to his vision. It was still blond to him, but not his reflection. An illusion of some sort, he mused.

A spinning globe dominated the screen, then shrank, sliding down the TV screen in what appeared to be sphere falling backwards and landing gracefully on the similarly computer-animated set of slanting bars, which proclaimed that this was the Vendel Report, and that your host is Michel Barger.

"Hello and good evening Vendel, I'm Michel Barger and this is the Vendel Report." He squared a set of papers on an immaculately clean and tastefully colored desk and faced the camera squarely with a million-mark smile.

"Today in Kirk, tragedy struck when a youth by the name of Schuyler Postema attacked a restaurant manager and owner, Wiecher Ulfsson. Former coworkers report that Postema, a former employee of Ulfsson's establishment, was laid off earlier in the day for consistent poor performance. Postema has had a history of similar events, including an incident where he vandalized another former employer's place of business. Ulfsson was severely hurt by the attack, and was in critical condition at one point, but has since stabilized. Authorities are still searching for Postema and his accomplice, seen here." A picture of Schuyler and Gregor appeared over Barger's shoulder. "It is unknown whether or not this attack is linked with the explosion that occurred in Postema's apartment building earlier today.

"Avalon Broadcast Station One, or ABS1 as it is known to residents of Avalon, had recently launched a new kind of show network executives are terming a 'walkumentary,' where the audience not only witnesses a documentary, but follows the work of the archaeologists as they hunt for knowledge. Initial reaction was lukewarm, but the show has been the talk of the Linknet, and already other networks are considering similar programs as this show, Excavations, gains popularity.

"Avalon is in the news once again, as a party without holiday or occasion occurred just three days ago. Hadrians Landing, a port well-known for the high population of Channellers there, recently hosted an event that will certainly go down in history. People from as far as six counties away came down to the district of St. Thomas and the beck of their relatives to join in the revelry, which began at approximately seven in the evening and lasted until well into ten oclock the next morning. The sponsor for the event is rumored to be famous athlete and reputed party animal Alexander Westin, a football player for the Luthon Lions, missing since his suspension last Friday. The Avaloni Football Comission has yet to issue a statement regarding their wayward player.

"The State of the Coast's new Prime Minister, Ambrosio Benitez, has had a tumultuous first week, in the wake of the controversy surrounding his election, he has missed no fewer than six events he was scheduled to appear at. The Coastals' love of ceremony has the public up in arms, with Benitez's already shaky hold on popularity plunging by the day. Benitez's office made no official comment on the matter, implying only that the transition to the office has been more rocky than expected. Allegations ranging from negligence to involvement in gravitic extranational affairs have been laid at the door of the Red Room by Benitezs detractors, his supporters hope only that these incidents are temporary.

"In sports today . . . "