Draconic Shennanigans Episode 9

Chapter 9: Shadows and Phantoms

 Elisha looked at the drake with glowing eyes as Jeremiah patted its head fondly.

"You walk a very dangerous road," he said at last, "But that is your choice. If, however, you ever find that your darksome god has no farther use for you and you wish for a different method of holding power then please bare in mind that I am willing for you to learn my road."

"As much as that is a generous offer of you," Jeremiah smiled, "I think I'd find your road too gentle on others for my taste."

To Kaelin's surprise Elisha laughed. It was the first time she'd heard him laugh. He smiled easily enough but laughter seemed more difficult and it was still quiet and soft toned.

"You think that I am a gentle man?" Elisha asked, "Please forgive me but you have not read the whole book. The world cruel and I have been a cruel man but revenge is good, monsters need to pay. I just found a different way to make them balance the scales. Death after all, is done in a moment."

"That is a different way of looking at things," Ulrich observed as he cleaned his swords.

"To die when you want to live is a choice made but once, in a single moment," Elisha walked towards the body of the drake that Thorian had stabbed through the eye, "To live when you want to die is a decision  made with every heartbeat of every second of every minute. Hours and days and weeks and years of making that decision over and over again, until all you long for is the quiet released of the grave and you pray that you will be allowed to lay on the desert of black sand, unnoticed by the gods so that no more may be asked of you."

Kaelin and Ulrich looked at each other, a wonder and a worry in their eyes.

"You have been to this place?" Ulrich asked, "You have made that decision?"

"No but a friend of mine had to face it," Elisha crouched and ran his hands over the scales of the drake, "He was born marked, marked by great power and by great violence. He was held at a distance by all and when one took pity... The family of that one killed him rather than allow him to love my friend."

"Ohhhhh!" Ulrich flinched, "I bet that didn't go down well."

"It didn't," Elisha was looking at something no other could see, "The first one to see me as a human worthy of life... wasn't human. What reason had I to care if the human race continued? If a race has to sacrifice its children to survive does it deserve to survive?"

"No it doesn't," Kaelin's face was flinty hard, "Those that harm children have no right to live." Elisha looked at her and after a long moment he nodded.

"I have learned though, that you cannot punish all," Elisha stood, "If all of human cruelty was wiped away so would all of human kindness. No more laughter, no more sharing, no more unexpected help. My friend died... of his grief and rage and betrayal but he died knowing there were ones who would take up his mantel against the monsters who wear human faces. And now I make the monsters live so that they may spend their punishment in more useful methods than languishing in hell."

He lifted his dagger and scarlet light twisted through the surface of its form. Elisha position the point just behind the hinge of the jaw and then drove it home with a smack of the heel of his right hand. Scarlet lightning arched from ground to heaven and the body bucked. The skull stretched out into the thin look of a snake, the bulk of the body falling away as the limbs stretched out, thick digits becoming thin, stiletto tipped, spiderish hands. Lanky and sinuous it rose as wings burst from its shoulders, wings of long, pale opalescent feathers. It opened its jaws and flicked a long, thin forked tongue over its now feathered muzzled. It blinked pale red eyes at its Master.

"You are to go with Crowface," Elisha said, "Obey him as you would obey me." It sucked in a long breath and then its wings flicked open. It rose into the air, a serpent twisting through the air, its limbs pressed so tight to its sides that they could not be seen.  Elisha turned to the great lion headed damned soul.

"You are to take the pieces of that one to the terrace," he instructed and after a moment it bent and picked up the headless body and slung it over a shoulder. Bending it grasped one of the drake's horns and lifted the head in one hand. Without a murmur it turned to the tower and began trudging up the road, Elisha walking at its side. Thorian followed them and therefore did not see Jeremiah sidle up to Ulrich.

"Ulrich my dear friend," Jeremiah smiled his most oily and ingratiating smile, "I'm rather afraid that something went a little wrong with creating this one." His hand gestured to the blue eyed drake.

"Oh really," Ulrich smiled but the sarcasm was still there, "Did it crack a claw or something?" He made a show of checking it over.

"That wasn't what I meant at all," Jeremiah's voice became a little strained, as if he was fighting not to speak through gritted teeth, "Raising this one, pulled too much power and I'm rather afraid that it may have damaged Calypso."

 "Who?" Ulrich looked up from where he was examining the drake's claws.

"Thorian's dog," Jeremiah's smile was becoming more and more fixed, "I think I had to pull too much power and it may have damaged Thorian's dog. Now considering how he reacted to you nearly being char-grilled do you really think that he will take finding his dog hurt all that well?"

"Ah, I see what you mean," Ulrich straightened, "I think I do see what you mean. It could be come quite fraught, yes?"

"Exactly my good friend," Jeremiah's face relaxed out of its rictus grin, "I think it would be best if such a thing didn't happen, right?"

"Right," Ulrich nodded.

"And if you manage to discretely manage to dispose of the evidence then I'm sure I can find you a reward," Jeremiah smiled more normally and laid a hand on the head of the drake.

"I'll see to it," Ulrich turned, whistled up his giant lizard and swinging up into its saddle, headed up the road after Thorian, whistling a jaunty tune. As Kaelin turned to follow him as well, she found Jeremiah suddenly at her elbow.

"Kaelin my dear," he oozed, "I was wondering if I could press upon your forbearance."

"How much?" Kaelin stated.

"I beg your pardon my dear?" Jeremiah frowned.

"How much are you willing to pay?" Kaelin's gaze was flat.

"Why would you believe that I need you to do something that needs monetary reimbursement?" Jeremiah smiled his most ingratiating smile.

"You're sweating, you're rubbing your hands and you smell of stress," Kaelin set a pace that Jeremiah struggled to keep up with, "Despite your needling at Hartseer, something has happened that you are not completely sure you can get away with so how much are you going to pay me to be your beard?"

Ulrich looked over his shoulder before he caught up with Thorian and frowned as he saw Kaelin and Jeremiah leaning towards each other and coins exchanging hands. Jeremiah was looking like a very fat cat who had just got into the dairy and Kaelin looking more resigned to something, willing to go through with it for the pay but still resigned to Jeremiah's attentions.

"What do you suppose our fat friend could be paying our toothsome girl for do you suppose?" he asked Thorian as a way to get the conversation started.

"I have no idea," Thorian glanced up at him and shrugged, "The last time it was for getting us into the habbey."

"The habbey you say?" Ulrich queried.

"Yeah you weren't with us then," Thorian grinned, "It was the night before you joined us. We had to call  by the habbey that Jerrers was kicked out of. Great big place it was, not that I had the chance to see much, I was busy making myself a chair to sit in. Kaelin  and Jerrers must of wandered off alone, 'cause next thing Kaelin was running out of it, yelling we needed to leave fast and Jerrers weren't there. I don't really know what happened after that, I tried a new drink at the inn after we got back and it all goes a little hazy after that." He scratched his head, his horny nails making a dry rasp over his scalp.

"I see," Ulrich murmured, "Has Kaelin ever said what they were up to there?"

"Not that I can recall," Thorian shrugged, "Just why do you ask?"

"Its just Jeremiah seems to be buttering Kaelin up," Ulrich muttered, "And quite frankly she could do so much better."

Thorian looked back, pulling his face into something that was half pout, half frown.

"Doesn't look like he's put any butter in her hair," he said as he turned away, " 'Sides, don't think that Kaelin would let him mess up her hair that way."

Ulrich opened his mouth and then shut it and shook his head. "Still think she could do so much better."

Behind them Jeremiah took Kaelin's elbow, making her hang back so that Thorian and Ulrich step out ahead. Kaelin looked at him with a flat, unfriendly stare but Jeremiah ignored the treat to his fingers until he was sure that the others were far enough ahead that they wouldn't be over heard.

"So my dear," he smiled oily, "Do you suppose that there are any more trinkets we could convince our great Master Smith to part with?"

Kaelin pointedly pulled her arm free of his grip and was about to snarl in his face when she thought of something better.

"Well I don't think that it would amount to much," she rubbed the back of her neck.

"Oh?" Jeremiah picked up on her tone at once, or at least he picked up on the tone she wanted him to, "What delicious bit of rumor have you hear my dear Kaelin?"

"Well it could be nothing," she admitted, "It was just something I overheard being mentioned that's all."

"My dear Kaelin you have my full and undivided attention," Jeremiah exuded charm the way a voodoo lily exuded stink.

"Well from what I heard not all the portraits in that tower are just paint on canvas," well that part was true,  "And there is one that has a golden harp in it."

"And what is so gloriously special about this depicted musical instrument?" Jeremiah could even wobble charmingly if he put his mind to it.

"Well..." Kaelin hedged, "I would hate to send you on a wild goose chase."

"My dearest Kaelin," Jeremiah smiled, reassurance dripping from every word, "I am sure that even if we cannot track down this singular painting in this extraordinary domicile, an afternoon spent in your wonderful company will be beneficial to us both."

"Well if you are absolutely sure you want to know," Kaelin hesitated a moment longer, then finally dropped the other shoe, "I over heard that behind that particular painting there is a hidden library but it can be difficult to track down. From what I heard the special paintings don't always remain where they were, or it could be that the inside of the tower changes."

"I'm sure that between us we can track down this most interesting of canvas doorways," Jeremiah's fingers flexed in anticipation, "Shall we share the bounty of this knowledge with our friends or shall we keep it just between us?"

"Do you want to be around the others when the trouble you have hovering over you comes calling?" Kaelin asked.

"Good point," Jeremiah conceded and gestured her forward, "Lead on my dearest to this wonderful hidden treasure for just us two." Despite her misgivings, Kaelin did actually step in front of Jeremiah but simple so he didn't see her roll her eyes. Upon entering the tower she cut right and led them up a set of stairs, winding deep into the tower. Once they came to a long gallery she paused and started looking at the pictures on the walls.

Huffing and puffing like a ragged set of blacksmith's bellows Jeremiah wobbled up the last of the steps to find Kaelin peering closely at the canvases.

"Surely..." he bent over for a moment, gasped and couple of breaths and then tried again, "Surely a golden harp would be quite noticeable?"

"Didn't say that it was in the front of the picture," Kaelin muttered, "Could be a detail in the scenery, you know, one of those little details that most people over look for the 'big picture'."

"Yes," Jeremiah put a hand on his side, rubbing ineffectively at a stitch, "Yes I suppose that makes sense if it is supposed to be a hidden library. Well if you are going to take that side of the room." He waddled over to the wall that had windows interspersed with the paintings.

Downstairs Thorian wandered into the dining room while Ulrich settled his lizard in the garden, where it seemed quite happy to stick its tongue down rabbit holes like some vast and scaly anteater.

"Well Kay-ip-so," Thorian called, "We kicked their butts again, now who wants to play fetch?" Calypso lay curled round in a circle, legs in the air, a very odd kink in his neck.

"Hey Kay-ip, what's up boy?" Thorian asked as he walked across the room.

Ulrich stepped through the glass doors between the garden and the dining room just as Thorian crouched down by the goblin dog's side. Ulrich froze as he realized just how badly 'damaged' Jeremiah had been talking about. Glancing about the room he hurried down to where a dusty cabinet stood looking unused. Thankfully the doors swung open at his touch, revealing the treasure trove of greying bottles within but he still flinched at Thorian's sudden bellow of wordless pain. Grabbing the two nearest bottles, Ulrich hurried down the room to where Thorian sat in a rocking, sobbing heap, cradling the stiff body of Calypso in his lap. The goblin dog's eyes were already shriveling in their sockets and Thorian just howled inconsolably.

Plopping one bottle down, Ulrich worked the cork loose on the other and then laid a hand on Thorian's shoulder. The big orc-crossbreed looked up with eyes filled with water and snot streaming from his nose.

"Here," Ulrich said sympathetically, "It helps, not much, but it helps."

Thorian wiped his nose of the shoulder of his jerkin and took the bottle. Ulrich suppressed a flinch as a very good vintage disappeared down Thorian's throat.

"He was ma dog," Thorain mumbled with a slight slur to his words, beginning to sway, "He was ma dog. Never... Never had a dog... before. Just wanted someone... who.... who didn't think I was stew-pid all the time. Know... know I'm not bright but... just wanted a friend who... who didn't think I was thick... thick and worthless. Too smart for home... too thick for every.... hic... every where else." Thorian sniffed, repeatedly, eyes welling up again.

Ulrich paused for a moment as he wrestled the second cork out. He was going to have words with that gor-ram priest, words about use and unkindness and just damn well being one of the most lousy human beings that he'd ever had the miss fortune to encounter. Just about everything he hated about his father's family seemed to be rolled up and condensed into one being in that dough ball of an abbot. He was also going to have words with Kaelin about her arrangement with the lard bucket. He didn't know the details and he really didn't want to know the details, his imagination was trying to work over time on the imagines and he was mentally slapping white wash over the canvas as fast as it worked but she really need to rethink her life choices. Being the child, or grandchild, or both, of a werewolf was tough, he got that but there was no need to demean yourself below that. Even if that had been her profession in her past, which he doubted considering her skill at fighting, there were standards that she ought to be allowed to hold herself to. Jeremiah was definitely not up to those standards.

The second cork came out with a pop. Thorian flinched and looked up. This time Ulrich didn't need to give any encouragement as Thorian held his hand out for the bottle. Ulrich laid a hand on his shoulder as the orc-crossbreed downed the bottle, noticing the incorrigible fact that Thorian still had cobwebs draped over one ear despite everything, then he was struggling to lower Thorian's massive dead weight to the floor without cracking the poor orc-crossbreed's head on the marble flooring. The poor guy was going to have a big enough headache without a bump on the noggin added to it.

Elisha came in as the bottle rolled away across the floor.

"Was there any particular reason our green friend decided to raid my cupboards?" he asked as he stepped over, "Or did he think it was a particularly note worth fight? I know that some people celebrate such things by drinking that which the prophets forbid my people. Granted, having witnessed the day after such events, I think that is an eminently sensible taboo for us."

"Calypso died," Ulrich explained, wiping away the cobwebs off of Thorian's ear and straightening.

"Calypso?" Elisha frowned.

"Thorian's dog," Ulrich flicked his fingers, trying to get the cobweb off, "And from what he was just telling me probably his first friend as well."

"I am sorry," Elisha bowed his head, "If he had told me the dog was sick I would have had one of the animal healers look at it."

"It wasn't sick," Ulrich wiped his hands against each other but the cobweb clung on like a common cold, "It was dead."

Elisha's frown deepened.

"I am sorry, I do not understand..."

"Calypso was killed when we had a run in with a bunch of goblins not too far into the swamp," Ulrich sighed in defeat and wiped his hands on his coat, "Jeremiah raised it as... well, whatever it is he raises them as, named it Calypso and gave him to Thorian to be his pet. Thorian took it straight to heart, only when we got back here we found Calypso well, like that." He gestured helplessly at the twisted up corpse of the lifeless dog. "Thorian was pretty cut up about it."

Elisha strode across the room and knelt down by Calypso's rapidly desiccating body. Murmuring quietly, he laid his hands on the dog's withering form. After a moment, he sat back on his heels and sighed.

"It seems your friend is not as good at what he does as he thinks," Elisha reported, "This was poorly done, a puky child just beginning his training as a Master Smith would be ashamed of so flawed a working. Either he does not see that there are better ways of gaining the power he seeks or..." A dark look crossed Elisha's eyes.

"Or what?" Ulrich's hands went still and his gaze locked on the Master Smith.

"Or his is more delusional than I first believed," Elisha's eyes were grim as he looked to Ulrich, "And if that is true then I fear. I fear what he could unleash upon this world. Watch him, watch him carefully but don't confront him, not yet."

"You think he could be a danger to our team?" Ulrich felt the same grim expression touch his face.

"I fear that it maybe so," Elisha said, "But acting on nothing but fears can lead to them being true. Many a prophecy only became true because people acted upon them. Such is the way most dark wizards are brought down, they hear of a prophesied one chosen by the Gods to bring them down and in fighting against that prophecy they create that tool for the hands of the Gods."

"So we don't move until we are absolutely sure there is no going back?" Ulrich queried but was already nodding his agreement to it.

"I think that would be sensible," Elisha inclined his head and then gathered up Calypso's mortal remains before standing.

"I'm still going to have a word with Kaelin," Ulrich muttered, "That girl needs to set her standards higher."

Elisha looked at him in puzzlement.

"Kaelin's been spending a lot of time in Jeremiah's company," Ulrich's mouth twisted on the words, "Now I don't think she's the sort who could be forced by main strength into something she doesn't want but I'm worried that... that she's setting her standards for companionship too low."

Elisha pursed his mouth in thought.

"Then I guess it is up to you to provide her with better alternatives," he advised.

"Me?" Ulrich blinked.

"Who else is there?" Elisha asked, "She will have to go on with the team when you leave here, I cannot come and Thorian, though he has loyalty unlimited and a stout heart, does not have the mind to be able to protect her from such machinations that such a one as he could come up with."

"Oh," Ulrich felt a little winded for a moment, "Oh, well I... guess you're right." He rubbed the back of his neck. "Well I'll be blowed. Good job we are already getting on. Alright, I'll try and stay close to her."

"And I will see what I can do with this," Elisha hefted Calypso's remains as Hartseer stepped through the doors, "Ah my friend, we could do with your help."

The big statue-armor tilted his head slightly.

"Thorian has suffered a bereavement and Ulrich has given him the sweet relief of dreamless sleep," Elisha explained, "But I do not think it would be good for Thorian's bruises if he sleeps upon an unheated stone floor. Could you help Sar Ulrich to take him up to his room?"

Hartseer looked from Thorian's spread eagled form to Ulrich's sorrowful expression to the curled form of Calypso in Elisha's arms.

"I suspected," he said levelly, "That one will spread sorrow where ever he goes." As his words were an echo of what they had just been discussing, either Ulrich or Elisha had any doubt as to whom Hartseer referred.

"But this damage at least I can do something about," Hartseer strode forward and bestrode Thorian's limp form. He crouched and with some shifting about managed to lever Thorian forward and up on to his shoulder in a fireman's lift, straightening with a strain of metallic joints.

"Lead on Sir Ulrich," there was a hint of irony in his tone as he turned to Ulrich.

"You know that I don't have that title," Ulrich tasted the sour bile again.

"And you think that you don't deserve the title?" Hartseer asked, adjusting Thorian's bulk as he hanged snoring over his shoulder.

"I didn't say that," Ulrich turned to the door, surprised by his level of bitterness. He'd thought he'd grown out of that.

"No you didn't," Hartseer agreed mildly, "But it is what you fear isn't it? Or is it that you know you would wear the title better than others and that is why you left?"

"Became fed up of trying to earn a respect that I wasn't ever going to receive," Ulrich admitted as he lead the way up the stairs, "When I'd finally had all I could swallow I decided that I'd strike out on my own."

"And yet you keep coming back to the nobility like a bird to its nest," Hartseer observed.

"More like a fly to the ointment," Ulrich managed a smile, "After all, that's what had me put on a King's Special, isn't it?"

"You of all people should have known that when it comes to squeezing nobility, it is the peasant who feels the pinch," Hartseer paused, shifted Thorian to the other shoulder and split his arm, grasping the handrail with both hands on that side.

"Can you blame a guy for trying to even up the scales?" Ulrich shrugged.

"There are better ways of doing it," Hartseer noted, "The Corps are..."

"Full of the Old Boy club my unlamented sire is part of," Ulrich cut across him, "I'd have been more likely to have been sent on a suicide mission to get me out of the way than to receive a commission, especially as I would have been coming up from the ranks. Had enough of that from my childhood, didn't want any more, thank you very much!"

Hartseer said nothing for a while, metal feet clacking against the treads as they climbing the stairs.

"Say, do you fancy a cup of tea out on the dining terrace after all this?" Ulrich offered as they made it to the corridor that branched off the stairs to the guest bedrooms.

"I do not eat," Hartseer shifted Thorian's bulk again, "I do not drink, I do not sleep and I do not even breath. Just how do you think I will be able to 'take tea' with you?"

"Well I fancy a cup of tea and I wondered if you would like a chat as we have nothing else to do for a while," Ulrich swung the door to Thorian's room open, "I don't know if you can feel warmth through those metal fingers of yours but sometimes I find just the heat from a cup of tea in the hand is a comfort."

"You have a point," Hartseer steered Thorian's bulk though the door, "You have a point."

*

When Jeremiah heard Thorian's wails of anguish echoing down the corridors, he frowned, realizing as he did so that the books in his pockets seemed to be just a little bit warmer. As much as his god's approval was gratifying, it was an irritant to have such unreliable companions.

"Guess I won't be letting Ulrich have my drake then," he muttered, then glanced round to make sure that Kaelin hadn't heard what he'd said. She was no where to be seen. "Oh that is just peachy." Jeremiah snarked to himself, waddling over to the doorway to see if she'd just continued her search in the next room. Kaelin was not in there either but there were several extravagantly large paintings on the wall. Even while a nasty, suspicious part of his mind was beginning to turn over the idea that Kaelin had been lying through her teeth to him, Jeremiah wandered over to have a look at them. One of them was the usual triumphant battle scene, painted to glorify some noble houses' past deeds, most of them totally fictitious, the other was more... interesting.

A beautiful city stood tottering on the edge of a storm wracked sea, while above it dragons of many different hues soared and dived, belching streams of fire and acid or channeling bolts of lightning and flurries of ice into the now cracking buildings below. At the collapsing gates hordes of orcs and dwarfs charged... only they weren't fighting each other. Shoulder to shoulder they charged into the streets of the city, axes and picks sweeping flurries of a strange colored blood into the air. Jeremiah looked closer at the main building at the top of the hill. Elves sent shivering sheets of arrows into the defenders, while humans in crude armor scrambled and clambered up the steps, some apparently attacking the reeling defenders with their bare hands. And the defenders... the defenders weren't human.

Strange, elongated heads flushed with strange blotches of red or green, some even colored blue, long hands with odd, moon curved nails and faces.... Faces like something out of a fisherman's nightmares. Bulging eyes too far apart with unnerving letter box pupils, no noses and no discernible mouths, siphons blowing where the hinge of the jaw should be and chins made of writhing nests of tendrils.

On the top most step of the... Temple, Jeremiah decided that it had to be a temple, that or a palace but temple just seemed more true. Either way, on the top most step of the temple, a grey skinned figure with an even longer, broader cranium than the others, a skull ridged down its central line and surmounted by what looked like bony plates of black, dressed in a billowing robe the other defenders lacked, lifted an archaic looking staff to the sky, either crying to the gods over the end of his rule or cursing the dragons that hovered above, extra long face tendrils lashing the air with torment. There was something about the stance of the figure that didn't seem to be defiant anger but rather anguished betrayal, as if he'd never expected it to come to this.

Leaning closer, Jeremiah noticed that there was something written in the darkest corner, where the artist signature would usually have gone.

"In a single day and night of misfortune, the city of Locutus disappeared into the depths of the sea, never to rise again."

It was certainly an interesting piece but not what he was looking for. He turned away.

As he walked down the room, something made Hat turn itself towards the wall, the shift in weight disturbing the miter upon Jeremiah's brow.

"Do you mind," Jeremiah grated, hands going up to steady his head gear, "I worked too damn hard to get this for a bug like you to upset..."

He turned his head. There was something there, down a side narrow side corridor paneled in the same rich woods that the main room was, a corridor he hadn't noticed at first. Something was there, a vibration in the air like the lingering note of a deep rich instrument, or the expectant silence in an auditorium before the opening bar. Something shivered in the air, calling to him. Narrowing his eyes, he stepped into the corridor. He didn't like the narrow space, the feeling of being hemmed in and he was just about to turn back when he saw on the wall, further down, the edge of a picture frame. He waddled towards it, the change in angle gradually revealing the image to be a beautifully wrought golden high harp, stood alone in the middle of a stage, crimson drapes edging the image, gaslights shining, making it difficult to see the auditorium beyond the edge of the stage but there was enough details to see the rising seats and the grand boxes that lined the walls.

Jeremiah rubbed his hands together. Well Kaelin might have thought she was selling him a whole length of cloth but it turned out that there was some truth behind every lie. Now to just discover this darling art piece's secrets.

He ran his hands over the edge of the frame, fingering every curl and swirl of the design, tracing the ornate gold leaf, testing where the edge met the wall and then where it met the canvas. His eyes narrowed. There was nothing to say that this painting had anything special hidden behind it but there again neither did he seem to be able to pull the painting away from the wall to check behind it. There was nothing to say that it wasn't a perfectly ordinary painting, except that there appeared to be absolutely no gap between the painting and the wall at all.

Jeremiah tugged and turned at the frame, pressed it and pushed it, Hat swaying about on the top of his miter as his efforts increased. He checked over the wall around the frame, running increasingly sweaty fingers over the rich dark wood and golden inlays. Even as his brows furrowed darkly, part of his mind was able to recognize that this part of the tower didn't have the dust that plagued the rest of the building. And still that sound hovered on the edge of his hearing, tantalizingly close but still too far to tell what it was.

In the end he stepped back from the canvas and looked round. Kaelin hadn't come back to check on him for which he was thankful because he wasn't willing for any of the team to know just how far along his studies had come. That and if they let it slip to that metal stick insect he could find himself in more trouble than he already was. There was always a chance that after this business with the King's Special he might be able to get free and go some where he could start rebuilding his authority. It would be an undoubted pain to have to start over from the beginning but at least there would be a chance. However, if that judgemental stack of bolts knew he could speak the language of the Abyss...

He drew himself up to his full height and mentally prepared the tongue twisting syllables.

"Reveal your secrets," he commanded, the words making his teeth ache and his tonsils bleed.

The painting remained stubbornly, stupidly unchanged.

Jeremiah drew himself up, the words to the spell of blasting on the tip of his tongue, dark energies beginning to writhe around his fingers.

"You could have knocked."

Jeremiah choked on the swallowed syllables, acid swirling in his stomach as he fought back the ravening energies. He peered closer at the painting.

There, there in the second front box up on the far left something moved. Jeremiah leaned closer, peering passed the edge of the harp. A figure moved at the railing of the box, black on black, face the merest suggestion of white in the shadows. There was something about its shape that was subtly off but...

"And what, oh wise and learned man, brings you to the edge of my humble abode?" the figure asked, head moving as the shadows twined around it.

"A wise man walks with his head bowed," Jeremiah replied, "And always seeks to become wiser."

"Ah," the figure's face seemed to slide in and out of focus, "And your wisdom is so very great compared to others who limit themselves only to what is considered safe and tame."

"Yes," Jeremiah said, slightly cautiously, realizing that the figure was referring to the fact that he could speak Abyssal.

"So again," the figure moved with the grace of a practiced performer, "That begs the question as to what has brought you to the edge of my humble abode, oh grand seeker of deeper truths." There was as a ring to the figure's voice, that of someone used to projecting their voice into a large space and the lilt and timbre had the polished edge of a singer, used to perfection being demanded at every performance.

"I was informed that in this tower of mysteries and power there was a most fascinating painting done by the masters of old," well Jeremiah could play at turning a well honed phrase as well, "It was revealed to me that behind this most wonderful depiction of a master's harp there lay power uncounted and knowledge unclaimed." There not quite as good as he would have like but not bad for something he was having to spin off his cuff on a moment's notice.

"And you have come seeking this font of knowledge and dominion," the figure bowed its head to him, the suggestion of a smile haunting the shadows.

"I have come hither to that effect, par take in what hidden store can be uncovered and what mysteries can be made clear," Jeremiah felt that phrase had come out better. It was always best to warm up to any exercise.

"Then enter dear fellow traveler," the figure proclaimed, "Enter and be satisfied." It lifted a hand and there was a loud click. Jeremiah startled as the frame moved under his right hand and he stared in amazement as the entire picture, frame and all, now swung freely out from the wall it had seemed so deeply embedded in, at his lightest touch. The frame swung out and out, forcing him to step round it as it filled the whole hallway like a strange door that had lost its bottom third. Left hand supporting the frames weight he looked into the space beyond. Beyond the edge of the cavity left by the painting a set of rich but narrow stairs stretched up into the darkness, steep but with sturdy handrails set into the walls by well polished brass handles.

At least Jeremiah supposed they were well polished. The light in the stairwell was flickering, or so it seemed, the rich gleam of oily metal shining out one minute and the next falling into shadow. It seemed to have the same effect on the view ahead as well. Jeremiah couldn't decide whether a ceiling waited at the top of the stairs or a wind driven sky of scolding cloud. On his miter the edges of Hat's wings buzzed as if being tugged at by a rising wind.

Jeremiah frowned, a thought of caution urging him to turn back but then his ear caught what he had been trying to hear ever since he had come down this side corridor - the deep and resonant tones of a single instrument, hauntingly playing in the shadows, seeming to call to him with the promise of mysteries never fully explained.

Jeremiah reached forward and grasped the hand rails, pulling himself up on to the bottom most step. Taking a moment to regain his balance he began to climb.

*

Kaelin turned her head. Somewhere deep in the tower she heard a deep voice bellowing in anguish. Part of her wondered just what Jeremiah had set off and decided that she was well shot of the creep. If he spent the rest of the day wandering in hopeless circles trying to find that non-existent painting then so much the better. What would be even better would be if the creep never surfaced at all. There was something about him that was making her skin crawl more and more. Weirdly it was not the wolf within that was responding to him. She wasn't sure how ill it boded that it was all her human side that was finding Jeremiah increasingly repulsive. She was beginning to wonder if it was the fact that the way he could turn his words to mean something other than what they appeared to be on the surface reminded her too strongly of her grandfather. He'd possessed a glib tongue as well and the will to use it on fools. Like the wolves would ever be able to over run the humans... She shivered and rubbed her arms, remembering the werewolves in the swamp, particularly the one who's got away.

"Grandpa wants words with you, young 'un."

That could not be true, she was absolutely bound and determined about that. Grandpa was a soggy mound of grave meat and the world was a cleaner place without him. She was sure of it, after all she'd opened the doors herself and let the hunters in. She was sure of it.

She shivered and rubbed her arms again.

Enough of that, she needed to meet up with someone in the here and now. She wandered upstairs and down, looking at the portraits, some evidently looking back at her. Eventually she spotted Charlotte walking through the paintings towards her.

"Good afternoon," Charlotte greeted with a lot more friendliness than had been her wont the last time they had crossed paths, "I see you have come wandering again. Looking for something else? I heard all about your new toy. Can't say I think much of the name but from what the others who were down near the hall are saying you definitely have the family gift."

"The family gift?" that took Kaelin aback.

"Absolutely," Charlotte smiled, "Our family were always known for being great musicians. Granted the instrument is a little uncouth..."

Parp! Haggis objected.

"But I don't suppose we can help that all things considered," Charlotte ignored the interruption.

"Meaning what exactly?" Kaelin raised an eyebrow, suspecting what was coming.

"Well," Charlotte dithered for a moment, "Well, there isn't really any way you could be connected to us directly but you certainly must be carrying some of the blood from some where to have such a raw musical talent just blossom out of no where. That and our similarities really do make it possible that you come from a, how should I put this? A lateral branch of the family, shall we say?"

"Wrong side of the blanket is what you are saying," Kaelin said it as bluntly as she could without cussing. For some reason she didn't want to prove what this stiff little girl thought about 'those of lower stations' right but she still wanted to see her wince when she had to face her suspicions with all the fancy wrapping taken off.

Charlotte did not disappoint, noticeably flinching at the phrasing.

"Such a low way of putting it," she muttered.

"I'm a low kinda gal," Kaelin admitted, "So I guess I'm dragging the family through the mud."

"Maybe," Charlotte admitted, "My grandfather apparently spent more time on the estate than in the city. From what some said when I was little, he was usually in muddy boots with his sleeves rolled up, either tinkering with a plow or helping helping with the lambing season." She frowned prettily, "I can sort of remember a big gentleman with lots of wrinkles and brown skin, telling my father that he should remember that he came from muck and he'd go back to muck in the end."

"Sounds like I'd would have liked to swoop places, as long as I had the chance to spend more time with him than you got to," Kaelin actually had to fight to keep down a smile.

"He said something else as well," Charlotte frowned some more, "Something about my father having to sit down to 'go chunder' like everybody else?"

Kaelin actually snorted at that, much to Charlotte's disapproval.

"Any way," Charlotte said, obviously changing the subject, "Why did you come looking for me?"

"Your cousin," Kaelin stated and noticed a guarded expression flicker in Charlotte's eyes.

"What about him?" she asked carefully.

"I need a few more details if I am to track down any link to him," Kaelin admitted, "Cousin to Charlotte Susan Darling is a little too vague to be useful so something like a name would be a useful place to start."

"You have a good point," Charlotte admitted, settling herself on the chair in the painting, "Don van Ranchiff, that was my cousin's name, related to me via my Aunt, a nervous women as I remember her, easy to frighten. A her son seemed to frighten her most of all."

"Your cousin frightened his mother?" Kaelin raised her eyebrows.

"My father always said his sister was delicate," Charlotte said, "And I believe I told you the other day that my cousin was a cruel boy, the sort to enjoy sticking live insects on to pins."

"Charming I'm sure," Kaelin agreed, "Did he also pull the wings off of butterflies to see them limp round in circles until they died?"

"That or their legs to see them unable to get off the ground," Charlotte looked like she was chewing on something repellent, "There were other unpleasant incidences as he was growing up and some very nasty accidents, though nothing that his father could ever find enough evidence for to make it stick."

"His own father disliked him?" Kaelin noted with surprise.

"As I said, there were some very nasty incidences with some of the servant children," Charlotte admitted, "There were also some strange rumors floating about after my other cousin, his sister, went to live with my aunt by marriage. Strangely enough she disappeared after my brother died. The wizard who placed me among the paintings came to apologize about that. Said she'd been kidnapped but there wasn't ever a ransom note."

"So let me get this straight," Kaelin said, "Your cousin, Don van Ranchiff, was the sort of boy who frightened even his own parents? His sister, your other cousin, is sent to live with another relative, you die of the spotting sickness, your brother is murdered and your other cousin is kidnapped but whoever took her didn't even ask for a ransom?"

"Didn't even contact the family to let them know who had taken her or why, it was like she just vanished off the face of the earth," Charlotte agreed, "And you are forgetting that Don van was savaged by some sort of animal. It seemed to make him even stranger than before, least, that is according to my brother on the last time he visited. Apparently he kept going on about the natural order of things and the ascendancy of the wild and the primal doctrine and... why are you going a funny color?"

Kaelin remembered that she had to breath sometime this century.

"When was he savaged?" she managed to ask but she wasn't sure if she'd kept her voice level. Her hearing seemed to be playing up, as if the distance between her and Charlotte was bending and stretching in vertigo inducing ways.

"If I remember the time frame properly and that is a strain because things like that always become a little odd to hold on to for a while after you have made the transfer to the canvas," Charlotte looked up and wrinkled her nose to the left in the same way Kaelin did when she was having a good think, "If I am remembering correctly and that is a big if, if I am remembering rightly it was about a month before my brother was murdered, maybe slightly less."

"Twenty eight," Kaelin muttered under her breath.

"Pardon?" Charlotte asked.

"Nothing, just doing some calculations," Kaelin brushes the query aside but it did nothing for the rolling in her stomach. Great Good damn it, it was too close, just too damn close. The timings, the rants, the personality type, even the timid sister who was sent away and then disappeared. Her grandfather had always like his women submissive, submissive or broken.

"Well it certainly gives me more to work on," she managed to say, hoping that she was disguising just how badly she wanted to run away and scream, "But before I go, have you ever heard of a place called Greely Creek?"

"Yeessssss," Charlotte said after a little while, "I think it was one of the more major logging camps to the east of the family estates, maybe a little south, up in the foot hills of the Tarjarna Mountains. Father was discussing buy a stake in it as there had been some gold discovered in the area and he wanted in on the rush if there was to be one but he wasn't sure that it wasn't going to turn out to be nothing but a flash in the pan."

"I see," Kaelin suppressed the urge to shiver and then changed the subject. "So you've been hanging around on these walls for quite a while now, have you?"

"Too long," Charlotte sighed, "I have no idea why anyone would want eternal life. I would have liked a little more time myself but for the most part I have for these last few decades to be unutterably boring."

"So nothing worth gossiping about happens here?" Kaelin asked.

"The last really gossip worthy thing that happened here was when the original cabal of wizard's upped and left," Charlotte said, "We all wondered about that but we figured it had to be the usual, duty calls sort of stuff. After that we had the dust for company for several years and then the last master of the tower moved in. That wasn't so gossip worth as nerve wracking."

"Not much in the way of company?" Kaelin asked.

"More what he used to do to the company," Charlotte shuddered, "We were actually all glad when people stopped coming to visit, it stopped being so outright horrible, even if we had to live with the fear that without that outlet he would eventually notice us out of sheer boredom."

"I take it that visitors were not encouraged?" Kaelin questioned, "Or was it a case of visitors being out right eaten?"

"More that visitors became residents until they stopped screaming," Charlotte replied, "He'd usually lose interest at that point."

"Charming fellow then," Kaelin muttered, "But what about the new fellow? Elisha the Master Smith?"

"He is a little more interesting," Charlotte admitted, "But he is so rarely indoors, he's always busy, busy, busy and yet so alone at the same time. I swear I've never seen such a quiet man. Granted his damned souls are certainly worth watching but again they are usually out of doors so much of the time."

"So you can't see out of doors?" Kaelin asked.

"Canvases are notoriously delicate when it comes to water," Charlotte pointed out, "As much as I am rather tired of seeing nothing new, either do I want to spend what will possibly be eternity as a shapeless blob of paint from the first time it rains."

"So none of the paintings are out of doors," Kaelin nodded as she took that on board, "It is just that if we could move one of these paintings to the Capital in, say the King's Palace, then you'd have much more to watch and if Elisha needs to send a message to the King, or the other way round for that matter, then there wouldn't be a chance of the messager being intercepted now would there?"

Charlotte sat up straighter in her painted chair.

"By Jove, I think you have it!" she exclaimed, rising to her feet and rushing to the edge of the frame. Kaelin blinked in surprise and then saw Charlotte appear several frames up.

"Come on, come on," she called.

"Come where?" Kaelin asked, a little nonplussed at the reaction she had caused, even as she started to follow at a jog.

"One of the wizard's was a lady," Charlotte told her as she hurried through painting after painting, sometimes having to mutter a quick apology as the owners of the canvases started up in surprise as she hurried through them, "And I am fairly sure that no one has cleared out her room since she left. If that is so then I have an idea that might just work."

"What sort of plan?" Kaelin huffed as she realized she was struggling to keep up.

"No time no time," Charlotte chided as she hurried through canvas after canvas. Kaelin huffed again and actually broke into a run to keep up. Finally, after what felt like a mad chase upstairs and down side corridors, Charlotte stopped and let Kaelin catch her breath.

"There is a gap in the canvases here," Charlotte explained, "So I'm not going to be able to lead you but the suite of rooms you want is up this corridor here, second on the left, first on the right. Remember that?"

"Got it," Kaelin nodded sharply.

"See you there then," Charlotte smiled and stepped out of the frame.

Kaelin waited a few more moments to fully still her breath and make sure her color was back to normal before walking casually up the corridor. She was glad she had done so, for as she stepped round the corner into the corridor Charlotte had indicated one of the damned souls came padding down the corridor. Kaelin stepped to one side to let the cat faced, goat horned thing to pass. It nodded to her and passed, and passed... and passed some more. Kaelin watching in amazement as its impossible long tail seemed to snake on forever but eventually it was gone. Still watching the corner it had turned down, Kaelin reached out a hand and laid it on the door knob of the room on the first right. To her surprise it turned easily under her hand. Looking round casually she quietly pushed the door open  and slipped in. She shut the door equally quietly. Something about this whole thing was suggesting to her that Charlotte didn't want any more else to know about it. Once she was sure the latch was secure she turned round.

The room was darker than her own guest room but more lavish, rich red wood paneling and furniture laid out ready for a new owner. Charlotte was beaming from the picture above the bed.

"The lockets," she said, "There should be some still there." She pointed to a vanity table set before the window. Kaelin crossed the room and carefully opened draws. The was a rich jumble of jewelry contained within but she suppressed the urge to plunder for a moment. Instead she picked out a sturdy looking locket and after fumbling for a moment, managed to open it.

"Here I go," Charlotte called but Kaelin only caught a glimpse of her stepping out of the frame as she turned round.

"Oh yes," the triumphant but suppressed exclamation echoed up from her hands and Kaelin looked down to see Charlotte's face beaming up from the locket in her hand.

"Now this opens up all sorts of possibilities," Charlotte's painted eyes held a spark of mischief that Kaelin remembered once possessing, "Shall we test it out?"

"How so?" Kaelin asked.

"How far can I go from the tower before the connection is severed of course," Charlotte didn't stop beaming, "Would you like to go for a walk in the grounds?"

"I don't see why not," Kaelin shrugged with one shoulder, "If you give me just a moment, I don't think I want to share this with anyone else, do you?" Charlotte beamed conspiratorially. Nearly smiling herself, Kaelin closed the locket and turning to the vanity table hung it round her neck. For a moment she paused. Gold on black, the locket really did rather suit her, then she tucked it out of sight inside her jerkin. Eyes falling on the still open draws of jewelry, she let herself outright smile.

Moments later, she slipped out of the door and closed it softly behind her, pockets a little heavier than they had been that morning and several flat but wide banded gold rings hidden under the fingers of her gloves. This trip was shaping up really rather well.

*

Jeremiah pulled himself up the narrow stairs, puffing slightly. It wasn't just the stairs, there was something in the air. Though his robes hung still his breathing acted as if he was fighting his way through a howling gale. On his miter Hat fluttered and jittered, clinging on against a storm that should not exist as they were most definitely inside a building. Jeremiah straightened and looked round at the ornate paneling and painting. His boots sank into thick carpet and the colors, well the colors would have be glorious if they would hold still. Ribbons of color seemed to stream through his surroundings, flickering and whipping through the surfaces, like aurora lights in a arctic sky, breaking up the dull shades of grey and sepia but never holding still for long, always moving on, driven by a wind that was and wasn't there at once. And thrumming through the air was the deep resonant tones of the instrument, notes slowly stepping up and down the scale, layering themselves upon the echoes of the previous, building a sound that vibrated deep in the bones.

Jeremiah started walking towards the music without his mind being fully conscious of that decision. Round him decant wealth was on show. Whenever the colors cared to whipped the right way so he could see properly it was clear it was white marble, dark woods, blood red carpet, gold and silver fittings and intricate art pieces. But it did not have the feeling of a house. There was something about the width of the halls and the placement of the pieces that gave the feel that the space excepted many people to travel through it but not to stay.

He made his way up a staircase, the music ever pulling him onward as its deep and resonating voice softly called to him, and found that his suspicions was correct. Doors, lots of doors, far to close together to be rooms, even in a grand inn or a mansion. Palms tingling with excitement Jeremiah stepped up to the first set of double doors and lay his hands on the door knobs. The music swelled within. The doors swung open.

Jeremiah stepped into the front box, barely glancing at the number five in the small plaque above the doors.

The auditorium was empty but round him he had the feeling that invisibly, unknowingly, a crowd filled the space. There were the little shifts in the air, little sighs of breath that rose above the unending, unfelt but seen wind and the steady thrum of the music.

On the stage, the musician sat, illuminated by the gaslights but perhaps illuminated was the wrong word. Certainly the figure sat in the glare of the foot lights and his shadow stretched long up behind him on the stage flats but his form did not seem to be light. Or maybe it absorbed the lights and gave nothing back, nothing save the long slow measured swing of the bow over the strings as the cello purred deep and low, its music a haunting measured call that caught in the mind and stayed there as a background sound to the thoughts.

The bow lifted from the strings and the last notes shivered into a silence that was not silent. The musician rose.

"My lords, ladies and gentle men, may I give you the patron of this days performance? The redoubtable Jeremiah Maat!" the voice that proclaimed it was certainly used to performance but there was something off about the tone. It was almost as if two voices fought to come from the same throat, one a rich smooth resilient tenor, the other a rumbling baritone bass that growled through gravel but at his words an applause rippled through the air, unseen hands coming together in celebration of such an esteemed guest.

Pride rushing through him, Jeremiah smiled and bowed to his impalpable audience.

"As much as I am truly gratified by such a welcome," he smiled broadly as he straightened, "I confess myself a little confused as to what I have done to warrant such adulation."

"Ah but my most worthy patron, great benefactor of the arts," the musician could have been smiling, Jeremiah could no be sure, the man's face did not seem to be coming into focus, "Has not the most blessed muse brought you hence to my humble abode so that, in the exchange of knowledge, we can both be increased and gain greatness in the eyes of the world?"

"I do not remember meeting the muse upon my travels," Jeremiah still smiled to show that there was no disrespect meant by his words.

"Ah but do not the muse walk unseen, wearing the face of another, to drop her words of guidance as sweet honey from unknown lips?" the specter with the bow asked, "Does not she move us without us knowing until we are her willing supplicants, coming seeking the knowledge at her alter?"

"It is true that I coming seeking, oh masterly weaver of words," Jeremiah admitted, "And that I was moved by one who believed themselves to be uttering falsehoods to lead me down a path of nothing but frustration and disappointment but I now I see that the one of whom I speak was Serendipity's creature and moved by her will. So I do humbly place myself in you hands, submitting to learn what it is that you are willing to teach me."

"Then come down, dear friend, come down and witness the glories of a world long passed," the specter proclaimed, "Come down and revel in the glory of knowledge long forgotten and long lost."

Smiling Jeremiah turned and stepped out of the box as the music once again swelled behind him.

*

Ulrich settled himself at the side table on the dinner terrace, in consideration for his guest. Denied any seat that would successfully take his weight, Hartseer settled himself sidesaddle style on the stone wall, cup of tea cradled delicately in his metallic hands, glass marble eyes regarding Ulrich with curiosity.

"So what do you wish to discuss with me, while your companions appear to be absent?" Hartseer asked as Ulrich carefully sipped his tea.

"Well the first would be this," Ulrich replaced his teacup in its saucer and laid the fiddle out on the table, "Have you ever seen the like of this on your extensive travels?"

"It appears to be the commoners instrument known as the fiddle, or poor man's violin," Hartseer ran his eye over it, "More common in the northern regions of this country, were trade across the mountains is more open due to the dwarven people's strongholds and therefore more foreign influence is felt. What of it?"

"It seems to  be a little more than that," Ulrich admitted and briefly outlined what he had observed when he was playing it. Hartseer listened attentively, fingers flexing on the cup he held in a mimicry of the fidgeting common to organic people. He considered it as Ulrich wound up his observation.

"A relic," he gave his conclusion, "Not many wizard's in this country can make them now. After the wizard's tower was savaged by its last owner and the Circle either killed or enslaved and then killed, the knowledge of such craftsmanship began to fade. The King has sponsored some likely ones to go to the dwarfs to learn their smithing techniques but it will be years if not decades before the quality they produce is anything like this."

"I rather suspected that it was a magical item," Ulrich smiled, trying to sound like he wasn't blaming Hartseer for stating the blindly obvious. He guessed that Hartseer was used to having to deal with people for whom the blindly obvious was an item that escaped their intellectual grasp.

"As to what it is designed to do," Hartseer rubbed his chin with his knuckles, "I would believe that it is a draining spell of some kind. As such you may wish to keep this unusual treasure with you. Though there are not many human wizards left in this land, there are still those who can employ such arts and it maybe of use to be able to pull their fangs when they least expect it."

"So you believe that it drains magic?" Ulrich questioned.

"I think that would be a sensible conclusion, why?" Hartseer asked.

"I was a little concerned that it maybe a life drainer" Ulrich admitted, "Kaelin had already left the room, you see, so I wasn't able to see what effect its music had on a living being. Considering how badly she reacted to the whistle I found I didn't want to risk playing it around people until I am utterly sure what effects it will have."

"That is eminently sensible and considerate attitude," Hartseer inclined his head, "Unlike the attitude of some people I could name." Ulrich inclined his head in return.

"With all their many and manifest faults, my father's family were always sticklers for consideration and courtliness," he admitted, "Even insults of the most dire kind where to be delivered in a courtly manner and with consideration to form."

"And thus the most bland of statements can hide the speakers true intentions," Hartseer observed, "A reason I prefer the sharp edge of my assignments, where insults are simpler and more straight forward to deal with."

"There is a certain pleasure in being able to directly answer an insult," Ulrich admitted, "But there is always a certain pleasure to the long planned revenge playing out how you want it to. As I say, revenge is a dish best served cold, with those little cheesy things on sticks."

Hartseer actually chuckled, a dry, husky sound more like a gasp but a chuckle none the less.

"Is it possible for a relic to drain the life force of a sentient being?" Ulrich asked out of curiosity.

"Oh yes," Hartseer nodded slowly and the look in his eyes held the edge of a grin, "I saw one in the lands far to the south east, in the land of jungle and drought, during my travels. It was a most... tidy device."

"Tidy?" Ulrich frowned, "What do you mean tidy."

"They had a most admirable attitude to those that society cannot keep," Hartseer recounted, the grin in his eyes unfading.

"That sounds ominous," Ulrich sipped his tea to hide his discomfort.

"Not unless you believe the dangerously insane and the vicious should drag on their people until they do the decent thing and remove themselves from the equation," Hartseer countered.

"Define insane," Ulrich challenged.

"A man who strangles his lovers and then disposes of the bodies by eating them," Hartseer returned. Ulrich's tea cup stopped part way to his mouth and then went back on its saucer. "Apparently he believed that humans are a better source of nourishment than all others."

"Yes," Ulrich agreed sounding faintly sick, "Yes, I would define that as insane."

"So the device would take the life force of such a one and give it as a gift to one who had been dying of some incurable disease, such as leprosy, thus removing a risk to their society and enabling their existence to at least serve some purpose before they protected the world by leaving it," Hartseer's eyes were full of approval for such an idea, "As I said, a most tidy device."

"Indeed," Ulrich suppressed a shiver. There was something about utterly chilling in how Hartseer balanced the books between harm and usefulness to society. It spoke of a cold, clear view of the world, a dreadful checking and balancing of the books that viewed human existence as a series of numbers and debts, clearances and items.

"Just what set you on your travels?" Ulrich asked, easing the conversation away from such an unsettling topic.

"It was not a what," Hartseer admitted, "But a who. It was while I was fighting as the seen head of my Sensi's army. We were finally making decent progress against the paladins and marched into the estate of one of the lord's of the Domilii's lands. This lord had been known as recluse and for keeping to his estates, rather than attending court. I will admit that I was surprised that he threw open the doors to his estate so easily but it was when I met his unknown wife that I saw the reason for it all."

"That reason being?" Ulrich found himself leaning forward.

"The Domilii had began his assent to power riding the wave of sympathy after his family, parents, siblings and their children, had perished in an attack by forces unknown on their family estate. All died... save one," Hartseer leaned forward as well, "Can you guess who I had just found?"

Ulrich felt stunned.

"A niece, a niece had made it out alive," he said.

"And I had just found her," Hartseer would have been grinning like a cat in the cream if he could have done, "What is more she had the Spark of the Paladins in her. A Spark I could train."

"You were a paladin?" Ulrich frowned.

"No, the paladins would not have accepted me ever," Hartseer shook his head, "But that was the benefit of giving up my humanity for this." His metal fingertips touched his metallic chest, "Though I had not the Spark, in this metal skin I had the ability, once my Teacher had trained me, to go toe to toe with the paladins and win. Therefore..."

"You could train her," Ulrich guessed.

"It was my pleasure to have the niece of the Domilii under my wing," Hartseer rolled the sentence, enjoying its flavour, "And it was that pleasure, that pride that betrayed us both." The pleasure dropped from his shoulders.

"How so?" Ulrich was the ever attentive questioner, giving the impression of being a cob of corn, all ears.

"My Teacher eventually fell in battle against the paladins," Hartseer turned the cooling cup in his fingers, "When I next contacted my Sensi through the rune stones, he spoke of gaining a new acolyte soon, so what did I do? I offered my pupil for the position." He leaned back on the pillar behind him, satisfaction turned to deep dejection with whip lash speed.

"That didn't go well?" Ulrich had suspicion as to why but it still came like a sucker punch.

"He tripped up and revealed that my Sensi, the man I'd trusted to give me the tools to save my people, the one both my Teacher and I had trusted to change the world for the better, was... the...Domilii," the torment in Hartseer's eyes was a pit that reached into the Abyss.

"Oh no," Ulrich closed his eyes for a moment.

"All of it," Hartseer admitted, "The whole damn, bloody war, all of it had meant nothing at all. All of it orchestrated by one man to feed his dark ambition and the machine he had built. And I told him where to find his niece, the one missing piece he needed to be able to take the breaks off."

He stared into a distance, across a gulf to a place long, long ago and far away.

"Four hundred, ninety and seven years," he said after a long moment of silence, "Four hundred, ninety and seven years of trying to make up for betraying the women I had come to see as my daughter. Four hundred, ninety and seven years and even now it may not be enough, if Elisha is correct about the source of this trouble."

"Surely the Domilii..." Ulrich probed carefully.

"Is dead?" Hartseer's gaze was sharp, "Don't assume that. He turned me into this and I am sure that there was at least one other tat he experimented on."

"Oh?" Ulrich tilted his head.

"The last survivor of the paladin kill team that was sent out after me," Hartseer set the cold cup down, "When we parted ways he told me that we both had betrayals that we would have to answer for."

"That could have just been the fact he'd failed to stop the Domilii from fooling everyone," Ulrich pointed out.

"It could," Hartseer admitted, "But a Paladin's student was the closest thing they had to a child and his had always been unduly influenced by the Domilii. The boy had a powerful Spark but he had always needed an older hand to guide him and he had been separated from his teacher and friend. Or you could say that his teacher and friend had abandoned him when he possibly needed him most to come hunting me."

Ulrich thought it over.

"Betrayals you both had to answer for," he agreed, "I would say that the paladin certainly saw it as him having abandoned his pupil."

"And so we face something that potentially has the power to reach across oceans and defy time itself," Hartseer intoned. Ulrich thought it over.

"Guess we are in for interesting times," he agreed.

*

 The heavy thrum of the music guided Jeremiah through the building, deep but soaring notes calling him deep into the back stage area of the theater, the strange whip cording colors becoming more mute and utilitarian as he probed deeper into the shadows. The voice of the cello was a beating heart in the darkness.

Finally a door, dull and plain stood in the plain plastered wall with the vibrating center of the music just behind it. Jeremiah lifted his hand and pushed it open. Shelves and standing cases of books stretched away into the shadows, the music twining and swirling around them. Jeremiah felt his face crack into a huge grin as he stepped inside the room.

"Oh good Sir," he beamed, "You are a beautiful creature!"

The music shivered on a quick up tick and Jeremiah turned the corner of a couple of bookcases to see the master of this hall sat at the research desks, his cello in front of him and the bow just lifting from the strings.

"Oh my good Jeremiah," the figure seemed to smile but it was hard to drag his face into focus, "I do not believe that anyone has ever referred to me as beautiful."

"Is not the one who gathers and guard knowledge beautiful?" Jeremiah asked, "But I must confess myself at a disadvantage. You know my name but I have no knowledge of yours. May I be graced with such knowledge?"

"Of course, my friend," the figure billowed to his feet, crossed his waist with his bow and bowed to Jeremiah, "I am Michael Azrael, master of this house and guardian of its treasures. Please look and admire the gems that I have preserved for you."

Jeremiah looked around at the shelves. On one bookcase he saw copies of books he had only seen as disintegrating pieces, kept locked away for fear that the slightest touch would crumble them into dust. Here though, they were in perfect condition, beautifully bound and ready to be read. However, on another he saw titles that he had no knowledge of at all. He skimmed over them, wondering what 'Much to Do About Nothing' could possibly mean and where the two cities were.

"It seems you have books that do not have much to do with my studies, friend," Jeremiah turned back to Michael, who stood with an unnerving stillness.

"Of course," Michael agreed amicable, though that strange double voiced tone became more pronounced, "This is a theater. Surely one should expect the great works of literature to be gathered here?"

"I suppose so," Jeremiah admitted, not quite showing his irritation. If this had been nothing but a wild goose chase.... Especially as Hat kept clattering in the wind that did not exist. Once again Michael seemed to smile, though it was hard to say. All the rest of him was dressed in black with only the smallest flash of white shirt at his chin but his face seemed unnaturally white and he held it tipped to the right, as if trying to hide that side from Jeremiah.

"If magic is your sole focus however then I believe that the books there will be enlightening," Michael gestured with his bow to the corner of the room. Forgetting his carefully donned mannerisms, Jeremiah nearly scurried over to the corner of the room. A quick look told him that there were no books penned by the same hand as those that rode in his pocket but there were those that were definitely interesting.

"May I be so bold as to ask to be allowed to take these two with me?" he asked, turning to Michael.

"For such a friend as you, of course," the mouth was in focus this time and it definitely smiled.

"My unending thanks," Jeremiah smiled back as he slipped the books into his cavernous pockets. It was a strain however and he considered the fact that he might have to invest in a pack in which to carry his treasures. "Tell me, my dear friend, is there anything that I could do for you?"

"There most certainly is," Michael smiled again, laying aside his bow and placing the cello carefully on the table top. Turning he picked up a manuscript.

"My magnum opus," he stroked the cover with caressing fingers, "I need you to return it to the living world."

"The living world?" Jeremiah raised an eyebrow, "Are we not in the living world  now?"

The phantom smile grew wider.

"Nay, dear friend, we are in the shadow lands, the place between worlds," Jeremiah felt himself go cold at the answer.

"Am I dead?" he held on to the control of his bladder very firmly.

"Not... exactly," Michael said, "As I said, these are the shadow lands, the place between the worlds, as well as between life... and death. Here we are not alive, neither are we dead, we simply are and thus can we continue for all time, for time means precisely nothing here.  Hence why this building, which in the 'real' world is just a crumbling shell in a city of ruins and despair, stands in all its glory."

"So if you can last for all eternity here," Jeremiah frowned, "Why do you want your magnum opus to go back to the land of the living?"

"Why does the teacher long for willing students?" Michael asked back, "Why does the artist paint his pictures? Why does the singer sing her songs? I can continue here but I cannot perform. I have an audience of ghosts, not living souls! I need to perform, I need the roar of adulation. I exist here but I am starving for worship of a warm and loving public. I long to be heard again."

"So why don't you take it yourself?" Jeremiah asked. Michael hesitated.

"I cannot," he admitted, "The magic I worked to open this doorway for myself means that I cannot carry my great work back to the living myself. Please, do you not know of a musician who would benefit from knowing such a work?" There was something desperate and hunger in the tone, a pleading for salvation from an uncaring god. Jeremiah suddenly knew he had power, power to grant this strange phantom's desire or to withhold it. Oh Michael could threaten to trap him here forever but if he did he too would remain trapped here forever as performer to nothing at all. It was a heady brew and he wanted to make it linger.

"I...." Jeremiah paused, "I think I do know someone who has recently discovered a musical talent and could do with a proper score to play."  Michael lifted his manuscript slightly, a tick of desire. He was daring to hope that Jeremiah would do as he asked but at the same time not quite daring to believe that he would.

"But if, if I took your magnum opus to the land of the living what would I get in return?" Jeremiah said slowly, "I'm not saying that I will but if I did what would I get in return?"

Strangely Michael relaxed.

"You ask what you'd receive in return?" he laid his magnum opus gentle aside and lifted his cello, "Are you not familiar with the power of music? You are a priest are you not? I can tell that from your robes, though your order is strange to me so surely you have heard the soaring refrains echo from the height of the cathedral roof to convince men that God is with them? Have you not heard the strains of the arias that move men to cry for those of their number that they have never met or known? Have you not ever hear the anthems that make the blood sing and people dance for the joy of being alive?"

He settled himself, positioned the cello and laid the bow against the strings.

Music, deep and throbbing, poured forth, the beat of it throbbing in the bones and pulsing in the temples. It swelled and grew, resounding in the chest and pounding in the muscles.

Michael lifted the bow off the strings with such a rapidness that it jerked Jeremiah up short.

"You see my friend?" Michael smiled, still favoring the right side of his face, "You see what music could do for you?"

"Yes," Jeremiah spoke with a gasp in his voice, "Yes I believe I do." He clenched his fists, trying not to shake. He wanted to snarl, wanted to fight, want to find someone that he could punch for no reason at all, the music's vicious call still sounding in his bones and pulsing in his mind.

"So my friend," Michael laid down his bow and tucked the neck of his cello into the crock of his arm so he could lift his manuscript from the table, "Will you take my magnum opus back to the land of the living?"

"Yes," Jeremiah brushed his hair back from his face, still not entirely steady, "Yes, I think I will."

"Then my friend," Michael smiled, face still turned slightly away, "Then we will do marvelous things together, when the time comes."

Jeremiah felt something like a flash of static as his hands closed about the manuscript and somehow it felt as if the manuscript moved slightly of its own will under his hands.

"When we meet again," Michael inclined his head.

"As long as I see the great things you promise," Jeremiah tried to scowl but somehow it lacked its usual fervor.

"I wouldn't have it any other way," Michael promised.

As Jeremiah turned back to the door to seek the way back to the stairs that led to the land of the living he heard the strains of the cello sing out again, building in the auditorium. Now it was was not the soft calling tune that had reeled Jeremiah in, now it was a bellow of triumph, a throbbing roar of victory, beautiful in its power, majestic in its strength.

For some reason Jeremiah found himself smiling as he cradled the manuscript to his chest, the strange winds of the shadow lands blowing passed him.