NOTE: The following except contains violence, and is not suitable for children.

Blue Crystal

Chapter One: Vastii in Black

((Version 3.0-- not the final draft.))

Rylan's brass lantern illuminated the small cave better than the scavenger's tallow candle: it swung back and forth on metal hinges, sloshing the oil reserve. It shed light though clouds of frosty breath and to the insulating plaster coating the stone walls, the cubby shelves, the little fireplace and flue, the terrified scavenger hunkered on the other side of the room seven feet away. He held a crude iron axe in gloved hands. The body between them sprawled face-down in a pool of its own half frozen blood.

The lamp swung to. The scavenger shifted his grip on his axe.

The lamp swung aft. Rylan stepped out of the entryway and put his hand on his sword.

The light played with the shadows on their faces, sometimes illuminating their eyes above their mufflers and sometimes giving them a gaunt, hollowed look chiseled with harsh lines. Rylan pulled his sword partially out of the scabbard, and pulled the lamp closer. He wanted the man across the room to see that Rylan was holding steel. An empty threat: like most of the commoner's private homes, there would never be enough room to swing even a short blade.

The body had been partially stripped. It was missing its furs and trousers. From the ugly gnash through the back of the knee the man had been in the process of hacking it off. The missing furs had been rolled up beside the greasy man, with his axe and his tallow candle. When Rylan spoke, his voice held a note of regret rather than anger. "What have you done?"

"Not me. Never me. I'm a good man, see?" The scavenger scooted the trousers closer to Rylan. "You can have the rest? See, we'll split it, even-like. A fair man, I am."

"Did you kill him or not?"

"No! I didn't! I wouldn't! He was like this when I got here. Anyone would've done the same!"

"Cut off a leg?"

"That there's good meat."

Rylan glanced at the body. Back where he came from, touching a murdered man was considered bad luck unless you had killed him yourself (which had its own set of rules). Cannibalism was worse, though not uncommon in the cavern city of Vastii. Rylan tested the edge with his foot. It had not frozen solid yet, but it had a thick enough crust. He'd fallen about an hour ago, too much time to have only gotten a coat and a pair of trousers.

Rylan pressed his lips together under the muffler; this one was a coward. "Just take the furs and go."

He nodded. "Sure. It's yours. ... What about the leg?"

"Just go."

Rylan stepped away from the entranceway, and they played a quiet game in the little cavern called 'get out, but not too close'. The iron hatch slammed shut behind him. Rylan was thankful for the privacy.

"Chose damn bad time to die, didn't you?" Rylan asked the body.

Then Rylan started searching the shelves, then the ice box, tossing what didn't interest him floor. Candle wax, frozen meat, string, root vegetables, an iron pot and a reserve of oil, sticks, and coal for fire. Rylan navigated to the mattress, which was little more than a long, lumpy cushion, and he slit it open to see what he'd used for stuffing. Forgeries of official papers, tubes of ink, fancy pens and ribbons all tumbled to the floor.

Rylan dug through them until he'd found a thin book, bound in thin leather. He opened it up to check its contents, and found a ledger of schedules. The title at the top was hand-written and slanted, and read, 'Crystal Guard 27'. Names of locations within the city were followed by dates, page after page of names and dates. Rylan dropped it down to the mess.

No other booklets littered the collection. Rylan pushed them all to the side, and stepped to the corner to survey what he might have missed. The flue, perhaps. He could check the plastered walls for any secret compartments, but it seemed unlikely. And, of course, he had not touched the body. Rylan did not want to touch the body-- he hadn't killed him, and he neither meant to avenge him or to conduct a series of lengthy funeral rites. He hadn't even known the forger's name; their business had been conducted in anonymity.

He stalled by reaching his hand up the flue. The shaft was small, and the air that trickled down was bitterly cold; it bit through Rylan's glove and fur as if he were wearing a paper dress. He found nothing out of the ordinary, and a glance around the ruined apartment as he turned back made his heart sink. He'd never find anything in the walls without chipping it all off. There simply wasn't time.

That left the body.

Rylan considered him: the bloody pool, the bare legs, his face hidden by both hair and pink ice. What if he just left the body there without touching him? What was the likelihood that the book that Rylan had come for in particular would be hidden on his person?

More succinctly... could Rylan return to his mistress in good conscience knowing that he could have performed his duty more thoroughly, and had chosen not to? His beliefs about the dead were not shared by his lady. Her maids would stand nearby, disapproval written across their faces, but his mistress... she would look at the wall behind Rylan, stiff and blank. She would nod slowly, accepting what he had done, and her shoulders would slump a little further. What was more important to him? Luck or duty?

Rylan grabbed the body by the shoulders and hoisted him up. The ice released its hold reluctantly, and to turn it over Rylan had to clasp the body to his own chest before he lowered it to the ground. The forger had not been a light man, and when Rylan let go the head hit the floor with a crack.

Both eyes had been burned from the head, and stiletto had been shoved under his chin. Teeth that had once been yellow and brown were now rusty red, stained by the blood as the steel pierced through his tongue and proceeded up through the roof of his mouth.

Rylan hit his head against the ceiling, the lantern swung wildly. Rylan scrambled for the doorway, and when he'd found it he stumbled into the passage outside the cave without closing the hatch. He ran clutching his hood in one hand, his lantern in the other.

The passage was not straight; it twisted and turned, sloped steeply in some cases. Down in the depths of the city tunnels like that were not uncommon. Rylan was forced to slow twice to move carefully around obstacles. When he saw the start of the spiral highway at the edge of his light, he slowed down even further to recover his breathing. No good ever came from running in the dark.

Beyond the spiral highway was the pit of Vastii, a circular chasm that dropped down far below the deepest tunnels. It had once been a volcano shaft; now the city had been built around it, level by level. At the top of the highway and the city were great palaces carved out of the stone, schools, theaters, a great arena, public lighting that never went out. The lower in the city, the shadier the district.

If he went to the left on the highway, he'd climb up through the levels of the city. His mistress waited for him at the top. He could go to her and tell her what had happened. There would be no shame in admitting that he'd stopped where he did.

He turned right, and hugged descended further into the city. Rylan didn't like to fail.

Street etiquette here dictated that anyone who passed by each other keep their faces down and approach at a distance. If someone walked behind you, you had the right to turn down a side passage and wait for them to go by. Anyone following a stranger was reason for a fight. Give loitering groups a wide berth. Some had candles, some torches. Rylan's lantern was unusual this far down, but his fur was not, especially not with the blood he'd gotten on it trying to move the forger's body. He moved quickly down half a turn down the pit, and when he was certain that no one was following him, he moved down a side-passage. A group of figures in dog-fur smoked and turned their heads as Rylan passed. Rylan pressed his right hand at the sword hilt on his back as she moved, but no one came after him.

The doorway he wanted was one level down and across the pit down another winding tunnel, marked by crude numbers carved into the stone. Rylan kicked the iron hatch with his metal-toed boots. He waited several seconds, and then kicked at it again.

A small plate on the hatch twisted and pulled away. An eyes pressed against the peephole. "Who's there?"

Rylan knelt and pulled down his muffler to show his face. His coloring was distinct if his features were not: his beard was red and carefully trimmed, his hair a duller orange. "Rye. We've met."

"And then I sent you on your way. What do you want?"

Rylan covered his face up again. "Business."

The porthole on the hatch closed and locked into place. A few seconds later, the locks on the hatch drew back, and Rylan was permitted down into the cavern.

"Hello, Emyl."

The iron hatch gave a loud, hollow clang as Emyl closed it behind him. "Glowing rivers. What do you want now? Get lost? Need a tour? Again?" Emyl passed Rylan, sheathing a knife. He was an older man with a lined face, and though he kept his cap on, Rylan could see white frizzy hair between the hat and his collar. His home was larger than the forger's, much taller-- he kept the second story curtained off. A professional middleman by trade, Emyl had done well for himself. Little signs of luxury littered the abode: the dog skin spread on the wall (its head still attached and fitted with wooden eyes, glazed to a shine), furniture made from bone and rope, the iron grail over the fire pit. The fire crackled and snapped.

His host liked to see his client's faces, a reasonable request. The hood and muffler were removed. Rylan cut off the wick in his lantern to save the oil. "The pamphlet I asked about last time?"

"I set you up with a distributor." Emyl ducked under the lip of the lower room, sat down, picked up an iron poker, and began brushing the embers from the lip of the fire pit. "What's wrong with that one?"

"Someone killed him."

Emyl turned in his seat, the poker still in hand.

"When I got there, a scavenger was picking at the leftovers. No pamphlet anywhere, I looked. Do you have a copy? Somewhere else I can get it?"

There was a pause before Emyl answered. "I might. Maybe." He turned and squinted at Rylan. "Someone killed him?"

"I didn't see. There was a scavenger cutting through the ligaments... through the back of the knee." He was sounding too much like the said scavenger for comfort now. 'I'm a good man. A fair man. Want half?' Rylan went on. "He made off with some fur and food, but the blood was half frozen by the time I walked in. I don't think he was responsible. "I looked through some of the papers. I didn't see the pamphlet. ... We did have a deal, Emyl."

"Bring any with you?"

"The papers?" That wasn't a good idea. "Emyl... the body had its eyes burned out. They left a stiletto through his head. It looks like secret police's work."

"Secret police?" Emyl stirred his fire, turning red embers with the iron tip. "You know, when I was a boy, we had some killings round our commune. Spikes and missing eyes, possessions intact. Everyone said that the police were coming, the police were coming. Someone in the commune had done wrong, and we'd all be hunted down in turn." Emyl's poker raised, and rested on the grill outside the flames. The tip had a dim glow. "Well, one day, a silver mask did show up. In front of everyone, at the top of a stair. Face like a metal goddess, he had, and cheap furs like any of us would wear. And he threw a severed head down to us and said he liked honest murderers. Deep voice. Upper level accent. Disappeared right after. Turns out that the fellow he'd thrown at us was some sick bastard who just liked to kill things. Used spikes and hot irons, and thought he could get away with anything.

"You really think I'm going to believe you, don't you? With your scared eyes and your stories? The masks did it, the masks did it." He hefted his poker, this time like a weapon. "That man was a good business partner. I've known that one for a good, long time. Been doing this a good, long time... then you show up..."

"I swear, it's the truth." Rylan displayed empty hands.

"You one of them?"

"The masks? No!"

"You lead them there? Sell him out? What they pay you?"

"Nothing!"

Emyl brandished the poker. Rylan could feel the heat through his gloves. "Don't fuck with me."

"I don't know what I can say to convince you. It just happened." Rylan looked from the tip to Emyl. He could, conceivably, kick the poker away and kill the middleman himself. It would be a tight fight, and Rylan did not want to resort to that. He could kill the old man, probably, yes, but what would that accomplish? And if Emyl hadn't swung yet, he wasn't sure either. "What do you want from me?"

"Who are you?"

Rylan had expected demands of money or some sort of service. "What?"

"I want to know who you are. You bastard mordache?"

"No. No, I'm human. A... a scholar. From the academy. I study medicine."

"Bit of a fancy place for you to be reading this sort of thing, isn't it? The reader you want so bad?"

The edges of Rylan's mouth quirked. "Only the commoners can want things to change?" he asked. "Do you really think that what happens in the palace can't touch the academy? The king has sent out spies and assassins over the surface for war, and we've probably got the same in Vastii proper working against the city. You think that doesn't spread down at all? ... It's not a plague and famine up there, not yet, but we'll be the next to feel it."

The poker swayed as Emyl considered, and finally pulled away from Rylan.

Rylan tried again. "Do you have a copy?"

"No." Emyl pointed at Rylan's lamp. "Light it."

"We're going somewhere?"

"You're going to save your own skin, that's what you're going to do. I want to see the body. If you killed him, scholar..."

"I didn't. You don't want to check, either. Secret police or not, Emyl, it looked close enough." This was why he shouldn't have touched the body. Bad luck-- he was marked with it, he was sure. "What happens if I refuse?"

"You want that book, don't you?"

"The book's not worth this." Rylan had people to protect and a duty to fulfill.

Emyl shrugged and crossed his arms. "If I've wronged you... then I'll be in your debt. I need to know for sure, Rye. If masks are looking at our press line, it'll be the writers and bastard magicians they go for next. I have to know. I have to know now." Emyl held out his hand.

Rylan hesitated, then gripped it. A deal.

Emyl pulled up the collar of his coat and fetched a muffler. Rylan did the same, then finally played with the knobs on his lamp until it relit itself.

"Besides," Emyl continued, "I'll be checking anyway. Who knows? Those blades of yours might come in handy."

They left the hatch locked but not bolted, and walked back to the spiral highway. The forger's residence looked no different than Rylan had left it, inside and out, with no evidence that anyone had lingered. Emyl's first action was to tug the stiletto from the forger's throat.

"One of the police's?" Rylan asked.

"Maybe. Get the papers."

"Excuse me?"

"Get the papers. I'm taking 'em with me. All of it."

Rylan grabbed the mattress and shoveled the papers, ribbons, pens and inks, and the journal into its lining. They could roll it up and pretend to be scavenging themselves. "Have you seen enough?" Rylan asked. The sooner they were out of here, the better.

Emyl didn't look to be in a hurry. "If you've got those papers, we can leave."

Rylan handed Emyl the rolled mattress. "The faster the better. The pamphlet?"

"I know a fellow. You'll have it within the hour."

It was still too high a price to pay. His mistress would not like this. "And the favor you promised? Are you satisfied that I'm not the one you're looking for?"

"Maybe."

Rylan pressed his lips together. Bad luck. Emyl ducked under the entranceway and exited the cavern in the dark. Rylan snatched up his lantern again to follow the middleman. They emerged in the tunnel. It seemed quiet, empty. Rylan didn't trust it, and he stared at the edges of his vision for several seconds before he turned and moved with Emyl. Neither spoke, not now. They walked quickly toward the pit, ducking and pausing where need be.

After a second steep drop in elevation, Rylan paused, again certain that things were not right. Perhaps he'd heard something if however quietly, or perhaps the warning was instinct. He looked to Emyl ahead of him, walking along the passage, his pilfered mattress under his arm. Rylan drew his knife and turned around.

His knife barely blocked the sword in time. Rylan's lamp illuminated the gleam of a silver face.

The man in the silver mask bore down on his sword, trying to overpower Rylan by weight and surprise. Rylan swung his lamp with his left hand, and the mask pulled away and tried for a second strike. His sword hit Rylan's left wrist, sliced through the fur, and bit into metal. Emyl shouted behind them.

Rylan shoved his assailant and threw his knife. The mask batted it out of the air with his sword, but it gave Rylan time to draw the shortsword from the scabbard on his back. The passage was tight, tighter than Rylan would have liked. The mask stepped back a step, as if he would retreat, but the path's incline locked him into the combat. Now that Rylan had an enemy in front of him, his fear had also vanished.

The masked police raised his left hand. It was empty.

Rylan threw himself into a frantic, reckless attack, intending to end this quickly.

Something in his body moved, a cold tingle as if someone had reached inside of him, an icy hand slithering between organs, looking for something soft to grab. Rylan stabbed and chopped wildly at the mask's chest. The mask deflected with his sword and dodged what he could. The lamp swung wildly.

The cold tingle evolved into intense pain that forced Rylan to his knees.

He began screaming as the icy hand within found what he wanted and twisted, pulling him outside of his body. Rylan fell onto his back, hardly aware of his physical state. His eyes clenched from the pain while his body twisted and thrashed.

The mask stepped over him and grabbed his throat.

The pain abated, slightly, and left Rylan shaking. The silver mask, now that he looked at it, was studded in turquoise, and its expression was one of rapturous delight.

"Your friend has run. Who was he?"

Rylan didn't answer. The pain returned, stronger, the cold burning through Rylan's waist and moving into his chest and the marrow within his leg bones, the top of the femur and oozing down.

Then it ceased, and the mask waited.

"He didn't give me a name."

"Do you know what I'm doing, human?" The hand on his throat grabbed Rylan's muffler and pulled it beneath his chin. "I'm tearing your soul apart. I'm playing with the strings that hold soul and spirit to your body. I'm tying them in knots, stretching you, breaking you. I can do this for hours before you die. Do you think anyone will interrupt?"

Rylan tried to move his feet and found that he couldn't feel them. He couldn't feel the hilt of his sword, either, or the lantern. He must have dropped both.

The mask slapped him. "You'll move when I tell you to." He shifted and pinned Rylan under a knee, and then grabbed Rylan's left wrist. "I know that you're a slave." The man had found the metal bracer that had turned his sword. "What sort, I wonder...?"

Rylan flexed his hand again. It responded. The fur of his left sleeve tore further as the mask went for a better look.

"... Holy hells," the mask whispered.

Rylan threw himself forward and grabbed the masked policeman. His gut twisted again the icy hold returning, but now the mask's shoulder was in Rylan's left hand and his hood in Rylan's right. Rylan gasped in pain, even as he slammed the mask's head against the stone passageway's floor. Then he slammed it again, and again, destroying the back of the skull by blunt trauma.

The pain wavered, then faded entirely.

He'd killed one of the king's secret police.

Rylan looked for witnesses. There was no one in sight.

"Well," Rylan whispered. He tried to stand, and had difficulty doing so. "We're in for it now, aren't we, my lady?" His lamp had fallen. One glass pane had cracked. He picked it up again. His fallen sword was returned to his sheath. He couldn't find the knife... probably up the incline somewhere.

Someone drew near. Rylan spun around and grabbed the second sword on his hip.

Emyl raised his hands in surrender. "He dead?"

Rylan let go of the hilt. "Yes."

"I'll get the feet." Emyl knelt to study the craftsmanship of the mask. Then he reached down to remove it. The face underneath was lined, older than Rylan; perhaps in his late thirties. His skin tone had been white, the almost-blue pale of the pureblood mordache. Rylan didn't recognize him. He watched the passage as Emyl patted down the corpse.

Something nudged Rylan's glove. He looked down and blinked at a small, leather book. Emyl pressed it into Rylan's hand. "A deal."

Rylan opened it. The book held no title, no introduction. He read lines from several pages before he realized what he was looking at: a detailed, almost scientific description of a rape and murder several months past. Rylan snapped the book shut, and found that it was just small enough to wedge under the golden bracer that he wore on his left wrist. His coat had been torn open; he was lucky that Emyl hadn't spotted it.

When Emyl was done stripping the body, Rylan swapped his fur coat for the mask's. It was dog fur, very similar to what Rylan had been wearing. More importantly, it wouldn't show the gold.

Emyl snatched up Rylan's discarded coat. "Going to need this?"

"I'm traveling light." Rylan finished buttoning the collar.

On a signal from Emyl, he picked up the body's shoulders. Emyl took the feet, and they progressed down the tunnel. When the pit of Vastii opened up before them, they crossed the spiral highway to the edge, which lacked a railing, and swung the body into the air. It disappeared out of the light almost immediately.

It was the easiest way to get away with murder in this city.

Emyl kept the mask hidden with the rest of the plunder in the slashed mattress. Rylan turned to him. "I think you owe me a very large favor."

Emyl stared into the chasm. "I've never heard of just one man killing one of them before."

"The favor?"

"Come get me when you want to collect." Emyl stepped away from the edge. "I still don't know what you are."

"Do you need to?" Rylan checked his weapons. "You should get rid of that stuff quickly."

Emyl turned. "I know a guy. See you."

Rylan went the opposite direction and ascended clockwise up the highway.

Each lap around the highway was roughly a third of a mile long, all at a slope. Residences did not live directly off of the highway, but there were shops, brothels, commons where men and women would pay to gather in heated rooms. Butchers sold meat, mostly fish, sometimes dog and even human. There were root vegetables, luminescent mushrooms, tanned hides, water and various types of wines in bulging skins. Rylan passed a tannery on his third circle up, which could be identified by the rank smell and the smoke pouring not into the city vents but into the street. After that, the heated rooms and brothels continued, while the shops began to include crafted goods. The most affluent were lit with stone bowls of fire or tiny, long-lasting candles called everburners. Rylan passed an animal market, selling dogs and pups, for labor, travel, fur, and food. He turned there, and took the opportunity to ascend a staircase to the next level rather than take another loop around the highway. Most used it as a shortcut to the arena.

The arena's facade took up four levels of the city, and much of it was carved into the form of a reclining god, and the spiral highway passed twice through its dais. One of the god's stone hands stretched out over the pit and held a shallow bowl. Local lore had it that once, long ago, it was a place of execution for noblemen and royalty because of the excellent view it commanded.

The portion of the highway that ran through the arena dais had been heavily decorated. Walls displayed carved wolves with great gaping mouths, giant ice-snakes, snarling tigers, their canine teeth protruding well below their lower jaw. Stone women bared naked chests, heroes and gods held weapons aloft, and various stars stared down at Rylan as he passed by toward another staircase that would circumvent passes along the highway. The entranceway to the staircase was surrounded by a long, serpentine dragon with a crown on its head; the symbol of the king's house.

Rylan gained four level from the stairs inside, and he left the arena on the second level (from the top), an elaborately carved avenue. Mansions presided over the highway on the left hand side. The edge of the pit now bore a lip, and ever-burner candles dotted tiny pinpoints of light around the edge, to remind the residents not to fall in. Shops put real glass into their windows, and colored lights were spent extravagantly.

Rylan's dog fur coat was no longer the common dress. He looked like he was in the wrong part of town, and he matched the lowest servants and slaves. The mordache people were resistant to the cold, and those with excessively pale skin wore silks, tanned leather, bare arms and sometimes bare legs. The other humans huddled in their fur.

The top of the arena touched on this level, and resided a quarter turn down from Vastii academy. Rylan went there next. He entered the university's grand doors, and showed a pass to the guard stationed inside. He passed by the classrooms and took the stairs instead, still ascending. He passed the great library on the second floor and took a second exit, and left the academy once more. Now he was on the top level of the city, halfway across the pit from the king's palace.

Rylan continued on, and soon he was one of the only humans in the population. He passed the merchant row, known as the silk streets, then the lady's court, the gentleman's ballroom, and approached the first of three palace checkpoints. The guards in attendance were all mordache. They snapped their halberds closed, denying Rylan entrance.

Rylan held out empty hands, displaying that he had no concealed weapons, and under their suspicious gaze he rolled back the sleeve over his left arm. He held the bracer out for the guard to see without a word.

The solders snapped to attention, saluting Rylan. Their weapons drew aside. He repeated the performance at the second checkpoint, just before the palace gates. "My lord," one said, and unlocked Rylan's way for him.

Between Rylan and the palace doors was a long, straight path through stone gardens. Hanging lanterns of blue and violet fire, carved marble, and buttressed ceilings presented the most beautiful entrance in Vastii. The doors to the palace interior stood five times Rylan's height; red, ringed wood bound in iron were attached to chains and opened on formal occasions from within. Rylan took the small door to the right instead. Two guards stood outside the door, and let Rylan through without comment.

Within, four more guards stood at the ready. Just beyond them a scribe sat over a book, and a shaggy black dog on a chain bared his teeth as Rylan showed his bracer again. His arm was already getting cold. "Rylan du Jadis," he said. "Returning from an errand."

The scribe looked at the golden bracer, and unlike the guards before him, he noted the swan carved in the metalwork. "An errand?" he repeated. "We'll need more with the Jadis family, my lord. King's orders."

"The academy, and then the silk streets," Rylan elaborated, and he reached into a belt pocket slowly. The guards stiffened until Rylan pulled out a small box, made of ornamentally carved wood. When the scribe opened it an elegant diamond necklace sparkled in the light.

"It took a while to find the right one. My mistress is particular."

Rylan glanced at the clock while the scribe made his records. The timepiece showed the surface sky-- a featureless black plane shared space with nighttime stars-- and Rylan shuffled at the reading. He hadn't meant to be out so long.

Then the scribe pulled out a sheet of paper. "It says you're to be searched before entry."

"Searched?" Rylan asked. Since when?

The scribe turned the paper and showed Rylan the king's seal at the bottom: the crowned serpentine dragon over stars embedded in black wax. Rylan read over enough to see that the scribe hadn't been lying. The guards moved to strip off Rylan's coat.

"I'd appreciate it if you could be quick. It's freezing in here." As mordache, they wouldn't feel it, but Rylan was already cold.

They took Rylan's overcoat and patted him down, but came up with only strings of steel and gold coins, a spare canister for oil, an emergency flint, and the knife in Rylan's boot. None of them would be considered unusual. Rylan was let into the front entry hall of the palace.

The hall was built to impress. It had another tall ceiling to fit the monstrous door that led into it pillars on the side, and ice clung to almost every surface. The hall progressed fifty feet to a T-junction, where the crowned dragon over stars had been set into a bronze relief. Two lanterns burned continuously on either side to keep ice from forming over the royal heraldry.

The rooms beyond were warmer, without the decorative ice allowed to grow in the entranceway, though the main halls were sculpted to impress visitors. Rylan passed a relief of the gods that lived in the stars before he arrived at the nearest servant's passage, claustrophobic tunnels that wound between the floors and walls of the palace. He occasionally had to duck slightly to avoid the ceiling. He took staircases, passed laundry rooms, secondary kitchens, cold rooms to keep meat frozen and fresh, a male servant bearing bundles of rich fabric, then a female immediately after holding a silver tea set.

He exited the passages and turned from a major hallway down a long dead-end row, passing doors on both his right and left. These were ambassadors' quarters. Every doorway led to an empty room. Every doorway but the last.

Yet another guard in the king's colors slumped on a three-legged stool beside the last door in the hall. He held a skin of what Rylan had guessed probably wasn't water.

Rylan had to wait for the doorkeeper to open the way for him, and now that he knew the time he wondered if the man was moving particularly slow today. Once beyond he entered a small waiting room. The temperature finally rose into something Rylan felt comfortable at without his layers. Hooks lined the wall to the side. Rylan began to doff the heavy fur overcoat.

A female voice called from the next room. "Rylan?"

Several swords rang as they left their sheathes, and a male voice that he didn't know said, "Stand down, du Jadis."

Rylan turned and saw several armed men within the room. They wore the uniform of king's guardsmen. The doorman wasn't enough? Or had something happened? "... Am I under arrest?"

"Not yet. We have orders to search you."

Rylan lost his inner coat, then his knit sweater, leaving him in a simple undershirt. They insisted on taking his boots and his outer trousers, and rummaged through everything that they found him carrying, even his oil reserve. When the little wooden box was discovered there was a sound of triumph, and the guardsman began tearing away the velvet lining of the box.

The woman who had called to Rylan watched from the common room-- a very young, pretty brunette who cringed every so often at the display. Her name was Ana, and Rylan hoped that she wouldn't interfere. He could care for himself better than she'd be able to.

"Nothing, sir." The guardsman showed his captain the slashed velvet inside the jewel box. "Just diamonds."

The captain turned to the man looking at Rylan's lamp and oil. He reported likewise. "Regular lantern oil. Nothing stronger by the smell."

"He's missing a knife." The soldier drew his swords from his belt one at a time. "They're clean, sir. No blood."

Two more women joined Ana: chubby middle-aged Dacha wore her black hair twisted into a bun at the top of her head; Saffira dressed in strange, multi-layered, colorful clothes and strung a plethora of bone and wooden beads around her neck. Her face bore several tattoos. Dacha's lips curled into a snarl. Saffira's expression showed nothing, but her hand strayed inside those colorful, loose robes.

"Where's the knife, du?" The captain came too close to Rylan's face for comfort.

"I don't know." Rylan caught the captain's shoulders and moved him back a few inches. The other soldiers pointed their weapons at him. "I slipped on a bit of ice near the silk row. Perhaps it fell when I tripped."

The captain glared. "You were gone for seven hours on a trip to the silk row?"

"No, sir. I study medicine at the academy, if you'll recall. There's no point in returning through security if I'd be going out again in an hour."

The captain stepped forward again. Perhaps he thought that proximity made him intimidating. "I think that you're a shitty liar, du Jadis."

"That song will change pretty quickly when you need a healer." Rylan looked back to the women. Saffira had left the group. "If it please you, I was to see my mistress as soon as I returned. I have my own orders."

"You should be careful how to speak to your betters, slave." The men around him returned to posts in the room beyond, and the captain left the room.

"Rylan!" Ana bounded forward and hugged him around the middle.

Rylan bore the hug good-naturedly. "Speak to my betters?" he repeated. What was that about?

Dacha answered that as she gathered up the fallen necklace. "Madness. A captain ought to be begging you to piss on him."

Ana winced. "You're disgusting, Dacha."

"You love me anyway." Dacha handed Rylan back his swords and scabbards next. "The casing is ruined."

Rylan nodded, and got dressed. "Will someone explain to me why there are armed men in here?"

Ana glanced over her shoulder. "We're being punished. Some extra girls showed up just after you left, and announced that they were going to replace us? A new bunch of maids? Lady Jadis refused them. So now there are guards."

"We are here to protect Lady Jadis, nothing more," the guard by the entryway replied.

Stepping into the next room, Rylan caught a bit of the warmth emanating from a large iron stove to the right. A stone table bore playing cards and steel coins from the girls' game, and against the right wall were several bookshelves and a chaise lounge. A swan had been carved into part of the backing. Five doors led to two servant's rooms, Rylan's bedroom, the washroom, and finally the lady's bedchambers, directly across from the entry. Each of the four guards had a stool to watch them from, and they peppered themselves about the room.

The double doors to the lady's room opened as Rylan entered. Saffira emerged and stepped aside. "My lady." Saffira's speech held a thick accent. Her native language was harsher than the mordache's Danache.

Lady Jadis was mordache, white-pale, golden-haired, and today dressed entirely in blue. Rylan approached quickly, and went on one knee in front of her. "Mistress."

"Rylan." Her lips did not move as she spoke, and her voice was difficult to understand. Her face was stiff, and the droop of her eyelids and mouth hinted at mental slowness. "What is this?"

"A whole lot of stupidity, that's what," Dacha growled.

Rylan stood at his mistress' gesture. "Your uncle has decided that I am to be searched on entering the palace."

Nothing on the lady's face changed. "The necklace?"

Rylan motioned to Dacha, who came forward. "I can try to fix the casing, if you would like, my lady."

His mistress didn't reply. She draped the strand of diamonds around her wrist. "Accompany," she told Rylan, turned, and stepped back into her room. Rylan followed behind her. Saffira closed the doors after them, and the sound made the suite echo. Rylan looked to the doors to see that they were properly sealed behind him.

"What is this?" his mistress repeated. Her bedchamber included only a desk, a bed, and a large chest. She sat at the desk, an oversized piece which bore a collection of half-melted candles, wax dripped liberally onto the sides of the wood. The room was lit only by a few ever-burner candles, hardly enough to see by. The lady lit some of the larger wax candles on the desk. Sand crunched under Rylan's feet as he moved to join her. The floor was covered in grit.

"The search?" Rylan asked. "Ana told me about the maids. What are we going to do about the men? They can't stay here, Wyrren."

Lady Wyrren Jadis lit another candle. "We have no choice," she answered. She spoke slowly, trying to eliminate her slurred pronunciation. Her lips did not, could not, move: her face had been stiff and unyielding since Rylan had met her. She tossed the necklace carelessly toward the bed. The diamonds hit the side and fell to the floor. "There is a dinner. We are both required to attend."

"Both?" Rylan repeated. "They can't do that. We represent each other."

"Both." The lady held out a hand. "The book?"

Rylan reached into his bracer with the tips of his fingers and pried it out with his fingernails. He handed the booklet to Wyrren. "The city doesn't seem to have been tenser than usual," he supplied. "Just the notice at the door. They were polite, at least. That captain, though... silvers would have gotten more respect." Rylan eyed her, concerned. "Have they touched you?"

Wyrren shook her head. Her focus had turned to her reading.

"You should know that the middleman in the city owes me a favor. Something significant. We could use that." What, Rylan wasn't sure. The way things seemed to be going they would almost certainly have need. The king's guards shouldn't be stationed just outside their bedrooms, no matter what their status.

Wyrren looked up from her book. "Why?"

"We were attacked in the city. I drove them off, but our contact didn't survive." Rylan showed Wyrren the leather scabbard where his knife ought to have been. "I thought that next time I went down we might be able to hire some mercenaries, or arrange a team of good dogs. Food for the return trip home. It might be pushing the favor, but with enough payment on the side..."

"We can not."

"What? Why not?" Escaping the palace was risky business, but being prisoners here was worse. Rylan looked back to the doors to emphasize his point. "We can get through the surface wilds. The men your uncle has put here now? How long will it be before they start breaking through our doors? Your father wouldn't want you here, my lady. He doesn't. He'd have said so, if they gave him a choice, and the rest of us will chance the risk."

"Your man can not help us. Leave, Rylan. I need to read this." She gave him no sympathy, no thanks. "Tell Dacha to draw my bath. The party tonight."

"... My lady." Rylan gave her a small, stiff bow. She should have been glad of the chance. Eager for the opportunity. A professional middleman with a debt could have solved their problems. He could have had things fixed, if she were willing to seize the moment. Had he explained poorly? Was there something that he had missed?

He left the chamber frustrated and angry, and when he saw the guard on his stool and in his way Rylan very nearly hit him. Dacha was given the lady's order, and he retired to his own room, where he paced and fumed.

Rylan was allowed Lady Wyrren's bath water second hand, and he washed quickly. He had no mirror; he combed his curls with his fingers and left them to dry, readying himself for the unwanted dinner. He was straightening his formal jacket when he answered a knock on his door.

Ana held out a folded slip of paper. "She said to give this to you."

Rylan could almost read the words from the indent; Wyrren always pressed her pen to the paper too hard. Her handwriting was distinctive and thick.

Ana waited a moment to check him over. "You need better shoes. I'll go get them."

Rylan opened the letter after she'd gone, and sat on his bed to read.

Rylan,

I feel that I should preface this with an apology; it was not my intention to frustrate you, nor to give any appearance that your work has gone unappreciated. You have put yourself in danger on my behalf, and I have been ungracious. For that, I am sincerely sorry.

I have no doubts as to your motives, your abilities, or your nature. You are my most valued companion, and you take great risks for my sake. Without both your dedication and friendship, I would have no hope in this place.

There have been meetings that you have not attended, and there have been discussion that you have not heard on the security of the city. Though your ideas are good, I don't believe that they will work when set against the new schedules. Pray instead that agents of Aiche and Renideo will arrive, or that we will receive aid from within the palace. I see no other way to both leave and fulfill my duty to you, my last subjects in a remote land.

All men must follow their natures; it is their duty to pursue the gifts and loves that this life has offered us. By the same token the purpose of a noble is to care for his people. Nature and duty are inseparably entwined.

Now I ask you this in writing, for what my voice denies me. Give me time to consider how to proceed from here, to seek opportunity in other forms or to wait out our present storm if there is no other chance. In return I swear to you that I will not betray your trust.

It is my duty.

It is my nature.

Wyrren never signed her name on her letters. Instead, she'd drawn a tiny swan at the bottom of the page in blue ink: the symbol of her father's house.