Pertuli.

I do not trust Ivy Tyne. What she says is suspect. She cannot be trusted. 

My heart refused to leave its perch in my throat no matter how many times I told myself this.

Her intelligence concerning Riposte's "death" was, almost certainly, a minute fraction of an elaborate program to mistreat him in some way. As I made my way through the Temple Ward she was, no doubt, congratulating herself on the success of her stratagem while ransacking our rooms.

If that was her master stroke, I had little to fear. My room was the proverbial haystack in which no needle could be found. Rip's was so blanketed in dust anything of use would be decades out of date. I knew this, having ransacked his room habitually for years. The fellow really needed to invest in more modern locks.

Still, it begged the question: She had nothing to gain that I knew of—what if there was no game? What if Ivy was telling the truth?

I thrust the thought from my mind. Like an unripe tilwenna at Flowering, it was a devilishly insistent falsehood. Though admittedly that metaphor is so alluring I should find another for a fiction this horrific .... Luckily, her story didn't trouble me in the least. Riposte might be dead. Hah! Such a thing was impossible.

The citizens of Dragoskala, perceiving the thunderhead of my mood, parted before me. An older woman recoiled at my glare. A startled man made a sign against evil as I pushed him aside. I paid them no mind.

I snapped something at the courtesy guard to the Cathedral grounds who wished me good day. We would see. If Ivy's words hold any portion of truth, no one in my vicinity will think the day ought but ill.

The spearmen guarding Zane's Hall watched me depart the paved walkway and advance against them across the lawn, so their backs were up before I arrived.

"St. Zane's Hall is closed to visitors for the day," one guard barked, as I closed on them. He was tall, even for a human, and had a neck so thick his coif was undoubtedly custom-made.

"Try back tomorrow," the shorter one agreed, eyeing me warily. They both looked competent, and unafraid of a lone tilwenor.

It would take some nerve to get past these jesters without killing them. Time to skate the glacier's edge.

I slowed to a stop, planted my feet, thrust back my shoulders, and announced, as if to include an audience in the upper balconies, "I understand that you hold a prisoner by the name of Lord Koray Clasicant, Baron of Dumon. I intend to see him and hear by what charges he is held."

A swell of energy pulsed into me, fueled by the plants and animal life within the cathedral grounds. My hair rose on the wind as if electrified. My eyes flashed like the stormy green of lightning in the forest under full gale. Wind swirled the cloudy volume of my fog-grey cape about me, increasing my presence until my body thrummed with power. I was a tilwen lord in all Terrok's manifest glory, and the mere mortals who opposed me should avert their eyes lest they risk my ire.

I was the pride of Ill'Enniniess, the silver tongued, the wielder of words. The spirit of Terrok supported and ran through me and when manifesting, I seemed taller, prouder and more ethereal, and my words carried the weight of the world.

Or, rather, that is how it should have gone... I realized with belated irritation that I was standing on holy ground. Ugh.

The soil under me, claimed for the Church of One, negated my manifestation entirely, and the guards, none the wiser, were profoundly underwhelmed; uncertain how to react to the posturing tilwen before them.

"So sorry sirrah, but we have no prisoner by that name," the first guard lied in a slow, syrupy voice. Unless he specifically knew to deny Rip's presence, there was no way he could know, without checking, that they did not. Both denial and confirmation sickened me. "Have you tried the city gaol?"

"You may check the records here ... when Zane's reopens," the second added, trying to seem helpful, but not really.

I did not blame them. In concealing Riposte's presence the guards were following orders; happy cogs in a grand machine, dedicated to god, captain, and their beliefs concerning order and justice. They valued nothing else, so I found it necessary to shift their world view.

"Sirs, I warn you. The ground you tread is dangerous," I said, low and menacing with increasing ferocity. "You are clearly ignorant of the forces politic at work. Lying will not avail you. Indeed, in doing so you risk the ire of a knight of House Ill'Enniniess. If your superiors discover that in your ignorance you have brought their mechanisms to the attention of my great house, they will not thank you. On the contrary, I expect the floggings you will receive to be merciful in comparison to the worlds of pain, humiliation and misery I promise you at my hand."

They gaped at me.

"Listen, Sir Ill'Enniniess, I don't—" the second guard began, but I didn't give him time to think.

"It may take time for my words to penetrate such undeveloped minds, so I will make. Them. Plain. Escort me to the warden of Zane's Hall this instant," I interrupted, "or your mothers—for I expect you to have no mates in your particular species of ugly—will spend the next month scraping together sufficient bone fragments to mourn."

I was betting that as sentries of low rank, these men were dressed down by their officers on a habitual basis, trained to respond to brow beating and following decisions made by others. Furthermore, I hoped they would suspect I had some kind of magic spell that really could reduce them both to bone fragments.

"Obnoxious tilly prig," the taller guard growled, on the verge of deciding to run me through. In that moment, I hoped he would try. If this didn't work, I reveled at the thought of taking my chances, blade to spear with everyone who stood in my way. The odds would be slim, but thrilling. "I should just run ya through."

"Think you could before I reduce you to dust?" I bluffed, narrowing my eyes right back at him.

The shorter guard had with the hunted look I was hoping to see.

"Listen Fowen," he said, "Let's let the lieutenant deal with him. We don't need this noise."

After a long breath of angry glaring, 'Fowen' spat in the dust at my feet, turned, and opened the door to St. Zane's. The other guard and I followed him through.

I marched within as if flanked by an honor guard, smiling secretly that my gamble had paid off. By the time we reached the lieutenant, even without Terrok's presence, I was a being of purpose. Language had been my weapon for more than five hundred years, and I was betting that every man standing between myself and Rip would accept my command. Slim, but thrilling.

"I told you, no visitors today," the lieutenant, seated at his desk in front of a pile of paperwork with pen in hand, snapped in irritation. "Lord Commander's very specific orders!" The brooch securing his cape was decorated with braided gold tassels to show rank.

The guards gulped.

"Who is this?" He demanded irritably.

"Tilwen nobleman, lieutenant," Fowen replied with a crisp salute.

"Here to see you!" the other supplied, mirroring the gesture.

"Pertuli Ill'Enniniess," I announced. "I wish to see Lord Clasicant, Baron of Dumon immediately."

"Impossible. Clasicant is charged with capital crimes, and is being interrogated," the lieutenant barked, and gestured for the guards to escort me away. They made as if to turn, but I stayed put.

"What crimes?"

"Violating the earthly remains of a Singularitan in a Church of One for starters," he said, daring me to deny his litany. "Resisting arrest, unlawful dueling within city limits, and for failing to report a deadly, contagious and unholy curse." The pair of guards shuddered involuntarily in disgust. Oh Rip.

"All of which remains to be proven, no doubt, or he would not be under interrogation," I said smoothly, quashing the desire for a really soul-deep sigh.

"I do not know why he is being interrogated," the lieutenant said. "But he is guilty. He was caught covered in blood by The Hand, in broad daylight, together with witnesses to these multiple—"

" 'You do not know,' " I repeated, cutting in. "So by your admission, you are ignorant to the exact circumstances of his arrest. Please take me to someone who is."

"That is not what I—"

"Lieutenant, as a baron of the crown, Clasicant has a right for someone from his house to respond to the charges under which he is held," I said, "and I am here to hear them. It is of small consequence to send me along to the person who can get this done. In fact, it will facilitate justice if The Hand can say they aired the charges properly."

He stared at me for long moments, sizing me up, the frown deepening on his face until I could literally see the moment when he decided I was more trouble than he cared to deal with. I have that way with people, sometimes.

"Take him to Elathon," he said dismissively. "The commander's aide can deal with this one."

"Sir!" the guards barked in unison.

"And Fowen," their superior cautioned, "you didn't come here first."

"Uh, yes sir," the chagrined guard nodded.

Moments after we moved deeper into Zane's Hall, I said almost casually, "isn't that just like an officer... pass the blame and make it look like your idea."

"Shuddup," Fowen retorted.

"Who is this Elathon guy?" I asked. "Sounds like someone who likes a chain of command, to me."

Fowen just grunted, but I was sure I heard a mirthless chuff from the guard behind me.

"You gentlemen are The Hand, after all," I continued musing aloud, "stands to reason the commander's aide would be someone married to command. A warrior-priest who lives and breathes righteousness. Maybe likes to use small annoyances as an excuse to assign extra duty ..."

"That's enough, you," the guard behind me said, pushing me roughly with his spear. "Don't say nothing against Elathon. He is the best of us."

"He ain't wrong, though," grumbled Fowen without turning. The shorter guard fell silent, leaving me to dwell on the interesting portrait we had assembled of the administrator I was about to see.

As we walked, I also got an interesting impression of The Hand's stronghold, too. It had the look of a keep vacated for battle. Very few people made appearances along our route, and those who did—servants, apprentices, smithies and the like—seemed to be support crew and non-combatants. They were slow and tired, as if they had spent the last week preparing for battle, but now the soldiers were gone and there was nothing to do but clean up and return to routine. There was an odd hush over the hall, especially given Ivy's hysterical reaction.

Had she made the whole thing up? Maybe there was some sort of religious function elsewhere.

We arrived at a short hallway terminated in an open door, and my guides stopped short. Or rather, Fowen stopped short and put his arm out to stop the two of us in our tracks. A confused exchange of looks was ignored and explained in the guard's gruff voice.

"In there's Elathon," Fowen said. "Announce yer own damned self."

Catching on, the other guard added, "Ohhh. Yeah, and you never saw us, get it?"

Fowen rolled his eyes and shoved Shorterman (I decided that he needed a name, even if only for my own internal monologue, and 'Shorterman' fit the bill) back the way we had come.

"I understand completely," I smirked and gave the guards an exaggerated wink as they lumbered away. About ten paces into the shadowy corridor, they stopped and frowned at me urgently. They weren't about to walk away and leave me unguarded, unfortunately, and I was not in the mood for a chase, so I strode toward the open door. I might as well speak to this Elathon fellow.

The office was an opulent example of human efficiency, covered in bright, new tapestries, well washed rugs and gleaming polished wood furnishings. I rapped lightly on the open door to obtain the attention of its lone occupant.

Elathon was a mountain of a man. He looked as suited for paperwork as a dragon for hosting high tea. And yet, every crag and crevasse of the endless landscape of muscle and jaw he brought to bear were tightly hunched over a comically small writing desk filled with papers, the quill in his powerful fist easily engulfed by the fingers that carefully wielded it against the dusty parchment of a small ledger. Making the small scratching marks clearly took a great amount of concentration—his powerful brow was furrowed mightily, and the tip of his tongue did its part by making a determined appearance at one corner of his mouth.

That he was not the true master of the chamber was painfully obvious. His minuscule desk was situated to one side of the room, dwarfed by a more appropriately scaled device gleaming in lacquer and inlay scant paces away. The peculiar scene reminded me of an overgrown student left to complete lines in detention after his master had gone to bed.

"Lord Elathon?" I ventured when it became obvious that the myopic chevalier hadn't noticed me.

"Hail, there!" he said, starting up from his work and nearly upending the table. With the frantic grasp of deft, massive mitts, he caught his ink bottle just before disaster struck, heaved a sigh of relief, and squinted at me. "Hoo! Well then, who are you?"

"Lord Elathon, I am Sir Pertuli Ill'Enniniess," I answered. His tone was not perfunctory or accusing as it could well have been, and I perceived that though he was wearing a chain mail shirt under his tabard, this was a gentle, noble sort of a man, and should be treated as such. "Here to see you, actually."

"I?"

"Me. Indeed, I have come to see a prisoner of The Hand, and am told that you are just the man who can help me."

"Who sent you?" he asked, almost curiously.

"Please, my lord, I beg you not to press me for the litany of names and titles of the officials, pages and bureaucrats I have been through to find myself in thy hallowed office—" especially since any version of the truth would likely boil my water "—suffice to say it is my extreme pleasure to be, at last, in the presence of the man who is capable, at long last, of taking me to see my bosom friend in the hour of his suffering, falsely accused of crimes too heinous to mention..."

Elathon's brow knit more deeply, and he studied me for a moment. I hoped I wasn't laying it on too thickly. Perhaps smaller words...

"The Hand does not make a habit of falsely accusing lay folk of heinous crimes," he said. "Who is this prisoner?"

"Lord Clasicant of Dumon, my lord."

"Clasicant fornicated with a corpse in a church yesterday," Elathon returned quickly, without reaction, "and was caught in the act by the duke's nephew and six of The Hand."

I blinked at the expressionless recitation of the charges. Unfortunately, Elathon wasn't done.

"I regret to tell you that he died during interrogation last night, and his remains have been disposed of."

"What?" I gasped. Ivy's words came back to me in a rush, no longer held at bay by the dam of plausible doubt I'd built for them. They transformed him into some kind of lizard beast and ran him through with his own sword.

"I truly am sorry," he said again, maneuvering his features into a configuration resembling sympathy.

"You killed him!" I cried, succumbing to the emotions in which I drowned. My shaking hand was drawn magnetically to my sword handle. "Oh Elders, you killed him, you insane savages!"

"Do not draw that, Sir Pertuli," the giant said seriously, but in the same warm tone with which he'd greeted me and told me my best friend was dead. "I regret your loss, but this is hallowed ground."

I didn't listen. I wanted to be mad. This particular human might not have wronged me, but he was an official who represented an entire clan of zealots and barbarians, and a system that had ended a sacred life more precious to me than their entire misbegotten order.

I whipped my masterwork rapier from its sheath and snarled at the man.

"Hypocrite! I want to see Clasicant's remains," I ordered. "Now!"

I heard footsteps thundering down the hall. Apparently my shouts had overcome the guards' reluctance to appear before their superior. If they did not act decisively, their mistake in bringing me into the hall would mean more than a little punishment.

Elathon stood, still calm, but clearly ready for a confrontation. He was so thickly muscled, his thighs upended the entire writing desk with the abrupt movement. In the moments between posturing and action, Fowen and Shorterman appeared and lowered their spears at me. Their faces were transfixed in horror at seeing me there, bare rapier in hand before their precious, unarmed superior.

I smirked.

I became a whirl of motion, beating one spearhead to the side, and sliding under the other as it thrust for me. I caught Shorterman's foot with one hand and heaved, dropping him heavily onto his back as Fowen's spear came back around.

I parried it with a wordless snarl.

I detested violence, but was not opposed to a little skilled roughhousing when it was called for, and in my five hundred years I had rarely been so ready to deal a little pain than I was at that moment.

For Fowen, that meant a shallow cut on his lead hand to block his return blow, a hyperextended knee, and a steel guard to the chin. He dropped to the ground, howling in pain.

I was saving the real pain for whoever had interrogated Riposte.

I spun to face Elathon, only to find him within my guard, but still unarmed. He moved more quickly and silently than I would have expected given his size. I took a poke at his face with my pommel expecting him to duck aside, but he caught my rapier blade fast with one hammy fist and immobilized it completely.

It was an impressive maneuver, only possible thanks to his size and prodigious strength, but it utterly distracted him from the dagger that appeared in my left hand. I put all my strength into the blow, moving forward with legs and hips and pulling against the hand holding my sword all at once to drive the dagger home under his rib cage on the right side.

The blade—nearly a short sword, really—twisted in my grip and slid off his mail. The armor was enchanted; nothing else could have turned that strike. He grunted in pain from the force of it, but caught my wrist in his free hand, engulfing my forearm halfway to the elbow.

As if I wasn't even struggling, he bashed my left hand against his knee to knock the dagger from my grip, then yanked my sword free with one deft motion and tossed it aside. Shorterman joined him, and within moments they had me bound with hands behind me and helpless upon the ground.

"I do regret your loss," Elathon said calmly. He wasn't even breathing hard. He showed me the cuts on his fingers, where my sword had bitten into him as he held it. "But you have spilled blood on hallowed ground, and now I think you will see your friend soon, after all."

"Good," I panted, wheezing for air, and all but sobbing myself. "On the way, perhaps we could stop in on the fellow who last spoke with Riposte Clasicant? I would like to introduce myself."

"I believe that can be arranged," Elathon said, yanking me unceremoniously to my feet with one hand.