"Power," Restes broke in with authority, then stared at Irson, as if expecting him to start bemoaning what a blind fool he'd been, and thanking his guest for finally opening his eyes. Except the opposite happened: that word, like a powerful counterspell, instantly obliterated all of Restes' trumped-up eloquence. Irson breathed in a chestful of air, shaking off the tension.

"Power? Tialianna and Veindor? Uncle Restes, do you even believe that yourself?"

"I do."

"And I don't," said Irson simply. "When the Nae arrived in the Infinite, they were already very, very powerful beings. No match for the local gods. There was nothing stopping them from enslaving us all. Instead they dedicated a substantial part of their sentience to the Infinite's service – to you and me and myriad other creatures. They've practically renounced their own identities. Especially Veindor. He doesn't even have an incarnation of his own lest some poor sap starts worshipping him. And you say he wants power!"

To become Tanae is to betray one's father, the words echoed in Irson's skull. Uttered aloud, this secret, innermost, scathing feeling suddenly lost its hypnotizing power over him. Irson suddenly remembered an episode from his childhood. He was struggling to fall asleep; he kept seeing some kind of furry shadow by the window – snarling, scratching itself, scraping at the floor with its claws. Mustering his courage, he flicked on the lights. Alas, the shadow wasn't some harmless laundry basket – puttering about in the corner was a wild igshaag, the same one that had slain the neighbor's goat and bitten off the blacksmith's daughter's finger. Then, rather than tremble like a leaf and dart from the room like mad, Irson felt tremendous relief. He snatched a small knife off the table and attacked the foul predator first. In an instant, the tiny feeble frame of a frightened child was transformed into the strong, lean, agile body of a young Tanae. Presently he was feeling a nearly identical sensation.

"Don't tell me you believe those stories about the selfless Nae?" asked Restes, sensing his grip on the conversation slip away.

"Aye, I do. I see the priests of Veindor, Tialianna and even Alasais bending over backwards to make life in the Infinite even slightly more bearable," said Irson heatedly. "One of Alasais' Shadows comes here sometimes, and I see with my own eyes how those like her sacrifice themselves so that one of us could find himself, his calling, his home. Nae forbid you ever experience a fraction of what she goes through!"

Recalling Aniallu, Irson walked around the table, leaned against it and casually, as if by chance brushed against one of the cuff links – the sianae's present. So it was – Restes was trying to influence his mind with magic. And then he claims it's Tialianna who manipulates and craves power! The Tanae tested the sincerity of his guest's words and was stunned by the cuff link's unequivocal answer: they were coming from the heart.

Restes, in the meantime, was getting ready to leave.

"Listen, Irson. I shouldn't have unloaded all this on you out of the blue. I'm sorry. You probably have a lot to think about. Perhaps your mind will change. In fact, I'm almost certain of it, my boy," he said, already by the door.

Irson waited for the portal to close after Restes, then went back inside and slowly shut the door.

The guest wasn't gone more than half an hour when the Tanae began to curse himself mercilessly. What an oaf he was to lose his cool! He thought at the time that he was battling his own delusion that had been poisoning his life for many years. And that turned Restes – a living person and one of his father's oldest friends (who was himself, quite possibly, genuinely confused), as well as someone who could have led him to this underground group of... Nae-haters, into the living manifestation of those same delusions! If not their very perpetrator! Scaly cretin! If only he had sniffed out where Restes had caught the bug! Because if there was one thing Irson sensed very clearly, it was that behind Restes stood something truly powerful. And, by the looks of it, very dangerous.

Alas, a word is like a laid egg: once it's out, you can't take it back.

***

"... And when I passed out, Enaor took advantage and subdued Irera's mind. That's essentially it."

Mor Oddeye concluded his report and proceeded to observe the healer phlegmatically as she tended to his lightning-scorched leg.

Through it all he hadn't looked once in the direction of Patriarch Selorn that sat atop one of Enaor's vessels, toppled over and blackened with fire. And why would he? It wasn't hard to guess the expression on his pretty face – no need to added stress. Irera, on the other hand, was almost devouring her father's face, as if trying to soak up all of his displeasure and loathing, down to the last drop lest anything was left for others. She must be one of those who like it when pins are stuck in them. Like some paroxysm of self-destruction, Mor thought to himself, glancing detachedly at her calves, nearly twitching with tension. This whole scene wearied him.

Of the four, only the healer seemed to be in high spirits. She was an employee of a House of Second Birth (a morgue in common parlance), and went by the name "Fifth Rib." Transfixed by the patriarch of an Al Emenayit into a state of awed horror, the romantic-minded dame – bald as a coot, with prominent cheekbones on a browless face masterfully made up as a skull – exulted at the thought that at that moment Selorn looked just like an old raven that, having pecked out the eyes of the fallen to its heart's content, now perched on somebody's severed head, observing the battlefield with a mix of irony and contempt. Her fingers itched to produce a memory disk and snap a few shots to immortalize the moment, but she didn't quite have the courage.

"The two of you have really outdone yourselves," the patriarch finally spoke. "Where was your Cat's spirit?"

"Tel Alait is no panacea. It can let any one of us down... at least once," Irera objected meekly.

"True, but some it lets down all too often. And in circumstances when it absolutely shouldn't," Selorn spat through clenched teeth, tapping his wrist pointedly.

Irera recoiled as if from a blow, covering her mouth with a hand on the forearm of which paled a long scar, and started toward the door. The patriarch favored her with only a scornful grimace.

"As for you... This I did not expect," he said to Mor, then retreated from the lab in deep contemplation.

"Hey, what is the story with that scar? Souvenir from a lost battle?" Rib asked hungrily and without delay, smearing a layer of scented balm over Mor's leg.

"You could say that," the telepath frowned. "We Alae don't officially practice the institution of marriage. We don't register our relations, don't swear vows of fidelity or any of that stuff. However, if a boy cat and girl cat happen to adore each other, really feel like they're two parts of one whole, they can hold a ritual that would clearly demonstrate, so to speak, their ideal compatibility, i.e. that they share a common Path."

Having finished her work, Fifth Rib had risen to her feet and was listening to Mor while strolling among the vessels.

"It's very simple. The couple stand opposite one another (like you and Enaor number... twelve), then one of the spouses-to-be takes the other's hand and runs their claws across (either four or one, depending on local custom). Then they switch roles."

Mesmerized, Rib reached toward Enaor's lifeless body, then gave a vexed sigh when the vessel's cold thick wall shattered the illusion. Mor barely held in a chuckle.

"If the scratches skin over instantly," he continued, "then the two were meant for one another. If not, then they aren't."

"A wedding ritual with wrist cutting? How romantic!" having regained her senses, Rib cried out with exaggerated amazement. "And y'all have the gall to call me odd?! How often do they err?"

"Extremely rarely. There have been maybe five-six cases in the entire history of our people. Not counting 'Enaor's bride-shows.' Ever hear of those? Once His Ballsiness managed to nick a potion from Matriarch an Aeliatan that made him invisible even to Alaean eyes, then ran all over town, clawing all the females he could find. Alasais' Shadows had their work cut out for them that night, healing all those wounds. I remember climbing up some tower and watching blazes of blue light flicker randomly in windows throughout the city."

"I'd always thought such wounds cannot be healed."

"That is true. Usually. But sianae can negate them, especially if they were dealt thoughtlessly."

Rib returned to Mor's leg, feeling it carefully with bony whitened fingers. Her every touch somehow made his healthy leg itch terribly, causing the telepath to grimace and lash his tail.

"I wonder who was Irera's – " the skeleton girl drawled musingly.

"That is nobody's business but hers," Mor snapped at her so sternly that Rib even hiccupped in surprise.

"All right, I'm done. And, um... Do you mind if I snap a few shots with the vessels? Pretty please!"

"Knock yourself out," Mor waved her off.

"Thanks so much!" the healer exclaimed and ran her palms, sweaty with anticipation, over her hollow chest, fitted with a black top with an awfully lifelike drawing of a rib cage.

Suddenly her hand slipped into a seam between two ribs, shoving them aside and going in nearly elbow deep. Mor wouldn't have been the least bit surprised were she to produce from there her own heart, but Fifth Rib wasn't quite on that level yet. Her fingers held an entirely ordinary memory disk.

Leaving her to enjoy herself among the vessels like a kid in a candy store, Mor rose to his feet and walked gingerly this way and that, stretching his treated leg.

"It obeys command most excellently. My thanks," he bowed before the healer, beaming with self-satisfaction now that she'd finally torn herself from the Enaors.

"Well then! I'm open to employment offers," she declared, hiding the disk back in her creepy pocket.

Barely had the doors closed behind her when their glass leaves flung back open, nearly smashing into the walls.

"What vermin!" snarled Irera, materializing on the doorstep. "Why did he even call her? Did we run out of our own healers? Or was it that chewing me out in front of a non-Alae is supposed to sting even worse?"

"I suppose he wants the city abuzz with rumors," Mor shrugged with indifference. "Might make it easier for him to put Enaor back in his pickle jar."

"Do you know what he ordered me to tell you? That we are to continue investigating the theft of the Question Candles."

"We? The screwups that let Enaor slip away?" the telepath arched his brow.

"We. Now try to tell me that Selorn is in his right mind!"

"I can't vouch for his mind, but it is certainly his MO. This scene was probably meant to give us some extra motivation."

"Doesn't it seem that he wants the investigation to crash and burn?" asked Irera in a deflated tone.

"Don't take his, uh, criticism so close to heart," Mor frowned. "Or did you forget that an hour ago you were about to release Enaor?"

"I didn't forget. But still – how he tricked us! All that sweet talk and then..." she smashed a balled fist into a nearby vessel with gusto.

"He didn't sweet-talk anyone. I put my foot on that seam on purpose," Mor signaled with gestures.

"What?!" Irera couldn't contain her shock.

"Pipe down. Selorn isn't so easy to fool. If I had warned you, he would have sensed your lying to him in an instant."

"But not you, of course," Irera grumbled.

"I meant no offense," Mor spread his arms.

"Forget it. Were you able to find out anything about that liare basement?"

"Very little so far," the telepath perked up noticeably. "First, there's no actual basement to speak of – nothing but mat foundation. Dragons have been sniffing around the building for two days straight, but found no trace of portals. There's one tidbit, though. At the spot where Alu had said there was a window to the basement is now a mark that looks suspiciously like a giant scar."

***

Irson spent the next several days in tense anticipation. He expected Uncle Restes' associates to send him a customer with some heartrending story about an injustice perpetrated by either the Merciful or Tialianna. Or find some other way to pour salt on an aching wound in an attempt to rattle him. But nothing was happening. Absolutely nothing. And yet the Tanae could not shake his anxiety. He knew very well that a suspicious lull may forebode an impending storm more surely than clouds gathering on the horizon.

By the evening of the fourth day Irson made up his mind: there was no sense in waiting, it was time to act. Restes had been recruiting him into some kind of secret society, and an organization like that would hardly be satisfied with a humble innkeeper – surely there were other candidates to "fight the Nae tyranny." So consumed was Irson with this idea – to find his "brothers in misfortune" – that he barely waited till closing.

Having activated the magical shields protecting his Den, Irson hustled into his bedroom, to a dressed over which hung a massive tray, secured with a dozen nails and thoroughly streaked with stains. After some rummaging, he settled on an object that vaguely resembled an Alaean profile, scratched it carefully with a nail. The tray's murky exterior immediately cleared and shone brightly, as if he'd cast a cleansing spell on it, and began vibrating ever so gently. Several minutes went by before Shada's sleepy face surfaced from its silvery depths.

"I'm sorry for waking you, but Aniallu said I could contact you if I needed to."

"What can I do for you?" she asked, concealing a yawn.

"Tell me about all the creatures you know that have an axe to grind against Veindor. Or Tialianna, but also in connection to somebody's death. I'm talking about non-Alae," Irson added, noting the other raise her brow ironically. "Maybe someone with a story similiar to my parents'?"

"Similar... Let me think. Off the top of my head, Matriarch Myaforshu an Inalass. But I'm pretty sure she got over her loss long ago. And she never really blamed Veindor for it to begin with."

"Shada, let me clarify: this someone shouldn't be overly... wise or influential. Rather, someone who might be easily swayed to join a very dubious venture."

"In that case, Talia an Kamian," Shada perked up. "Dubious ventures are right up her valley. And Veindor's priests would be glad to make a doormat out of her hide, if they could."

"If they could? Who is she?"

"By birth, the youngest daughter of Matriarch Aella. But by trade... It's hard to say. Influential, however, she is not. As for wisdom, it's even more lacking."

"Excellent. Could you put me in contact with her? Or pass along the message that I want to talk to her about Veindor, and that it's very important?"

"Sure thing. Hold on a few minutes."

The tray faded to black. Irson spent the time pacing anxiously to and fro on the rug before the dresser. Finally Shada returned.

"I've intrigued her the best that I could. She'll be waiting for you the evening after tomorrow." She put a piece of paper with a row of numbers to the screen, "Here's the address of the nearest portal booth. She'll be in the Nalarite District, so I suggest going barefoot or wearing something waterproof. Take the street to the big bubble, make a left and go up the stairs. Oh, and... She mentioned that someone had already tried goading her into a war against Veindor, so if you're from the same crew, you'll be wasting your time."

"Thanks, Shada."

"Always at Your Grace's service. Wake me up again, if need be," the royal maid chuckled and disconnected.