Walking through the entrance of the Circles served to remind me of the fact that I would be walking down that same path tomorrow.

I hadn't given any thought to who I'd ask to be my second, but I assumed I would have Cyrus do it. He's no slouch at swordplay when it comes right down to it, and being head of my security implied that serving as my second for duels was one of his responsibilities.

The Stables appeared to be mostly empty, maybe four couples sparring in total and a handful of people enjoying beer near the front. I recognized no friends among those seated at the tables, but received a couple of respectful nods from some tolerably familiar faces, which I returned.

A few moments exploring the building confirmed that the young Lord Teuring was not practicing fencing in one of the runs, nor could I see any sign of Theo anywhere. I hung around to ponder for a few moments before heading back outside onto the sandy, hard-packed ground of the arena floor.

If Teuring wasn't there, I suppose it would be understandable. Not everyone is comfortable attempting to practice swordplay in an environment where their every move could provoke peels of mirthful laughter. If Theodore had arrived and been unable to find Teuring, what had kept him? Was he still here, perhaps waiting? If he was, I could all but guarantee where a social creature such as himself might be.

I looked to both of the tall, slender buildings that lined the opposite sides of the arena, and began walking towards the North Tower, which I noted had a collection of liveried messengers and lackeys hanging around outside of it. Upon arriving not ten feet from the main entrance, I spied one of Theodore's knights standing outside, tight-lipped and grim.

He saw me. I smiled cheerfully, just to annoy him.

The fellow scowled blisteringly at me for a moment, and then looked away towards nothing in particular. For a brief moment I thought I saw an expression of worry flicker across his face as I was walking up to the dark copper-bound wooden doors.

Theo was here. The first words to run through my head were simply “By all the gods, if he's been drinking and entertaining himself while I've been stewing in my keep...”

I let that thought die without following it through to its conclusion.

The entrance area was dark to my eyes, having just stepped out of the sunlight, and it took a few moments for my eyes to adjust. As I stood there, my other senses busied themselves by urgently telling me things. I heard uproarious, booming laughter coming from the direction of the second floor above me, and I could smell the thick, oily stench of ha'laschi that was hanging so heavy in the air that I could taste it.

I instantly became more alert, realizing a sudden need for caution. Though I didn't care for it myself, I didn't begrudge others the occasional enjoyment of an intoxicant like flitleaf.

Ha'laschi is in a different category altogether, and not even the most seasoned debaucher would treat the drug with anything but the utmost caution, even when diluted in candle wax and burned in a large room. It was highly valued for its soul-numbing properties back when assassination was not looked upon with the distaste it is today.

It provided a pervasive sense of well-being, and made the user dangerous and unpredictable. They might attempt to stick a knife in your kidneys after the same amount of consideration they'd give to, say, drinking a glass of water.

The faces I saw, once my eyes had adjusted enough for me to see them, contained expressions that showed they shared my anxious unease. They’d likely been forced to retreat to the ground floor either out of a sense of propriety or self-preservation.

One Lord, who was in the process of leaving, saw me as he was donning his outerwear. He stopped what he was doing, pondered a moment, then began unfastening his cloak as he returned to his nearby chair, presumably deciding to stay. I seemed to recall that this particular Lord didn't much care for me, and I found myself unsettled by the knowing, sinister grin that he was suddenly trying to keep hidden.

Oh joy.

Not entirely knowing what to expect, I took my time climbing the winding stairs as my eyes adjusted fully to the dim light, slowly heading up towards the source of laughter and merriment that lurked above our heads.

After a dozen steps, the fumes coming from the second-floor function room were so strong that they were making my eyes water, and it became impossible to make out anything or anyone who might be entertaining themselves within the swirling confines of that toxic fog. The sinister odor of ha'laschi was still attempting to throttle my senses, and though I am not exactly a stranger to smoke related habits I found myself coughing desperately in the presence of that much of it, eyes welling up as I attempted to blink the stinging haze away.

My coughs attracted the attention of the medium-sized group of debauchers collected around a couch and table at the far side of the poorly lit room, some of whom let loose whooping intoxicated cries and laughed mockingly. I was forced to cover my mouth with a kerchief just to breathe.

And then I heard a voice I didn't immediately recognize bellow in overloud, drunken recognition.

“Hey! Boys, look who it is! It's the Lord himself!” the stranger shouted, gesturing at me as I struggled to compose myself.

Then the speaker, in his zeal to point his finger in my direction, somehow managed to trip over nothing at all.

Falling unceremoniously to the floorboards beneath him, both he and his fellows immediately began laughing anew at the sudden spectacle.

I fought to collect myself while forcing my lungs to continue working air in and out, despite the fact that my throat kept closing involuntarily each time I attempted to draw breath. I looked about the room as well as I could, half blinded through the stinging tears and dizzy from both my excessive coughing and the generous helping of smoke hanging in the air.

There were about a dozen figures lounging about in various positions of relaxation. A few gave all the physical signs of becoming less relaxed and more excited, half-standing from their chairs or lazy crouches as I slowly became the focus of their attention. I recognized some of them, and their presence probably didn't bode well for me. At the middle of the mess of humanity was a sleepy-eyed Lord Teuring, looking groggy and unwell despite the sickly grin plastered on his face.

I became very, very anxious ... a much different sort of anxiousness than I had been experiencing all day. I don't know if you've ever had the pleasure of being hugely outnumbered, standing before a dozen or so unpredictable and dangerous-looking individuals, but I know from experience that it becomes less scary the more dangerous-looking guys you happen to bring with you.

I had brought nobody but myself ... and I was near blinded by tears and disabled with coughing fits as I weathered their stares. Lucky me.

“Lord Tucat!” Teuring's voice was slightly slurred, which was not normal consequence of either ha'laschi or flitleaf. “My goodness, we were just talking about you!” He then threw his head back and laughed a silent laugh, as though he'd just been given the punch-line to the greatest joke ever told.

Slurring of speech. Alcohol ... and ha'laschi. I just about turned around to go back down the stairs right then and there.

“Lord Teuring,” I said with a now raspy voice, trying to stave off my coughs long enough to speak the words clearly. “I would have a word.” I silently congratulated myself on achieving a complete sentence without barking up a lung.

“A word? My my, the mind boggles ... what one word could be so dreadfully important that you would come all the way down here just to give it? Or, perhaps, you required a word from me, hmmm? That it, master thief? Have you come seeking to take one of my words?” He laughed a little too loudly at that.

“Lord Teuring. I would have ... words ... with you,” I said, placing an emphasis on the 's', making it sound like 'zuh'. I took a few steps towards an unoccupied niche of the room. “In private, if I may.”

Some of the collected assortment of ruffians made 'Ooooo' noises, one or two of them muttering juvenile, imbecilic comments intended for me to overhear. I gritted my teeth and stood there, suddenly wondering if staying in my keep had been that bad an idea after all. I had everyone's attention now, and the looks I was receiving that weren't openly hostile were amused and condescending. I looked around the room further.

I saw Theo, looking down from a small unobtrusive balcony located on the third floor, unhappily watching the proceedings. My vision was still blurred with tears, but I was fairly positive that he was now sporting a sling for his left arm that he held pressed against his chest, his three-quarter cloak thrown back so it would be visible. We made eye contact.

He looked worried.

“-go speak with him, you just make sure I've got another drink when I get back,” I heard Teuring finish unsteadily, rising to his feet as though it were an accomplishment that defied all odds. His success with that particular maneuver was short-lived, and he very nearly stumbled onto his knees, barely catching himself before hitting the floor.

He giggled, and pushed himself back to his feet with affected nonchalance and walked an awkward, weaving sort of gait towards me. He stopped only after he'd succeeded in violating my personal space, standing near me in a manner he might have considered intimidating.

“Yes?” he said, his breath a poisonous cocktail of over-indulgence. “Speak.”

The abruptness of it all made me realize that I should have rehearsed what I was going to say, being the one who requested conversation in the first place.

“I ... have a few things I'd like to ask you, and I realize the awkwardness of this, for which I apologize in advance,” I said, frowning slightly. “It's regarding the events that, shall we say, led to the current situation that we find ourselves in.”

He continued to look impassively at me, crossing his arms as he did so.

“Specifically,” I continued, “I've come to the conclusion that there's a particular someone who may have given you the idea that robbing me was a fine idea.”

There wasn't so much as a hint of movement from him as he stared. Several awkward, tense seconds passed.

“Was there?” I pressed, leaning forward, voice lowering to a whisper. “Did someone suggest me as a target? In truth, Lord Teuring, I believe that we are both being set on this path for some other purpose, and I very much would like to know-”

“Why are you always doing that?” he asked abruptly.

I imagine I looked confused for a moment, and sent a question at him with my eyebrows.

“Talking all flowery like that, courtly speech. Talking out of your ass. Why don't you speak plainly? There's just us here,” he waved grandly at the space around us, head bobbing unsteadily as he did so, “and I certainly don't require fluffy language like that. Could you try to make your point in a way that doesn't make you sound like a pompous ass who's trying to be better than the rest of us?”

Behind his bleary, unfocused stare and vicious breath (which I was quite convinced was removing the oil from my skin as we spoke) I was convinced he was enjoying this. I gritted my teeth further in an attempt to maintain a neutral expression.

“I think someone is setting you up,” I said, simply. “Or me. Or both. We're being used, somehow, and I don't think you're smart enough to see it. There. Is that plain enough for you?”

His posture didn't change at all, but his facial expression altered slightly as he tilted his head.

“Really,” he said, matter-of-factly. “What possible reason could you have to think that.”

“Several really, but the most compelling at the present time is the fact that several of my neighbors appear to have been tipped off about your attempted theft of the goblet, including Lord Cleaver, whom I'm on tolerably good terms with.” I watched as his eyes narrowed slightly at that. “So I'm led to believe that someone wanted me to know of your plans, and that this particular someone wasn't you.”

He stood back a little and appeared to consider for nearly a full minute, appraising a small piece of floor as he did so. I could almost see him putting it together, piece by piece.

“Why?” he asked, quietly.

I shrugged. “This is why I've come to you. I lack information, and have no idea who you've spoken to about me, or who might have reason to cause you grief and see you humiliated. I dislike being used as someone else's tool, and I'd much rather find out who's responsible and what they're after than to go along knowing that I'm dancing on the end of a puppeteer's string. Wouldn't you?”

The look on his face was a considered one, and I thought I could almost get a palpable sense of what he was feeling. Betrayal? A glimmer of hope? He was overmatched by me, obviously, and had deemed his chances of winning so unlikely that he'd chosen to spend the day before the duel in a drunken fog. He pondered for several moments as I watched, and after a time appeared to come to a decision.

“You would like me to give you a name?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Come,” he said quietly, somberly, moving towards me as if to impart some information, “I shall give you a name. Perhaps it will make things appear clearer.”

I turned my head slightly so that I might hear his whispered tones.

“Pestilent son of a whore!” he practically screamed in my ear, shoving me backward violently. I spilled to the floor and tumbled, legs twisting together uselessly, coming down hard on the wooden floorboards. A sharp, white pain erupted somewhere in the region of my hip, and I sensed that I had also struck my head. Dazed, I turned myself over slightly and propped myself up to look at him where he stood, several feet away, an angry smile lighting up his face.

“There. Good name, don't you think?”

I stared at him, stunned, as he continued to speak over the appreciative guffaws behind him.

“Are you so arrogant as to believe I cannot prevail against you? Do you presume that I lack a motive to humiliate you? Hmm? Look about you, oaf!” He gestured wildly behind him as he slurred his words down at me. “We are surrounded by people who wish you humbled, noble Lords who can all claim some form of injury to their honor as a result of your actions, you sniveling, cowardly toad.”

I began to get my feet beneath me so that I might stand, and felt only a mild pain in my side and hip as I did so. Teuring continued, his voice raising in pitch and volume.

“You actually think I need to be tricked in order to despise you? To hold you in contempt? One need look no further than your blighted face, or watch your arrogant posturing and smug self-assuredness. Why, ten minutes in a room with you and total strangers could come up with a hundred or so reasons to despise your very existence!”

I was genuinely perplexed at the source of this outburst. Was it the drugs?

“Look, I-”

“No, you look, you pathetic, blotchy, parody of a man!” he interrupted, waggling his forefinger at me as he spoke, biting off each word sharply. “You pollute the world around me with your very existence. Tomorrow, gods willing, I shall do my part in making the world a better place and send you where you belong. Trying to weasel your way out of it just now merely confirms what I and these other Lords already knew – that the mighty Vincent Tucat is nothing more than a sniveling, pock-faced coward.”

His speech was met with roars of drunken approval behind him as well as a few cheers that were coarse in both sound and content. I was now fully upright, a little sore, and flushed with embarrassment and anger that I had bothered to show this fledgeling Lord any sort of respect whatsoever.

I could find out the more intricate details behind the plot later, once I'd satisfied myself with respect to this young whelp of a boy.

If I cared to find out who was behind it at all, that is. The motive behind someone wishing to set up this lout was suddenly less of a mystery than I had first supposed – how hard was it to dislike this vile, oily-haired youth?

“Well,” I said, brushing myself off and smoothing my garments, “I'm ever so glad I came here and had this lovely chat. Had we not talked, I would have spent a good fortnight feeling sorry for the hollow mockery of a boy I’ll be leaving behind in the arena circle tomorrow. Lord Teuring, you've taken a load off my mind, and I thank you.” I nodded my head solemnly. “Please be sure to convey to your lovely wife my most sincere apologies for all of the horrible, horrible things that I must do to her husband on the morrow.”

I didn't even get a chuckle over that one. Tough room.

“Lord Tucat,” he said in an contemptuous tone, not missing a beat, eyes half-lidded and amused. “Would you care to tell me where your family is buried?”

Silence.

“Oh ... oh!” I said, affecting mock astonishment. “How very clever! 'Where is your family buried, so I can send your body there when next we meet', is that where this was going? How very original ... do continue. I'm sure you will have scared me out of my wits once you've finished.”

“Send your body - no, no ... you misunderstand!” Teuring laughed, oozing insincerely apologetic tones as he spoke. “No, I'm terribly sorry ... this wasn't a prelude to a threat. Not at all! You see, as you may have observed,” he gestured behind him to where his fellow Lords were standing and sitting, all of whom watched with the silent attentiveness of starving hawks, “I've been drinking rather a lot tonight. Since I suddenly find myself in need of relieving myself, why, it seemed only natural that I find an appropria-”

My sword came free of my scabbard so quickly that I wasn't fully aware I'd drawn on him until the sound of my own gently humming blade hit my ears, and I stood there in a blaze of anger that threatened to suffocate me. My upper lip was trembling, madly twitching in an effort to pull itself back into a wolf-like snarl as I fixed my eyes upon his. His eyes weren’t looking at mine, but were angled downward and staring at the razor-sharp metal that caressed his throat, requiring little more than a gentle nudge to seal his lips for all time.

I was dimly aware of the sounds of scraping metal around me, and in the back of my mind I wondered how this was going to end. The law said that anyone wishing to do violence upon another needed to follow the proper formalities, and yet there were notable cases where people were found behind buildings, stabbed through the chest, throat slit, or worse. I wasn't exactly being smart, drawing like this, nor was I in the right.

I didn't care.

Putting every ounce of hate into the steely look I was leveling down my blade at him, I watched as his eyes slowly followed the length of the sword to its hilt, eventually settling on my own eyes as we locked stares.

And incredibly, he began to laugh.

“Do it!” he said, smiling so that nearly all of his teeth were visible. “Come on, show the world what kind of a man you are. Miserable coward! Do it!”

I sensed rather than saw the other Lords moving behind him, as if to emphasize how poorly things would go for me if I actually drew blood from the drug-addled youth, who did not have a sword at his hip.

Eventually, several long moments of seething fury later, my common sense got the better of me. I lowered my sword, gaze not wavering from his, and slowly but forcibly put it back in its sheath with a sharp 'snick'.

“You,” I said to Teuring, whose expression had not changed since he'd begun looking me in the eye, “will wish to make use of a mirror. Right away. Cherish the memory of being able to look at one without wincing. Tomorrow I make it my own personal mission to ensure that every time you glimpse your reflection – every time you see your face staring back at you – you're reminded of me.”

I waited briefly for some sort of response, but none appeared forthcoming. I risked a glance at the Lords behind him, and took a quick moment to survey the rest of the room. Theo was nowhere to be seen, and the rest of them didn't appear to be about to do anything.

Turning on my heel and giving my back to the drunken, smoke-addled young man, I walked slowly and deliberately down the stairs.

My hand gripped my sword handle so that nobody would notice it shaking, my unspent fury still roiling within me.

Halfway down I heard laughter and applause from upstairs, doubtless from some witty rejoinder that had been spoken once I was out of earshot. I didn't care at that point. Tonight was theirs, they could have it. Tomorrow would see a different sort of confrontation, with a far different conclusion.

Very, very different.

Consumed with bitter, righteous anger, I hardly gave my surroundings any attention as I left.

Arrogant, juvenile, ill-bred young idiot! I seethed quietly to myself as I walked, kicking at stray pebbles and stones as I did so, heedless to the damage I was doing to the shine of my tooled leather boots.

Even at my youngest, my most immature, my most stupid, I had never dreamed of showing another Lord such disrespect. This young fool was being played and was too dense to realize it, going so far as to mock me even as I attempted to be generous and share information with him. Who in their right mind would turn something like that down if they aspired to be a successful Lord? Who could possibly be so naive?

It didn't matter. I no longer cared.

I'd fought in duels before, and they'd all had a certain amount of excitement and danger associated with them, even those that I knew in advance I was likely to win. I'd taken pleasure in each victory, of proving myself to my opponent and those who watched, but I'd never enjoyed inflicting pain on someone else.

A part of me began looking forward to this particular duel, wanted to hurt this ridiculous little Lord-ling with an unholy passion. And hurt him I would.

The entire walk home I entertained visions of him suffering violently, bleeding, his arrogant expression washed away and turning into one of shock, as though cold water were thrown upon his face. I imagined him pleading, begging, and the circumstances upon which I would finally relent. I'd offer him mercy only after his full measure had been taken, his humiliation obvious to all who watched. I pictured the assorted Lords I'd seen in the tower staring bleakly from their seats as I compounded insult with injury, and laughed at them victoriously from the center of the dueling circle.

Even after walking for almost an hour, I found myself circling the streets around my keep several times, attempting to burn away the energy that had fueled my anger ever since leaving Teuring in the tower. I barely even gave my guards a glance as I walked through the entrance to my keep.

Talia appeared at the front room, standing as if to greet me, a look of uncertainty and trepidation on her face.

“Milord, I feel I should apologize once more for my behavior in the sitting room this afternoon. If ... if I could have a moment of- oh!” she said, hastily catching my cloak as I tossed it to her, my angry scowl directed at the floor.

“I wish to spend some time in the exercise hall, undisturbed. Please tell Cyrus that I wish to speak with him in approximately an hour or so. He need not come down, I shall find him,” I said, barely slowing down as I walked towards the hallway that led to the back stairs.

Suddenly mute, she merely nodded at me and appeared to retreat into herself a ways, my cloak held closely to her chest.

Briefly, I thought about apologizing to her for my abruptness, but I could do that later. I didn't wish for her to see me while I was in this sort of mood.

Practically flying down the back stairs, a slow burning anger quickening my steps, I carelessly hopped over the lethal devices and other assorted traps the short hallway offered up. I unlocked the door and placed my thumb against the small pad to the right of it, waiting for the familiar hum.

The door opened with a click-clack, and I strode through the threshold into my familiar surroundings.

I was genuinely surprised to find Theo standing there in plain view in the middle of the room, with no effort being made to hide himself as the door was being opened. He was looking agitated, slightly wobbly, and his arm was still hanging in front of him, carefully encased in a white cloth sling. I noticed a bright red stain mid-bicep.

Before I had a chance to confront my friend, or even open my mouth to say a single reproachful word, he lurched unsteadily towards me and began speaking in an urgent tone of voice.

“His feet! Tiamat's tits, Vincent,” he practically shouted, his voice a little more exuberant than usual. “His unholy Baal-be-damned feet!”