SANITY LINE

VII. Ties That Bind             

As a professional politician, jurisdictional disputes were nothing new to the Great Justice. What was new – and the source of Michael Scamwell’s present amusement – was seeing such a squabble forming between the Agency technician that Stamatia had brought along to today’s meeting and the technical crew the hotel contracted with to set up the special equipment. The Agency stooge was taking offense to every little question about the equipment he was patching into the Tech Crew’s network, and the crew themselves were taking offense to that. It was their network, after all.

 

Suddenly, to Michael, the projected screen went live, showing the crest of the Maritime Self Defense Force. He sat reflexively straighter, while the other members of the council joined him at the table. There was not long to wait afterward – some information flashed on the screen, the Agency tech gave Stamatia the nod, and she looked to Michael and gave him a nod.

 

The crest dissolved abruptly into the standing figures of the two men the council wanted to hear from today – Lord Protector Edward Coultier and his Agency liaison, Special Agent Vidcund Därk. Edward’s less-than-remarkable height was evident with a grown man like that to stand beside, and Michael’s read had the Lord Protector knowing it, as he glowered out from under a heavy brow. His uniform, such as it was, showed signs of the recent conflict. Wear and dirt were evident throughout, and there was scuffing on what had once been crisp clean edges. The vest had been augmented, lined visibly with trauma plates beneath it, adding some measure of protection from projectiles to the already stab-resistant garment.

 

Edward saluted sharply in a distinctly military manner that Michael, frankly, felt did not belong to the man. Of his generations of Coultiers, he was the apple furthest from the tree. “Good Morning, Lord Protector. Special Agent.”

 

“Good morning, your honour,” Edward echoed back. “With your permission, sir, I would like to brief the council on the full extent of the situation here in Figaro.”

 

Stamatia smiled slightly, very much the cat that got the canary. The two had a history, Michael knew. Something to do with one of Edward’s last tournament seasons. “Not much for small talk today, Lord Protector?”

 

“Madam Agent-Liaison,” the fencer countered coolly,  “small talk is for people with time on their hands. I would have thought that nobody present had such a luxury.”

 

A ripple of amusement – amusement Edward and Vidcund didn’t seem to share in – shot around the table. Agency was still in the doghouse in the minds of civilian and military members of the council alike. “As it stands I only have control of only a three-block radius around my command area. At this distance, heavy support from the naval force I have been given is out of the question.”

 

Vincent frowned at this. Though he was notionally head of the Ground Self Defense Force, and interservice rivalry was still a problem in the SDF, he had the responsibility for all branches of service, and the most face to lose in military matters. “And the Marine Infantry?”

 

“Pressed to the limit holding the line we have, Lord Field Marshall.” Edward glanced out of frame for a moment, giving a slight nod. “They are being supported by elements taken from the deputized clubs of the Crimson Knights Athletic Association, which is the only reason the line hasn’t fallen further than it already has. The enemy is acting outside of the ordinary rules of warfare or insurgency. The MI is ill-trained to handle that eventuality, and my men are peacekeepers, not an army.”

 

A chill went through the room. This was the sort of thing agency was for, Michael supposed – fighting wars that weren't meant to be fought normally. Shadow games, covert ops. Whatever tricks were too dirty for soldiers to own and governments to admit. If even they were being pushed to the limit… but then, he supposed, one advisor could only have done so much.

 

Vincent pursed his lips, glancing back up the table to Michael, whose mouth was a thin line behind an otherwise neutral expression. It snapped Michael out of his chill, and, feeling out of his depth, he slipped into his familiar court tones as a jurist. “Have you managed to garner a force estimate?”

 

“If I may,” Edward’s agent shifted his stance. “Your honour, it is impossible to place an upper bound on the number of enemy forces on the ground in Figaro. They are arriving using unconventional lines of transportation.”

 

“Unconventional?” Michael leaned back in chair, fixing Stamatia with a withering glare. “Madam Agent-Liaison?”

 

“… Not over the wire,” Stamatia said flatly, flexing a rare tone of command. “Or with civilians in the room.” Her flat refusal created a chill in the room. What method of troop delivery could be so shocking that it had to be a military secret entirely?

 

Edward adjusted his stance, sipping from a tin mug. “If I may?”

“Your Lordship?”

“It is my belief that the forces are Dean in origin. Between accents found amongst the few prisoners we’ve briefly managed to take and recent events, it seems the most likely explanation.”

 

Michael blinked, fixing the pair with a frown usually used during fact-finding in his court-room, when someone was lying to him. “These prisoners won’t confirm that for you?”

 

Vidcund fixed Michael with a cold stare. His voice carried a surprisingly bitter note, as though the question itself had offended him. “They prefer to take whatever identity they are carrying to the grave with them, your honour. Not an uncommon practice among special forces units, as I understand.”

 

Michael glanced to Vincent. “How do we fix this?”

 

The Lord Field Marshal rubbed his hands together uncomfortably, thinking over his options. It didn’t take him long – a sign, to the others, that he’d had a contingency for this all along. “We don’t. Figaro has no value apart from the people who are on it, and even if it did, anything we could get there sufficiently expediently is going to be as likely to kill our side as the enemy.”

 

The Assistant-Justice glanced up, nodding, in a rare departure from their usual absentminded behavior. “It was a promising and symbolic gesture, to attempt to restore the island, but its utility is limited. If the Dean wants it that badly, they can hold onto it for us. Until our flag flies over the Brass City, anyway.”

 

Michael nodded. “Then nobody else dies over the damn thing.”

 

Vincent nodded, rising from his chair. “Lord Protector, it is my order under the authority of the council that all military and civil law enforcement forces withdraw from Figaro immediately. Make all speed back to Zvanesburg, and bring all the civilians you can. I expect an evacuation plan in two hours.”

 

“But I can still-“

 

Michael rose now, a bit too quickly to be considered composed. Upon reflection, he would realize he had made this decision himself several hours before, and no doubt was pre-irritated at the delay, at Edward's impertinence, and at the political circumstance that had forced him to assent to naming the young man Lord Protector in the first place. “You have been given an order by the executive council, Lord Protector. I will have it carried out or replace you with someone who can.”

 

Edward hung his head, just barely. “Yes, your honour. Figaro station out.”

 

The graphics cut back to standby, and Edward turned to Vidcund. “You didn’t tell them about the Phantom.”

 

Vidcund shrugged dismissively – a little too dismissively for his old friend's taste. “There’s no reason to tell them that, until we actually know something about it. It will be in my formal report.”

 

---

 

You’d think a 21st-century operation like the National Police Force could afford to pay a man proper – deposit the payroll directly to his bank account like any real employer, but no, here was Niles Clayton, four-digit cheque with overtime in pocket, like it was the 1910s instead of the 2010s, waiting in line at Kraterburg Sparkasse’s Lower Fenwick branch. He couldn’t help but drink in the look of the bank, too, like it was perpetuating the metaphor. No suburban bank had any business looking all vaulted-ceiling like a joint built in the 20s, with those stupid little green-glass-shaded lamps and all.

 

“Funny, I don’t remember the bank looking like this.” The voice behind him had a familiar timbre. Terik accent, someone spent too much time in the Terrwald. Almost backwatery with its twang. Consonants too soft on the bulky, Zaxtonian words, like the words had been filled with ‘h’es. Young, too. But it was off, distorted, a bit like a radio was playing its static over top.

 

Niles looked, and the scene throbbed for him slightly. There stood Eli Sharona – Archangel, unmasked, his familiar weapon tucked under his arm, and nobody in the bank seemed to even know he was there. Eli smiled softly, putting a hand on the man’s shoulder. His left hand, Niles noticed, in all its flesh and blood glory. Niles could not remember when the young man would have had his proper left arm. By the time the youth had attracted official attention, he'd already lost it to some childhood tragedy or another. “Now, you listen carefully to what I’m about to say, Niles. Listen slowly. Last night, you went to bed in a room at a no-account motel in Galba Roy. How is it that you’re now depositing a payroll cheque in Kraterburg months after the city was destroyed, hmm? You’re dreaming.”

 

Niles fell, or rather, felt himself falling, but with Eli’s hand on his shoulder, he was completely unmoved, in spite of the jolt. “Calm down, now. If you wake up we both wasted this. You don’t get any smarter, and I wasted a bunch of energy we know damn well I don’t have to spare.”

 

“But, you’re dead.” The distinction could not have mattered less. Niles had long suffered waking moments of disreality – that 'dreaming' feeling. His trip through the wall of death seemingly had not made the condition better. It was bad enough to constantly second-guess your waking experiences. To actually begin to lose the distinction between waking and dreaming was maddening.

 

Eli laughed softly, lowering his gaze. “You’re dreaming. For all you know, I’m not even me. How could I be? It’s your dream, right? I’m just, ah…. The voice of your sub-conscience. Weird choice, by the way. And this one’s important, so I can’t go hiding it in some weird Boston-cream dream that you’re going to forget in the morning once you’ve had your cold shower and the glory’s faded way to nothing.”

 

Niles frowned even deeper. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Bell, Niles, Holly Bell. She’s Rainwright’s puppet, right? And she’s been stalking the lot of you?”

“Right, right…”

“Right, well, let me tell you this – she’s not Rainwright’s, entirely, and she’s a damn good assassin.”

Niles felt a chill run down his spine. “An assassin?”

 

“Right,” Eli said, waving his arms outward at the now-ruined structure of the bank around him. “… What did you say Banker was doing today-ay-ay-ay-ay-ay-ay”

 

The rhythmic tone of the alarm on the nightstand jerked Niles out of his slumber, and he was not at all surprised to find the grip of his detective special already snug in hand.

 

… I need to lay off the bottle.

 

---

 

Even a War Court could have a celebratory atmosphere, as it turned out. What remained of the two offices that had been bombed out just two short days ago had been turned into fortifications, but if those fortifications were meant to keep anything apart from distemper away, the Phantom couldn’t see it. Fire – both mundane fire and balefire – shone from all around. Revelers in various states of armament and undress cavorted around these fires, and the wine-tables, and pallets of food. The Duke’s banner flew from seemingly every convenient place, and even those on duty as sentries and guards were drunk and disorderly. The duke’s banner – in the Phantom’s eyes, that was half the problem. These Fae were too cliquish, too insular. Their debauchery was too low and immediate and feral. As dreams went, they were too wild. The wrong dream, perhaps.

 

The Phantom, who was returning from his tour of the forward positions, lowered his gaze and strode the remaining distance across the bridge. Between the two buildings, where the largest fire burned, a dais had been constructed between him and its light, upon which rested a throne too high for a lowly duke, and in which that same duke rested, visibly drunk off the wine and the women with which his underlings were feting him.

 

The Phantom stood before the duke impassively, hands politely folded before him, as he waited for the man’s approval to speak. “… Come now, Fantoma, revel in our majesty! We have made great gains.”

 

“You have gained little more than a few hundred acres of land. You have barely reclaimed your fiefdom, let alone made gains.” There was no malice or disrespect in the Phantom's tone, or his passive, expressionless gaze. He was merely stating the reality. It was all he ever did.

 

For the Fair Folk, such ways could be poison. The duke sat up more straightly, depositing the svelte young lass that had occupied his lap on the floor, rather discourteously. She giggled it off and withdrew regardless, as the Phantom stepped where she had landed. The Phantom demurred. “What am I but truth to power, your Grace?”

 

The Duke’s expression hardened, and in that respect, the Phantom could afford the man some credit. At least he could sober up quickly when he had to – if only he could be persuaded to speak in his anger. “What do I wear for a cape, your Grace?”

 

The cape was elegant – better even than Fae-craft – white velvet brocaded with gold thread, blazoned with a large triskelion that seemed to undulate even in the lack of a breeze or wearer’s motion. “The Yellow Sign, Phantom.”

 

“Truth,” The Phantom turned in his stance slightly, letting the caplet fall back over his left side, where he carried both his blades, and giving the Duke a full view of that sign. It was the one thing he shared with the Fae – a sense of drama. “The King whose sign I wear is truly a mighty ruler, Adron of the Unseelie Court. And here I stand as his envoy, sent to aid you in your mission to reclaim what you call the Autumn World in the name of all the Fair Folk, because your goals align with his. He has sent me, and me alone, for this purpose, because I am his envoy, and my words are as his own. Why send an army, when his word alone is greater than all the Arts the fae possess?”

 

The Phantom turned again, gazing about at the revelry. Carcosa was decadent in its own way, this was true. But at the moment, there was a purpose greater than debauchery to serve, and if nothing else, Carcosa was terrible with purpose. “My mission, however, is not yours.” He turned back to the duke. “Mine is to fulfill the will of my master. I will find another to aid me, if necessary.”

 

The phantom held the man’s gaze for a moment that seemed to span eternities. He could see the struggle in the Duke’s eye, between his own ego and his intelligent awareness of the utility of the phantom’s presence, between his nature and his wants and desires. Then, he turned, meaning to step down off of the dais and cross the bridge again.

He did not make it to the edge of the stage before Adron broke his stillness, in typical Fae theatrics, and reached his hand out toward him. “Wait! I would have your King’s attention!”

 

The Phantom paused, and turned his gaze back toward the fairy. He almost felt sorry for this Duke, who played his role so perfectly.

 

---

 

Greta tended to enjoy the fetes of the Fae, but not for the same reason they themselves did. While everyone was partying and forgetting their own bodies and minds, she was busy remembering her own will. Most of the time, trapped in the space between Dreaming and Waking, she felt as most Dreamers do – trapped in her own body, while some other asshole was pulling the strings. On days like today, though, when even her minders were distracted and inebriated, she had a bit more liberty. Some lucidity.

 

That liberty found her in a car park a few doors down from the hub of the party, perched on the top-most surviving level. From there, for the moment, anyway, she had a good view of the party, though distant, while she rested on a ledge, working dried herbs together between the stone surfaces of her mortar and pestle.

 

Dried leaves of mint, acacia, and agrimony, oak bark, lemongrass, and the roots of angelica and wood betony, coming together into a gummy paste as she poured in some benzoin resin that had been melted down over candlelight. The tools and materials had been stolen slowly, in moments like this one, from the supplies of her domineering master, the Lady Frostburn. Some had been mislabeled, but the young witch was herself no fool, and worked only with those herbs and other items which she could identify blindly. After all, one could not trust a pooka, for they could not help but lie, even to themselves.

 

She turned her pestle out, scraping the remaining oil which clung to it with the spoon she had melted the resin upon in the first place. From time to time, she looked away from her work, first to the ramp that lead up to this level, and then to the streets below, whereupon she returned to her work. Spanish Moss joined the fray, tossed thoroughly in the concoction, before she set the lot down on the ground, and pulled a small section of her hair out painfully by the root. Wincing, she twisted the half-dozen or so strands together into a fine thread, doubling them back on themselves until it was a thick, short capsule that she could soak in the remaining tar and still see clearly once it was placed in the mortar.

 

Carefully, she lifted a bit of the Spanish moss back out, using it to steal the flame from the candle and bring it back to the rest of the now highly-combustible mixture, murmuring to herself the whole way, an otherwise senseless string of Enochian.

 

The fire burned gently, and she encouraged it to do so at knife-point. Throughout the whole process, everything burned save the little knot of hair, which instead seemed to grow slightly, as it became increasingly crusted with the ash and suffused by the smoke. She breathed deeply of that same smoke, letting it suffuse her. The protective magic of the herbs themselves – coupled with her own affinities – would buy her a few seconds of freedom the next time she was directly domineered – the seconds she would need to activate the deeper magic of the talisman.

 

She beheld the small shard in the moonlight. It was, to her mind, a weapon to undo a duchy.

 

Tucking the object carefully between the folds of her clothes, she hurried to make good her exit, and put all else in order where she was supposed to have been this whole time – Lady Frostburn’s tent.

 

---

 

“They said no? How in the fuck could they possibly say no? Even the Lipan have some decency...”

 

Vidcund looked up from the report he was drafting long enough to watch Francis tail Edward into the room. The younger man seemed much more at peace in the moment than his lieutenant, which seemed rare to Vidcund’s impression of the relationship between the two.  Edward lowered himself into his seat, fixing Francis with a high-eyebrowed expression that would border on amused if the Lord Protector was not, as Vidcund had deduced, in a deep and seeming-permanent bad mood.

 

Failure had never sat well with Edward, the ongoing concern for his sister notwithstanding. That he was taking the order to retreat lying down was a mark of a maturity not present in his agency profile. Edward picked up the handset of his phone, keeping Francis fixed with that funny look. While he dialed a number from memory.

 

“I’m missing a game, here,” Francis said, finally, while Edward dialed.

 

“The lipan are a profit-driven people,” Edward commented. “… Hello, Jean-Claude. I’m looking for the Chef, is he in? … Would you happen to have his cellular number?”

 

Edward covered the microphone with his hand. “Locke LeCruset, out of Enotekka. An old sponsor.”

 

Vidcund frowned slightly. “LeCruset? Like Frau Deborah LeCruset, recently-made Exchequer of the Lipan Merchant Fleet?”

 

“Her son, as it happens.” Edward smiled slightly, redialing. “Hey, Locke. It’s Eddy. You got a minute?”

 

Vidcund shared a glance with Francis, each as surprised as the other that the Lord Protector had any political cachet at all, apart from a famous name and father. In the end, the Agent smirked, again pleased to find the expression unforced and natural. “You’re going to be good at this job.”

 

---

 

“Right. I'll have a word with her, and smooth it all over. Right. I look forward to seeing you.”

 

Prodigal watched as Banker slipped his phone back into his pocket – his personal phone, at that. As a matter of course, most members of their organization carried two phones, or at least maintained two – a temporary “burner” phone entirely unremarkable and whose number was known only to a few even within the group – the person they reported to and the two or three people who reported to them. The other, of course, was the phone of their 'sleeper' identity; their 'real' phone. It was rare – but not unheard of – for one of them to answer their proper phones while in their alter egos. A mark of trust in the resolve of the other for keeping secrets.

 

“What was that about,” he asked, and in response Banker only shrugged, moving a bit closer to the edge of the roof they were standing on. They were high enough up that it was unlikely anyone would take notice. From the ground, they would barely be shapes. Maintenance workers, probably.

 

At Banker's long silence, Prodigal fumed. The two had settled into a familiar sort of pattern with one another. When they operated as a team, which was admittedly rare now that they were Horsemen, Banker's job was simply to observe, think, and scheme. Prodigal often felt like little more than muscle, his considerable luck notwithstanding. Someone sufficiently thuggish to protect the admittedly martially-unpracticed Banker.

 

Then again, it was just as likely that Archangel – and Scion after him – had placed the two together because Kalan Scamwell and Locke LeCruset were the only two identities that could blackmail one another. The wealthy and connected heirs-apparent to powerful political families had much to lose by being ousted, and therefore could not out the other themselves without risk of exposure.

 

“What do you think?”

 

Banker nodded slowly. “I think I have an idea. Get Prince on a burner and see what kind of pull he has with the local cop-shop.”

 

He was beginning to feel he had memorized the placement of roof-tiles on Redhall Palace.

 

---

 

Having concluded a broad and uneventful inspection of their vessel that lead to a more-or-less satisfied sense of paranoia, Vidcund now sought Edward. He had to admit to being impressed with the young man's insight. Within an hour, the Senior Captain of the convoy-at-port from the Lipan Merchant Fleet had visited the Lord Protector's staff in their offices aboard MDS Catherwood. Now, barely eight hours after that, those same staff were snugly aboard one of the vessels in the convoy, steaming homeward with all reasonable speed, considering the permanently grey and precipitous weather. Catherwood and her complement of other fighting vessels remained behind, to facilitate the secondary evacuation from the island of the Marine Infantry, and then, according to his sources, they would move west to support “ongoing Agency Operations in Galba Roy”.

 

Vidcund had to wonder just what the hell Athena Valkoinen thought she was up to, that she wanted naval support. He was almost sad to miss it.

 

Eventually he was able to find Edward, who had been graciously offered a stateroom at the expense of some officer or another of the ship's crew, and ungracious enough to accept. The young man was studying his sidearm intently – the short, not-quite-a-sword dagger Vidcund dimly recalled being known as a main guache.

 

“Chip the edge?”

 

Edward looked up, and gestured for Vidcund to close the door behind him. “No. Just a new weapon. Can never inspect it too many times.”

 

Vidcund nodded. That much, he knew, was true. He'd wasted hours using new tools he wasn't used to under drill and practice conditions, until he was used to them. “I was looking for you. Dispatch from my home unit. I got you cleared to read it.”

 

Edward took the sheet of paper, turning it over confusedly until Vidcund, belatedly, realized the dispatch was on an autofile. He temple-pinched his way into a “guest” mode on his glasses that showed only the time and the currently-running autofile document, and handed them over.

 

===PRIORITY MESSAGE===
ATTN: [KETHER]DÄRK, VIDCUND
FR: [KETHER]DAGONOVIC
--REDACTED FOR PUBLIC DISPLAY--
-BEGIN PGPX SIGNED MESSAGE-

Vidcund,

You should be aware that the situation in the New Bay is volatile. [Probabilistic risk assessment] suggests possibility of an attack upon your convoy in transit. [Probabilistic risk assessment] likewise suggests presence of yourself and the Lord Protector on a particular vessel has been revealed. Be prepared to make alternate arrangements for transportation.

-D'vic

 

Edward read the message over at least twice before handing the autofile and glasses back. “Neat trick. Extra little layer of security, I guess.”
“They have their uses,” Vidcund slid the glasses back onto his face.

 

“And here I thought you just wore them indoors to look cool.” Edward said. It was no doubt meant as a joke, but the Lord Protector's mood was already dark, and more bad news was not helping matters. In fact, the joke had sounded more critical than either man liked.

 

Vidcund was struck by that, and as he stood near a window – guess he should call it a porthole – looking out at a featureless expanse of newborn sea and brown-grey skies, he wondered for the fifth or sixth time since the last time he'd lost count, what Edward really thought of him. As his notes indicated, there shouldn't be all that much bad blood between them, but… it didn't quite feel that way.

 

“You've changed.”

 

Vidcund turned slightly, glancing to the younger man. Being around Edward evoked odd feelings in him. There was something familiar there. A mentorly feeling, with that brotherhood-beyond-brotherhood that came from close and traumatic work together. “I wouldn't know.”

 

Amnesiacs, by their very nature, broke away slowly, as your brain reconstructed or rediscovered pathways lost to their influence. What was more, the very existence of the drugs was classified-beyond-classification, so he couldn't very well turn to Edward and say “I am sorry, I am not myself lately, and I remember next to nothing about you.”

 

In truth, though, he remembered a fair deal, mostly useless trivia, such as the young man's typical lunch order from a couple of different deli's, snippets of in-jokes and a sense the young man had once had some kind of problem the two had shared. If only there was something relevant there, or enough to improvise with.

 

Edward sighed. He had no real option but to tolerate this strangeness in Vidcund, and was of the practical mind, meaning he needed to move on at once or be stuck in uncomfortable philosophy. “Your colleague mentioned alternate means of transportation?”

 

Right. To business. “He was being euphemistic, I suspect. It's a hard habit to get out of, even when you have access to secure comms. 'Alternate' as a particular meaning to those of us behind the curtain.”

 

In this respect, at least, he knew he could trust Edward. They had, at least, one thing in common – more experience in dealing with the supernatural than either of them would have liked. Moreover, though he'd never admit to it, Edward actually used magic. “That portal trick you do...”

 

Edward held his palms out in a gesture Vidcund found highly defensive. “Never done one more than a couple of blocks. Crossing an ocean is out of the question… for me. Mallow could do it. Tidily, probably, if we had somewhere specific to go.”

 

Vidcund's brow knitted together slightly, as he tried to put the obvious nickname to a face. Edward chuckled, slightly. “My younger brother. You must have hit your head pretty damn hard.”

 

Vidcund offered a smile – plastic, this time, as the decade of smiles that had come before – and forced a slight chuckle. “Eddy, you've got no idea.”

 

---

 

Bad luck. That had to be it. Holly Bell could find no other fault in her work that would explain having lost track of the two Angels Rainwright wished to see fall first. She was furious, to the extent that she could be. Mortified may have been closer to the mark. There would be no point in returning home tonight, at this point. Rainwright – damn him and his Order! - would flay her alive, crush her spirit and offer up her Changeling soul to feed his order's stupid Machinist.

 

Stupid, stupid…

 

She rested in a shadowy arch of the vaulted ceiling of the hall leading up to the Room of Curiosities, waiting. It was a gamble, possibly a foolish one in light of her own bad luck. Still, the ultimate goal of the Angels had to be to find the missing Prince, and the only way to do that would be to inspect this room.

 

She'd been over it time and again, and practiced eyes saw no sign of the Prince's passage. The struggle, yes. Her own escape, yes. There was an unusual cleanliness around where the Prince had fallen. It was suggestive, that someone or something had removed him, or else he had removed himself. But who, why, where, and ultimately how were all open questions. And she was actually involved.

 

The assassin was at the point of retiring when she caught a glimpse at the far end of the Hall which made her unable to believe her luck. There  - a uniformed security guard! Beside him, a cook, pushing a tray laden with food, with an ear full of metal in the precise way that Banker wore his traditional Lipan piercings!

 

Holly beckoned the shadows thicker around her. The illumination in this part of the building was spare and antiquarian. From her vantage point, she would not be noticed.

 

Something strange happened. The guard took a call on his radio, telling the cook he was with to wait as he strode off to deal with something. The cook, for his part, waited for the man to leave. He cleared his throat, and out from beneath the tablecloth covering his trolley climbed Prodigal, who tossed Banker a bundle and moved forward toward the door she was perched over.

 

Holly sprung. She fell, silently, like the moth for which she was named. Too late to change her momentum, there was a clatter of steel. When her feet hit the ground, the situation had changed dramatically. Banker stood before her, twenty feet away, clasping a rod of wrought iron in his hand. Behind her, she knew, Prodigal stood, and a sharp, mechanical click told her he was armed with a handgun.

 

A thin bead of blood, loose and watery as it was, ran down her cheek from the one wound the salvo of knives Banker had thrown had hit. It was the only wound he had inflicted. For a heartbeat, then two, then three, the situation was static. Then, all at once, it became highly dynamic.

 

The Slaugh lashed out, leg contorting impossibly around Prodigal's outstretched arm, leveraging her body up and over the firing plane of his weapon as she kicked strongly with her free leg at the side of his head. Banker was moving, rushing to his companion's aid, but he was too far away. A gunshot rang out before the weapon dropped from Prodigal's hand, and Holly kicked the weapon away once she had recovered her footing, pivoting on a heel as her hands lowered for the knives at her hips.

 

Banker's iron rod was a weapon that would have to be –

 

A second report, then a third, in quick succession, rang out. Both shots went wide – from her one view, in the Dreaming, Holly's moth-like wings had been perforated by the copper-and-lead projectiles. The lack of harm to her physical body caused a disconnect that gave her pause and hampered her ability to truly be a slaugh – to act and move and fight as one would.

 

Banker stepped sideways, raising his hands slightly, perhaps just as startled by the gunfire as she was. From somewhere – she hadn't seen him arrive – the other Angel had emerged. Prince, the one with the boring mask. His feet were planted on the floor firmly and immovably, his whole body little more than a carriage for the weapon now held in his hand and fixed upon her chest.

 

Wrought Iron might have been her weakness, but lead bullets would kill her just as dead as iron rods. Holly dropped her knives, hands out to her sides. She spat on the floor, and like that, vanished, drawing upon the power of the trickery and artistry of her kind's cantrips to vanish temporarily entirely into the dream.

 

Prince held is posture even for a few moments, before lowering his weapon, glancing at Banker. “… Wow. I'm almost surprised she was here.”

 

“Whoever your source was, I think we can trust them.” Banker's gaze was fixated on the door, which Prodigal had hobbled over to, more injured in pride than permanently down for the count.

 

Didn't matter. Niles calmly opened the cylinder of his revolver, ejecting the rounds that remained. He was very careful with what he did with both the spent and unspent rounds. A second later, he reloaded from a speed loader, swinging the cylinder back into place with an expert flick of the hand at the precise moment the alarm began to blare.

 

Casually, he discarded a metal and cardboard tube behind him, gesturing to a side door. “That's going to depend on how his escape route pans out.”

 

There was a pronounced pop, as the hall began to fill with smoke, and the wail of the fire-alarm swiftly joined the rest. Prodigal laughed, at this. “That’s … brilliant. You just gave us cover and bypassed the lockdown in one shot.”

 

“Don’t praise me too much,” Prince said sharply. “It’s how Locuna managed to get in and out of the National Gallery the third time. I should know, I was the lead on that one.”

 

Banker chuckled warmly behind his mask, opening a stairwell door to let his companions through it. “I like a man who learns from the mistakes of others. Locuna did time for that one, didn’t he?”

 

“Escaped before trial, but yeah, we held him for a day or two.”

 

---

 

If the Fae could do anything right, Seelie or Unseelie, it was revelry. Adron's wounded pride at the Phantom's accusations of insufficiency were already beginning to mend at the sight of his host of soldiers, courtiers, and serfs, bent to the singular task before them, with all the pomp and majesty the Fair Folk from beyond the Mists could bring to bear.

 

All had been prepared according to the explicit instructions of the Phantom, checked and verified by Frostburn herself. She even used the aid of her human pet, the witchling from the City of Brass. The human, apparently, had expressed no real interest in the work – her symptoms were not unlike many other humans who spent too long in the Mists. Adron ordered her to be temporarily replaced among the Waking, with the Dreamers. A bit of the mortal world would do her well, lest the peripheral madness became permanent.

 

Tools should be kept in working order.

 

The atmosphere was deeply festive, the revelers in their best blacks and yellows throwing Crocuses at his litter as it was crossing the crowd toward the dais – a building had been leveled, leaving only a sort of improvised stage, surrounded by five pillars of steel that had refused to crumble under the seismic, cosmic force that had sundered the Fortress City of Kraterburg and nearly ruined the walls between the Waking and Dreaming world.

 

Only Adron, and the few noble, immortal sidhe like him, could remember a time the barrier between worlds was so thin. It was no longer merely the changeling who could walk with one foot in either world. Even he stood, in this improvised cathedral, with one foot awake and the other asleep. No sidhe had stood so close to the waking world since men lived in houses of soil and mud.

 

The Phantom was waiting for him on the stage, together with Lady Frostburn, and for once the Envoy of the Nameless King seemed pleased. Adron was almost disappointed to think that the Envoy looked better than he did, in the moment. Contrasted by the night, and the yellow and black banners, his mask shone like marble – like he had been dipped in liquid marble, as impossible as the substance was.

 

He could have been a mechanism of Dougal craftsmanship, like the Alabaster Man. Somehow, though, that felt entirely off the mark, to Adron. There was something entirely other about the man.

 

If he was crafted, perhaps his claim was right. Perhaps the Yellow King he served truly did possess Arts greater than the denizens of the dream.

 

The Phantom gestured, and Adron rose from his litter, stepping to the platform gracefully. He was a warrior Duke, warlord first, champion of his people, ruler of a Duchy both by force and for force. He was beloved for it, and at the sight of his blackened armour, his crested cape and the gleam of his high-lofted sword, the crowd erupted, falling from their chaotic cheering to a unified roar. The Fae in his Duchy were for their duke. Full stop.

 

“Gladfen!” He cried. The Duchy's name was enough. His call was echoed.

 

Behind him, the Phantom nodded to Frostburn, who gestured broadly. At the cue of their Court Wizard, musicians sprang into work, beating out a cacophonous rally on the drums, bleating chaotic, twisted music of the Phantom's design on flutes. Instantly, the feeling of his people at his back vanished, as their voices twisted to echo and respond to the music being played. The Duke's triumphant smile softened.

 

Above him, the stars shone brightly. Many of them faded, many of them shone all the brighter as they stirred to motion in time with the beat and bleat of the chorus. All the stars, save one, fell into a frantic dance. This static star sank lower and lower in the sky, drawn in, until the moon dwindled under its glow.

 

Golden light burned from the fires around the fete, and there, among the stars, cavorted those scabrous, squamous, corpse-horse-hornets, the great and powerful Byakhee, the like of which  some of his cavalrymen were training upon even now, preparing for the final push that would force the Waking off of his island forever. These beasts, however, were the steeds of more expert riders, clad in robes and armour of gold and silver.

 

All save one rider, who alone landed on the platform. Her beast was bigger than the others, who circled overhead before landing on the impromptu pillars. She sprung down from her palanquin, and Adron was impressed with her smallness. This waifish figure could be no more than a maiden, but she carried herself with matronly majesty that explained the unwavering loyalty of her people.

 

He knew, without needing to be told before, that this girl, with her silver mask and flowing black-and-silver brocaded gown, was Cassilda, Ancient and Timeless Queen of Carcosa. The Duke, knowing his place, bowed deeply before her, as the Phantom stepped to her side.

 

“Your Majesty,” he said, adopting the comfortable role of an aide de camp. There was more to the politics of Adelebran, Carcosa and Hastur than immediately met the eye. “Allow me to present Adron of the Unseelie Host, Duke of Gladfen. Your Grace-”
“Her majesty requires no introduction, Ambassador.”

 

Cassilda gestured, and Adron approached again, kneeling as was the custom. “It is my pleasure to have made your acquaintance, Duke.” The Queen gestured to the Phantom. “Truth has told me of your exploits. I was particularly impressed by your valor during the initial sortie. He tells me you crossed swords with an interesting figure.”

 

“Figaro's Lord Protector,” The Phantom offered.

 

“Il Fantoma speaks the truth, your majesty.”

 

Cassilda nodded slowly, a pleased smile on her face. “I am glad to have heard it, as that is his function. For you, I have another function. A function that has been determined by His Majesty the King.”

 

Though her voice could not have carried far enough, the crowd below roared, breaking their song at long last. Then, the voices fell. No wind blew. No night-bird cried. The silence was oppressive.

 

Summoning more courage than the Duke could ever remember having called upon, he nodded. “I would serve the name of the King in Yellow.”

 

“Then I place upon you his countenance”, Cassilda said, touching Adron's forehead with a silken-gloved finger. From there, a great warmth spread, as though a liquid had been dropped there. It continued to spread, flowing across his face, and scalp, vanishing beneath the armoured gorget of his battle-mail and all across his body.

 

Then, where warmth travelled spread a deadly chill, and Adron felt his consciousness pushed backward, an overwhelming numbness subsuming him as whatever had touched him oozed into his flesh and his nerves, taking from him the very mastery of his form. His vision swam, for a moment, and the ruined building in which the ceremony was taking place was replaced with a new dream, resplendent and glorious, yawning upward into infinity with raking fingers of white battlement, where black stars burned bright in a pallid sky.

 

He stood, without any volition of his own, and raised his sword once more to the air. Again his voice called out with the battle-cry of his people – their capital.

 

“Carcosa!”

 

As the cry echoed back, hammering against his being. Behind him, Cassilda smiled, and through the auspices of the Pallid Mask he now wore, Adron could see the fine, almost invisible, manacles that connected her wrists.

 

“It is a terrible fate,” she said, most pleasantly, “to fall into the hands of the Living God.”