The World Within the Web

by Lord Max

Chapters

Chapter I: One Pilgrim
Chapter II: Two Bells
Chapter IV: Six Friends
Chapter V: Simple Words
Chapter VI: Andrean Evening
Chapter VII: Gifts and Goodbyes
Chapter VIII: On Our Way
Chapter IX: The Moon Rises
Chapter X: Security Mare
Chapter XI: Prepared For This
Chapter XII: Manehattan
Chapter XIV: Making Sense
Chapter XV: My New Statue
Chapter XVI: A Beautiful Heart
Chapter XVII: Everything's Staged
Chapter XVIII: Cider Slider
Chapter XIX: Find a Way
Chapter XX: A Deceptive Cadence
Chapter XXI: A Sorceress Girl
Chapter XXII: Yellow Eyes
Chapter XXIII: Sight Unseen
Chapter XXIV: The Longest Day
Chapter XXV: The Rescue
Chapter XXVI: Dreamchaser Stargazer
Chapter XXVII: Indelible Ink
Chapter XXVIII: Back to Life
Chapter XXX: Chaos Theory
Chapter XXXI: My Past is Not Today
Chapter XXXII: Thorax
Chapter XXXIII: A Bright Guard
Chapter XXXIV: Make New Friends . . .
Chapter XXXV: . . . But Keep Discord
Chapter XXXVI: Mother Changeling
Chapter XXXVII: Queen
Chapter XXXVIII: Let Go
Prologue
Chapter III: Three Honest Men
Chapter XIII: Here on the Moon
Chapter XXIX: The Best of Intentions

Chapter I: One Pilgrim

Part I: The Six-Pointed Star

* * * * * *

Chapter I: One Pilgrim

* * * * * *

Six friends there are:

six of name

and six of mind

but one of soul.

Six fires we've known:

six of light

and six of life

but one of love.

Six truths are here:

six to see

and six to know

but one to follow.

Six virtues, six elements, and one Magic that unites us all.

Such is the Collective. Such is the Path. Such is the way of the Six Who Are One.

* * * * * *

The sun was rising over the city, illuminating the towers of the Citadel of the Six with a red-yellow light as Coin Counter walked through the curving streets. It was early in the morning, far too early for Coin’s taste, but the city buzzed with life nonetheless, filled with people who journeyed to and from the docks that he was only just leaving. The captain of the ship that had carried him, the Lightning Dust, promised that he would reach the capital of the Brony Collective in two weeks. Regardless of promises, it had taken three. Coin only hoped that his hosts would be understanding of his tardiness—from what he knew, they were not people to be kept waiting.

Even though the way was alien to him, it wasn’t hard for Coin to see where he needed to go. Six colored towers stretched over the horizon in front of him, like shining mountains in the distance. Coin turned down a street that snaked towards the gigantic structure, quietly giving thanks that they had made it so hard to miss. Of course, that was to be expected from a group that was so easy to notice.

Tracing his way further down the path, Coin observed a small crowd, gathered around a man calling out to anyone who would listen. The preacher was clad in butter-yellow robes and an upturned pink hood that covered most of his face, and spoke energetically as Coin passed by.

“For why else would I have a voice if not to sing their song, or have hands if not to stoke the fire they have started in my heart?” he proclaimed to the people gathered around. “The fire that burns away the paper sky and shows us the truth! To train my eyes and mind to look beyond the self of myself, and into the self of the one Magic? For where else can we fortunate friends turn? To the Chan, where they’re more content to hide behind masks and black hatred than see the truth? To the Authority, with their false law? Why, they can barely even stand our existence within their great ‘order’!

“No, my friends, there”—the preacher pointed to the Citadel—“there is where the true leaders lie. The World Beyond the Web has issued its call, and only the Six And One—whom small minds resist—can show it to us!”

A few people were nodding and cheering along with him, but just as many walked on indifferently, and one or two gave him dirty looks as they passed and booed at the would-be prophet. Coin tried to keep himself unnoticed when he heard how the preacher spoke of the Authority (though his thoughts on the Chan were true enough). He wondered how the man would react to one like Coin, who had been a Knight Regulator among the Moderators for years before leaving his old life and old name, and before pledging his life and loyalty to the Brony Collective. Not well, most likely.

It had not been easy for Coin to vacate his post in the Authority—bad blood still lingered between the Moderators and the Bronies, from the war. Not to mention the rumors about them, Coin thought. Those were the things that had concerned him most before he had joined the Collective, and some of that talk still did, truthfully. He had once heard that the community was filled with traitors, blood-letters, and cursed-men, and even that the leader of the Honest Friends, the group he had joined, was some kind of monster in the shape of a man. Coin didn’t believe most of them, but even the most eager convert couldn’t be completely free of doubt. He only hoped he was wrong entirely.

As Coin grew closer and closer to his destination, he could not help but look up in awe at what stood before him. The other Great Fandoms had monuments like this as well, but few had ever been built so impressively in so short a time. The towers he had seen in the distance before were even more breathtaking up close, each of them reaching high up into the sky and topped with a bell and a circle of six stones of six different colors. They were connected to an enormous building in the center built of white marble with lines of black stone running through them, and in the center of all of it was a huge dome made of gold supports and gigantic panes of glass shining like a second sun in the morning light. All of this devoted to so small a thing, Coin thought, his hesitation disappearing for a moment.

Continuing on his way, Coin passed by an impressive mural painted on the side of a large brick building that overlooked the street. Obviously done by Collective artists, the painting showed an idyllic village in a lush, green valley. In the background was a mountain with a gleaming city hanging off the side, and in the middle—above it all—was a violet star with six points. Finally, printed on the top and bottom of the mural was a question left by whoever created the work, 'Where is Equestria?' written in bold golden font.

It was a beautiful sight, but there was another message that someone else had scrawled at the bottom left corner. Written in a disorderly style with white paint was a simple question: 'Who is the Oathbreaker?'

The path to the Citadel of the Six moved into a large plaza with three fountains on either side, each with a different design on top. Looking around, Coin saw just how many brightly-colored figures were gathered around him. On all sides were people clad in outfits that showed dozens of different hues and shades: the yellow from earlier, but also blue, purple, orange, white, and bright pink as well as hundreds wearing combinations of colors that couldn't be seen on anyone else.

It was strange, however, to notice so many guards and armed men standing among the crowd. For every dozen or so colorful acolytes, there was one wearing a sword or carrying a spear with colored banners tied to the end. The eyes of several watchmen, both on the plaza floor and perched in the high guard-towers, followed Coin suspiciously as he passed.

Past the fountains, a bridge stretched across an artificial river which wound its way around the entirety of the Citadel. It was all very pretty to look at, but Coin couldn’t help seeing how well that river could become a moat in case of siege, and its towers and narrow windows viable places for defenders and archers. A palace, he thought, or a fortress.

At that moment, the bells began to ring. Looking up, Coin saw that there were two going off, one after the other in separate minarets of the Citadel. One bell was fastened in the tower lined with orange stones, and the other in the spire made of pure, pearl-white blocks. The sound coming from the bell in the orange belfry was noticeably deeper than the other, gong-ing heavily after the light sound of its ivory twin.

Coin passed by a few other robed people, and then came to a wide path that climbed a flight of stairs. On either side of the way were sets of guards, all wearing plate armor and orange capes. They all wore helmets that were colored yellow and printed with a red apple, and carried long spears with colored cloths tied to the end. As Coin climbed the tall staircase, the two guards standing in front of a great door approached him.

“What's your business here, citizen?” one asked as he put up a hand to block Coin’s path. The other hand tightened around the shaft of his spear.

Coin Counter fumbled nervously in his pocket and handed the guard a card that Coin had received weeks earlier. “I was invited. From Reddit, you see. I’m one of you, actually.” He tried to give a reassuring smile, but it only came out as panicked.

The guard read over the note, and then looked back. “Do you have the rest of your papers?” he asked, still suspicious.

Coin pulled out a bundle of forms and documents, and handed them to the guard. He looked over them intently, and then gave Coin a smile when he reached the end.

“Sorry about the security check, friend. You can’t be too careful.” He gave Coin a bow. “On behalf of the Brony Collective, welcome to the Citadel, brother.”

Unsure of what to do, Coin took back the papers and then gave a quick bow in return. The guard returned to his place, allowing Coin to pass by.

Walking forward, Coin stood before two huge doors that led into the main part of the building. The door on the right was white and lined with gold, while the left was dark black with silver running along the edges. In the center was a design of two horses, both with wings and horns, chasing one another in a circle as one carried the sun, while the other led the moon and stars. In the middle of all of it was a great star with six points, and at the bottom were a pair of handles to open the doors.

Coin Counter put his hand on one of the doors, but hesitated before going through. There was still a knot in his stomach, even more than he had been when he had first received the summons that asked him to come to the Citadel and meet the Wardens. The leaders of the Brony Collective were inside, he knew, but he still didn’t feel as though he deserved to see them.

Looking back down the path he had taken to get to the door, Coin saw that the plaza, filled with robed followers, the streets he had walked on, and even the docks he had come from were far away now. Coin sighed, and then slowly, reluctantly, pushed his way inside.

* * * * * *

“There are few things in the Blogosphere that compare to the grandeur of the stone Citadel of the Six, which adorns the city like a crown of many colors…”

— “Exploring the Blogosphere," by Catler Genn

* * * * * *

“Sitting in my chambers, in the Magic Wing of the Citadel of the Six, it is difficult for me to begin recounting the young history of our fandom. At first, I was unsure as to why I might feel such a hesitation—though certainly rocked by our own share of violence, disruption, and even, dare I say, disharmony, surely I speak for most (if not all) of my fellows when I say that these years we have spent together have been among the happiest of our lives. I am aware, however, that this does not ring true of all times we have shared, and I thought at first that this might be the reason for my initial misgivings in writing this book.

“There are those among my friends for whom the memories of our early days in the masked-lands are still bitter, and those whose trauma suffered during our First Rise and first war is still very much intact. A sense of respect for the wounds we collectively and individually suffered, even in victory, was indeed one of my thoughts when I considered holding back. If time heals all wounds, perhaps more was needed before I began.

“But, if time might help some cope with the difficult patches of our past, it might also lead to losing the rest of it. In the subject of history, where first-hand accounts and direct evidence are paramount, the difference of a few years might end invaluable sources of information forever. How many witnesses of our earliest days are serving now in combat roles for our fandom, ones that may very well end in the ultimate sacrifice? The same is true for the servants of the Authority that intervened against us, and is undoubtedly so for the Channic anonymites that still dwell in their dangerous isles. How many voices have already been lost, and how many more might we lose before we are able to hear them?

“With this in mind, I set aside the temptation of allowing time to pass its course before embarking on my research. Other histories were consulted, actors both great and small from both sides found and interviewed, and surveys conducted after the fact were recorded as well. What I realize now that such searching is concluded is that my hesitation was not merely to avoid bringing up the bad memories of my peers, but for my own sake as well.

“The leviathan in the room is the question of bias. I will not hide my own allegiance from my readers: I am a Brony of the Brony Collective, sworn to the scholarly life of the Magic Friend. I make no secret of my friends, nor my superior: I have never had a talent for lying, at any rate. There is no doubt in my mind that some will then look upon any words I might write on the subject of this history and weigh it to be compromised due to these sympathies. It is a reasonable fear.

“I still say, though, that merely having a stance of one’s own does not necessarily mean that all truth or capacity for higher reason is thrown out. Even the High Enlightener, seated at Central in his charge of the Great Wiki, cannot be said to have no opinions of his own. Rather, it is in recognizing our bias and seeking to preserve only the objective truth regardless that good history is found, and that is what I have attempted here. Every effort I could make to keep my own personal thoughts from creeping in has been done as well as I could, and the use of various sources from many sides and places, as well as the aid of my judicious (and sometimes frightening!) editors should help attest to that. I have done what I can to keep my bias from entering uninvited—should that effort be found lacking, then let the blame rest with me alone.

“Finally, I would be remiss if I did not give my thanks. To all who allowed themselves to be consulted on this project, your aid was invaluable. My editors deserve every ounce of gratitude as well, for their tireless and merciless hammering of my raw words to turn something unrefined into something useful—my debt to them cannot be repaid. Special thanks go to my mother and father, always supportive even when they do not agree, and to my lord and mentor, who rules the Magic Wing in which I serve—your wisdom has never failed to guide me, nor to convince me to continue even when I thought it a useless effort. Had it not been for him, the manuscript of this might have been burned long ago!

“Of course, I must also dedicate this work to my Six Friends. Without the vision of the Six Who Are One, I would still be a young woman lost of all purpose, adrift at sea. Though it was the Six-Pointed Star that ultimately called me, it was all of the Elements alike that has made my time in this fandom important—to them, I offer everything in these pages.

“And, at the very last stretch and until my last breath, I thank you, my friends. Without all that you have done, there would be no force in the Web that could compel me to write as I have. No power in all the world within or without can compare to friendship. It is that friendship that guides me even now, in my chambers, in this Citadel of the Six. Thank you.”

— Introduction to The Brony War, a historical account of the First Rise in the Chan, by Lorelove.

Chapter II: Two Bells

* * * * * *

“The Brony Collective is unique among the Great Fandoms in a number of ways, but none more so than in structure. Fandoms are, by nature, fairly haphazard things—even the strongest of communities are plagued with disruption and disagreement, with the sole unifying factor being the subject of the fandom itself and little in the way of true authority or leadership.

“But the Collective somehow manages to subvert this paradigm with a surprisingly centralized organization: not only do its members recognize certain people as essential pillars of their community and follow them accordingly, but they show an absolutely unparalleled solidarity towards one another. Bronies do not consider one another as isolated fans, but small parts of a cohesive, fluent whole that strives towards the greatest goal of all.”

— “The Histories and Natures of the Greater and Lesser Fandoms”, by Sir Camen Mather

* * * * * *

Proximo Hart was dreaming of the duel that had killed him when he awoke to the sound of bells ringing.

It wasn’t for anything terribly important, that much was clear to him as he pushed his blanket off and rolled out of his small bed. He could tell that there were only two bells tolling, one a light and rapid ting from above him and the other a deep gong from the Honest Wing, one after the other in turn, just as two of the bells tolled every morning an hour or so after dawn, then at midday, then again at dusk. Three bells were an occasion, usually a party or a speech later in the day. Four bells were something of importance, sometimes the beginning of a holiday, or some prominent visitor arriving at the Citadel. Five bells were news from the World Beyond the Web, a new episode to enjoy, or a great gathering come together. And six bells were the rarest, the beginning or end of a Season of the Six, or someone having died.

Proximo had only heard all six ring a few times in his life since he had come to the Citadel from his home on Indelio in the Devien Isles, but to hear the enormous towers that crowned the Citadel of the Six tolling in unison was something he could never forget. Two bells were ordinary, however, and as he rose from bed and began picking out his clothes for the day, his mind barely even paid attention to the ringing while he thought of which pair of pants went with which coat. Eventually, he settled on a white shirt made of fine cotton, with a deep purple vest covering it, and a belt with the small image of a diamond on the buckle.

His quarters were on the small side, but Proximo had no problem with that. It was a neat, compressed room, with wood floors and indigo walls adorned with paintings, some of them gifts and some he had made himself. While Proximo folded the clothes he had chosen, he passed by the bed pushed against the left corner, as the morning light was spilling in from the window behind him, making the pattern of three diamonds on his floor. Sitting upon his work-desk were the drafts and uncompleted drawings he had started the day before. Proximo made a mental note to get back to work on those later, before walking into the bathroom on the side.

It took him a half hour to shower, dress, and make himself presentable, after which he opened the door and started on his way to the lady.

The Generous Wing of the Citadel was only just starting to come alive, with white and purple clad followers emerging from their rooms, talking and yawning on the way to breakfast. “Proximo!” one called out to him as he passed. “You’re up later than usual, I see. Better hope Lady Violet isn’t angry, or she might finally fire you. Gross incompetence, and all that.”

Proximo smiled as he stopped and turned to his fellow. “Gross incompetence? Hardly. Though I will admit, it took me longer than I would have liked to get my hair looking proper this morning.” Proximo had the good fortune of having thick, well-trimmed black hair that suited him handsomely (or so he had been told), but it could be frightfully uncooperative when it refused to take the right shape. He had spent more time than he had liked trying to twist and brand it back to a presentable style. “And, of course, I’ve been putting off the transfer recommendations she asked for. I’ve been having trouble thinking of who deserves the cold, dark, wet places no one wants, but I daresay you’ve given me a bit of inspiration for well-suited candidates, Mattos.”

The other Generous Friend laughed, and waved goodbye as Proximo walked on. A few other people gave good mornings as he passed by, and a few formal ones gave bows, but for the most part the walk to the Warden was uncrowded. The Citadel was still waking up, and there were few people to bump into. It had been only a few years since he had joined the Brony Collective, and chosen to align himself with the followers of the Generous Friend, who represented creativity, charity, beauty, and the pursuit of love, but he had quickly grown acquainted with his fellow Bronies before becoming Assistant Warden.

There were many to meet as well, as the Generous Friends were the most eclectic of the branches in terms of their skills and duties: they worked with the Laughing Friends in the creative arts, cooperated with the Honest Friends in maintaining the fandom’s finances, and helped the Kind Friends in diplomatic concerns and charity ventures. Still, Proximo prided himself on knowing most men and women he came across in the Citadel, closely or otherwise.

Proximo arrived at the dining room and turned inside, into the high-vaulted room. Hanging upon the walls were unfurled banners, dark violet with a trio of blue diamonds emblazed upon each of them. Under these sigils, past the wooden tables and benches, Proximo proceeded to the front of the room, where he could see the window to the kitchen. At the counter, he knocked on the table and saw a man wearing an orange robe and yellow hood come out.

“Morning, Proximo,” he said. “Here for the lady’s breakfast, I imagine? I would guess she’s hungry, considering how she forgot to eat again last night.”

Proximo sighed and then smiled. “Well, I suppose assistants are there, if nothing else, to keep our superiors from starving to death. Chefs as well, I should think. Speaking of which, could I have some toast with that? Burn it, if you don’t mind.”

“One piece of burned toast, coming up.” He put a tray on the table, with a hard-boiled egg, bacon strips, a pot of tea, and a muffin. “Here’s Lady Violet’s meal, and tell her that we can just start sending food up to her again, if she would only let us. She’d probably eat more if we did.”

“Small chance of that,” Proximo replied. “She would probably just forget about it outside her door and let it spoil again. I’ll ask her, though.”

After waiting for his breakfast, he ate the toast and carried the tray out of the hall and down the corridor further, just as a crowd of people walked past him. The Generous Friends were perhaps not as disciplined as the Honest ones, but most had begun to wake up by now. There were several more hellos and bows, and quite a few people asking him to give a good morning to the Warden on their behalf. Some asked him if he could stop and chat, but Proximo had to politely decline and walk on. The lady was expecting her food.

He walked up a narrow flight of stairs lit by colored lanterns, stopping before her room. The entrance had an ornate door, beautifully carved and perfectly painted with the purest shade of white Proximo had ever known. In the center of it was a circle containing a pattern of three blue gems with violet streaks running down the sides and a six-pointed star at every corner. Proximo raised his hand to knock on the door, but stopped himself before he started.

Quickly, he looked over into a mirror on the wall next to the door and checked his appearance. His clothes were slightly wrinkled, but there was nothing to be done about that now, and his black hair was still carefully and neatly set. It was looking as good as it was likely to get, but he shifted the tray over to one hand and nervously ran the other through his hair anyways. Better, he thought.

Proximo raised his hand and knocked at the door once, then again when no one answered it. He waited for a moment, and then knocked again.

“My lady?” he called into the room. Tentatively, he put a hand on the door and lightly pushed, stepping his way inside as carefully as he could and trying his best to not let the tray go off-balance.

The room was dark, aside from the light cast in from the opened door. Pens and paints and crumbled papers were strewn across the room, with burnt-out candles on the tables spilling long trails of wax down to the floor. Proximo stepped gingerly around the mess, taking care not to tip the tray, and worked his way over to the closest room to the right. The door was partly open, showing a bed inside with two night-side tables flanking it. It was, however, missing a person inside it. Proximo let out a groan.

Desk or floor? he wondered.

It was the former, as it turned out. Walking over to the workroom, he found the noble Lady Violet Brushshape, the Warden of Generosity and prominent leader of the Brony Collective, slumped over a sheet of paper on her desk, drooling on her drawing and snoring slightly. Proximo set down the tray of food, and then prodded her on the side of the head in the most deliberately annoying way he could manage.

“Good morning, my lady,” he said cheerfully as she began to stir. “I see you decided to take leave of your bed again. I believe that’s the third time this week?”

Lady Violet rubbed her eyes, still groggy. Her hair was dyed, as was the fashion in the Devien Isles where both she and Proximo came from, and colored a deep purple that brought out the dark color in her eyes quite well on normal occasions. Now it looked like a complete mess, long strands tangled and thrown out of place by an uncomfortable night’s sleep.

She blinked before giving a tired smile. “I had some ideas last night, before I went to sleep. I told myself that I would write them down, but then I started sketching them, and before long I had broken out the good paints. I don’t suppose you could have let me sleep a bit more, could you? I was having the most wonderful dream. I was in a rainbow field, with handsome suitors on every side.”

“I don’t suppose I was there, was I?” Proximo asked slyly, as he pushed the tray of food towards the Warden.

She gave a coy smile in return. “No, quite a bit more handsome, Mister Hart. A valiant effort, though. I’m sure there were a few nightmares concerning you that I can talk about, if you like.” She noticed the food on the tray. “I do believe that there was a muffin in my dream, though, and I swear it looked just like this one.”

“I heard from a reliable source that you managed to forget to eat again last night. I’m sure that they could start sending food up again, if you would allow it. Perhaps then malnutrition would finally be off the list of things I have to worry about you being afflicted by.”

The lady had already wolfed down the muffin, and turned her attention over to the egg. “Sorry, Proximo, but I’ll just forget about the food lying outside my door and someone else will have to clean it up. My probable starvation will just have to haunt you for now.”

“You don’t make this position easy for me, my lady.” Proximo went about lighting the lanterns around the Warden’s apartment while she continued to devour her breakfast, using a small lighter in his pocket to light the lamps’ wicks. “I don’t suppose you remember what you were working on, do you?”

She spoke with her mouth still full of food. “I only put about half of it down before I went to sleep, and now I can’t make heads or tails of what it’s meant to be. Does this look like a building to you, or some kind of portrait?”

Proximo glanced at the paper. “I assumed it was a fish. Or maybe half of a dress?”

“And now the world shall never know,” Violet said with a sigh. “Maybe Jestin can give me some ideas about it later.”

“If anyone is equipped to handle the hypothetical fish-dress, I would wager it’s him.” Lord Jestin Jen was the Warden of Laughter, and one of the most creative men Proximo had ever met, though in a very different way from Lady Violet Brushshape. Proximo had only been a member of the Collective for around two years, and while he didn’t know any of the five other Wardens like he knew Violet, he did count Jestin as a good friend. But then again, so did everyone the Laughing Lord met.

Proximo grabbed the sketch to examine it more closely, trying to uncover exactly what the mystery-thing was. I’ll bet Jestin will think it’s a fish, Proximo thought. Perhaps he’ll write a song about it. A fish wearing a dress seemed like something the Warden of Laughter might like.

The assistant didn’t know the other Wardens half as well as him—the Warden of Loyalty was too brash, the Wardens of Magic and Kindness were always courteous but too distant to be close to, and while he was sure never to say it out loud, Proximo suspected the Warden of Honesty was as insane as he was terse and rude.

Proximo’s attention turned to the spill of papers, wax, and ink on the floor of the main room. “You’ve made a terrible mess of this place, you know. I feel as though my considerable talents at keeping things tidy are being wasted.”

“You know I don’t mean to make you feel unappreciated, Proximo,” she said sweetly with a hint of sarcasm. “It just comes naturally. I can clean that up myself—you shouldn’t have to worry about it.”

“I’m here to serve you, my lady. It’s my duty to see that your living quarters are clean and unsullied, not yours,” he reassured her as he started to pick up the pages on the floor. “You should see to cleaning yourself up, though. Your hair will scare the children.”

“I wasn’t aware we had any children, Mister Hart.”

“I’ll requisition some for the occasion. Perhaps Lady Madelin would like to serve in their place?”

Violet laughed. “Small chance of that. Though Little Miss Loyalty would certainly laugh if she could see me now. I’ll make myself look fit for human society, now that I’m finished with this feast you’ve given me.”

“Wonderful. I’ll step out, and then we can get down to business once you’re finished. I have the art from yesterday compiled, just as you asked. I’m sure the EQD will be interested in seeing this later today, though I should warn you that it’s lower than anything we had last week.”

Proximo heard the bathroom door shut behind him. “Urgh, I hate being between Seasons,” Violet’s voice said from inside. “Mars and the Magic Wing have been searching the stars for months, and yet there is still no sign of the Six, and the diviners haven't had a new vision either. This Drought will be the end of me." Proximo heard a distinctive sigh. "Still, I’m sure it’s fine. I’ll be with you in a moment.”

He nodded his head to no one in particular, then went to the door to step outside. As he opened it, however, he found it swinging just as he went for the handle. On the other side of the door was a brown-haired man, wearing a purple robe and an emerald hood. Green circles were also at his elbows, and in his hand he carried a small paper.

“Good morning sir,” he said with a bow. “I’m sorry to trouble Lady Violet so early, but the Lord of Magic has asked that the Wardens meet immediately.”

“Lord Mars, you say?” The Lord Feylen Mars was the Warden of Magic, and the most respected of the six leaders of the Collective. He was the closest thing to a single leader the fandom had, and his word went without question. “This is irregular, sir. May I ask what the problem is?”

“Trouble, Mister Hart. Trouble in the Dreamweave.”

* * * * * *

“By examination of the Works of our fandom, certain patterns and patterns of themes emerge — in the sense that they become readily apparent. By this analysis, we might gauge these morals and teachings, and focus all of them towards the Great Path that our Six Friends have lit for our sake.

“Two things are necessary for the creation of a fandom: a subject and an audience. The Collective has both of these things, and as such we pay great patronage to the Works we serve. But our belief must go deeper than just that itself, as mere labor alone is so easily corrupted when applied without proper direction. Consider an idea written by one of our fellows: that all people in a world of terrible uncertainty must find a virtue, which they cling to with all their soul and strength so that they might never lose who they are. In our case, that virtue must be, in a sense, a devotion to a concept — perhaps, even, a higher mystery — that our Works and our friends teach.

“Our virtue must be universal, to match our aim and scope, and it must parallel without compromise the Elemental Values that we bow to. It must be pure, good, without inherent flaw or overwhelming weakness. It must include all and seek to exclude none, and most of all it must compel us to stand beside one another and fight for our common well-being, for the world is a difficult place where people and values and hope are too easily crushed.

“With this in mind, it seems apparent to me that our virtue must be our Friendship itself. Other traits of goodness and righteousness can stand alone, true, but it is only when brought together that great things are done. The Six are not alone: they are not judged alone, they are not followed alone. They are not individual parts, but a whole — Six and One. Consider the words of the great Singer of Our Fandom, who always understood far more than any other could:

‘A little magic, a different kind of spark —

our glassy essence just floating in the dark.

It’s how you taught us to conjure up

a little Kindness to take inside our hearts.

Our will to power — together not apart.

Trace of the Other, a truly modern art.’

“Together, not apart. Let this be the anthem of our fandom! Alone we are weak, fragile, misled, miserable. No person was meant to live alone. Together we are stronger, better, than we could ever be apart, and only togetherness found in the virtue of Friendship can guide us towards greatness and the Great Path in the Web. For it is not in numbers, nor arms, nor armies that our Brony Collective finds strength, but in our creativity, our devotion, our will to see one another as brothers and sisters on the great voyage of life — in all of this, unity is imperative. Together, not apart.”

— “Lecture on Virtue,” by Lord Feylen Mars, the Warden of Magic. The quoted lyric comes from Sorceress Girl by SoGreatAndPowerful.

{}

Chapter IV: Six Friends

* * * * * *

“My friends!” the first one said. “I have seen the glory of Six, and I know now the path I must follow for them! Our bond must be unbreakable, our love unflinching, and we shall know a true peace within the one Magic! My Kind Friends, I care for you. Long live the Six!”

And the second one said, “My Loyal Friends, I fight for you. Long live the Six!”

And the third one said, “My Honest Friends, I see for you. Long live the Six!”

And the fourth one said, “My Generous Friends, I create for you. Long live the Six!”

And the fifth one said, “My Laughing Friends, I smile for you! Long live the Six!”

And the sixth one said, “My Magic Friends, I learn for you. Long live the Six!”

* * * * * *

“Now where in the Web could they be?” Lady Violet said anxiously.

Proximo Hart couldn’t help but wonder as well. Both he and his lady had arrived only ten minutes prior, but it seemed like an eternity had passed while they had waited in the empty council room.

They were seated at a large, round table with a six-pointed star painted onto the center. Each of the points of the star reached towards ornate chairs that were placed around the table, all six of which were carved from a dark wood with different colored gemstones planted at their heads—aside from one of them, which was far larger than the others and exceedingly plain.

On the sides of each of these thrones was another, smaller chair, where the Wardens’ assistants sat during meetings that required their attendance. Of all the seats in the room, however, only Lady Violet’s and Proximo’s were filled.

“Perhaps they lost their way, my lady? They only come here nearly every day.”

“I’m serious, Proximo. It’s quite unlike them,” she said to him urgently. “Madelin and Jestin being late, certainly. Lillian, understandable. But our magic and honest friends? It’s inconceivable! Mars was the one who summoned us here — where could he have possibly gone off to?” She bit her lip in worry.

Now dressed completely, Lady Violet looked far different than she had earlier in the morning. Wearing a pure white dress and a golden necklace with a blue gemstone shaped like a pointed diamond placed on the chain, the lady was exceptionally beautiful, with almond-shaped eyes and long lashes, and thick, purple-dyed hair draped down her shoulders.

“I’m sure they’ll be along any minute now, my lady,” Proximo consoled her. “Still, I’ll admit it’s a bit odd. I’ve never known us to be the first ones to a meeting. When the others come in, they’ll think we’ve grown punctual overnight—I fear our reputation may be lost.”

He worried about other things as well, namely that the Dreamweave was involved with whatever they had been called for. Proximo knew the place well, but didn’t like to remember the time he had spent there — though that was more to do with who he had been, rather than the place itself. Proximo had been a far different person, before he had been dealt a fatal wound and died. And the Dreamweave is uncomfortably close to home, he thought for a moment before pushing the fear out of his mind. Nervously, he ran his fingers through his thick black hair.

“I mean, it’s not as though we didn’t take our time coming here,” said Violet, not responding to Proximo's reassurances. “First I had to get myself ready to leave, goodness knows that takes long enough, then we had to find and read over every report and statement and shopping list our agents in the Painted Sea have sent in the past month, and then there was the matter of crossing half the Citadel just to get here!” She turned quickly to Proximo. “You don’t suppose we read the message incorrectly, did we? Went to the wrong location or som—”

“Mornin’, friends!” a very loud, very familiar voice shouted as the doors of the room slammed open. As a startled Proximo turned around, he saw that the Warden of Loyalty had just made her normal entrance. Lady Madelin Artemelia Wright marched briskly through the doorway towards the table, wearing a stained blue shirt with long sleeves and a boiled leather vest over it, as well as a broad and cocksure grin.

Lady Madelin Wright hailed from the Land of Faces, the largest community in the Internet, and was every bit as boisterous and self-assured as most were in that place. The Loyal Friends she led were much the same: as the representation of victory, swiftness, and strength in battle, the Loyal Friend’s followers were largely fighters and sailors, both of which the Warden of Loyalty certainly was.

On her sleeve was the symbol of the Loyal Friend — a lightning bolt, colored blue, red, and yellow—while her belt had a pair of flasks on one side and a sheathed dagger on the other. Proximo was always surprised to see how short she was—nearly a head and a half smaller than he was—considering how loud and fierce she acted normally, spending most of her time boasting or yelling. Today didn’t seem to be an exception, as she stomped towards him and Violet.

“Sorry I’m late, everyone!” Lady Wright yelled while sharply stepping inside. “I figured you all probably started without me anyways, but you know how it is back in the Loyalty Wing. All fighting this and racing that and all of those new recruits begging to be beaten up!” She drew forward quickly, whipping her messy brown hair to and fro, having tied the shocking mane into a haphazard ponytail. “Anyhow,” she said while marching in, “where the Hell’s everyone else?”

“Not here yet, Maddy,” Lady Violet said with a smile, “but am I glad to see you. I was worried that no one else was coming! Being the first ones here is really quite unnerving.”

“Ha! Not that I’d know anything about it, V.” She gave a huge smile to the two of them while she walked closer. ”And how are my favorite fancy, prancy, purple people doing on this fine day?” she asked happily, before reaching over to Proximo and giving an extremely hard slap on his back that nearly sent his head into the table. Short as she was, Lady Wright had a wiry strength to her that surprised most people. Proximo needed no reminder of this, but the newly acquired pain in his back was proof nonetheless.

“Oh, we’re fine. A bit curious, though,” Lady Violet said pleasantly, ignoring the annoyed look that Proximo was sending Wright. “Have you any idea what Mars was talking about in that message? ‘Trouble in the Dreamweave, murder implication, come at once’ — it’s all very cryptic. I certainly hope it isn’t as serious as it sounds.”

“Not a clue, friend!” she said before scratching her chest. “Should be interestin’, whatever it is.” She looked down at Proximo while he was rubbing his sore back. “And how ‘bout you Proxi? Hair still poofy?” She leaned in closely with a grin, close enough that Proximo could smell an unwholesome mix of rough leather, sweat, and alcohol on her person.

“It would seem so, my lady,” he said as politely as he could, trying to fix said hair, which had gotten slightly mussed up after the slap to his back.

“Good, good! Glad to see you’re still as fancy as the last time I saw you. And that reminds me, I’ve got Flighter running up now: after hearing about all this business he went off to get some maps and things,” she said quickly while waving her hand back and forth. “Good kid, far as assistants go. Still a bit useless sometimes, though. Poor guy can barely tell his ass from his elbows some days, and don’t even get me started on how he does in the fighting ring. Sure, he can outwork most of the guys with a sword, but too damn slow, if you ask me! Say,” she said, turning to Proximo with an eager smile, “maybe you should come down and train some time! I’d say you need the muscle either way.”

Proximo’s hand instinctively went to the scar across his chest, an uncomfortable reminder of the last time he had been in a duel. The thought of it made the mark tingle slightly. You never fail to disappoint, Hart, he thought to himself. He had never even known the man’s name. “Thank you, Lady Wright, but I don’t think that would be a good idea. Us Generous Friends are built for words, not swords.”

“Lover, not fighter, eh? Ha! Well, suit yourself, Proxi, I understand why you’d rather not. Still, might do you some good, put something on those arms! Who knows, maybe you’ll be like your Auntie Maddy someday!”

Lady Wright gave a hearty and well-meaning laugh before delivering Proximo another slap to the back. Violet chuckled at him, while he tried his best to not roll his eyes. Being the Warden of Loyalty, Wright was admittedly a brilliant fighter, having practically led the offensive forces during the Brony rebellions on the Chan single-handedly. She had quite the reputation for capturing the Channic capital of Baysmouth, losing it, then capturing it again during the First Rise.

Proximo found the Hero of the Chan to be rather exhausting. She was far more fond of shouting and swearing than the people he was used to in the Generous Wing, and the only time she seemed to stop boasting was when she was having a drink. At the moment, she seemed to be switching to the latter activity, taking a swig from one of the two flasks she always kept at her belt while taking her seat and putting her feet up on the table.

Thankfully, Proximo was rescued from another series of jokes from Wright when they heard someone whistling in the hallway outside. A voice, light and airy as a cloud, chimed in over the jaunty tune, and sang a happy song that echoed into the meeting room.

“Oh take my hand, yes won’t you be
The one who’ll dance out on the sea?
Just leave your fears! We’ll all take flight!
Into the waves, into the night!

Across the starry, sun-down sea,
the moon will look on you and me!
And the Mare Who Waits will sing Her song,
and light will show what’s right and wrong!

The cadence waves, the tuning fish,
the beating hearts, oh how I wish!
Over the sea, where trebles end,
we’d dance out there, at the water-bend!”

Another group walked in, this time the Warden of Laughter and his own assistant. There was no mistaking the Laughing Lord: he was clad in the garish pink robes that all followers of the Laughing Friend wore, though Proximo could see the baggy pants and loose-fitting boots he wore under them.

Lord Jestin Jen was the one singing, a talent he had made good use of even before he had joined the Collective, while working as a Bard for the Tropers. Since the Laughing Friend was the embodiment of joy, music, and celebration, it had made sense for Jestin to join her followers, who made the music and organized the festivities of the Brony Collective.

Jestin strolled into the room cheerily, his gait so carefree that one would’ve never guessed he was one of the most important people in the Collective. He gave a shining smile to his friends.

“Heya, everyone!” Jestin said earnestly, his warm and friendly face lighting up upon seeing them. His appearance was casual, like most everything else about him, with a stubbly brown beard and hair that dangled down in curly bangs just above his eyes. “I know me and Algie are late, but someone was really excited about a new song back in the Laughing Wing, and I wanted to help 'em out a little before I came over.”

He walked to his seat, which had a blue sapphire built into the head, and jumped onto it. Rather than sitting down normally, he crossed his legs so that his knees sat on top of the arm-rests, and his body was suspended between them. His assistant, a portly and bearded man whom Proximo knew as Algernon Greaves, took the seat next to him, and seemed every bit as eager.

“It was about a dream across the sea,” Jestin continued, “and a bunch of friends on a quest to find it! Hopefully it works out for them. But yes, my sincere apologies for my tardiness,” he said with a solemn bow of his head.

“Don’t trouble yourself with it, friend,” Lady Violet said. “You haven’t missed anything yet, considering half of us are missing.”

Jestin Jen looked puzzled and peered over to the other chairs, as though he had only just noticed this. “Well hey, look at that! Weird, normally it’s me or Maddy who come in late. Even Honesty isn’t here, and he’s always on time.”

“It’s a real mystery, isn’t it?” said Proximo. “And speaking of mysteries, I don’t suppose you know what this emergency is all about, do you?”

“Nope!” Jestin said with a carefree smile.

Algernon leaned in. “My lord, didn’t you once visit the Dreamweave?”

“Sure did! I stayed there a few days when I was a Bard Errant. Terrible tippers. But it was fun!”

While Lord Jestin chatted with the others, Proximo heard other voices coming for the hallway outside, and turned to see another group walk in the door — three people, to be precise. On the right was Lady Wright’s assistant Flighter, wearing the blue robes and six-colored rainbow hood of the Loyal Friends, who wore a very tired and exasperated look while carrying a dozen large rolls of paper in his arms. On the left was another assistant, a small woman with short blonde hair named Hanna, who served the Warden of Kindness.

Between them was the Warden herself, Lady Lillian Semmer of the Kind Friends. She was a tall, slim lady, standing nearly a foot over Flighter and more so over her own assistant. She had very long, very dark hair that tumbled out of her upturned pink hood and down to the belt of her yellow robes.

“... Are you quite sure you don’t want help with those?” Hanna asked her loyal counterpart as he struggled to keep the papers in his arms.

“You shouldn’t concern yourself, m’lady, and you didn’t need to the last few times you’ve asked either. I can handle this, really!” Flighter replied unconvincingly, as one of the maps fell out of his arms and bounced onto the floor. Lady Semmer slowly bent over to pick it up, giving Flighter a reassuring smile as she carried it towards the table.

“I’m sorry for being so late,” Lady Semmer said to the rest of the room. She had an almost sing-song accent that Proximo had always found hard to place — he suspected it was southron, but had never found the nerve to ask.

She moved over to her chair with such grace that she seemed almost to float, wafting in like a breeze that was utterly unattached to the ground below. “There were more people in the Kind Wing that were needing my attention than I expected, and Hanna and I wanted to accompany Mister Flighter after we ran over him on the way here.”

“Ah, so it was this one who kept you!” Lady Wright chortled teasingly while wagging a finger at her assistant. “Ha! Shame on you, kid! Holding up a Warden of the Collective like that is a serious offense—I hope you didn’t cause her any problems on the way!”

“No, m’lady,” Flighter replied, still struggling to keep the rest of the papers intact on his way over.

“Good to hear it! Now,” Lady Wright said as she slammed a hand onto the table, “do you have any idea what this business is about, Lil? I was about ready to run around a little more when I got the news, and thanks to all this waiting — oh, for God’s sakes, Flighter, just put them down on the table and sit here before you kill yourself — sorry, all this waiting has got the anticipation killing me! Really, would it kill Mars to be a little less cryptic for once? If I have to start sharpening swords and sailing ships at things, I’d rather know now!” She slammed her hand onto the table again, as though it were one of her recruits that had ventured some kind of personal insult against her.

“I’m sorry, Maddy, but I’m sure I don’t know any more than anyone else,” Lady Semmer replied. “But the message mentions the Dreamweave, and that is worrying me. One of the Kind Friends was sent there not long ago, and one of the Generous as well, if I’m not mistaken. I certainly hope this hasn’t anything to do with them.”

Her eyes, filled with concern, were cast across to Lady Violet. The Lady of Kindness did not stare directly at Proximo, but her gaze was close enough for Proximo to feel just slightly uneasy. It was an absurd feeling, considering who the owner of that look was, but Lady Semmer’s eyes had always struck him as odd: they were dark, doe-like, and strangely large, as if they were a half a size too big. They glimmered like water at the bottom of a very deep well, and sometimes Proximo thought he might fall in, should he look too close.

“So do I,” Violet replied, though she seemed unsure. Proximo shared that feeling: though he hoped otherwise, the only reason he could think of as to why the Wardens had been called so urgently about the Dreamweave was if something had happened to their diplomats.

Flighter finally managed to work his way into his seat next to Lady Wright, half-placing and half-dropping the maps and charts onto the table. “Balefire!” Wright exclaimed. “I hope it wasn’t too hard to carrying all that nonsense from the Loyal Wing, ‘specially considering I sent you out for them. You alright?”

“Just fine, m’lady. Only a little tired from the running,” he said as he fell back into his chair.

“Good! I’ll need you set for fighting later—don’t think all this excitement’s getting you out of training!” Grinning, Wright took a swig from her flask before giving her assistant an affectionate punch to the arm and a hearty laugh, with her weary assistant flinching slightly at the blow.

Proximo gave a sympathetic smile and bow of the head to him. “I hope you’re well, Flighter,” Hart said as he raised his head back up, “and you too, Hanna. I trust everything is settled in the Kind Wing?”

Hanna smiled. “Things are fine, Mister Hart, but there’s always work to be done. My lady was making her rounds through the infirmary when we received word to meet, but there were still patients in need of attention. Sorry again about taking so long to get here,” she said apologetically.

“Don’t worry about it!” Lord Jestin leaned in and replied. “It’s not like we were ready to start, anyways. Just a lot of boring waiting!”

“I’m surprised to see,” Lady Semmer said while looking around the room, “that Mars and our honest friend are not here yet.” She seemed as puzzled as the rest of them had been. “It’s not like them to be tardy.”

“Agreed!” Wright yelled, before taking another drink. “Where’s my young old friend, or Sir Stick-in-the-Mud?”

It did not take long for Lady Wright to get her answer, as the sound of another man walking slowly to the door echoed into the room. Everyone turned to see the Warden of Magic walking slowly into the room, holding a stack of papers in one hand.

Lord Feylen Mars had gained the title of Warden and Lord of the Six-Pointed Star before any of the Collective’s other leaders had claimed their own positions, and had held it for longer as well. It had always been strange, then—to Proximo at least, who ranked appearance as one of the most indicative qualities of a man — how little he seemed to fit his role.

He wore the lavender robes of the Magic Friends, matched by a violet hood fastened with a golden pendant shaped like a six-pointed star. Oddly enough, the robes he wore never seemed to fit him properly, as though they were made for someone three sizes larger than him. He looked young, of similar age as Proximo or perhaps slightly less, but something about his appearance made him seem strangely older. The Warden of Magic walked forward slowly, his left leg lagging slightly as he moved.

Once the others noticed he had come, however, they all rose to greet him, bowing their heads to the first among equals in the fandom, the young elder himself. Lord Mars returned the gesture graciously, and approached his chair, cringing slightly as he lowered himself into it. There was an air of delicacy about him, like a pile of sticks that a firm hand or a breeze of wind could knock down.

“My apologies, friends, for my absence,” he said to the others. He spoke softly, barely above a whisper, but everyone else in the room was completely silent in order to hear what he had to say. His figure was near as thin as his voice, almost unhealthily so, with bony, grasping fingers, limbs as thin as broom-handles, and wispy brown hair and hollow cheeks where his deathly pale skin clung tightly to his skull. “There were a great many matters to look over in the past few hours, and I let time slip away from me. I’m afraid Lorelove will not be with us today, as the past few hours have given her more than enough to do as it is. Rest assured, my assistant has already been briefed on the matter we’re to speak of. I trust that my summons didn’t startle you all too much?”

“Not at all, Mars,” Lady Violet reassured. “Although I’ll admit it has us concerned. What’s all this business about?”

“I’ll explain soon enough, Violet,” he replied respectfully, “but it seems that my honest friend has yet to arrive. I would not wish to exclude him from what we’re to talk about—it may well concern him closely.”

Proximo wondered if the Warden of Honesty would offer the same courtesy to the others if they were late to urgent news. Somehow, he thought not. There was little point to speculating however, as Lord Mars spoke up again.

“I should, however, apologize again for not providing more information in my message to you all.” He rubbed his right wrist, then moved his hand to a ring on his right hand, a silver one studded with the six stones of the Six Friends. He turned the band over on his finger, twisting it softly around as though to keep a hyperactive hand busy. “Perhaps in my haste to write it, and my desire to be… let’s say, succinct, I gave you a bit too much to speculate on. Needless to say, there is a crisis on the Dreamweave, and it concerns us more closely than I should like.”

“Is it a threat?” Lady Wright asked, her flagon stopped in front of her face. “I can have the Expeditionary Force out-and-about immediately, Mars, and don’t think I won’t join them.”

“I wouldn’t doubt that for a moment, Madelin,” Lord Mars said with a small smile. “But I don’t think it’s that kind of threat yet, and I pray it won’t come to that. Now then, where is the Warden of Honesty?”

“Here.”

Eyes went to the entrance-way, and Proximo saw that the Giant of Honesty had arrived at last.

‘Giant’ was the perfect description for the Warden of Honesty, along with a few other choice words. Striding in from the doorway, looming above those beside him, was a man more than a head taller than anyone else Proximo had ever seen — seven feet high, at least. As the Warden walked over to the table, Proximo could see that the arms at his side were as wide as tree trunks, and his legs like stone pillars that moved mechanically across the room.

Every inch of his body was covered in muscle and metal. He wore solid plate armor all over, so thick and heavy that Proximo doubted anyone else could lift it, let alone wear it. But despite marching forward quickly to take his seat, the Warden did not seem to make a sound. Behind him was an orange cloak, billowing gently, clasped at the shoulders with a golden hood, and displaying an emblem in the middle in the shape of an apple.

What hair the Warden had was gold as well: though his head was completely shaven, he had a finely trimmed beard flecked with grey. His left eye was the same color, gold and illuminated with a cold, angry, suspicious fire. His other eye was missing, just a black patch that wrapped around his angular head and covered whatever remained. He was not a comely man by any stretch of the imagination: his face was harsh, his skin leathered like a callous and pale as a whitewyrm. His nose was nose flat and crooked, as though it had been broken several times and not set well. Half of his right ear had been torn off.

Though there remained only one eye in the Warden’s head, it wasn’t the only one he had. As he approached the table, Proximo could see that his armor still bore the Warden’s personal symbol on the front: a golden eye, with six lines coming forth from it. Members of his inner circle, the most trusted of the followers who practically worshiped the “Great Honest One,” took the same symbol as their own. The Warden’s assistant, Rolf, who sat next to the Warden’s huge and undecorated chair, wore the same eye on his robes. It always made Proximo uneasy to see the symbol, particularly on the robes of the Honest Friends, which were more often bare.

“We are late,” the Warden said matter-of-factly while taking his seat. His mouth was clenched tight, and when he spoke it seemed to wrench itself open only just long enough for him to say what few words he had before clamping shut once again. It was a mouth perfect for a man who never laughed, and seldom smiled. “Our fault. Things to attend.” Honesty looked to Lord Mars at the front. “Apologies,” he said with a bow.

“There’s nothing to apologize for, friend,” Mars said. “We were only waiting for your arrival for a short while.”

“You sure weirded me out though, Baldie!” Wright said with a teasing grin. “Never known you to be late — what was the hold-up?”

“Talking with someone,” the Warden of Honesty said, seeming vaguely irritated. “Guest. This one.” He gestured behind him. There was a man there that Proximo didn’t recognize, wearing the orange robes of the Honest Friend, with red hair and a round face that was remarkable only in how utterly plain and ordinary it was. He seemed uncomfortable, whoever he was, and gave an awkward bow to the table of Wardens.

“Ah, hello,” he said, obviously trying to compose himself.

“Can wait outside,” the Warden of Honesty said flatly, not acknowledging the guest.

“Oh, don’t mind him!” Jestin said, smiling at the man. “I’m sure you can stay here. You came all the way from Reddit after all.”

“How did you know that?” asked Lady Wright, tilting her head.

“Just a feeling.”

“I agree,” Lord Mars said, after considering Jestin’s words. “I don’t see any harm in letting him listen. Everyone in the Citadel will know about it soon enough, anyways.”

The Warden’s golden eye narrowed. “Fine,” he said curtly. He spoke again to the guest, not bothering to turn his head and face him. “Sit in back. Do not speak unless spoken to.”

The man hurried to the back as fast as his legs could carry him. While he moved, the Warden of Honesty put the message he had received on the table. “What is this?”

“It seems to be a piece of paper,” Proximo replied sarcastically.

Wright and Jestin laughed, but Violet elbowed her assistant and gave him a dirty look. Honesty didn’t even glance at him, just looking at Lord Mars.

“It,” Mars said, “is a problem. And a grave one, at that.”

He sifted through the stack of papers with his bony fingers, pulling out several pieces. Reaching over the table, he took one of the maps that Flighter had brought in, giving a courteous bow to the assistant in the process, and laid it out in front of the Wardens.

“We received three messages last night. The first came from the Dreamweave,” he said, pointing to a small dot on a map of the Painted Sea. “It’s a city-site, located on an island not far from the Devien Isles — traditionally, it’s been involved in the arts that the Painted Sea has always made, but they’ve come into a fouler practice more recently. They’ve been working against the Collective for some time now, ejecting any Brony groups, banning any art, and denying any traveller pledged to the Six.

“You may recall an incident a few months ago,” Mars continued, “after which we sent diplomats to try and open the Dreamweave, while the Authority sent its own negotiator to do the same.”

Proximo still remembered the day, though it had been more than three months before. He still shuddered at the thought of how desperate a person must be to drive them to such a sacrifice. They said that the Brony had burned himself alive in front of the city gates, protesting the ban. He wanted someone’s attention, Proximo thought, and that’s precisely what he got. He only hoped that it had been worth it to the poor man.

The others in the room seemed to remember as well, and a silence went over the room. Wright looked almost guilty, and Proximo suspected she had forgotten the incident. The Warden of Honesty showed no emotion at all, and simply stared forward.

“At any rate,” Mars continued solemnly, “the reason I called you here concerns these diplomats. The first message,” he said while showing them a piece of golden-lined paper, “was sent by a nobleman of the Dreamweave — one Aureliano Martes.”

Violet leaned in. “What does it say?”

“Threats and demands, for the most part. Though there were some more troubling pieces of information that arrived as well. That’s when I read the second message, a datagram sent soon after.”

Lord Feylen Mars showed the second paper to the room. It was less ornate than the first, plainly printed, but at the top was the symbol of a white shield with a black hammer inside. The mark of the Moderator Authority, Proximo thought, uneasily.

“It was sent by the Knight Censors in the Dreamweave,” Mars continued, “and it states that our diplomats have both been accused of murder.”

The words were heavy in the air while the people in the room processed the words.

“Murder?” Lady Semmer asked, alarm clear in her voice.

“Yes. That’s not the worst of it either,” Mars said gravely. “They’ve been accused of either murdering or participating in the murder of Sir Harald Corey, the leader of the negotiations, and his squire.”

Proximo looked at the message, stunned. He couldn’t claim to know the two men the Collective had sent to the Dreamweave well, but entering a place as a diplomat and murdering the one presiding over it was a despicable crime. It couldn’t be true, he thought, could it?

“I won’t believe it for a moment,” Violet made plain. “I know both of those men, and they would never stoop to something so… vile!”

“I agree,” Lady Semmer added, clearly concerned. “Greenglade is a dear friend, and I chose him to go myself. It can’t be true.”

“I pray you’re right,” Lord Mars said sadly. “But unless we can prove that, the Moderators will have no mercy. To murder a knight is bad enough, not to mention a squire, but to do so while under the Authority’s trust? As a guest, and a peace envoy at that?” Mars shook his head.

“Then we send our own advocates,” Violet said, looking at her fellow Wardens. “If we need to prove their innocence, then we’ll send investigators and representatives, so our case is heard.”

But Lord Mars shook his head again. “Those were my thoughts as well. But I’m afraid it’s grown more complicated than that.” He picked up the third letter, also plain black and white, and began to read it aloud.

“To the Wardens of the Brony Collective. Stop. Two of your followers, called Greenglade and Dabrius Joh, stand accused of the murder of Sir Harald Corey of the Order of the Guided Hand and his squire. Stop. If found guilty, their punishment will be an immediate Ban on Existence, followed with execution by hanging. Stop. In addition, the leaders of the Collective are charged with possessing both knowledge and complicity in the crimes of the accused, having known their intentions and having aided them in their execution. Stop.

“The Wardens of the Collective are to travel to the Dreamweave immediately and submit to a formal investigation conducted by the Authority, after which the innocence or guilt of the accused will be ascertained. Stop. Failure to comply will regarded as treason, and be punishable by Existential Banning, followed by execution. Stop. Signed under the Shield of Law and the Hammer of Order, the Lord Moderator Dyren Halforth, OGH. End of line.”

The room erupted into shouts. The Warden of Honesty, who had stayed silent until that point, stood up in anger.

“They accuse us?” he said, mouth twisted in fury. “Insult must be answered. Send us. We will see it is.”

“Amen to that!” Lady Wright shouted. She kicked out the chair from under her, and slammed a hand on the table, making a stunned Flighter jump back. “Give me the word, and I’ll have the fleet outside the Dreamweave before you can blink. We’ll see how well they can talk like that to my friends when I get there!”

“Then it would be war!” Lady Semmer said aghast. “Death and red ruin for our friends! If we go out for blood, then they’ll pay it back to us—we must find another way.”

“Agreed.” Violet Brushshape spoke up, looking to Wardens of Loyalty and Honesty. “Madelin, I’ve never doubted the strength of the Loyal Friends, but if we start a war with the Authority then it’ll be the death of all of us. If we know that we’re innocent, then let’s prove it. If we explain to the Lord Moderator our own s—”

“Walk into Authority hands?” the Warden of Honesty said, glaring at Lady Violet. “Foolish. Accusation made to shame Collective, not truth. We will show them truth.”

“Lady Violet is right.” Proximo said, standing beside his mistress. “A new envoy is better than trying to stare down the Authority, at any rate.”

“I’ll go,” Lord Jestin said, looking serious. “If someone needs to talk to the Lord Moderator, then I’ll do it.”

“A threat, not singing competition,” Honesty said flatly to the Warden of Laughter. “Not suited for you. Do not walk into trap.”

“And I suppose you would rather go?” Proximo said, angry to see his friend talked down to. “Along with a hundred or so ships? Or would it just be you alone, off to kill everyone in the Dreamweave and the Authority as well?”

“Friends!”

Everyone stopped talking, and looked to Lord Mars, who had raised his voice for the first time. His deep, blue eyes, normally so rheumy, were locked on all of them. He sighed, and spoke to them softly again. “Arguing like this will get us nowhere. Sit down, all of you.”

Lady Semmer went first, then Violet and Proximo soon after her, though he still glared at the Warden of Honesty. Lady Wright slouched back down into her seat next, and only the Wardens of Magic and Honesty were left standing. Honesty only stared forward, but looking at Mars made him bow his head to the little man and return to his seat.

Looking over his friends, Lord Mars spoke slowly. “Madelin, Honesty, I understand your anger. You’re right about one thing, and that is that this accusation is a threat not only to our diplomats, but to us as well. But we cannot start a war with the Authority. Perhaps you think it won’t lead to that, but there’s still a more delicate way around this.”

“Sorry, Mars, but I don’t mean for all six of us to just walk into the Dreamweave, where they’re free to do God knows what while the Collective loses its leaders!” Wright said, clearly speaking carefully so as not to offend the Warden of Magic. “There’s plenty of people in the Authority with a good reason to hate us, and I don’t like the way this ‘Aureliano Martes’ is talking either. And Dyren Halforth, the Lord Moderator… I don’t know much about the Painted Sea, but that one has a fearsome reputation.”

“I agree. Which is why we’re not going to do that. This datagram,” he said while holding the message, “asks for the Wardens to come to the Dreamweave and answer to Lord Halforth. It doesn’t say which ones, or how many.

“Violet,” he said to the Warden of Generosity. “You have a great deal of experience in negotiation. You’re from the Devien Isles, and you work closely with our members in the Painted Sea, so you’ll have more contacts there than any of us. I want you to assemble an envoy to travel to the Dreamweave and find out what is happening. Testify to our innocence, prove our friends did not murder Sir Harald, and make sure that this misunderstanding goes no further.”

“What if he objects?” Violet asked with a tilt of her head. “If he wants all of us there, wouldn’t he demand it if I were the only one who arrived?”

“I don’t think so. From what I know about Lord Halforth, he’s a man of the law, not political concerns. He may want us there, but once he sees we weren’t willing to all come, I believe he’ll let it go for the sake of going through with the trial. There’s only one way to know for certain, though, and I’m sure that you should be there when we find out.”

“Then I’ll go gladly, my lord,” Violet said with a bow of her head. “I’ll start putting my team together immediately. Proximo,” she said, turning to her assistant, “would you be so kind as to accompany me on this perilous mission?”

“I’m yours to command, my lady, and I follow where you lead,” Proximo said with a smile. Inside, however, he felt slightly uneasy: it had been a long time since he’d been to the Dreamweave, and he had been a far different man then. Not to mention that home is so close, he thought, his hand instinctively going to the scar across his chest.

“Wonderful!” Lady Violet said. “I’ll find some more suitable volunteers. Jestin, Lilly, I may need some suggestions for people from your branches as well, if you don’t mind. We can leave as soon as possible.”

“And the Warden of Honesty will accompany you,” Lord Mars said.

Wright laughed out loud at that, but stopped once she saw that Mars was serious. The rest of the room just looked towards the Warden of Magic in equal parts surprise and confusion. Jestin tilted his head at the order, but then smiled and returned to rocking back and forth on his chair.

Proximo's mind were racing as he looked fearfully at the Warden of Honesty. He’s no diplomat, he thought, and no negotiator. ‘Negotiate’ wasn’t part of the Warden’s limited vocabulary, as far as Proximo knew. He wanted to ask Lord Mars what he was thinking, sending the Warden of Honesty on a mission so unsuited for him, but he couldn’t summon the words.

Seeing that no one was going to speak up, Lord Mars continued. “My honest friend,” he said to the Warden of Honesty, “I want you to form an honor guard to escort Lady Violet and her team to the Dreamweave, and protect them for as long as they are there. Your guard will work with her in proving our friends innocent, and, if possible, finding the truth of what is happening in the Dreamweave. Will you do it?”

If the Warden of Honesty was capable of surprise, Proximo imagined he was feeling it then. At first, the Warden did not answer. After a brief pause though, he bowed his ugly head. “We obey,” he said to Mars.

Lord Mars nodded, and stood up. “My friends,” he said, “I believe it is not just our two friends on trial, nor just ourselves, but the whole of the fandom. The future of the Authority’s stance towards us may be decided in the coming weeks. I urge you all to be careful and cautious. Six and One,” he said to them, raising a hand.

“Six and One,” all in the room repeated.

The Warden of Magic gathered his papers together, and looked to his friends. “I would like to speak with all of you privately, in the Magic Wing. I would appreciate everyone being there in a few minutes.” Lord Mars glanced up to the man the Warden of Honesty had brought in. “Including you, sir. I apologize that we could not meet under better circumstances.”

The man was clearly startled that he had been addressed, but before he could reply the Warden had already walked off, stepping beyond the doors marked with a six-pointed star into the Magic Wing. Wright looked at the doors, then to Lady Violet, then to the Warden of Honesty, before giving a laugh and walking off to the exit as well, with Flighter in tow. Lord Jestin sprang up from his seat, whistling a happy tune to himself and Algernon as they followed her, while Lady Semmer and Hanna went as well, whispering to one another.

The Warden of Honesty glanced over to Lady Violet, as though he were about to say something. “Hrm,” he murmured instead, before looking up to his guest. “You,” he said to him, “follow.” The man bolted over to the Warden, and followed closely behind him. Rolf walked next to the poor man, saying something that Proximo couldn’t quite catch.

Lady Violet watched as the Honest Friends left the room. Proximo thought she looked slightly nervous, but that may have just been him. “Come, Proximo,” she said, “we must catch up.”

Proximo said nothing, just watching as the Warden of Honesty stepped out of the room, moving his hulking body in way that reminded the assistant of some giant glacier. The Warden put a massive hand on the door and pushed it open, nearly allowing it to hit Rolf and his guest as it closed behind him.

“Of course, my lady,” Proximo finally said, running his fingers through his hair before walking behind her to the Magic Wing. Though he tried to hide it, he couldn’t help but feel far less optimistic about their mission than he did before.

* * * * * *

“It would be impossible to say exactly who the first to call himself ‘Brony’ was. Too many followers of the Six joined and perished during the First Rise (called the Brony War to some in the Chan, and the Wars of Brony Succession to others) to be certain, but it is known that it was in the Chan that the fandom began. In the city-streets of Comchan, where the anonymites of the Great Fandoms fought and bled for their idols, strange men and women began to appear, whispering words of ‘Six Friends’ and ‘Faust’ in hushed tones. They grew louder and larger as time went on, until an explosion of activity in eastern Comchan led to riots and civil strife.

“To this day, it is still difficult to discern who cast the first stone: the anonymites claim it was the Bronies, eager to continue their expansion, while the Bronies point to the anonymites, who saw the new power as a threat to their coveted values. Whoever it may have been that started it, the conflict quickly grew out of control, starting with protests, then riots, anonymite-led purges, then violent attacks against both sides. Fighting spilled out of homes and onto the streets, then into the countryside, then across all of the Chan. Brony-related conflict was seen at every corner of the isles, but it was Greatchan that soon saw the worst of the fighting — as the de-facto capital and the most populated area, the island was soon engulfed in the struggle between the desperate fandom and the Channic who opposed them.”

— Excerpt from The Brony War, by Lorelove

* * * * * *

“Have you ever heard the old saying ‘The portal to hell is opened with the incantation of good intentions?' If there was a moral to their story, I guess that would be it.”

— Excerpt from “Fallout: Equestria,” by Kkat

Chapter V: Simple Words

* * * * * *

“The Wars of Brony Succession, also known as the First Rise within the Collective, were a series of conflicts that arose due to the growing influence of the Brony fandom across various parts of the Internet, most notably in Greatchan. Opposition to the Bronies was largely sporadic and unorganized to begin with, but intensified fighting brought the troubles to the attention of the Authority, which attempted to crack down on what they viewed as a small-scale revolt.

"Ironically, these actions only caused the newly-founded Collective to become more and more determined in their fight, forcing an eventual peace to be forged between all participating factions: the Bronies would be allowed to continue their practices, so long as it did not interfere with others.

"This author had both the good luck and the misfortune to be present on the Chan during those months of fighting, and observed several most peculiar instances. I once found myself within a half-destroyed plaza that one boisterous Brony had converted into a makeshift command center. She had recently emerged as a de facto military leader, and was busy giving orders to those around her. At one point, she asked that they send a great deal of their forces to burn out an enemy base — intimidated by her, all of present officers readily agreed.

"One Brony, a towering newcomer that was missing an eye, had lead the defensive force in Comchan while the other leader led an unsuccessful offensive. This strange man spoke up against the plan after arriving with part of his army. According to him, the proposal was foolish, as it left them too open to attack themselves, and that the captain would be more wise to not ride out with so large a force. The commander was silent, and her subordinates gasped that someone had been so uncouth as to contradict her.

"To their shock, however, their leader laughed, thanking the stranger for telling her the truth, and admonishing the others for holding back their own opinions. To show her gratitude, she would share command with this new Brony and the forces he brought—an army that would prove instrumental in winning the fight.”

— “The Land of Masks: Being a Personal Account of the Conflicts Within the Chan, Including the First Rise and Others,” by Jane Gettlelin

* * * * * *

“In every event that transpires in our lives, good or bad, there is a lesson to be learned—something that might make us more than what we are otherwise. To find wisdom, look to three sources: old books, old friends, and experience.”

— Lord Feylen Mars, Warden of Magic

* * * * * *

Coin Counter followed behind the Warden of Honesty closely, careful not to step too far ahead or walk too quickly and end up side-by-side with him. Even though close to a half-hour had passed, filled with Rolf’s reassurances and explanations, Coin felt no less terrified of the Warden even now as they walked together into the heart of the Magic Wing. Everything about him seemed unnatural and terrible, from his sheer size, to his armored body, to his single golden eye, to the very way he talked and moved.

When Coin had first seen him emerge from the darkened room, he had half-felt like fainting at the sight of him. Thankfully, he was made of stronger stuff than that, albeit not by much—he could barely even answer the dozens of questions the Warden had prodded him with before they left.

Walking beside Rolf, Coin continued to follow the Warden further into the Magic Wing. The color of the walls and carpets began to change as they progressed, turning from the whites and blacks of the meeting room to deep shades of lilac, and silver. Various members of the Magic Friends could be seen in the same colors as they bowed to the passing Wardens—lavender robes with dark violet hoods, and necklaces shaped like six-pointed stars.

Coin was more familiar with the Honest Friends than the other branches, but he could remember what his friend Es had told him about the Magic Friends when he had first had the Collective explained to him. The Magic Friends, as he had described, were the scholars, teachers, and organizers of the fandom, dedicated to learning, analyzing the Works, maintaining the community on a daily basis, and gathering information from the World Beyond the Web.

After travelling through what seemed like an endless succession of stairs and corridors, they arrived in a very long, dusky hallway, with the few windows on the walls filling the room with a purple light from the stained glass. On either side of the room, various paintings and murals decorated the hall; one was a red-haired woman pointing to a familiar star in front of a crowd of hooded followers, while another showed a white city suspended on a cliff-side. Another showed the earliest history of the Collective, representing the first Bronies emerging from the Chan, the dreaded isles of masks and madness, to begin the First Rise. A larger work could also be seen, depicting the Magic Friend herself along with the five others, each displaying their respective Element, as the Citadel of the Six was raised beneath them.

At the end of the hallway was a great door, with a six-pointed star carved in the front, which the Warden of Honesty pushed open as soon as he came to it. Rolf held it open while Coin stepped inside, before walking ahead as he paused and gaped in amazement at what lay inside.

This particular part of the Wing was — at least partially — a vast library, with the walls covered by books and shelves, and Magic Friends running between them or scribbling in scrolls at the tables. What was most incredible, however, was what lay in the center: an enormous device made of brass and steel, comprised of dozens of orbs and spheres all arranged flawlessly into a machine that filled most of the room. Magic Friends were standing around it, turning dials and writing on pads as Coin walked by.

“The Orrery,” Rolf explained cheerfully after seeing the awe on Coin’s face. “It’s supposed to be a model of the celestial bodies, if what I’m told is true. The Magic Friends use it to track the moons and stars, so they can find out when the Seasons start and end.”

Examining it more closely, Coin could see he was right; the giant golden sphere in the center must be the Sun, while the comparatively tiny steel orbs had to be the moons. Coin could only imagine what the dozens of other tiny parts represented. “We were taught that the heavens were the bridge between the Internet and the World Beyond the Web, and that you could find what was to come by searching through them,” Coin said, still impressed by the giant mechanism, “Do you suppose it’s really true?”

Rolf shrugged. “That’s what they tell me. To be honest, it’s all a bit beyond me. I’d rather stick to writing records and going through finances, if I had a choice.”

Coin couldn’t help but agree. He hoped the Magic Friends would be able to find signs of the next Season soon, though — the current Drought was going longer than he would like.

However, with all the time he had spent admiring the Orrery, the Warden had continued on without him. He hurried back behind him, but thankfully the giant man didn’t seem to notice that he had left. As they walked into another long corridor branching off from the Orrery room, Rolf walked beside the Warden and carefully spoke up.

“My lord?” he asked. Standing beside the Warden, Rolf seemed almost comically small.

The Warden looked down at his assistant, his expression carved into an impatient frown.

“Are you truly going to go to the Dreamweave?” Rolf ventured.

“We have been ordered,” the Warden of Honesty curtly replied, as though it were the most obvious answer imaginable.

“In that case, I would like permission to accompany you.”

“No,” the Warden said immediately, turning his head back to the way he walked.

“If you’re going abroad, my place is by your side,” Rolf protested as he stepped out of the path of a group of Magic Friends walking past.

“Place is where we say it is,” the Warden snapped, with a hint of irritation. “Will be absent. Someone must maintain Honest Friends. You.”

Rolf looked ready to speak up again, but seemed to understand the was no point debating with the Warden. He looked sullenly at the ground as they walked forward in silence. Coin felt a twinge of sympathy, but he couldn’t imagine why anyone would want to spend any more time with the Warden of Honesty than absolutely necessary. At least I won’t be going with him, Coin thought. He was more than ready to return to Reddit, and his friends.

Going through another set of doors, the Honest Friends found themselves in a large, circular room. On the floor was a violet rug, embroidered with a dozen six-pointed stars arranged in a circle, with six spheres in the center forming a ring. The rest of the floor was made of a dark wood, while the walls were colored a deep shade of lavender and lined with bookcases.

Various maps adorned the walls, including a giant one at the front of the room that showed the entirety of the Known Internet. In the middle was Central, the capital of the Authority, where the great Engines all led back to, while all around it were the lands they ruled: the Painted Sea in the east; the Land of Faces, gigantic in size and stretching across the west; the Great Firewall reaching across the northwest; and a thousand other places Coin had never seen or would never see in his life.

Around the edges of the map was a border of black, blank space. The Deep Web, and the Dark Internet beyond, Coin thought, feeling a chill go down his back. Most of the places in the Internet were a good distance away from that void, though there were a few that almost bordered it, such as the Chan, or another island in the far north — the land of the cybrahakar, where the mancers dwelt in their cold tomb-cities.

Beneath the map was a desk, and around it were the Wardens of the Collective and their assistants, all talking and listening as Lord Mars observed from an ornate chair in front of them. The Warden of Loyalty was talking as Coin entered the room.

“... I could have a blockade up by the end of the week as well, if you give me the word,” Lady Wright said.

“I understand that you’re angry, Madelin, but I don’t wish for this to escalate any further than it already has,” the quiet, distant voice of Lord Mars replied. “I know you want a more direct solution, but for now we should put our faith with our envoys.”

Lady Wright shrugged. “If you say so, Mars. Still, I think negotiating’s a helluva lot easier when one side is surrounded by a hundred ships and the other isn’t.” She took a drink out of one of the flasks at her belt and laughed. “But what do I know? You guys are the diplomatic ones here, not little ol’ me.”

“I think a sign of good faith may be more effective,” the Warden of Kindness said gently.

Lord Jestin nodded with a smile. “Besides, if Honesty is going, they’ll be plenty protected.”

“Yeah, about that,” Lady Wright said to Lord Mars. “Are you sure about sendin—” Suddenly, she turned around and saw that the Warden of Honesty was looming over her, stone-faced.

She didn’t seem in the least bit worried to see him, giving a broad grin. “Hey there, friend! Glad to see you made it!”

“Lady Wright,” he replied tersely.

“Balefire and damnation, you miserable bastard, how long have we known one another?” she said, rolling her eyes. She pushed her hand on the breastplate of his armor, but he didn’t even flinch. “You can just call me ‘Maddy’, you know. All that ‘Lady Wright’ stuff is a bit too formal 'tween us, don’t you think?”

The Warden of Honesty frowned. “It is your title.”

She rolled her eyes again, but smiled. “Ah whatever, you big stick-in-the-mud. You know I’m just givin’ you a hard time!” She slapped his chest again, though the fact that she had to reach up to do so only served to make the short woman look even smaller when compared to her friend. For his part, the Warden of Honesty looked extremely uncomfortable, and opted to stare forward rather than reply.

“Sorry to keep you all waiting,” Lady Violet said from behind Coin, “but it really is quite the walk to get here.” Coin hadn’t noticed her behind him while he had walked, as he had been more preoccupied with what had been in front of him at the time. Truthfully, Lady Violet was difficult to miss: she was remarkably beautiful, in a way that made Coin uncomfortable to even be in the same room as her. He hadn’t caught the name of her assistant, but he was enviably handsome as well, with tanned skin, a lean face, thick black hair, and small, almond-shaped black eyes.

Lord Mars smiled upon seeing her. “No need for apologies, Violet. Sorry to make you all walk up here, but the meeting room doesn’t offer much privacy, and I would like to speak with some of you alone. But first,” he said, turning to face Coin, “I have the honor of introducing Sir Coin Counter. If you recall, he cleared up the trouble in Reddit with the charity drive.”

Lady Wright was the first to approach. “Ha! I remember hearing about that. Close call, really! You did us big favor over there, friend!” She gave him a strong slap to the back that almost knocked him over, grinning all the while.

Lady Semmer gave an apologetic look and bowed to Coin. “Well met. I understand there was some confusion among our friends there. I’m grateful you helped to clear it up.” Coin couldn’t help but feel odd when she stared at him. Her dark eyes were unusually large and piercing, almost as if she could stare into his soul. It was oddly unsettling. When she spoke with her musical accent, it became difficult to concentrate on much else.

Thankfully, Lady Violet Brushshape spoke up next and captured his attention. “My thanks go to you as well, sir,” she said, curtseying to him. “One of the Generous Friends on Reddit—Geral Book, I believe—was kind enough to send word telling me all about the service you did us. He seemed to think you deserved special honor for your part.”

Coin couldn’t help but smile, knowing that Geral had spoken so highly of him. Book was the man who first introduced him to the fandom, and had been his friend ever since. Still, he felt embarrassed that he was getting so much of the credit. “That was kind of him to say, but there’s more to it than that. My friends in Reddit didn’t do any less than I did.”

Lady Violet smiled. “I don’t doubt that for a moment. Still, a great deal of praise has gone your way, Sir Coin. I hope you’ll accept my thanks in full,” she said, fluttering her long eyelashes.

Coin felt himself going slightly red, when suddenly Lord Jestin spoke up. “My friends in the Saying Sea said it got a bit hairy out there, and not in the fuzzy way. I’ve read the reports and letters on it, but I’d like to hear it from you. How’d you wrap up the trouble there?” he asked with a tilt of his head.

Coin thought for a moment on how to start the story. “Well, I was in Reddit at the time, on assignment, when it all started. You see I’m a Knight Re—sorry, I mean I was a Knight Regulator before I resigned, so when I heard about irregularities in the charity funds I decided to look into it. I met up with Book then—we were old friends you see—and offered to help, and he said yes. Of course he did,” Coin said, awkwardly rubbing the back of his head, “I mean, otherwise I wouldn’t be here. Anyways, what I mean to say is that that’s when the team was put together with Geral, Es, Greenheart, and me.”

“So how’d you find out who was behind it?” Jestin asked, smiling. “Lots of looking through boring old records and sheets and notes and things?”

“Well, yes, I mean, there were a lot of numbers involved. There was field work as well. We had to search through a lot of the city to find exactly where the conspirators were hiding, of course, and plenty of talking with locals as well.”

Lord Jestin nodded, “Hmm, field work, eh? That sounds exciting.” He glanced towards the others, as though to suggest something. “But please, Sir Coin, tell us more. Now, I might be wrong, but I heard that you had to chase those criminals down, yes?”

“Uh, well yes, in a sense,” Coin replied sheepishly. “It was hard to find them, but after we learned the names we raided their homes—three of them we caught, but the other three ran. They tried to escape the city.”

“Tried,” Lord Jestin interjected, “but didn’t! That was you as well, right?”

He nodded, wringing his hands a bit over the unnecessary praise. It had come down to him in the end: Greenheart and Es had managed to corner one of them, while he and Geral had chased the remaining two conspirators. “Well, Geral caught one of them after they took a bad turn, and I managed to find the last one. He tried escaping in the Fan’s Square, but I managed to catch up before he got away.” It had been a struggle, finding the criminal in the crowds—at midday there were thousands of people crammed into the Square, trying to move into one of the many subreddits of the city. “He ran into a boxing warehouse, but I did catch him.”

“And caused a mess, if I heard right,” Lady Wright said with a wink. “The Honest Friends were happy to pay for the damages, don’t get me wrong, but you be more careful next time, ha!”

Coin went red. “Yes, my lady.” He had offered to pay for the damages himself, but Geral had insisted nonetheless. It was only a few crates, anyways, Coin thought. He hadn’t realized that dyes were so expensive.

“Sounds like fun!” Jestin said, his blue eyes sparkling at Coin. “You seem to have a load of experience in investigating, friend. It’s good you came here now, of all times!” He smiled and gave a look to Lord Mars and the Warden of Honesty.

Coin didn’t like the sound of that. “What do you mean?” he asked, fearing he already knew what the Laughing Lord intended.

Before Jestin could answer, however, Lady Violet’s assistant spoke up. “Sorry to interrupt, but did you say that you were one of the Knight Regulators?”

“I was, yes. I was knighted when I was twenty.” Coin had always had a talent for numbers and a good eye for detail, so it had made sense to join the Order of the Fair Trade when he was old enough.

Lady Wright laughed. “No kidding? Should’ve pegged you for the Regulator type. Any excitement in that? I’ve got a few old friends in the Anti-Piracy Squadron; you ever meet Hiram Wheelwright?”

“Sorry, my lady, but I mostly worked behind a desk.” Although… “Well, I did do some operations, but not any major ones.”

“You’re being too modest, sir,” Lord Mars said. “I had an opportunity to examine some of your records. I understand you were part of the task force that destroyed the Silk Road.”

Coin remembered, though he tried not to think of it too much. He had barely taken part in the groundwork of the mission, but any time spent in the Deep Web was too much as far as he was concerned. Lady Wright seemed impressed by this, though. “Well I’ll be! I have to admit, I thought you looked a bit too scrawny to do something like that, but it gets you points in my book!” She slapped him on the back a second time, after he only just recovered from the first.

While Coin reddened and tried to avoid drawing more attention, Lord Mars spoke again. “While I wish we had more time to become better acquainted, Sir Coin, I’m afraid we will need to cut this meeting short for now. My friends,” he said to the Wardens, “there are some things I wish to speak with each of you about privately. I’ve already had a chance to talk with Madelin, but I would still like to see everyone else. I hope, Sir Coin, that we might speak more closely later. Lillian,” he said, turning to the Warden of Kindness, “would you be so kind as to attend me?”

She gave a respectful bow, and walked towards the Warden of Magic. The rest of the Wardens turned to leave, and Lady Wright clasped an arm around Coin Counter. She was close enough that he could smell the alcohol on her breath. “C’mon, friend!” she shouted happily. “You and me can hang around with the rest of this lot while they wait to talk with the Warden. Now, you’re going to have to tell me more about this Silk Road business, ‘cause I’ve heard a lot of stories, but no details, you understand?” They walked out with the crowd into the common area of the Magic Wing, the Warden of Loyalty's grip on Coin uncomfortably tight.

Eventually, Coin saw Lady Semmer leave the room, after which Lord Jestin sprang up from his seat in the hall where the Wardens were seated and proceeded in to talk with Lord Mars. All the while, Coin spoke with the remaining Wardens, though it was mostly with Lady Wright: Lady Violet spent much of her time chatting with her assistant, while the Warden of Honesty remained silent in his chair in the corner of the room after he sent Rolf back to the Honest Wing, only occasionally speaking when Wright directed some joke at him.

Several times Coin felt as though the Warden of Honesty was staring at him, and felt a strange chill down his spine. But whenever he looked over the lord was looking silently in the other direction. Coin sat closest to the door, beyond which was the entrance to the Warden of Magic’s chamber, so he could hear when Jestin emerged, speaking with Lord Mars.

“...but I believe it is,” the Warden of Magic’s thin voice trailed through. “I must ask for your trust, Jestin. I know what I’m doing.”

Coin saw Jestin stop outside the door, and give a bow to Lord Mars. “You know that I know that you know, Mars. And if you’re sure, then I trust you completely. Just remember one thing when you’re going through with it though: a promise is a promise,” he said with a bright smile, tapping his finger against his nose.

Lord Mars tilted his head at that, but appeared to grasp the meaning. “Yes… yes I suppose it is. Will you find the right people?”

“Going off to talk with Lilly about it now! See you later, Mars!” he said before springing off, singing a tune to himself. Coin could hear his voice as he walked merrily down the hall.

“Yet still take care or you’ll be thrown
below the waves by undertone!
And one more thing, just don’t you stay
with yellow eyes beneath the bay!”

Lord Mars stared down the hallway where Jestin was walking, as though examining his friend as he left. After a moment, he looked over to where Coin and the other Wardens were sitting. “Violet,” he said quietly, “would you mind if we had a word?”

“Of course not,” the lady said as she stood. She whispered something in the ear of her assistant, then started taking graceful steps towards Lord Mars. The assistant stood as well, but walked out of the door and disappeared into the Magic Wing. Both Mars and Lady Violet walked into the office, lightly shutting the door behind them.

Coin was left in the room with the Wardens of Loyalty and Honesty, but it was only a few moments after Lady Violet left that Wright jumped from her seat. “Welp,” she said, “I’m bored. I’m gonna walk back down to the Loyal Wing now, if it’s all the same to you, Honesty.”

“Hrm,” the Warden of Honesty grunted in reply.

Wright gave a half-smile at that, and then turned Coin. “Nice meeting you, Coin! Say, once Mars is done with you here, you’re more than welcome to come by the Loyal Wing. Always prepared for guests down there, plus it’s sparring night! Fun times all around, I say. Well, see ya later!”

Lady Wright sauntered out of the room, whistling the same tune that she had heard from Lord Jestin earlier, thus leaving Coin alone with the Warden of Honesty. The giant man was so silent and still that one might have mistaken him for a statue, utterly unchanging and immovable.

Coin tried to avoid looking towards him, but could only feel more ill-at-ease as time went on. He began to wonder about the Warden: who he was, where he came from, what led him to join the same fandom to which Coin pledged himself. It seemed impossible to Coin that such a person could even exist, let alone be a part of the Collective. And all the while, the unsettling sensation Coin had felt earlier, as though someone was watching him, continued.

Eventually, the silence became too much to bear, and Coin rose out of his seat. He turned to offer an explanation to the Warden as to where he was going, but when he looked over it seemed that the man hadn’t even noticed him get up, as though he were completely alone. At any rate, Coin doubted he would be able to offer an explanation as to where he was going: at the moment, he just wanted to be as far away from the Warden of Honesty as possible. He walked hastily out of the room and into the Magic Wing, keeping a line of bookcases to the side of him.

The sounds of the Magic Friends came from far-off rooms as he walked through the wing: whispers, shouts, and the scribbling of facts and notes on pages that would be filed and stacked with a thousand others on the bookcases. There weren’t as many windows in the Magic Wing as the other areas of the Citadel, Coin saw, but there was still light within, illuminating all but a few dim and forgotten corners. Making a note in his mind as to where he had come from, Coin ventured up a flight of narrow stairs he found nearby, leading him up to a landing above the path he had just taken. He remembered seeing a similar stair not far from the Warden’s office: perhaps, Coin thought, once he circled back around Lord Mars would have finished discussing matters with the other Wardens, and he would be allowed to go.

Coin continued on his way, but took a moment to admire some of the stained glass works that adorned the walls around him. A few were scenes from the lives of the Six, from childhoods to victories to great weddings and transformations. One particular panel stood out from the rest, and depicted the Alicorn Ascension itself, and the Magic Friend surrounded by the others and raised in the light of a six-pointed star.

There was, however, another depiction nearby that caught Coin’s eye as well, though it was no triumph or celebration. The image upon it was not the Magic Friend, nor any of the Six, but a grotesque thing, bone-white and twisted. It resembled an animal skull, but one so warped that it was near unrecognizable, with hollow eyes and a hideous grin of bared teeth. On its head were two horns, one like a deer antler and the other a strange spiral, and behind it all was a field of burning fire. It was unsettling to look upon, but Coin had trouble turning from it.

Before he could stare further, however, Coin began to hear voices coming from a room nearby. He would not have noticed, except that he was certain that one of the voices was Lord Mars, drifting out of a nearby door.

It was a perfectly plain door, with a lock below the handle, but it had been left open, most likely by some forgetful attendant. Looking over the railing behind him, Coin could see the entrance-way that he had walked through earlier, and the room that he had waited in with the Wardens, all below him. I must be near the second floor of the Warden’s quarters, Coin thought. He heard a voice coming from the door again, but this time it was a woman’s voice—the Warden of Generosity.

Coin’s curiosity got the better of him, and he sheepishly tiptoed towards the door and peeked inside. It was the Warden’s office again, but this time he stood on the thin balcony above the main room. Looking through the crack of the door, he could just barely see the two Wardens talking with each other, and hear the words of Lady Violet coming from below.

“...Of course I know that, Mars. I just wonder whether it’s the best choice,” she said.

“I understand your concerns, Violet,” the papery voice of the Warden of Magic answered. “I assure you that I’ve considered this very carefully — it is the best way, I believe.”

“I wish I shared your confidence.” Lady Violet bit her lip. “I don’t believe he is suited for this mission. You know that he wouldn’t have wanted to go with us in the first place, and yet you’re ordering him there anyways.”

“He asked to be sent there when he first heard the news, if you remember.”

“You know that isn’t what he meant,” Violet replied sternly. “He wasn’t suggesting a negotiation, but that’s exactly what you’re sending him to.”

“Violet, you must trust me,” Mars replied, sounding tired. “He’s my friend.”

“And mine as well,” she said sympathetically. “Don’t doubt that for a moment, Mars. But he doesn’t have a mind for diplomacy or politics. He has no tact, nor manners, nor patience for outsiders. He’s a soldier, not an ambassador, but he’ll go nonetheless because you’ve ordered him to.”

“Our honest friend may surprise you. He has not been in this world long—not as he is now, at least—but there is no one more faithful or devoted. You’re not wrong, but as far as this matter goes, I would still prefer that he were with you. Besides, he has other talents that may be of use in this matter.”

Lady Violet said nothing to that, and stayed quiet for a moment. Lord Mars walked behind his desk and began to look through papers. “Regardless,” Violet eventually said, “this summons isn’t just an investigation we need to contribute to. They’ll use this as a chance to put the whole of the Collective on trial, and you know that as well as I do. It’s a job for people with a talent for words, not fighting. Why send him in the first place?”

Mars continued to look through his papers. “It’s my hope that you’re correct, and there’ll be no need for him there. But should things not go as planned...” He looked up at her, his watery blue eyes shining. “I will not send you into the lion’s den without protection. You mean too much to me.”

Lady Violet put her hand on his. “There will be an honor guard, Mars. They can protect me well enough—one person isn’t going to change that.”

“I believe he might,” he replied quietly. “We cannot allow the truth of this business to go unfound, and he is accustomed to truth in more ways than one. What will become of our friends there if this Martes manages to sway the Authority? Or worse, what if the Oathbreakers try their hand at this?”

The word ‘Oathbreaker’ seemed to hang in the air, and neither spoke for a moment. Finally, Lord Mars said slowly, “I saw him there.”

“Pardon?”

“Our honest friend. I saw him at the Dreamweave, or at least I believe I did. You know what I speak of.”

Violet paled. “You’re not doing it again, are you?”

“I am. And it’s for the best, as well. I’ve seen fragments of it, bits and pieces, for some time, but after I received the news last night… I had to be sure of it, Violet. And I am sure, now. Here, let me show you.”

He reached for a candle on the side of his desk. The flame seemed to grow brighter as he moved towards it.

Lady Violet’s hand shot back. “No. I know that you’re familiar with this but… not again.” She sounded concerned, but there was something else in her voice as well. Fear.

Mars stopped, and looked back to Violet. “As you wish,” he said slowly, sounding hurt. After a time, though, he spoke again. “But you should still know what I saw. It will not be as clear, but I’ll do my best.”

What does he mean? Coin thought. He knew that he shouldn’t have heard any of the conversation to begin with, but now he was too curious to stop. Whatever they spoke off, the Warden of Generosity didn’t seem to like it in the least.

“I saw figures at first,” Mars said. His hand hovered over the candle before him, close enough that the flame licked his palm. The Warden of Magic, however, did not react to it at all, seeming entranced by what he said. “I could make out three. One was blue, one gold, and one white. But they were all in red. I tried to look closer to find what it meant, but once I focused they began to change.

“The world moved around them, until they were all in a court, bright like the sun,” he continued, speaking more clearly than before. “I could see you there, and the Warden of Honesty as well. That was the Dreamweave… I’m not sure how I know, but I would stake my life on it. But it soon changed again, to two more places afterwards. I saw six towers, reaching towards a star-lit twilight. But after that, I saw a black island under the moon, with yellow eyes looking out from it.

“There were many other things after that. I could only see a few of them, but that was enough. I saw ships emblazoned with a lightning bolt filling an ocean, sailing towards a crimson horizon. I saw a hammer brought down on an innocent man, and another man who was burning like a pyre, writhing and breathing flames.

“Three faces came to me. One was creased in regrets, with a tear on its cheek, another was grinning wildly but its eyes were hollow, so hollow. The third seemed calm, until I looked further… he seemed to have three faces all of his own, straining against one another for control. Two of these you must beware. A bronze key, a golden eye, a silver knife.

“And I looked, and I saw three masks, who were rage and fear and vengeance. And there was a fourth mask, whose face printed upon it was death and dark secrets to say or unsay.”

The words of Lord Mars sent a chill down Coin’s spine. He wasn’t sure how long he had been listening, but at that moment it seemed as though it had been long enough. He was confused, and curiosity could only go so far: it dawned on him that this was a conversation that he had no right to hear. Before he left, though, Mars spoke again.

“They always come true, Violet: they always have and they always will. Do you understand now? I saw our honest friend at the Dreamweave. He will be there… but if I don’t send him, then why would he come, if not because his friends were in danger? He must go now, or he will surely go later.”

Lady Violet just looked at the Warden of Magic, wide-eyed and fearful. “Mars, we’ve talked about this,” she said strongly. “You promised Lilly as well. I’ve seen what it does to you, even if you won’t admit it—you barely eat, you hardly sleep… you can’t keep doing this, Mars!”

“Enough,” the Warden of Magic snapped, his voice suddenly cold. He stood up behind his desk, and for the first time the tiny man seemed to loom over the room, his rheumy eyes turning hard and stern. “I know what I’ve been doing, and I know the risks, so don’t presume on what I do and do not understand. I’ve had this from the day I was born, and I have the mark to prove it.”

To Coin’s shock, Lord Mars lifted the sleeve on his right arm to show a familiar symbol underneath. It was a strange tattoo, made of odd, twisting shapes, half-circles and sharp lines that ran down his entire forearm to his wrist. Coin had seen only a few such marks in his life, but every man in the Authority knew it when they saw it: a registration tattoo issued by the Cybramancer’s Guild. Coin paled, recalling the stories of those with the cursed blood destroying cities, boiling oceans, communing with the dead and seeing into the future as well. Lord Mars is a cybramancer, he thought, shocked that the stories he had heard were true, God help us.

“Look at it, if you must be so terrified of me.” Mars continued talking, still angry. “I have to deal with Lorelove’s worrying, and Lilly doting on me like some patient in a hospital bed as well, but I won’t have it from you, Violet. Not you. I’ve asked you to trust him half-a-hundred times, but apparently you can’t bring yourself to do that. This is no longer a request: the Warden of Honesty will accompany you, and he will aid you at the Dreamweave whether you’re willing to accept that help or not.”

Lady Violet didn’t answer him. Both of them stood, facing one another, in silence. Coin could hear the sound of the Magic Friends in the wing moving and chatting, far away.

“I understand,” Violet said finally, completely calm. “I’ll begin finding people for the diplomatic team now, if you’ll give me my leave, my lord.”

Lord Mars turned around, and glanced back at Violet. “Go then. And send in our honest friend. He deserves an explanation as well.”

Violet bowed, then walked towards the exit. After the door closed, Mars put a hand on the desk and sighed, alone in the dim room.

What did it mean? Coin could only wonder as he began to pull away from the room. Some kind of foul prophecy, no doubt—the cybramancers were well known for their unnatural and depraved powers. That was what Coin had always been taught, ever since the days of his squiring. Coin wondered what to do next, too disturbed to stay and yet too terrified to move.

He was still debating with himself when the Warden of Honesty arrived, though Coin never heard him coming. It seemed impossible to him that such a huge man in full armor could possibly walk without being heard, and yet he came before Lord Mars utterly silent.

Mars looked back up to see him. “My honest friend,” he said with a sad smile. “It’s good to see you.”

The Warden didn’t answer, but did give a nod. “Wish to speak?” he said, his expression uncomfortable.

“Yes. I understand that this assignment might strike you as unusual. I thought you deserved an explanation.”

The Warden of Honesty’s face gave away no emotions. “None required. Have been ordered. Will go. Your command.”

Lord Mars shifted in his place. “My word is not the gospel, my friend. I hope that you and the others consider and follow my advice, but you don’t need to do so without question.”

“We do. And will.”

“Regardless,” Mars replied, “I wanted to know your thoughts on the matter.”

The Warden frowned. “Thoughts irrelevant. We obey.”

“Your thoughts are not irrelevant, Honesty. Your opinion is important to me.”

“This one does not have opinions,” the Warden of Honesty said firmly, He gave a look to his diminutive superior that was almost pleading. “We wish… it is not right. To suggest this one should. Carries unfounded implication.”

“You are my friend, and the only thing that is not right and is unfounded is treating you as anything less,” Lord Mars said in a tone that invited no compromise. He rubbed his bloodshot eyes, appearing very tired. “You are a person, Honesty.”

“We are not,” the Warden replied forcefully. With those words, something strange seemed to come over the Warden. His voice was almost as distant as Lord Mars’, distant and ashamed, his normal flat tone abandoned. Had Coin not been witnessing him speak, it would have been hard to know it was the same person talking, aside from his stunted manner of speaking. “This one does not deserve to be a person, Mars. Not after. You know this. The past. The weakness. All sacrificed. Done... justly. We are the instrument of Six. Are, will be. No ‘person,’ no doubts. And we will obey.”

“I know you will, but that doesn’t answer my question. How do you feel about my judgment on this?”

The giant lord was quiet. Coin could see that he did not want to answer, but felt compelled to do so nonetheless, almost straining to think of the words necessary. “This one is… not used to talking. Negotiation. Diplomacy. Unnecessary. You know this. Prefer Citadel. Friends. No wish to talk with outsiders.”

Lord Mars looked as reassuring as he could. “You may need to, before this is done. I understand that this isn’t what you’re used to, but I have a good reason.” He sat in his chair and steepled his hands. “I have been dreaming again.”

The Warden stood silently. “Lady Violet looked… concerned.”

Mars sighed. “She did, I’m sure. She has nothing to worry about, and neither do you, for that matter. But there are things I saw that you must know, and something I want you to promise me as well.”

Suddenly, Coin heard footsteps coming from further down the walkway. Surprised, he closed the door he was listening from and backed up, pretending to be interested in a nearby bookshelf instead.

The footsteps grew louder, until the person making them came into full view. It was Lady Violet's assistant, garbed in white and purple clothing to show his allegiance, and looking somewhat bored. When he saw Coin Counter, he gave a surprised smile.

"Sir Coin," he said amiably with a bow of his head, "how nice to see you once again. I trust you're finding the Citadel pleasant?"

Coin fumbled nervously for a response, only hoping the assistant wouldn't realize what he had been doing. "Yes, very," he managed to say. "Sir."

The generous friend smiled at that. "I'm pleased to hear it. I should apologize for not having much chance to speak with you earlier, but things have been quite hectic all of a sudden."

"Don't worry, sir, I understand." All of this business with the Dreamweave was something Coin wanted nothing to do with, and he could imagine how difficult it was for the leaders of the Collective to deal with it. He tried to think of something else to say, before their talk descended into awkward silence. "The Wardens were very courteous."

The assistant chuckled. "I'm happy to hear that. The Six know they're usually so ill-behaved. Lady Wright seemed almost fond of you, all things considered. I should apologize, she can be a touch overbearing at times."

That was obvious enough to Coin, but it wouldn't do to say so. "No," he said, "she was quite..." Loud? Abrasive? Drunk? "Friendly."

He laughed. "She usually is, if nothing else." Suddenly he looked aghast at something. "I must apologize profusely, sir, but it would seem that with all of the present excitement I've quite forgotten to properly introduce myself. My name," he said with a deep bow, "is Proximo Hart, Assistant Warden of Generosity. I hope you'll forgive me for my transgression." He gave an apologetic smile, full of perfect white teeth.

"Ah, well," Coin replied, rubbing the back of his neck, "that's quite alright. It's an honor to meet you, Lord Hart."

Hart's dark eyes flinched slightly, though he still smiled. "Please, Proximo is quite alright. Lord Hart is far away from here." He looked over Coin's shoulder, as though expecting to see someone there. "I don't suppose you've seen Lady Violet, have you? She asked me to speak with some of the Magic Friends around the wing, but I believe it's about time to return to my post."

"Downstairs," Coin blurted out. "She finished meeting with Lord Mars a few minutes ago."

"Wonderful. I believe I'll join her now. It was honor to meet you, Sir Coin." He turned his almond eyes back to Coin. "I don't suppose you have an invitation for the evening, do you Sir Coin?"

"Lady Wright asked for me to come to the Loyal Wing earlier."

Hart laughed again, and gave a reassuring look. "Don't worry too much, Sir Coin. Lady Wright is a wonderful host. If you'd rather more quiet company, though, you're welcome to visit the Generous Wing." With that, Hart gave a final bow. “Six and one, Sir Coin. I hope you find the rest of your stay here satisfactory.”

Coin knew he should have followed Hart downstairs after hearing him walk away, but instead he found himself opening the door to the Warden’s office again. He looked back down, and saw that the room was considerably darker than it was before. Something strange was happening to the candle on Lord Mars’ desk: it was brighter than ever, a tiny pinprick of glowing white, but the whole room around it was pitch dark, as though the flame was sucking all of the light out of the room.

And in front of it was the Warden of Honesty, kneeling before Lord Mars. He was down on one knee, but even then his head was nearly at the same height as the Warden of Magic. The little lord stood over him, both hands behind his back. His ordinarily blue eyes now looked so dark that they seemed like flecks of black obsidian, and they were both fixed intently at the Warden of Honesty.

“...and in the name of the Honest Friend, will you seek the truth, even when others will not?” the Warden of Magic said, his voice much louder and stronger than Coin had ever heard it before.

“We swear,” the kneeling Warden of Honesty replied solemnly.

“In the name of the Magic Friend, will you follow the teachings of the Six and One faithfully?”

“We will.”

“And for me, my friend, will you keep your followers safe, no matter what happens?” The candle on the desk pulsed, glowing brighter, while the room only became more dark.

The Warden raised his single eye to Lord Mars. “We will.”

“And her? You will keep her safe as well?”

“Yes.”

“Then rise again, my honest friend, and do your duty.” Lord Mars put a hand on the Warden’s massive shoulder. “Find the honor guard that you’ll command. Fifty-four they shall be, and they will keep our friends safe. And so will you, I know. It is the nature of an honest man to keep his word.”

Silently, the Warden of Honesty rose, and bowed his head to the Warden of Magic. His footsteps did not make a sound as he walked out of the room, nor did Lord Mars react to his leaving. Mars sat back down at his desk, then moved a single hand over the flame of the candle, letting the flames flicker at his palm, and neither flinching at the pain nor moving his face at all. But his eyes seemed to grow ever darker, despite the tiny light being so near.

Coin shut the door and hurried downstairs, not wanting to see any more. He hadn’t intended on knowing any of what he saw, but he knew there was no one to blame for that but himself. Damn my curiosity, he thought ruefully. He wondered if he would ever be able to look at Lord Mars without fear again, knowing now what he truly was.

When he walked downstairs, he found the Warden of Honesty waiting for him. His golden eye was staring at Coin implacably, as though studying him. Coin could feel the hairs on his neck rising. “You left,” the Warden said flatly. “Where?”

“I… I was only walking around. My lord,” Coin said, trying not to seem terrified.

The eye narrowed. "Liar," countered the Warden. “Never lie to us. Never.”

Coin could do nothing but nod, scared out of his mind. The Warden continued looking at him, as if to stare into Coin’s soul. Finally, he spoke. “You will accompany the honor guard,” he said, without emotion.

“What?” Coin said, surprised and wary. “Why me?” He could feel himself beginning to pale.

“It was suggested. Not our choice,” he replied, making his feelings on it very clear. “Report to Rolf. Pack things tonight.”

This is exactly what I didn’t want, Coin thought. “But, my lord,” he protested feebly, “my post at Reddit… my friends there…”

“Can wait. Orders.” His tone made it clear that there would be no further argument. “Report to Rolf. Pack things tonight. We leave tomorrow. Warden of Magic will see you now.” With that, he walked away without another word.

Coin was left alone, in front of the doors of the Warden’s office, thinking about what he had just heard. There was no point in discussing it, he knew. Turning around, Coin Counter approached the chamber. He put a hand on the wall, before knocking on the heavy oaken door. A scrambled noise came from within, and a thin voice. "Come in," it said.

And Coin did, reluctant though he was.

* * * * * *

“To understand cybramancy, one must first understand the concept of error. The Logos is defined as the natural order of the universe: the collection of laws, principles, and strands that tie together everything. One and one make two, what is up comes down, and what lives will, in time, die — these are part of the basic code of the universe, and compel all things. Cybramancy, then, is an aberration within this system.

"Consider the building of a home. It may be the most splendid home ever constructed, but there can still be a brick out of place, a tile poorly fastened, a beam unsecured. Cybramancy is one of these oversights: an irregular instance where an individual is capable of manipulating and even ignoring the laws of the universe that all others are restricted by. Many cybramancers can bend these laws. A select few can break them.”

— “The Cursed Blood: On the Nature and Practical Applications of Cybramancy”, by Sir Faarlen Truo

* * * * * *

“New season: ancient, but not at all eternal

Joy turned t—"

It's the light that guides us, honey

Unperceptive nine times out of ten

Wishes don't find us, we find them betwixt the silence

Only lonely souls seek to find every sign, every sign

There's something holy

Old season fades out

Forgetting how wasted joy tasted

It's the light inside us, honey

In defense of someone crazy

Is there life on Mars?

Is anybody out there waiting for me?

It's the light of my century

Every now and then I'm happy

Life is not a foreign country, infinite and quiet

These old weeds, wild and anarchic kings

Braiding rhizomes so far from home

These old beans... magic's what magic does

You taught me all kinds of languages."

— SoGreatandPowerful’s “E38”

{}

Chapter VI: Andrean Evening

* * * * * *

“...for we are no longer separate parts, nor a rebellion as some have declared us, but a SINGLE FANDOM, whose name shall be BRONY, and who are united in allegiance to THE SIX FRIENDS WHO ARE ONE. We wish no further conflict, but seek only our right to existence, as is owed to ALL PEOPLES who dwell within the great Authority of the Internet.

To you, most enlightened and grand leaders of the Moderator Authority, we seek only reconciliation and peace, and will disengage all armed Brony forces on the Chan and elsewhere, but require the following terms be met, as is our right:

1. All forces of the Authority and the citizens of the Chan must end their attack against our people.

2. The Moderator Authority must acknowledge that this new BRONY COLLECTIVE has an unimpeachable and inalienable right of existence.

3. The Moderator Authority must acknowledge the Bronies as one of the GREAT FANDOMS, and allow us the respective rights that such a position entails.

4. Certain territories in southern Comchan, as well as the isle of Sixchan-in-the-Sea, must be ceded as sovereign land of our fandom…”

— Excerpt from the “Sixchan Declaration”, written by Feylen Mars to the High Moderators of the Authority. Upon hearing of the declaration, both the Bronies warring in the Chan, including Madelin Wright and the future Warden of Honesty, and the Exodite Bronies who had fled the fighting would swear fealty to the newly formed Brony Collective, and declare Feylen Mars the true Warden of Magic. After the Second Battle of Baysmouth, it was by these terms that the Authority made peace with the Collective, thus ending the First Rise, and allowing the second to begin.

* * * * * *

"It is said that the nature of the Divine is love. If this is indeed true, then we must acknowledge that under symmetrical property its opposite is also true: Love is Divine. To build a bond is to reach a higher plane, to learn about one close to you is to learn about the greater mysteries, and to make a friend is to touch the face of God. When I speak with my friends, I am singing a prayer to That Which is Greater.

"Thus, we see that Friendship is truly Magic."

— Brony mystic writings, penned by an anonymous member of the Laughing Friends with the pseudonym "Jessamino."

* * * * * *

The halls of the Kind Wing were all soft colors: muted yellows, pinks, and blues, which made walking through them a great deal calmer than the Laughing or Generous Wing. It was far quieter as well, with the robed and hooded Bronies walking by rarely raising their voices above a whisper, or not speaking at all. More than a few of them, Proximo knew, had taken vows of silence to honor the Kind Friend, something that Lady Semmer was frequent to partake in herself. They were still polite, though, bowing their heads or waving a hand in greeting to Proximo as he passed by towards the Heartspire.

It wasn’t often that he stepped into the Kind Wing, whose inhabitants were so often reclusive and seldom seen. The Kind Friend represented mercy, compassion, and understanding, and thus many of her followers were the doctors and healers of the fandom. They had a fair share of negotiators and diplomats as well, a task they shared with the Generous Friends, and that was precisely why Proximo had been sent to see Lady Semmer about the coming mission to the Dreamweave. It wasn’t his only reason to visit, but knowing who else was to be on the team the Collective would send was more than important to Proximo. At any rate, he did not want to force Violet to go herself: the lady had seemed distant and anxious after meeting with Lord Mars, and she hadn’t told Proximo why.

The path he walked passed by several rooms, some studies, some dining halls, and a few sick bays for the injured and unwell. He did not see fit to stop in any of them, but could see the yellow robes and pink hoods of the Kind Friends wherever he went.

The mere sight of them made Proximo feel calmer, something he was more than grateful for: the journey out of the Citadel to the Painted Sea would begin tomorrow, and while he couldn’t show it to Lady Violet or anyone else, he was terribly nervous. Dealing with an angry lord was one thing, but a summons from the Authority, demanding explanations and proof of innocence was quite another. And with him coming along, who knows what could go wrong? Proximo thought.

He knew from all the times he had come in the past that he was approaching his destination, but it would have been obvious even without such information. The faint sound of music came from the space ahead, a light and delicate tune that could only belong to one person. It became clearer the closer Proximo came, until he could begin to make out the words of the song drifting through the halls.

“I woke from dreams to see you soon,

to find myself upon the moon.

The moon, the strangest place you'll see,

where up is down, and you is me!”

Proximo walked further, and saw a large, green, open space in the middle of the wing. There was no roof overhead, but rather a blue sky that was just starting to dim, with the evening approaching soon. The light shone down on grass and tree, and dozens of colored flowers spread around the clearing, with a fountain in the center that was quietly bubbling water. The centerpiece of the fountain was a marble sculpture of three butterflies, flying together, while all around it were stone benches for the contemplatives to gather on.

Lady Semmer was seated next to the fountain, delicately throwing seeds to a group of birds that had gathered near her. Lord Jestin, on the other hand, was seated just above her, sitting cross-legged on the rim of the fountain, with a stringed instrument in his hands. He strummed out a few notes, and sang again while Lady Semmer listened on.

“I walked and watched to pass the hours,
and saw black seas with shining flowers.
The flowers burn, to see that light!
Where day is dark and night is bright!”

Proximo held back, not wanting to disturb them, but Jestin noticed him right away, and briefly looked his way with a smile before returning to his song.

“The fish have wings, and the birds have gills,

they swim in the sky and fly in the rills!

And people aren't people, in that curious place,

where eyes are gold, and heads lack face!

Where summers are cold, and moments long,

where old are young, and weak are strong,

on the moon, you see, there's much to do,

I only wish I could be there with you!”

Lord Jestin took a deep bow when he finished, causing Lady Semmer to giggle. Proximo stepped out, letting Lady Semmer notice him and give a small smile. “Proximo! What a pleasant surprise. How are you?”

“I’m well, my lady,” he replied with a dip of his head. “I apologize if I’m intruding.”

“Aw, don’t worry about it!” Jestin said enthusiastically. “Lilly and I finished talking about the important things ages ago. Take a seat, friend!”

Proximo did so, sitting himself next to Lady Semmer. Being beside her made it all the more obvious how much taller she was than Proximo, her black-haired and hooded head reaching far higher up than his own. “That was a new song you heard the end of, Proxi,” Jestin said, looking down from the edge of the fountain. “Just made it today! What’d you think?”

“Excellent as always, my lord. You never fail to disappoint.”

“I thought it was wonderful, Jestin,” Lady Semmer agreed. “The flowers bloom, to see that light! Where day is dark and night is bright!” she repeated in her beautiful, sing-song voice. “Like a dream, yes?” She sighed and looked up at the sky. “Like a dream! Look at that sky, Mister Hart, that color? When it just starts to turn to dark, I love that half-blue it becomes. No black sea, but what comes before. I can taste the blue in the air! Like that earthy smell from after a rainstorm, when the ground comes up and meets the water, that’s what it is like.”

She took a handful of feed and sprinkled it on the ground, letting the little birds hop in and peck at it happily. One of them, a tiny, round, red-belly bird, fluttered up to the seat next to Lady Semmer and started chirping. She gave a soft laugh, and reached for more food to give it, while Proximo edged slightly away from the creature.

Noticing the generous friend’s discomfort, Semmer spoke up. “Proximo! You are not upset at this little one, are you?” The bird twitched its head towards him and tweeted, as though repeating the question.

“I’m not… terribly fond of birds,” he answered, moving his hand away from the bench. “It’s a silly thing to dislike, I know.”

“Tut-tut, Mister Hart,” she said in mock scolding. “The birds are our friends, you know this? But I understand—I remember once the Warden of Honesty came to visit here. What a sight! Of course, he almost never leaves the Honest Wing but to attend meetings, so imagine my surprise. The birds didn’t like him though: whenever he might walk in they start chattering and fly off.” She smiled at that thought, but then seemed to realize something. “But Proximo! You’re here as well—what do you need? Something with this Dreamweave, no doubt.”

“Lady Violet was just curious as to whom my lady wished to send with us, Lady Semmer,” Proximo answered.

“Ah, of course!” she said. “Just what we were talking about, isn’t it, Jestin?” She covered her mouth with her hand and giggled. “The diplomats will be twelve, yes? I think Skylark will join you, and Mattieu Winely as well. Rosesoul will come as well, but she is in the Devien Isles now, so I’ve sent word for her to meet you there. Very good talkers, and trustworthy, too. Jestin liked them very much.”

“They’re all good choices, Proximo, you have my approval on that!” Jestin nodded. “Shame you all have to leave so soon though: you’ll miss the Summer Sun Celebration, if you’re not careful.”

Proximo had nearly forgotten, considering all of the preparations he had made in the past day. It was nearly the height of summer, and on the longest day the whole Collective would be gathering for the Sun Celebration. Only the beginnings of Seasons were a bigger event in the fandom, when all of the Bronies would pour into the streets for parades and music in the day, and for feasting and light shows in the night. The whole thing was set up by the Laughing Friends, and no one was likely to miss it: even the Warden of Honesty occasionally made an appearance, and he avoided parties like the plague.

“It’s a terrible thing, my lord,” Proximo answered. “Hopefully we can sort all of this business out soon enough to be home in time. I would hate to miss all the fun.”

“These summons…” Lillian said with a sigh, “a terrible business. When I think of our friends there, in cells…” She looked earnestly towards Proximo, large eyes shining. “But what do I say? Violet will help them, and you. If you see them, please tell them we haven’t forgotten them.”

Proximo nodded. “I’ll tell them, my lady. Don’t worry, we’ll return with them in hand, safe and sound.” He believed it too, but still there was a pang of doubt when he said those words.

Jestin noticed it more quickly than Proximo would have expected. “So what was the other thing you wanted to talk about, friend?” He gave a reassuring smile.

Proximo shouldn't have been surprised that Jestin knew already: the Laughing Lord had a talent for telling what people left unsaid. And it was true, Proximo had indeed hoped that he would find Lord Jestin with the Warden of Kindness. Behind the smiles and songs, there was a certain wisdom and understanding in Lord Jestin that not many realized at first, but Proximo knew it well. He could seem silly, but in truth he was more webwise than most.

"I confess," he said, "that I did wish to talk with you about something that's been troubling me.” He hesitated for a moment, but then went on. “My lady,” he said, turning to Lady Semmer, “you mentioned the Warden of Honesty earlier. I fear that Lord Mars has made a mistake in ordering him with us.”

Jestin tilted his head. “Well, tell us what you mean.”

“Should I have to explain? I think you realize as well as I do why he shouldn’t be venturing out with us,” Proximo said nervously, running his fingers through his hair. “He can’t negotiate, he can’t compromise, and he spits on anyone who doesn’t think the same way as him. He isn’t a diplomat, and he has no love of the Authority either—what in the Web made Lord Mars think he would be suited for this?”

“He might surprise you,” Jestin pointed out.

Proximo snorted. “How so? Will he be able to turn a phrase and charm all of the lords and leaders? Or smile, or laugh, or not be exactly who he is? When has he ever be anything other than a dour, inflexible, puritanical man, without reason or regard for others?”

“You are not being entirely fair, Proximo,” Lady Semmer said, putting a hand on his shoulder. “You do not know him like we do. He will do all he can.”

“It’s his sanity I doubt, not his devotion.” Proximo looked to both of them. “Do you mean to say that you’ve felt none of these doubts yourself?”

Jen replied calmly. “I spoke with Mars about it, and asked why he made his choice. I wasn’t certain about it either, Proximo, but I have faith that he made the right decision. And I have faith in Honesty too.”

“But why?” Proximo asked. It didn’t make the faintest sense to him why Lord Jestin would defend someone incapable of laughter, and who spoke so disrespectfully to him just that morning. Do they not understand what he is? he thought.

“Because he’s my friend.” The way Jestin said it made it sound incredibly obvious.

Proximo couldn’t think of anything to say to that. It was strange to think that the bizarre man chosen to lead the Honest Friends had anyone willing to call him a friend, let alone defend him like Lord Jestin and Lady Semmer chose to. Lady Violet would defend him as well, Proximo knew. He sighed. “Very well then. It’s just terribly unexpected,” he said, looking down.

Jestin gave a supporting smile. “I guess so, but hey! Fate’s an odd thing, my friend. You can never be prepared for this or that, but you can choose to face it as best you can, even when you don’t like it too much.” He tightened one of the strings on his instrument, and played a note. It was too sharp by a half, but from the delighted look on his face you would not have guessed it. “For example,” he said while tweaking the strings again, “I mentioned earlier that I had visited the Dreamweave once before. Have I ever told you that story?”

Proximo shook his head, so Jestin continued and began rocking back and forth while seated on the fountain. “Well, it was a few years ago, before I joined the Bronies. I was still a Bard Errant, so my trips here and there led me to the Painted Sea, from the Blurr to Sublimides and Indelio in the Devien Isles, and then the Dreamweave at the end! Have you ever seen Silkensigh in the fall, Proximo?”

“I can’t say I have, my lord.”

He sighed and gave a wistful smile. “Ah, you should. The whole city is gold and glowing, and all the little boats in the canals have singers on them. The wind has a taste like cinnamon to it. It’s nice!” He seemed to reminisce on that for half a moment, before returning to the story. “But anyways, I had just finished a round of the courts in Shadeling when I took a ship to the Dreamweave. I sang in the inns near the harbor, and then the main squares, and then the palace, after they invited me! I made many good friends along the way as well. One of them—Cabrio was his name—would tell me about everything there, from the names of the buildings to when it was built to the ways in and out of the city. Of course, things started leading to trouble.”

“What kind of trouble?”

Lord Jestin laughed. “One of the ladies in the court thought I was stealing from her, and before I knew it I had to run out of the city as fast as I could. I still don’t know where she got the idea. But anyways, I had to leave so suddenly that I left everything behind, aside from one thing.”

“And what was that?” Proximo asked.

Jestin leaned in and tapped the side of his nose. “That’s for another time, Proxi! But the point is, I had to leave everything I had at the Dreamweave, and that wasn’t fun at all, as you’d expect. But,” he said while turning the knob on his instrument, “I don’t look back on it badly.” He played another note, but again it came out of tune.

“Being a Laughing Friend,” he continued, “a lot of people think that it just means being happy all the time, but that’s not really it. Everyone has to deal with things they don’t expect, and I’m no different. The Laughing Friend Herself probably isn’t either. The point is,” he said while tuning his instrument once more, “when things like that happen, you’re still the one who decides to laugh or not, and that choice can be powerful. And who knows? Maybe something good will come out of it.”

He played a note one more time, and at last it sounded perfect. He closed his eyes and smiled, while Lady Semmer gave a soft laugh. But when Jestin opened his eyes, the look he gave Proximo was a very knowing one. “Your family lives near the Dreamweave, don’t they?” he said, not betraying his thoughts.

Proximo couldn’t help but shift in his seat. He could recall telling Lord Jestin that once, but it was still impressive that he had put two and two together so easily, and had known that the Warden of Honesty wasn’t the only cause for his concern. “They do,” Proximo replied, quieter than he would have hoped.

Jestin turned down to his instrument and began playing a few soft notes. Lady Semmer gave Proximo a concerned look. “How long has it been since you’ve seen them?” she asked.

“Two years,” Proximo heard himself saying, but in truth he could not believe it had really been that long. He tried to recall them all back at Hartshold: Gallia, constantly better and forever disapproving, and Aloysia, always jumping around and trying to show him some new drawing of hers. It made Proximo furious to think of how he once treated her. His father was looking down scornfully, as his only son walked out his door, never to return. “I can see whom you care for more,” came the cold words. “Join your friends then.”

He heard another voice as well. You never fail to disappoint, Hart. The scar across his chest tingled.

Jestin turned back to his instrument, and began strumming a few notes. “Do you think you’ll see them, while you’re there?” he asked. His face was expressionless, and his voice neutral.

“I think my father’s feelings on the matter were made quite clear the last time I saw them.” Gallia was the same way, no doubt. She had always followed Father’s lead. Proximo couldn’t say he particularly wanted to see them either, although he would have given the world to talk to Aly again. He could imagine how happy she would be if she saw him, tackling him over with a hug like she always tried to do before. He missed her more than anything else he had left behind to join the Collective, but she was too young to come visit him, and he couldn’t go home.

Lady Semmer edged closer to him, and moved a string of loose black hair from her eyes. “Perhaps you should see them, Mister Hart. Perhaps they miss you now.”

“The only family I need is here,” Proximo said with a wave of his hand, but saying that didn’t make it wholly true. He could still remember Aly.

Jestin smiled. “I always knew Violet had the most devoted assistant there was. I don’t know what she’d do without you, considering all the times she forgets to eat and everything.” He looked back down to his music and played it out more, letting it grow louder. It was a sweet song, whatever it was. “You know he will do anything to protect her as well, right?”

Will he? The Warden of Honesty’s devotedness was beyond anything human, for sure, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t cause more harm than good, or that Proximo was any happier to have to serve with him. But she seems to trust him, after all.

Proximo sighed. “I know. Forgive me, my lord, I was speaking without thinking. If Lord Mars trusts the Warden of Honesty with this mission then… well, I can try to as well. My only wish is for our success, and to keep Lady Violet safe.”

“Well, okay then!” Lord Jestin said, his face chipper. “Take a knee.”

“Pardon?” Proximo said.

Jestin did not look up from the strings. “Well, you said you’ll keep her safe, right?” He hopped down from the fountain, and slung his instrument over his shoulder. “Can you swear to it?”

Proximo was lost, but he nodded nonetheless. Obediently, Proximo went on one knee, though he still wasn’t certain what Lord Jestin meant. With Lady Semmer as witness, the lord strode over and stood in front of him as he knelt. “In the name of the Laughing Friend, will you seek joy despite unhappiness, and hope in darkness?”

“I will,” Proximo said, with his eyes to the floor.

“In the name of the Kind Friend, will you preserve harmony when you can, and forgive when others can’t?”

“I will.”

“In the name of the Loyal Friend, will you be forever devoted to those you call friend, and defend them from all you don’t?”

“Always,” he said, thinking of Lady Violet.

“In the name of the Generous Friend, will you provide to those in need, and give whatever you have to aid those who have nothing?”

“Yes, now and forever.”

Lord Jestin straightened himself, and put a hand on Proximo’s shoulder. “In the name of the Honest Friend, will you seek the truth, even when others won’t?”

“I swear,” Proximo said, imagining what lay in the Dreamweave.

“And in the name of the Magic Friend, will you follow the teachings of the Six and One faithfully?”

“I will.”

“And, above all, will you swear to protect our friend, Lady Violet, and all others who go with you on this mission, from anyone who would hurt them?”

Proximo looked back up to Lord Jestin, whose blue eyes were sparkling in the reflected evening light. “Yes, above all I promise that.”

“Then rise again, my generous friend, and do your duty. Go to the Dreamweave, help our friends, and keep her safe for us here at the Citadel. I know you will — an honest man keeps his promises.” The Laughing Lord smiled, backed up and sat himself on the bench beside Lady Semmer, who was giving him a knowing look. It was all Proximo could do to stumble up after him, thinking of what he had said. An Oath of Six, he thought. Few promises were as binding to a Brony of the Collective than one invoked in the names of the Six and One.

One would not have known the gravity seeing Jestin Jen, however. Sitting beside his friend, he began to play a song, and sang it out to the open yard.

“Where gold can see, where hearts are bound,
where dreams are ill, where truth is found,
how cold you are, oh yellow moon!
And how I pray I come home soon!”

* * * * * *

“Cross my heart and hope to fly…”

* * * * * *

“Consider the birds, the flowers, the sky above and the lands below. Was there not a time when all this was alien to us? When all things we now take for granted and hold dear seemed a danger? When we first formed from the Logos, any plant could be a poison, any creature a threat, any field a grave, any man a monster. Do not be quick to condemn that which you do not yet understand, for surely She would not.”

— Anonymous Kind Friend

Chapter VII: Gifts and Goodbyes

* * * * * *

Kind Friend, rooted to hallowed ground,
in whom a better way is found.
Assuming few, and judging none,
with you a moral heart is won.
And now from you the song is sung,
you care for friends, the Six and One.

Oh Loyal Friend, in rainbow sky,
with you our feet pick up to fly.
You steel yourself with fiery arm,
defending those you love from harm.
The storm of hate shall break and run,
you fight for friends, the Six and One.

My Honest Friend, faithful and strong,
whose eye perceives the right and wrong.
You work for love and family,
and stir the stubborn strength in me.
Who glows so bright, the shining sun!
You wake our friends, the Six and One.

The Laughing Friend, whose voice will call
the people 'round, the great and small,
and help them see that fated mirth,
the greatest joy felt on the earth.
What wondrous voice, so filled with fun!
You smile for friends, the Six and One.

You Generous Friend, virtue true,
your beauty moves to make and do.
Your grace and poise and clarity,
and outstretched hand of charity.
For you such artistry is done,
you give to friends, the Six and One.

Our Magic Friend, the violet star,
that shines the light of friendship far.
With you the paper sky will burn!
You tell us all that we must learn.
Your guidance shows us what is won
with magic friends, with Six and One.

* * * * * *

The Bronies of the city were all gathered now, filling the sidewalks and windows of the streets as the procession passed by them. A sea of blues, whites, violets, pinks, and yellows stretched across the roads, watching and cheering as Proximo and the rest of the departing team walked to the harbor. In front of the crowds were the Honest Friends, each standing tall in their orange capes and glowing armor, carrying sharp spears in their hands and swords at their belts. Few expected trouble from a ceremony of friends, but it never hurt to be careful.

There were seventy in the main portion of the group walking by, not counting the guards in front and behind: the sixty-six that intended to go to the Dreamweave, and the four other Wardens who stood with their departing colleagues. The Wardens stood in a line of six at the head, with Lord Feylen shuffling forward at the far left with Lady Semmer at his side, Lord Jestin and Lady Wright smiling and striding forward confidently on the right, and Lady Violet and the Warden of Honesty in the center. Lady Violet was waving happily to the crowd, but the Honest Lord towered beside her flat-mouthed, his hands firmly at his sides, looking more and more uncomfortable by the cheering crowd every moment.

Proximo Hart was in the line immediately behind them, walking beside the other Generous Friends in the envoy, who in turn stood in front of the fifty-four members of the honor guard that the Honest Friends had assembled. The mid-summer sun was blazing in the sky above as they passed through the city streets to reach the docks. The ships that would take them to the Painted Sea were crewed and settled there: a handsome escort, if what Lady Madelin said was true, of the fastest ships available to the Brony Expeditionary Force. Considering they had so little notice to draft the vessels for duty, Proximo wondered just how fine they would be, but perhaps the Loyal Lady wasn’t merely bragging.

As the parade marched around the corner and began the straight walk to the harbor, Proximo looked to the men and women in the company that would be beside him for however long it took to sort out the mess in the Dreamweave. He knew nearly all of the five other Generous Friends, from proud Theosyrius, to gloomy Prim Enproper, to Caleb, the particularly large follower that some less courteous friends preferred to call ‘The White Whale’. Proximo thought Caleb was likely to burst with excitement when he had given him the orders to join them at the Dreamweave.

The three Kind Friends he knew as well, though not as closely, and he had met the Laughing Friend Jayson Joyfelt once or twice in the past. Hart confessed that he had never heard of the Magic Friend who was to accompany them, Caymen Diallep, but he was recommended by Lord Feylen and seemed polite enough when Proximo met him.

The Honest Friends he knew far less of. There were a full fifty-five of them, counting the Warden sulking in the front, and the fact that around a dozen or two likely had the word ‘apple’ in their names made telling them apart even more of a chore. He knew a few: Hans had worked closely with the Generous Friends in the past, as had soft-spoken Dustario, and one of the guards was a warrior-woman he faintly knew, brown-haired, fierce-eyed, and huge.

He noticed that the nervous knight from Reddit, Sir Coin Counter, had also found his way into the group somehow—no doubt an idea of Jestin’s passed along to the Warden of Magic. The man seemed anxious, but considering his experience it wasn’t altogether surprising, even if the Warden of Honesty likely didn’t approve. The one detail that Proximo couldn’t help but note, however, was that at least a quarter of the Honest Friends that were joining them had the eye emblazoned on their chests in gold, marking them all as members of the Warden’s most trusted and fanatic inner circle.

There was a certain feeling of unease, seeing that.

As they grew closer to the harbor, Proximo could see that perhaps Lady Madelin hadn’t been exaggerating for once: the tall masts and colorful hulls of dozens of grand ships dominated the waterfront, any one of which would have been a prize to sail upon. The Brony Collective had been buying more and more of them recently, from trading boats to painted war-vessels and even a new flagship that reportedly could match some of the Authority’s finest in terms of power and speed. He could see it once the party drew closer: there was no mistaking the monstrous craft, with blue sails and rows upon rows of guns, that was Lady Wright’s newest vessel—the Alicorn Ascendent. The cost must have been something staggering, Proximo knew, as such a heavy class of ship was rarely allowed outside the Authority lightly.

Most of the other ships that filled the docks were more modest, including the one that Proximo guessed to be the Wonderbolt II, which would carry part of the group to the Painted Sea. It was a sharp, sleek thing, perfect for a quick voyage across the Blogosphere and beyond, and had been decorated in the style of the Land of Faces: lines of blue and white formed the snarling likeness of a killer whale, and every empty space was filled with a face. The Wonderbolt II stood in the middle of the harbor, directly in front of the Wardens’ path, and had a hastily made stage raised in front of it.

There would be five other ships escorting them, from what Proximo knew, all of which were both fast and well-armed. One or two were returning from an expedition led by the Loyal Friends in the Blurr, where a recent war had just concluded against the Oppressed—cultic warriors who worshiped no god, but instead dedicated themselves to loathing anything they believed would enslave them. In practical terms, this generally meant anyone who offended their more violent members, including the Brony Collective most recently.

It was a sanctioned fire feud, all perfectly legal under Authority law, but from the reports Proximo had heard made him wonder just how closely Lady Wright’s forces had been in adhering to those regulations. The Loyal Friends had served the Bronies well—and their enemies ill—during the First Rise, and were technically only authorized to fight in self-defense, but tales were still told of midnight raids, fire attacks and martyr legions destroying enemy forces that faced them.

As they entered the dockyard, the marching Bronies began to file into the large open space in front of the Wonderbolt II, with each group of six moving either to the left or right to form a rectangle before the raised platform. The line in front, containing the Wardens, proceeded past the rest and walked up to the top of the stage. Lord Mars walked up first, looking somewhat shriveled in his voluminous violet robes, going to the center of the stage, with the rest lining up behind him as the crowd cheered. Proximo took his place behind Lady Violet as the ceremony began.

The roar from the thousands of gathered Bronies was almost deafening when the Warden of Magic lifted his hands to address them. From where Proximo stood, he could see the sickness in Lord Mars: the heavy bags under his hollow eyes, the limp in his walk, the way the skin stretched over his stick-thin bones and body. Ordinarily, he was hunched over, tiny and frail. But when he stood in front of his friends, and the hundreds and thousands called out to him, the Lord of the Six-Pointed Star seemed twelve feet tall. The crowd continued its cries, but with a wave of his hand they immediately fell silent. Every eye was upon the Lord Mars as he began to speak.

“My friends!” Lord Mars said, calling out in a voice that carried through the whole assembly. “Today we gather to see a brave few on their way, so they might sail to the Painted Sea and prove the innocence of our brothers in the Dreamweave. It is with a heavy heart that I see them leave, but I know that they—and only they—can deliver those followers of the Six from this injustice.”

He stepped aside, and allowed Lady Violet and the Warden of Honesty to approach the front. The voices from the crowd soared when they walked forward, and grew even louder after they bowed to them and to the Warden of Magic. Lord Mars silenced them again with a motion of his hand, and stood before the lord and lady. “To you, my friends who go to stranger shores, I offer these as a parting gift.” It was traditional that the giving of gifts would precede the Wardens’ departure, and Lord Mars did not disappoint. From hidden pockets within his violet sleeves, he pulled two medallions, both gold, with a purple gemstone in the shape of a six-pointed star in the middle of each. There was some etching on the back of them, but Proximo could not make them out from where he stood.

“A small token,” Lord Mars said, “forged with the amethysts of my homeland. Wear them proudly, friends of friends, and may it remind you that even when alone, you walk with the strength of Six, now and always.” He gave a deep bow to his departing companions. “Go in peace, and may you have the wisdom of the Magic Friend in ten thousand trials and triumphs. Six and One!” he called to the crowd.

“Six and One!” they replied, in a cheer that could have been heard all the way from the Citadel, from Central, from the Dreamweave and the Painted Sea and beyond. “Six! Six! SIX!”

With that, the valediction was over, though it would still take some time for the crowd to disperse. The Wardens of Loyalty, Generosity, and Honesty, with Proximo behind them, stepped onto the deck of the Wonderbolt II, where Lady Wright quickly began barking orders. “Alright then, now that all that’s done, let’s get this tub afloat, shall we?” she shouted to the assembled crew. “Where’s Captain Skytide? I’ve got a couple things to say ‘fore all of you set out.”

One of the Loyal Friends stepped forward, wearing a smart blue naval uniform with a rainbow cloth tied around his waist. He had black hair, a hook nose, and calloused hands, with the air of dignity suiting an officer. “My lady,” he said calmly, “it’s an honor to see you once again, and to be given such an important task.”

“Aw, stuff the pleasantries, Captain, before you get me too friendly!” Lady Wright said with a beaming smile. “Anyhow, I don’t think I need to tell ya’ how to handle this kind of mission—precious cargo, and all that. Very precious. You’ll have the Cerulean, the Griffon, the Sixshaded, the Loyal, and the Cloudsdale with you, but I don’t want any risks, you hear? No chancing a storm, no shortcuts, nothing. Whatever precautions you have, see that they’re doubled. Clear?”

Captain Skytide bowed. “Yes, my lady. This crew will not disappoint you.”

“I know yah won’t!” She turned to the other Wardens and Proximo. “The journey from here to the Devien Isles ain’t too far, two or three weeks at the most. Still, can’t be too careful, so you three are getting code-names so any messages sent out won’t show exactly which ship you’re on. If you just look in he— hey! You call that a knot?” She began to yell at one of the nearby sailors securing the lines. “Six save us, kid, this isn’t some cargo job you can half-ass!” She turned to one of the Loyal Friends looking confused next to her. “Cindy, give ‘em the thing with the code-names—I’ve got to tell this guy a word or two about knots. Gimme a second.”

The Warden of Loyalty shot off, leaving her attendant to hand Proximo a small folder after a moment to recover. “Ah, your names are inside this. It’s fine to use your real names on the ship,” she said, while trying to see what Lady Wright was doing, “just, um, just make sure that any official messages are using these ones.” There was the sound of shouts and a crashing noise coming from another part of the ship. “I’m sorry, excuse me for a moment,” she said before running in the direction of the Warden.

Proximo opened the folder and pulled out a piece of typed paper. “Ah, it seems that Lady Violet will be ‘Umbrelle’ for the remainder of our voyage, and I will be… let’s see, ‘Elusive’.”

“How appropriate,” Lady Violet said. “Mine is very subtle, I daresay. And what name will you be getting, Honesty?” she said, turning to the other Warden. The Honest Lord was still wearing his heavy plate armor, but if it caused him any discomfort in the hot weather, he didn’t show it. His gold cape billowed slightly in the wind, and on his belt was a sword and an assortment of knives. The medal that Lord Mars had given him was around his neck, and looked small on his massive chest.

Proximo found the other entry on the sheet, and tried his best to suppress a chortle. “Crabapple.”

Lady Violet couldn’t help but laugh. The Warden of Honesty did not react. “We will see the captain,” he said stiffly before lumbering off.

The two of them watched the giant wander away. “I think the Lord Warden needs to spend more time with the Laughing Friends,” Proximo said.

“Hush, Proximo,” Lady Violet said in an only semi-serious scold. She was looking radiant that day, dressed in a light, white summer dress to match the beautiful weather and a violet necklace that brought out the deep purple of her hair. Over it was the medallion given to her by the Warden of Magic, which hung down close to her heart. “We’d best go to the captain as well. I’m sure there are a great many matters that need our attention.”

Proximo followed behind her as they maneuvered through the mass of blue Bronies securing lines and shouting orders. Lady Violet walked past a man carrying a barrel, and turned her head to Proximo. “We’ll all be working together for the next few weeks, and I don’t want my friends to fight one another,” she said. “Try to get along with him, won’t you?”

There were several clever comments that Proximo could have made, but it wasn’t the time for them. “I’ll do my best, my lady.” He had told Lord Jestin the same thing the day before, and he had meant it. If they can see Honesty as a friend, then so can I, Proximo thought, I was being unreasonable earlier. The Six themselves would do the same, were they in his place.

Now that the Wardens were safely aboard, the other Bronies joining them on the voyage began to step onto the ship. Most of them were members of the honor guard, who were dispersed evenly throughout all six of the vessels bound for the Dreamweave. Sir Coin Counter was among them, and Proximo could see him trying desperately to avoid being knocked over by the Loyal Friends carting around supplies. The former knight seemed harmless enough, and courteous when Hart last spoke with him, but at the same time he wondered whether the man could be trusted completely. Coin had been a Knight Regulator for some time before joining the Bronies, and had spent most of his life training in Central with the Authority. If push came to shove, which side would he be on?

Proximo made a mental note to question Coin about that later, when he saw another familiar face in an orange uniform. “Dustario!” Proximo called out. “How good to see you, my friend.”

The Honest Friend turned, and smiled when he heard the assistant call for him. “Six and One, Proximo! A pleasure to see you as well.” Dustario was a native to the Devien Isles, just like Proximo and many of the Generous Friends, but had chosen a more martial path when he joined the Bronies. He was taller than Proximo, lean and clean-shaven, with a orange-and-gold outfit made of much richer material than his other Honest compatriots. Even if he wasn’t a Generous Friend, Dustario was never one to turn down the finer things in life. He gave a bow to Proximo and the Warden. “It seems we’ll be sharing another voyage together — just like old times!”

Proximo laughed. “Hopefully not exactly like old times. Remember Am-Azon?”

“Better than you do, I imagine,” he said with a smirk. “You still owe me one for that, friend. Hopefully you’ll be able to keep yourself out of trouble this time.”

“If the Dreamweave is anything like I remember it, the trouble will probably find me.”

“A place Proximo Hart has been before, eh? I’ll let you know if I find any ruffian children that look like you.”

Proximo gave a look of mock horror. “Dear friend, if there is anyone in the world that looks like me, then I shall be ruined forever. I don’t think I can take that kind of competition.”

The two of them exchanged a goodbye, and Proximo continued along with Lady Violet to meet with the captain. He was in the stately cabin in the rear of the ship, with the Warden of Honesty already looming over him. An oak table sat in the center, adorned with candlesticks and a charting map spread out to plot the ship’s course. An assortment of chests and bookshelves lined the walls, along with a few beds.

“My lady,” Captain Skytide said as he approached. He took Lady Violet’s hand in his and bowed his head to it. “It is an honor — not to mention a delight— to serve you.”

“You’re too kind, Captain,” she replied. “I’m certain there is no man in the fandom more equipped for the task. I see you’ve already met my honest friend,” she said with a motion to the Warden, “may I introduce my assistant, Proximo Hart.”

Proximo bowed. “Well met, Captain.”

He returned the gesture. “The feeling is mutual. I was just discussing with the Warden of Honesty as to your living quarters for the journey. If it pleases my lady, I hoped that you both would accept my personal cabin for the voyage. I’ll be comfortable enough elsewhere, I assure you.”

“Unnecessary,” the Warden of Honesty said. “This one does not require space.”

The Captain shook his head. “I’m afraid I must insist, my lord. It would hardly be proper for my superiors to rest in inferior rooms.”

The eye of the Warden of Honesty looked down at him, and Skytide paled slightly. “Hrm,” the Warden grunted.

Lady Violet stepped between them. “Are you quite certain, Captain? I would hate to force you from such a fine cabin.”

“I’m certain, my lady. I’ll have your luggage brought here immediately, if you would like.” Lady Violet gave a consenting smile, and Skytide motioned to the Loyal Friends by the door to fetch the baggage. They returned with the whole of Lady Violet and Proximo’s things, six bags and a case for her and five cases for Proximo. It had been hard to choose which clothes he intended to take out of his wardrobe, and almost as difficult to fit all of it into only five suitcases, but it was a vital task nonetheless.

After all of them left, however, it was clear that nothing had been brought for the Warden of Honesty. Captain Skytide didn’t let it pass unnoticed. “I apologize, my lord, it seems that the crew has forgotten your things. I’ll see to them.”

“Did not forget. Have everything.” The Warden gestured to a small burlap sack on floor next to him. Proximo had assumed that some trash had fallen onto the ground when he saw it. There was also a massive war hammer propped against the wall directly behind the Warden, made of plain steel and was very heavy from the looks of it.

The Captain, Lady Violet, and Proximo all gave the paltry assortment a look-over with varying degrees of concern. Skytide ventured to ask, “Is that… all? My lord?”

“Yes.”

“You’re certain, my friend?” Lady Violet asked, appearing rather ill at the thought of it.

“Yes.”

“My lord,” Proximo said in the most diplomatic way he could manage, “I’m sure that you know it’s by no means certain exactly how long our stay at the Dreamweave will be. It could take some time to put everything back into place. There will be certain… essentials that one always needs to have for such ventures.”

“Have them,” he replied. He gestured to the sack, then to the hammer, then to his armor and the collection of weapons at his belt.

“Well yes, but what about everything else you might need?”

The Warden of Honesty gave the assistant a vaguely confused look and then repeated the same motion to the sack, armor and weapons more slowly.

He doesn’t even have a change of clothes, Proximo thought. He was about ready to leave the room at that point, but figures clad in pink, yellow, and blue entered into the cabin before he could make a beeline out. Lady Semmer came through first, ducking her tall frame to avoid hitting her head, followed closely behind by both Lord Jestin and Lady Wright, both of whom seemed to be talking eagerly about something.

“Hello everyone!” Lady Semmer said, her rich voice filling the air. She had flowers woven into her hair, beautiful lilies of white and orange, and seemed as cheerful as ever. “I’ve come for the goodbyes. And look! I even found Madelin as well, while she was yelling at some poor man. He was happy to be rescued, I’m sure.”

“At least he knows how to tie a damn rope down now,” Wright chimed in.

“Now he’ll tie real knots!” Jestin said with a smile. “Instead of not-knots. But now that he can knot knots, he’ll have to re-knot all the not-knots. When it comes to nautical knots, not-knots do not last the knots like knots, do they not?”

“Yeah sure, whatever,” Lady Wright replied, not paying attention. Looking around the room, the Warden of Loyalty gave a whistle. “Pretty nice, Captain. If I’d known the Wonderbolt had such fine living space, I might’ve kept it for myself.”

The Captain smiled. “Are the quarters on the Alicorn not to your liking, my lady?”

“Oh, it’s plenty nice and all. Bit big, not as snug as this, sure, but all nice enough. I remember one ship I served on—passages were so small that two people couldn’t walk down them at once unless they wanted to become much better friends. Which, o’ course, they did sometimes, without much else to do when you’re out at sea, eh? But yeah, the Alicorn’s fierce-looking, definitely, but I still haven’t quite broken ‘er in just yet, you see?” She grinned, and started to spin around a spherical star-globe on the desk, letting the constellations go by.

“Anyhow,” she said with a wave of her hand, as the globe spun around and around on its own, “Besides the ta-tas for now, I figured I would make sure everything was ready to set off. Mars should be up any second for his own fond farewells for the lot of you, but one last check before then won’t hurt. Oh!” she said suddenly, “I also got a little something for you three.”

Reaching to her belt, Lady Wright pulled off three holstered knives and placed them on the table. The hilts were bone white, curved and expertly carved, and when Lady Violet hesitantly drew the blade it shone white as milk. There were small purple gemstones on the ends of two of them, and an orange one on the end of the third. The Warden of Honesty picked up the one with the orange gem and tested the sharpness, touching the edge with his finger. He rubbed the spot where the knife cut, and said, “High quality. Valuable material. Very sharp.”

“Yeah, found a crate full of that metal when I was in the Blurr, captured from some Oppressed camp. There were fifty, no sixty of ‘em down there, hauling supplies around when we jumped them. Some big glitch almost stuck me with two of those Channic retractables, but we found that all the same. Who knows where that bunch of loonies got it, but I thought it’d make a neat little number for you three. Had them forged a little while ago, and I got a couple Generous Friends t’work the hilts last night.” She shrugged. “Hey, I know it ain’t required, but if Mars is going around giving gifts, why not me?”

“This is fine work,” Violet said as she looked over the gift. Though Lady Violet was not keen on weapons, she appreciated art when it was in front of her, and one could tell right away that the handiwork of the Generous Friends was behind such a beautiful craft. “The hilt… is this teywood?”

A smile from the Warden gave the answer. “I thought you might like that. I picked it out myself—the Generous Friends told me it was practically new, shipped in from Kursedos a little while back. I don’t suspect you’ll need 'em when you’re out there talkin’ with the Mod squad, but keep ‘em around anyways. Who knows, maybe they’ll be good for opening letters. Just don’t cut yourself, eh Proxi?” She gave a sharp nudge of her elbow to Proximo’s chest.

“Actually,” Lord Jestin said, “I’ve got a little something for you as well.” He reached into one of the deep pockets hidden inside his robe, and pulled out two boxes. He handed them over to the departing Wardens, and then turned to Proximo. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten about you, friend!” He pulled out one last thing: a pocket-watch, bronze-cast with a handsome chain around it. On its front was the insignia of a winged tiger, growling as it took flight. When Proximo opened it, though, it was clear that it was broken.

“Sorry I couldn’t get it to work, but it can do other things, too! Remember when I told you how the last time I visited the Dreamweave, I could only take one thing with me?” He tapped the lid of the watch. “This was it. I thought it might bring you good luck — it certainly helped me!”

It was a heartfelt gift, and Proximo made his appreciation known. “Thank you, Lord Jestin. I know it will bring good fortune to our mission.”

“It just might, too.” He winked. “And say, ask around for someone named ‘Cabrio Temley’ while you’re there, would you? He’s an old friend of mine, and I’m sure he’d love to help you out. Just show him that watch, and he’ll know that you’re a friend to him too!”

The show of generosity seemed to have Lady Semmer aghast. “Shame on me! I’m so sorry, but I did not prepare anything for you three. But here,” she said, moving her hands to her head. She plucked out three of the lilies in her hair and began handing one to each of them. ‘It is not much, but you’ll keep it with you, yes? And I’ll have something nicer when you come back.”

“Oh nonsense,” Lady Violet said, “they’re absolutely divine. I want nothing else.” She placed her flower in her own hair, a little white island in a sea of thick purple.

When Lady Semmer handed one to the Warden of Honesty, he did not seem sure what to do. “It is… healthy,” he finally managed to say. Wright laughed at that, and Lady Semmer gave a giggle as well. “Very nice. We will keep it.” The flower looked very small in the Warden’s hand, and he made no attempt to place it in his nonexistent hair. Instead he looked for the nearest escape. “Will look over ship. See it is suitable.” He left in a hurry, arms down at his side and his eye looking straight ahead.

Lady Wright seemed to find the situation very amusing. “Ha! Seems like he was getting a bit hot under the collar. You’re lucky you didn’t make his head explode, Lil.” She stretched her head to look out the door. “Yep, gone like a flash. Well hopefully he finds his way back soon, ‘cause I’ve got a couple things for him to hear.”

Proximo stepped forward. “I can bring him back if you would like, my lady.” It would give him a chance to speak with the Warden personally as well, which was not an easy thing considering how little he made himself seen. “It would be no trouble at all.”

She shrugged. “Sure, why not? Just tell him to head back here once he’s done with his excuse. Don’t keep me waiting!”

The assistant bowed his head and strolled out, taking in the ship as he left the cabin room. The hustle and bustle of the Loyal Friends was speeding up, with a rapid rush to secure cargo and prepare the sails. Most of the Honest Friends assigned to the Wonderbolt II were on board now, with several Proximo recognized and more that he did not. Dustario stood with several other orange-clad followers, laughing and joking as he was always inclined to, while Coin Counter was far away and on his own, red hair tossing around in the wind.

Dustario’s group was a fairly motley pack, but two of them caught Proximo’s eye, both with golden eyes on their mantles: a huge, smiling, dark-skinned man with a beard tied in a braid that reached down to his belt and a small tattoo of an apple on his right temple, and another man more squat, with his arms crossed. He was as bald as the Warden of Honesty and nearly as ugly, but the striking thing was his hands: each had grotesque scars in the shape of a six-pointed star carved into them. There was likely a fairly gruesome story behind that, but it wasn’t the time to introduce or inquire.

Proximo found the Warden of Honesty standing in front of the railing at the stern of the ship, staring out at the harbor. He had the flower that Lady Semmer gave him in one hand, twisting it around between his finger and thumb, but seemed to be paying it as little mind as the Loyal Friends around him. Nor did he give much attention to Proximo when the assistant approached his side, leaning his hands on the railing.

“My lord?” Proximo asked.

A single golden eye shifted slightly to the Warden’s side, but other than that there was little indication that he even knew the other was there. He gave no greeting in reply.

Proximo cleared his throat. “It would seem that we’ll be working together for the next few weeks.”

The Warden remained silent for a moment. “Yes,” he finally said.

“Considering your friendship to Lady Violet, and my own, I simply felt that it would be best for us to put aside any misgivings, for her sake.” He looked up to the Warden. “We both count ourselves as her close companions, I’m sure, and if we’re to succeed in the Dreamweave then we should work without any enmity between us. I know that we don’t necessarily see eye-to-eye on everything, but we both mean the best for the fandom, do we not?”

The Honest Lord did not deign to reply. It was somewhat difficult to tell if he was carefully considering what had been told to him, or just ignoring the little man’s talk. Come to think of it, was ‘eye-to-eye’ really the best choice of words? Proximo worried. It probably didn’t matter. “What I mean to say,” he continued, “is that I apologize for any unamiable behavior on my part. It was wrong of me to speak out of turn.” He gave one of his winning smiles to try and ease the situation.

The Warden looked back down at Proximo. “Does not require apology.”

“Oh, well that’s kind of you to say, my lord.”

“Hrm.”

Well, Proximo thought, this is going about as well as expected. Truthfully, he was not anticipating much in the way of apologies from the Warden of Honesty, but a conciliatory word could go a long way regardless. Perhaps it would still be enough to honor Lady Violet’s request.

There were a few moments of silence between the two of them, both standing on the deck and looking out at the bustling blue harbor. It was utterly choked with ships, Proximo could not help but notice, many of which were undoubtedly returning from the Blurr Expedition. A few were non-Brony traders or diplomatic ships, but a vast majority carried the devices of the Six Friends upon their sails, or rainbow flags flying from their masts. And there’ll be six fewer of them after today. “I hope that we can succeed in the Dreamweave,” Proximo said at last, “with so much at stake, I mean.”

“We will,” the Warden replied gruffly. “Have strength of Six. None can withstand them.”

“Well, it may take more than just that.”

“Nothing else. Only power comes from one Magic. They do not understand. Comprehend. Imagine. Will be destroyed.”

The Warden spoke the words without emotion or care, and for a moment Proximo wondered whether he had heard him correctly. “My lord,” Proximo said with concern, “this is a peaceful mission. No one will ‘be destroyed’. You’re mistaken.”

“They will. They are weak. All light flows through the fandom. Those who do not join are hollow. Meat, not men. Already dead. That is truth.”

Hart frowned. “I would not repeat that while we’re in the Dreamweave, my lord. It will hardly endear us to our counterparts there.”

“Do not care about outsiders. Irrelevant. If they wanted truth, would already have joined the divine Collective.”

“My lord of Honesty,” said Proximo, trying to keep the anger out of his voice, “that is not a proper view of things. Others are free to have their differences, and we must respect their choi— “

“Why?” the Warden asked.

“Pardon?”

The Warden of Honesty turned himself to face his diminutive counterpart. “Why must we respect outsiders?” he repeated, as though the concept was inconceivable to him.

Proximo looked at him agape. “Because they’re people. It is right.”

The Warden frowned. “Definition of ‘right’ misguided. Unfounded. The Six are only good, only right is service. Friendship reflects divinity. Protecting friends is right. Outsiders divorced from this. Oppose our friends, contradict our purpose. Inherently wrong. Antithesis to our principle. Conflict is predetermined.”

“That isn’t true.”

“We do not lie,” the Warden replied angrily. “Concepts, by definition, opposed by ideas that contradict them. Fandom, and anti-fandom. Six and anti-Six. By choosing truth outside of ours, they make themselves incorrect. Ideologically incompatible. Collective and dissolute too different from one another. Cooperation can only last until moment of inevitable disagreement. Only way to protect friends is to destroy opposing ideas. Why pretend reconciliation possible? Conflict predetermined. Always was. Feigned niceties untruthful. Dishonest. Lies.”

Proximo blinked in confusion. It might have been the single longest string of words that he had ever heard the Warden say, and not a syllable of it made sense. “Forgive me, my lord, but that is not the talk of a diplomatic person.”

“Not ‘diplomatic.’ Not ‘person.’ We are the instrument of Six. Our purpose, our strength. None can withstand them. They will surrender to Collective or be destroyed. That one’s insistence contrary,” he said with a gesture towards Proximo, “nothing more than delusion. Lie to self and others. And her. There is no peace.”

“And that’s it, then?” Proximo asked, raising his voice. “You just say there’s no peace and don’t even try for it? My lord, what exactly would you prefer? That we just kill everyone in the Dreamweave if they try to stop us from freeing our friends?”

The Warden looked down at Proximo as though he did not understand the question. “Yes,” he replied simply.

We’re sending this man to negotiate for our friends' lives, Proximo thought in disbelief. “Well,” he said as calmly as he could, “I imagine that’s a great comfort to you.” He pushed away from the railing, eager to leave. “The other Wardens are waiting for their friend below. I suspect they’ll be waiting for some time.”

With that, the assistant turned around and left, trying to keep the anger out of his expression. That man is insane, he realized. He had always found the Warden of Honesty unpleasant, but now it was simply beyond his understanding why Lady Violet or anyone else bothered to call him ‘friend’. He would doom the mission, if given the chance. I can’t give him that chance, or we’ll all hang.

He tried his best to put on a happy face when he re-entered the cabin to find the other Wardens, save Mars, looking over a map. The captain was apparently giving one last description of their path to the Dreamweave.

“...We will need to stop briefly before entering the Dreamweave, however. My thoughts were to dock at the nearest available harbor on Indelio—probably Shine, if the winds allow it. After that, we can move into Dreamweave Harbor and disembark. If Providence is on our side, we should reach them within two weeks.”

“Wonderful,” Lady Violet replied. “The sooner we arrive, the sooner we can bring our friends home.” She looked up from the map and saw that her assistant had returned. “Ah, Proximo. Did you find Honesty?”

“I did, my lady. He should be here in a moment.”

And lo and behold, the Warden of Honesty did indeed arrive, pushing his way through the comparatively tiny doorway. With him was Lord Mars, trailing behind in his absurdly large robe. The rest of the room bowed respectfully when he entered. “My lord,” Lady Violet said, perhaps more formally than needed.

Mars gave a small smile when he saw them. “Sorry if I kept you waiting. There were still a few things left to say to the other captains. I trust the course has been made clear to you?”

Lady Wright swaggered forward. “Skytide and I got ‘em covered, Mars. Don’t you worry about it.”

Mars nodded, and turned to Lady Violet. “Then I believe it’s time for our last goodbye. For now, at least.” He hesitated, then said, “If you don’t mind, could we have a quick word, Violet?”

“Welp,” Wright said, “you heard the man, everyone back up and give them some space. That means you, ’Crabapple’, either get over here or I won’t hug you goodbye.” She proceeded to push the others towards the other end of the room and starting briefing the Warden of Honesty on the journey ahead, though Proximo was still close enough to hear the two others talk.

Lord Mars was looking at the floor, trying to work up the words to say. “Violet…”

“I’m sorry, Mars.” Violet interrupted. “I shouldn’t have… you know more about it than I ever could.” She put her hand on his. “It wasn’t my place, I know— “

“It was your place,” Mars replied quietly. His voice was very thin, and rattled like a reed in the wind. “It was. Blame my pride, my arrogance, but don’t blame yourself for being concerned. You have a right to.” The lord’s eyes darted away. “You were being a better friend than I was, Violet. I spent half my life bedridden, you know: people coming and going, but never staying long, and always deciding what was or wasn’t safe for me. After so long, I’ve forgotten that sometimes that worrying is justified.” He looked back at her. “But do you understand why I do it?”

When she didn’t answer, he continued with a question. “Do you remember the first time we met?”

She nodded. “Yes. It was during the war, and I had gone to see who all the strange people who had fled from the Chan were. Sixchan-in-the-Sea... it was winter then. I remember you were standing there, bundled in that frayed violet robe you found, talking to a crowd. They were all sitting down, just listening.”

Mars smiled wistfully. “You had a different name then. I had known Lilly for a long time, but I still hadn’t met Jestin, and Madelin and Honesty were only names to me, strangers fighting far away. Baysmouth had fallen to the Authority, the Exodus was still underway, the wardenship didn’t exist, and we were all so far apart. You came to us at a poor time, my lady.”

“The right time, it seems to me.” She smiled as well. “You were talking about the Six, I remember because that’s what convinced me to stay and speak with you. That time… things were never the same after that, were they?”

He shook his head. “Nor should they have been. Do you remember what we spoke of?”

“It was the same thing from your lecture, the words… ‘We call them Six Friends,’ you said, ‘but there is another layer to it entirely. They are six, that is clear, but would we still adore them as much if they were separate? Would we flock to only the Loyal Friend, or the Kind, or the Magic?’ ”

“ ‘We may identify with one more than the other,’ ” Mars finished, “ ‘but that one is not why we’re here. Because they are Six and One,’ I said. It is that bond between them, and us all, that we love and hope to serve as best we can. We love the Friends, but it is their friendship that we truly follow.” He locked eyes with her. “Parts form a whole, and each of us is given a way to contribute to that Magic in their own individual way. You already know my way, and I know yours. That is why it is you going to the Dreamweave, and not me or any other. We all have our gifts: you, me… and the Warden of Honesty as well. Understand that, use that, and we can succeed.”

Lady Violet bowed. “I understand. I still have my reservations, but… I trust you on this. I’m sorry it came between us.”

“I’m sorry as well.” He bowed to her in kind, and looked over her shoulder, to see Captain Skytide approaching. “Captain, is there news for us?”

“Yes, my lord. The ships are ready to depart, whenever my passengers are.”

“Very well, Captain.” Mars turned to the rest of the room, breaking off Wright’s loud conversation with the others about globes. “I believe it’s time to go, my friends. I wouldn’t wish to keep you waiting any longer.”

“Well alrighty, Mars,” Madelin Wright said sadly. She turned to the departing Wardens. “I’ve already said my piece, so let me just tell you all good luck! Don’t hurt yourselves, alright? ‘Specially you, Honesty,” she said with a punch to his arm. “Aw, I can’t resist. C’mere, you!” She grasped the Honest Lord in the tightest hug she could, though she couldn’t manage to get her arms all the way around him. He looked about ready to explode with discomfort when she finally let go.

The last goodbyes went between all of them, and Lady Wright, Lord Jestin, and Lady Semmer took their leave. Captain Skytide stepped out as well, and called out to the ship, “Mister Hands! Prepare to weigh anchor and set sail on my word!”

A cheer raised across the decks, but the Warden of Magic did not join in with it. He turned to Honesty, and smiled wanly. “I don’t suppose you wanted a hug from me as well?”

The expression of the giant suggested not. “Not required. My lord.” He paused to collect his thoughts, seeming to strain in saying his goodbye. “We… will do what we can.”

“I know you will. Good luck. To all of you,” he said with his eyes on Violet.

* * * * * *

“The words of the Magic Friend: ‘Each one of us has something special, that makes us different, that makes us rare.’

“Flying comes easily to birds: they flap their wings and take to the sky. But it is a touch harder for men. Not everything in Creation was meant to perform the same task: we each are equipped with a different skill, a different talent, a different life that makes us unique and able to contribute to the ultimate harmony of things in our own way. If all were meant to be the same, men would have wings as well...”

— “Lecture on the Nature of Talents”, by Lord Feylen Mars

Chapter VIII: On Our Way

* * * * * *

I met a man from the land of masks,

whose wooden visage held the task

to hide his heart and soul away

from the lamp-light eyes of the Beast in the Bay.

The masks they wore, the stranger said,

did more than shield the face and head,

but hid their thoughts and minds from he

who watches them from 'neath the sea.

— “The Land of Masks”, Stanzas I-II

* * * * * *

It was a fast ship, Coin noted as he watched the blue ocean roll by underneath them. The other five were quick as well, particularly the one with a rainbow-painted thunderbird on the hull that raced ahead of the rest of the group, but none of them could compare to the one that Coin Counter stood upon. The Wonderbolt II was clearly a newer vessel than most of the others, judging by how little wear there was on the decks and railings, and had probably been bought or built quite recently.

He thought about the first Wonderbolt andwondered what had happenedthat made it necessary to make a new one, but that wasn’t something a person uncomfortable with sailing wanted to dwell on. Especially when he was at sea.

They had been journeying for most of the day now, and land had left their sights a few hours before. Most of the sailors were spending their time either racing around the decks keeping the ship in order or relaxing in their few spare moments below deck, but Coin and the other passengers had far fewer duties to attend to. They were guests, so most of the heavy lifting and real work had been left to the crew instead, while the Honest and Generous Friends were welcome to talk, walk, or lie back as they please.

If it was to be anything like Coin’s trip on the Lightning Dust to reach the Blogosphere, it was probably going to be hopelessly dull, with little to do but sleep, eat, and wander aimlessly. The day wasn’t even over yet, and he’d already had his fair share of all three.

Still, there were other things to do. Being called onto the mission wasn’t something Coin expected, but since he’d been told he tried his best to meet all the others he was joining. Most of the diplomatic team was split onto the other ships, along with a majority of the honor guard, but more than a dozen of them were still here. He had made his proper introductions to the Wardens of Honesty and Generosity earlier, but he didn’t know any of the other Bronies from the Citadel and had to spend time getting to know them. If he was going to work alongside them for the next few weeks, it would help to become friends.

The ringleader of the Honest Friends on the ship seemed to be Dustario, the tall, olive-skinned and almond-eyed gentlemen. He had all of his homeland’s courtesy, greeting Coin like a brother when they first met and treating him with every pleasantry afterwards, inviting Coin to join his group of friends when they talked and always calling him ‘Sir Coin,' even though he was no longer a knight in truth.

Dustario had been kind enough to introduce him to the other members of the guard as well, most of whom were every bit as polite. A Facer who had taken the name ‘Applewood’ who apparently was one of several other ‘Apples,’ including an Appleblossom and an Apple Orange, though Coin had only met the one so far. There was also a trio with the group who had each renamed themselves after the creator, and were called ‘The Three Fausts’ to reflect that, though only Dalwin Faust and Daria Faust were on the Wonderbolt.

Some of the Honest Friends were harder to get a read on. Strongshield was a warrior from the Blurr, large in size and with a thin mouth forever pursed in scorn or disapproval. Another, Red Autumn, was similar, with hideous scars on his hands shaped like six-pointed stars, and a habit of looking down at Coin in a rather unsettling way — not unlike the Warden of Honesty himself. In fact, Red resembled the Warden in more ways than just that: his head was shaved, his talking terse, and his manner alien as well. It seemed like an odd coincidence to Coin, before he realized that the man was likely emulating the Warden on purpose. If so, he still had a ways to go; after all, he had no beard, both eyes, and was squat where the Shield of the Collective was gigantic.

And the both of them were Honest Eyes, as well. Coin Counter had asked about the symbol, and was told by Dustario that it was a marker of the group who followed the Honest Friend and the Warden most fervently—fanatics who had taken the golden symbol of their leader as their own, and displayed it proudly on their uniforms. “Fiercely faithful” was what Dustario called them, and so they were, from what Coin could tell.

He’d seen less of the other Bronies since boarding the ship. Lady Brushshape and Mister Hart largely kept to themselves, chatting in the cabin with Captain Skytide and taking their meals in there as well. It was probably for the best, as Coin wasn’t confident that he’d be able to talk to the Generous Lady properly if he had the chance. The Warden of Honesty largely did the same, rarely leaving his quarters and only seeming to stand on the deck staring out at the ocean when he did. The Honest Friends would normally bow or kneel when he passed, but the Warden hardly seemed to notice that anyone else was on the ship but him.

Coin had met many people since he had come to the Citadel, but it was still hard to think of himself as one of them. The guardsmen, the Wardens, the artists, the sailors, all the Bronies around—they were parts of a world that he had only just stepped into, standing confidently while he blundered around bleary-eyed and confused. The only friends he really had were miles and miles away, and he couldn’t make new ones in an instant—that took more than just an evening of talk. Perhaps he could find his place in time, but he still couldn’t feel like he belonged.

I never asked for this, Coin thought. If he had any choice in the matter, he would be back home, listening to one of Greenheart's jokes or Book’s stories, rather than sailing halfway across the world to confront lords and strangers. But that doesn’t matter now. I am here, regardless of what I want. For however long it took to resolve the crisis, he had to focus on doing all he could, not complaining. No more reluctance, no more regrets. The Warden was right about one thing: it was his duty.

The waves were moving on and on, while the ship continued to cut through them on its path to the Painted Sea. The tint of the water had been darkening since they left harbor, going from a pale blue to a much deeper one as they sped further into the open sea. It made Coin wonder what was in the ocean underneath them: fish and whales, certainly, but people in the north spoke of sea serpents that preyed on the leviathans of the depths, and sailors whispered of kraken pulling under ships no matter where one went. People said the Bay of Masks in the Chan was home to an entire school of them, to explain why so many ships went missing there.

Looking back out at the sea, the color, for whatever reason, reminded him of Lord Feylen’s eyes: blackish-blue, like two bruises pressed into his gaunt face.

The Warden of Magic, Coin thought anxiously. He knew now that it was a far more fitting title than he expected, since he had seen that tattoo on Lord Mars’ wrist. The mark of the cybramancer. Everyone knew it when they saw it: the strange geometry, the jutting lines and spiraling half-circles forming a arrowhead-like shape down a man’s arm. Anyone unfortunate enough to be born with dread powers was required to have one such tattoo under penalty of death by law of the Authority. The mark of the cursed blood.

Those powers were as old as the Internet itself, allowing people to bend the laws of nature and the Logos at will. Some men born that way only had meager abilities if any, but a select few were too dangerous to live unmonitored. The Highlen Doctrine adopted by the Moderator Authority demanded all with the affliction register with the Cybramancer’s Guild, but some always slipped through, and it usually ended in tragedy.

And Lord Mars is one of them. The words Coin overheard in the Magic Wing still chilled him, even now. Three men, four masks, a pyre, six towers and a black island… it was beyond Coin to know what each meant, but he knew that he wasn’t supposed to hear them. Coin Counter had been taught at the academy that every destiny was planned and mapped like the courses of so many ships, each proceeding with the order of the Logos—the eternal code, the fact of facthood, the universal constant. But to be able to peer into that intelligence and see what those destinies contained…

His thoughts were interrupted by a whistle. It was the signal that the better part of the day’s work was over, and the crew that had been working would be allowed to break for the evening. Coin hadn’t even noticed how late it had become, with the sun already lowering and the sky growing almost as dark as the sea. Upon hearing the call, the Loyal Friends who had been working the lines gave a brief cheer before happily jumping down to eat and relax for the time being. Some would be needed for the night shift, but for now they could rest, drink, and talk to their hearts content.

They were not the only ones to take advantage of the opportunity, Coin noticed when he saw his fellow Honest Friends come to the deck as well. Dustario was leading the pack, as always, but at his side was Proximo Hart, standing out in white among a group of orange and yellow. The two were chatting about something or other, when Dustario called out to Coin.

“Sir Coin!” he said. “Have you had a chance to meet my friend Proximo yet? He may be one of the Generous, but he’s as good as any Honest Friend, I’d wager.”

“We’ve met before,” Coin replied, “though it’s good to see you again, Mister Hart.” He bowed respectfully.

“Likewise, sir,” replied Proximo. “I must admit, I wasn’t expecting to see you joining us on our mission. It’s good that you are, though: we’ll need men of experience for such a delicate matter.”

“I’ll do everything I can. Hopefully that’ll be enough.”

It was a long-haired man in bright pink who answered—Jayson Joyfelt, one of the Laughing Friends. “I wouldn’t worry much about that, friend,” Jayson said while twirling his long blonde hair. At his side was a fiddle, no doubt to play for the crew. “One look at our innocent little faces, and they’ll be letting those two go in no time. ‘Cursed is the one who brings false punishment,’ they say.” Jayson always seemed to have a quote ready when the situation asked for it—that one in particular came from The Books of Black and White, which Coin had had to study extensively when he was training in Central.

Any subtlety in the conversion was killed the moment the giant Kriseroff strode up from behind, belting out a song at the top of his lungs while his braided brown beard blew about in the wind. He was a huge, dark-skinned man with a golden eye on his chest, a red apple tattooed under his eye, and one of the deepest voices Coin had ever heard, with which he would bellow out at every opportunity.

Once he paused for breath, Kriseroff looked over the others as though puzzled. “This is break time! Shame! Shame to you all! Kriseroff has his song in his heart, but no drinks and no music. It is crime and tragedy! Tragedy! Will he have to jump over and swim to shore to escape this dullness?”

“I think not, Kris,” the pink singer replied. “You’re too big for swimming anyways — you seem more like the sinking type, if you ask me. But what do you all think?” he asked the people on the deck. “Shall we have a song?”

The Loyal Friends around seemed starved for entertainment after a long day, and the resulting cry was loud enough to answer his question. He had another prepared, however. “Very well,” Jayson continued, “but it seems only fitting that my tune goes to one of our brave protectors on this perilous trip! So, which should it be—a song for the Honest or the Loyal?”

Both sides raised cheers to decide which it would be. The Loyal Friends outnumbered the rest almost three-to-one on the deck, but Kriseroff shouted so loudly that the winner was clear soon enough. To oblige, Jayson raised the fiddle to his chin and began to play a familiar tune, with those around him laughing and hooting when they recognized it. They clapped along to the rhythm as the Laughing Friend began to sing:

“We’ve travelled the road of generations,
joined by a common bo-oo-nd!
We sing our song ‘cross the website nations
from the masked lands to beyond!”

By the time they came to the chorus, the crew had started to sing along and dance, with figures in orange, blue, and white spinning and twirling around one another. Dustario was trading partners quickly, going between two women in the Loyal Friends and one from the Generous, stepping gracefully to-and-fro with elegant footwork. He made an offer to Strongshield as well, but after a look that suggested she might twist his head off he went to dark-haired Daria Faust instead.

Coin lingered behind, however, as did Proximo Hart. When the assistant noticed this, he approached Coin and leaned against the railing with him. “Not one for dancing, Sir Coin?”

“I’ve never really had the footwork for it.” The last time he tried was in a celebration in Reddit, and there he had only succeeded in humiliating himself. “And you, my lord?”

Hart smiled. “I’m capable, they say, but I need the right partner. Otherwise, what’s the point?” He ran a hand through his thick black hair, and turned his dark eyes to the sea. “I did mean what I said before. I imagine that this assignment came as a surprise to you, but I’m sure you shall be a great help to us.”

“I… thank you, my lord,” Coin replied. “I, ah, I meant what I said as well. I’ll do all that I can.”

“I’m sure that will be a great deal. You seem like you’ve had ample training, Sir Coin.” There was a glint in his almond eyes, but his smile seemed sincere. “How many years did you train in Central to join the Moderators? I imagine it gave you more than enough experience in this sort of matter.”

“Seven years, if you count when I was squiring. I placed well on the early exams, then after that I started studying under the Knight Regulators when I was thirteen.” After that was five years of tests, training, endless books and sums, and basic arms practice as well. He scored high marks on everything but the latter. “I served under Sir Samuel Harker for about two years of fieldwork as a squire, and then after that I was knighted a week after my twentieth birthday. And I was a knight for… let me think, five years after that.”

“Before you joined us. It must have been difficult, setting that aside.”

“It was. The hardest choice I ever made, truthfully. I loved being in the Order of the Fair Trade, and I didn’t disgrace myself there either.” At the same time, though, it still didn’t compel him the same way the Six did. “It wouldn’t have been right for me to hold on to my title while I really felt more strongly for another. My superiors were understanding.”

Hart smiled. “Mine were less so, when I made the same decision. You were fortunate to avoid the worst of it, Sir Coin.”

“I know. Sometimes I wonder if I got off too easily, when I hear about what other people went through. You ah, you don’t need to call me ‘Sir Coin’ if you don’t want to, though. I’m not a knight anymore.”

Hart cocked his head. “True. But some say we never forget our first loves, and I still remember mine. Do you still recall yours fondly?”

Coin was lost. “My… you mean the Authority? Well, of course it was where I got my education, my job and skills.”

“Mm, but do you owe any more than that?” Hart continued. When Coin couldn’t summon an answer, the generous man said, “I will speak plainly to you, friend: where we’re going, it may come to pass that the Authority is opposed to our success. If that happens, will you be able to choose between us?”

Yes, Coin wanted to answer immediately, but the words caught in his throat. The Authority wasn’t just a government to him: for years it had been his life. Once, every teacher, partner, and friend he ever had came from the Moderators. What would he choose, if it came to it?

The past is the past, Coin thought, I have a new duty now. “I… I have sworn an oath to the Honest Friends, my lord,” he said slowly. “I will not forsake it. I promise you that.”

Mister Hart nodded. “I believe you. I beg your forgiveness for asking something so personal, but you’ll understand that I have to ensure our success. More lives than just the two in the Dreamweave may depend on it.”

Coin hadn’t considered that. I spent so much time wondering why I had to go, that I never considered what might be at stake, he thought ashamedly. “The Dreamweave. Do you know much about it, my lord?” Before coming to the Citadel, Coin had never even heard of the place, and besides it being in the Painted Sea near the Devien Isles, he knew nothing about it.

“More than some. It wasn’t far from my home, and I would visit it from time to time.” He frowned. “I don’t have fond memories of my time there, but that was more due to who I was. I was a very different man when I was young.” His hand went to a spot on his chest, below his right shoulder. “Well, younger.”

“When they were talking about it,” Coin said, “in the council meeting, I mean, they said that the two were sent there to mend some situation. Do you know what that was?”

The assistant’s face twisted. “I do. A Brony was protesting the embargo that was set against us in the Dreamweave. Demonstrating, asking that they open themselves to our people, that sort of thing.”

“What happened to him?”

“He burned himself alive. Right on the docks, outside the city gates.”

Coin paled. “Light of life… what could drive someone—”

He shrugged. “When you’re devoted to something enough, any action seems right and logical if it advances it. We mourned for him in the Citadel, but our friends travelled to the Dreamweave to ensure such a sacrifice wasn’t in vain. I still pray it wasn’t.”

A silence descended between them, though the rest of the ship was anything but quiet. They were still smiling, still laughing and singing as they all travelled together. Kriseroff was swinging a tankard of something foamy in one hand and gripping one of his friends in a crushing hug with the other, bellowing out the lyrics of a new song. Jayson had started singing this new one a few minutes ago, but Coin hadn’t been paying attention to the words until now. Everyone was lifting glasses and cheering along with it as he sang:

“Together we stand, united as brothers,
sing side-by-side in harmony!
The memories we share,
the friendships we gather,
will forge an Equestria for you and me!

“Kindness and Laughter, Honest and Generous,
following through so Loyally!
By sun and by moon,
the Magic between us,
will forge an Equestria for you and me!”

With the last line, Jayson dramatically strummed the final note, and a cheer erupted among the people around. Dustario gave a final “Hear hear!” as they all smashed their tankards together, letting the drink inside spill out onto the deck.

Hart smiled wanly and clapped along with the rest, but his words were still serious when he spoke up. “How have you found your fellow Honest Friends since you arrived?”

Coin thought about that. He couldn’t claim to be the closest of companions with them yet, but he didn’t think ill of any of them either. “Well, I don’t truly know them all. But they’ve been nothing but friendly, my lord. I imagine we’ll be good friends in time.”

“And the Warden of Honesty? What do you think of him?”

Coin opened his mouth, but couldn’t summon an answer. ‘I’m sure we’ll be friends as well’, he could have said. But that would have been a lie, and not one fitting of an Honest Friend. ‘He frightens me’ would have been better, but that wasn’t an answer to give to this man. Instead he said nothing, and Hart took his silence as the only reply he was likely to get.

“He’s quite mad, you know. He thinks that he’s the will of the Six in human form,” Hart said almost nonchalantly.

Coin couldn’t think of anything to say to that.

Proximo Hart sighed. “As I said, devotion can make strange things seem reasonable. And, as I said, more lives than we expect may rely on our success — we cannot allow anything to compromise that. I trust that you’ll make the right decisions.” He bowed. “Good day to you, Sir Coin. May you walk with the strength of Six.”

Hart walked towards the cabin to rejoin the Wardens, leaving Coin alone on the side of the boat again. He pondered about what the assistant had said while he watched the waves go by. The will of the Six in human form, he thought. It was mad, just as Mister Hart said. Coin wondered how someone could believe that. Worse, he wondered if it might be true.

A voice across the deck called out, “Sir Coin!” He turned to see the group of Honest Friends preparing to go elsewhere, likely below decks once again. “Will you join us for cards, sir? I intend to crush the rest of this lot!”

Counter hesitated for half a second, but then shouted, “In a moment!” before they retreated into the hold. Coin watched them go, but turned his eyes back to the horizon before he followed them.

Facing the west, he saw that the sun was beginning to set, dipping down into the ocean beyond while the faintest stars began to appear in the sky. The light from it was yellow and gold, pink and orange, blue and dabs of purple, but all of them were streaked with the crimson red of the sunset. Coin looked at this and wondered, as it grew smaller and fainter still while the ship sailed away and away to a strange land.

* * * * * *

“There are two constants, universal: truth and death. Both you shall find within.”

— Opening lines from the “Books of Black and White”

* * * * * *

End of Part I

Chapter IX: The Moon Rises

Part II: The Dream of Aureliano

* * * * * *

Chapter IX: The Moon Rises

* * * * * *

“Of the different loves so categorized by the Books of Black and White and so felt by mankind, I am now certain that romantic love is the most deep, love between family may be the most intrinsic, but the love between friends to be the most fulfilling, the most edifying, and above all the most useful.”

— Quote from an anonymous writer sworn to the Laughing Friends,
using the pen-name “Jessamino.”

* * * * * *

It was the same dream as always, but even realizing that did not stop Proximo Hart from living it again.

Whenever he recalled the dream, the one he woke from so frequently, the strangest thing was that he was never in his own body. Usually his mind seemed to float above the scene, looking down at the two people standing across from one another. Another time he saw it through someone else’s eyes, a man casually sharpening a thin silver sword and paying no mind to what the haughty youth across from him said. But no matter how many times Proximo went through the memory, he never did so as himself — at least, not the one he had been then.

But there were always two, standing apart. The young one, barely out of boyhood, was in green, handsome with a cruel smile. In his hand was his sword, one that he had never even swung at someone who could defend himself. A small crowd surrounded them, but they were all a grey mist, featureless. Not the man, though. His face was not one that most would recall, but Proximo remembered — old, calm, not plain but not beautiful, with dark hair streaked a dull crimson. Like blood, Proximo thought, just as he realized in his sick bed long ago. He never knew the man’s name, but that face would never leave him.

“Ready to die?” the boy cried out, mocking.

“Usually,” the man replied, not looking up. He ran the whetstone over the thin blade, making it shriek. “But not today, I think.”

The boy laughed. “You shouldn’t have spoken that way to me. Maybe then I wouldn’t have killed you.”

The man didn’t answer. He ran the whetstone over the sword one last time, looking down the edge, and stood up.

“Finally done?” the foolish boy asked as he ran a hand through his thick black hair. “Sharpening it won’t save you.”

The man looked at his opponent in a way between contempt and pity. “You’ve a long, wasted life behind you and such worthless potential ahead. You are about to end it, right now. You can still walk away.”

Do it, Proximo thought, do it, walk. Fool! Fool, get away, walk away now, while you have a chance! While you have a life! Walk!

Instead the boy spat on the ground, in the man’s direction. “Is that meant to frighten me? Stand there, and I’ll make it quick. You should be honored. I’ve never killed someone before.”

“You killed yourself before this even began,” the man replied. The two circled each other, swords in hand. Proximo’s eye saw a glint of silver. Then, from the grey crowd, a whistle blew.

There was a red slash, and the world started to spin. Proximo couldn’t see. Dark crimson clouds surrounded him, like bloody ink dropped into water. Where are they all? he thought as he seemed to fall. All of my friends, where are they?

As he collapsed out of the world, he heard a sigh and the man’s cold voice. “You never fail to disappoint, Hart.” Then it all fell apart…

Proximo’s eyes opened as he awoke to the sight of the wooden ceiling, and the creaking sounds of the ship that surrounded him. He clutched his head with one hand and his chest with the other before rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. He knew that he wouldn’t be able to fall asleep again any time soon, so instead he swung his legs to the side of the bed, stood up, and tried to gauge what time it was.

Within the hull of the Wonderbolt II, it was difficult to tell exactly when in the day it was at any given time. There were certainly no windows in Proximo’s room, which was barely larger than a broom closet. Space was limited on a smaller ship like this, but Hart was appreciative of what he had.

They had been at sea for a week now, tossed and turned on the ocean, but truthfully there had been little to complain about. Well, he thought, I suppose it may take some time to learn to sleep here.

Proximo was bleary-eyed and still only half-awake, but he tried to think nonetheless. It couldn’t be morning already. There’ve been no calls. He couldn’t hear any voices overhead, either, the kind that the Loyal Friends normally made when the ship buzzed with life during the day. With nothing better to do, and not being able to simply slip back to sleep, Proximo resolved to check upstairs.

There was little point in getting dressed in his normal fine clothing, so Proximo opted to cover himself with plain white robes adorned with a violet hood. He did not usually wear the simple habit, but it served well enough. Picking up the hand-mirror packed into his bag, he brushed his hair and warped into a proper shape. Slipping on a pair of shoes, Proximo pushed aside the curtain that served for his door, and proceeded on his way.

After Proximo made his way through the narrow hold and looked up the wooden staircase, he could see that his estimate had been right after all. The night sky hung wide and tall overhead, alive with starlight and the dull white glow of the moons. The pale light of the Mare Who Waited was cast across the ship, lighting the deck that a handful of people stood upon. Proximo was used to the city, and the Citadel of the Six, where it could be hard for all but the Magic Friends seated at their great telescopes to see the heavens above, but out at sea it could all be counted. It was something that he loved about travelling: seeing new places was half of it, but just seeing the stars overhead was enough, sometimes. Lullay, Moon Princess, Proximo thought to himself, as he watched the sky.

The Loyal Friends worked in shifts, most working in the day and a small number taking their rounds during the night — the ones that were still present on deck were those few. Some of the men clothed in cerulean blue with six-colored rainbows on their sleeves were on the ship’s riggings, fiddling with the sails and lines, but most were talking amongst themselves on the deck. Proximo saw an unlucky member of the Honest Friends leaned over the ship’s railing, presumably making his best attempt at turning his stomach inside-out while a man in blue patted him on the back.

A few people greeted him as he passed by, but most kept to themselves. Hardly a festival boat, Proximo thought, recalling the pleasure barges that plied their way around the Devien Isles that the Wonderbolt now sailed towards. He was considering heading back down below decks to try and sleep again, when he saw a familiar man on the bow of the ship.

Captain Skytide stood straight at the front of the Wonderbolt, as though he were a figurehead on the prow. He was dressed in a blue uniform, buttoned and well-fitted, with a rainbow cloth tied around his waist and his gloved hands folded behind his back. Beside him, even more still, was the Warden of Honesty.

The giant was clad in his usual armor, his rough and ugly face turned intently at the distant horizon. Proximo could not recall a time that he had seen the Warden asleep or intent on sleeping — every moment that he was not with Lady Violet or locked away below-decks, he spent staring out at the ocean, as though he could compel it to propel them more swiftly towards their destination.

Proximo did not revel in the idea of speaking with the Warden, but he thought to greet the captain who had brought them so far already. He approached as the two stood wordlessly together and stopped beside Skytide. “Good evening, captain,” he said amicably.

If Captain Skytide was surprised, he did not show it, and smiled instead. He gripped the railing with his calloused hands, and turned to Proximo. “Mister Hart, a pleasure as always. The Warden and I were just discussing our destination.”

A one-sided conversation, no doubt, Proximo thought. The Warden had not acknowledged that anyone else had approached them, and continued to stare forward. Proximo ignored him in turn. “My apologies for bothering you, captain. Trouble sleeping, you know.”

The captain nodded in an understanding way. “I’ve had similar problems, myself, at times. Sleeping at sea can be tricky, when you’re used to land. I assumed that was why you were awake, so late at night.”

“You were right to guess so, captain. I suppose I don’t have my sea-legs yet, so to speak. I was surprised to see you awake so late, though — I assumed you had the authority to not take the night shift.”

Skytide laughed. “I do, as a matter of fact. But I am not in the habit of letting my crew take on burdens I wouldn’t take myself. At any rate, I prefer not to sleep too heavily on journeys like this. A man needs his wits about him, even when he might not expect it, and particularly when he has passengers as important as those I have.”

Proximo bowed. “We are all grateful for your work, captain. We could not have asked for a better guide, on this mission.”

The captain bowed in turn. “You flatter me, friend. But truthfully, we’ve had little to be concerned with, so far. The seas have been clear enough, as it has been, and with any luck we should arrive in the port of Shine within a week. Then, it is only the Dreamweave ahead.”

The Dreamweave, Proximo thought, considering the word. It had been looming in everyone’s thoughts during the past week, with no man or woman on board entirely sure of what awaited them in the city. They said that the place had no love for the Brony Collective, nor for its friends, but it was where the followers of the Six were bound, regardless. “I hope we can succeed,” Hart said.

Skytide nodded. “I am certain you will. With our friends at risk, it will require every aspect of the Six to set them free. I pray that the Loyal will have done their part, before it is all over.” He looked towards the horizon. “I’ve some experience with sailing the Painted Sea, and I’ve heard some tales of this Dreamweave. What do you know of it?”

Proximo shrugged. “I visited once or twice when I was younger. It’s newer than most cities in the Devien Isles. Proud, too. They’ve fallen on hard times, though, from what I gather.”

“I’ve heard the same. They say that foul practices are in place there. I hope it does not complicate things.”

The Warden stirred. “Hrm,” he grunted through twisted lips. “Nothing to complicate. Foul, not foul. Friends will be freed.”

“I certainly hope so,” the captain said. His hands left the railing, and he turned away from his post. “There are matters below-deck that need attending, so I’m afraid I must bid you goodnight, Mister Hart and my Lord of Honesty. It is always an honor.” He bowed, and proceeded down the nearby stairs. “Oh,” he added, “and if it is not too much trouble, Mister Hart, I couldn’t help but notice that Lady Violet is still awake in her cabin. Do you feel equipped to tell her that she should get some sleep herself?”

Proximo laughed. “I’ll try my best, for all the good it will do. It was a pleasure to speak with you, captain.”

With that, the captain left, and Proximo looked over to the cabin on the other end of the ship. Indeed, there was still a glow of light coming from the windows, no doubt from lanterns and candles to help the lady as she scribbled at something. Proximo did not say another word to the Warden, nor received one from him, and walked down to the cabin instead. The assistant drew up to the wooden door, took a moment to straighten his hair, and then knocked on the door.

“Come in!” came a familiar voice from within. Proximo smiled and gently stepped inside.

The assistant found Lady Violet Brushshape seated at the small table housed in the room, scratching at a sheet of paper with an ink quill. Clad in a white silk nightgown, she sat leaning over the paper, her long purple hair falling down her face in curls, and her dark eyes bleary from lack of sleep.

“My lady,” Proximo said, “I see that you’re still awake.”

She smiled when she saw who it was. “Mister Hart! Yes, indeed I am. Very observant of you.”

He ignored the playful sarcasm and walked over to her. “It’s late, my lady. You would profit from some sleep, I’m sure.”

“I was about to say the same thing to you, Proxi,” she said coyly. “I have some experience in late nights. You’re the lightweight here.”

There was a certain truth to that, so Hart chose to seat himself across from Lady Violet. “In that case,” he said, “may I join you? There aren’t a terrible many things to do on this ship, after all.”

“I would never object to your company, Proximo. Here, maybe you can help me with this.”

Proximo glanced over to the paper. “And what is ‘this,’ pray tell?”

“A letter to my family,” she said with a wistful smile. “You know that my sister is going off on a journey across the Web soon? I remember when she was just a baby, and now she’s off to see everything from Central and the tall towers to the Blurrite sands and the mountains of the Sajle.”

Proximo smiled. “Are you planning on visiting, by any chance?”

“Well, we’re much too busy at the moment, of course. But perhaps when we’ve finished in the Dreamweave something can be arranged. It’s only a short sail to Kursedos, after all, and I’d love for you to meet them.” She looked over at her assistant. “That is, provided that you can help me write this.”

He couldn’t help but laugh. “Six save us my lady, you write things all the time. I’m sure you’ll manage without me.”

“Oh, but this is different then all that, Proxi,” she said earnestly. “You know how I get all tongue-tied when I try to write letters to my family, so I’ll need some inspiration. You’re my assistant, aren’t you? Assistme, then.”

Proximo sighed, and leaned back in his chair, thinking. “Well, best to start at the beginning. What salutations are you using?”

“I’m between either ‘Dearest family,’ or ‘My mother, father, and siblings.’”

“The former, certainly. The other sounds like a shopping list,” Proximo said. “Out of curiosity, are you writing in a formal way that makes you sound respectable, or in a casual way that reflects how you actually feel?”

“Oh, formal of course. The appearance of respectability is all I have, Proxi,” she said jokingly. “Well, that and friends. And clothes, and a job I love, and you as well. Nevertheless, my point stands. Besides,” she continued, “I cannot be expressing my feelings too much, or I might settle into a pattern before we meet the Moderators. If one has too many feelings around them, they might mistake me for one of those Blurrite raiders.”

“I always thought there was a resemblance, my lady.”

“Oh hush.” She yawned, and thought for a second. “Scratch that, actually. Sadly, I need you talking. Now, if you were to say something kind to my sisters, what would you say?”

“Well, first I would need to apologize and explain to them that really there’s only one woman in my life, and I’m simply not available. After that disappointment, I imagine they—”

Violet laughed and playfully poked him in the arm. “You’re ridiculous, Proximo. I’ll have you know that my sisters are far too beautiful and far too sensible for a lout like you! The nerve!”

Proximo raised his hands defensively. “Now now, my lady, we both know about my affliction. Women simply cannot resist me, no matter how hard I’ve tried in my life to overcome this defect. How can I help it? I was simply born beautiful.”

Violet rolled her eyes. “The nerve!” she repeated, and wagged a long finger at her assistant. “Talk like that, and you’ll not be meeting anyone, Mister Hart. Part of being the elder sibling is making sure my younger counterparts never, ever look at or meet any eligible suitors, ever. That’s practically rule one in the sibling handbook.” She yawned again, her eyes drooping more. “To be frank, that’s probably why I can never arrange any dates for Madelin. All the potential applicants are too terrified, I’d think.”

“Of her?” It seemed like a fair assumption to Proximo.

“No, of rule one in the sibling handbook. Did you know that she has five older brothers?”

“It isn’t altogether surprising, my lady.”

Violet chuckled. “No, I suppose it explains a lot. Five older brothers, though, and all of them with the same blood as Maddy. I’m no strategist, but that must be worth an army or two. But seriously friend, what would you have to say, were you writing a letter to a little sister like mine?”

Proximo thought carefully, glancing down to the wooden floor. He understood what Violet was asking, but at the same time he began to wonder what he would say were he confronted with his own sisters — the thought made him weary. He doubted that Gallia missed him much, but it had been too long since he had seen Aloysia smile. “I would say… I would say that I miss her. Every day.”

Violet realized immediately what he was thinking, and looked at him sympathetically. “I’m sorry, Proximo. I didn’t mean to bring that up, truly.”

He swallowed his sadness and waved a hand. “Don’t trouble yourself, my lady. There’s nothing to apologize for, I’m truly fine.”

She reached across the table and put her hand on his softly. “You don’t need to lie, Proximo. We’re friends, and much of that means being able to share our problems. Have they been on your mind?”

Proximo nodded, grasping her hand in a reassuring squeeze. “I can’t help it. Two years… it feels so much longer now that I’ve thought about it. I had to leave, there was no other choice to me after the duel, but at the same time…” He ran his fingers through his hair, nervous.

“Perhaps, if we’re in the Painted Sea,” she ventured carefully, “it would not be out of the way to see them? I’m sure that they would welcome you back, Proximo, and if not then at least—“

“No,” he said firmly. “No I… I miss my little sister a great deal. But Gallia and father, they… they don’t want me home. It doesn’t matter. My place is here, by your side.”

“But does it have to be one or the other?” Lady Violet asked, moving closer. “You know I love you, Proximo, but if I could never see my family again, I don’t know what I would do. I don’t want you to feel that way, not if there’s anything I can do to help.”

“You don’t need to worry about me, my lady. With the matter at hand… it’s better that I not dwell on it.” He turned away from the look she was sending him, and focused on the star-globe nearby instead. “Our mission, then. How do you feel about it?”

“A fine way to change the subject,” Lady Violet said as she stood from her seat. She acquiesced nonetheless. “We will succeed. I have no doubt about it.”

“Now you’re the one that’s lying,” Proximo pointed out, standing from his own chair. Violet crossed the room, and stood in front of the windows at the rear of the cabin. There was little to see, it being so late at night, other than the starry sky reflecting in the dark indigo waters below. “Come now, my lady. I shared my thoughts, and now it is your turn.”

She folded her hands behind her back, and sighed. “Truthfully, I’m not sure what to think. There are lives at risk here, and not just those of Greenglade and Dabrius in their cells, either. Should the Authority rule against us, it could mean an entire new policy on our fandom and friends. We’ve worked hard to raise the Collective up these past few years, win us allies, secure us a home in the Internet, let people know that we mean no harm. I’ve helped build that, but now? Now I see it at risk again, and I’ve been tasked to set it right. Mars asked me to go, but if I cannot succeed…”

“You’ve been through worse, my lady,” Proximo said, putting a hand on her shoulder. “We’ve been through worse too. You aren’t alone in this — ask any man or woman that’s accompanying us, and they’ll say the same.”

She smiled. Looking at her, Proximo realized just how tired she was — her eyes were more than just bleary now, but red and rheumy as well, with the beginnings of dark rings under them. Her hair looked more tangled than before, and flatter as well, and she seemed to be swaying slightly as she stood. “Thank you Proximo. I know that you’re right, but sometimes I forget myself, really. When I know there’s work to do, well, I can find it hard to close my eyes. The past few days… haven’t…” She yawned, and rubbed her eyes. “What I need is…. I need....”

“What you need,” her assistant said gently, “is some sleep. Just sit down a moment, my lady.” She took a seat in the small bed that lay against the wall, straightening out her nightgown as best she could while she sat.

“Yes,” she said, yawning again. “Yes, for a moment, at least. Thank you, Proxi. I really don’t know what I’d do without you.” Her eyes started to close once she sat, and she began to rock to the side before shaking her head to keep awake. “Before I sleep. On the shelf, a book I’m reading. On the top shelf, left side… Mars wrote it…”

Proximo walked over, running his finger over the spines of the books, until he found a purple book with the symbol of a six-pointed star on the cover. The title was “Analysis and Further Readings Concerning Morals Gained From the Six During the Season of Discovery,” and the author was printed as “Feylen Mars.” The title certainly matched the Warden of Magic’s style. “I have it here, my lady,” Proximo said, “but after this you really must sleep. You know that I—“

He turned around, and saw that Lady Violet was lying on the bed, sleeping. Placing the book back on the shelf, Proximo smiled and sighed. “I live to serve now,” he finished, before grabbing a blanket that had fallen on the floor. After placing it over her, he walked out the door and shut it softly behind him.

The deck was even quieter than before, with a few of the crew from before retreated downstairs. A handful of Loyal Friends were looking out at the ocean quietly, and a man wearing orange and gold sat by the railing, humming softly to himself. At the stern of the Wonderbolt II, the Warden of Honesty still stood alone, cape sweeping up behind him from the wind. Does he ever sleep? Proximo wondered as he stared at the giant figure.

As he began to walk down the stairs to go back to his own room and rest, however, Proximo heard a noise coming from across the ship. Very quietly, a voice was crooning through the dark night.

“Out here, alone
Growing beside the trees,
I see your night,
Made as a gift to me.

“I see your sky,
left up there hanging for me.
You love, above,
Painted for centuries.
Maiden of night,
I’m still down here.”

Looking around, Proximo saw that it was the man sitting by himself in an orange uniform, his feet dangling and swaying over the side of the ship as he softly sang.

“I see your moon,
A white face looking at me.
Your tide abides,
Ebb-flow for centuries.
Lady forlorn,
They left three down here.

“I see two stars,
falling, they’re yearning for me.
Their souls, aglow,
above these apple trees.
Mother of dark,
I ask, I ask you please.

“They’re away from day.
Why couldn’t they just stay?”

Proximo went back below the ship, and hoped that he wouldn’t dream again.

* * * * * *

“If you only knew what all this cost

What she gave up just to save her art

What is fashion, fashion without love?

Like an odradek, a spool without purpose

There are holes in every last dress.

“Do you not like this color?”

— And The Rainfall, and SoGreatandPowerful

{}

Chapter X: Security Mare

* * * * * *

“No.”

— During the First Rise, Brony forces in Comchan were subject to blockade by an Authority fleet. The commander of the quarantine, Lord Moderator Giles Blair, sent to the Brony leader a four page letter explaining the situation and demanding immediate surrender. The response letter consisted only of the above word.

* * * * * *

There had been more than a few card games played during the journey to the Dreamweave, but the hand in front of Coin was probably his worst so far. Two twos, two threes, a one, and a null, Coin thought glumly as he stared at them. He kept hiding them behind one another and then fanning them out again, as though that would change the small black and white numbers printed on them. Unsurprisingly, it did not.

Coin glanced over at the other players, trying to gauge what he was up against. There were five others, besides him, all crammed into a small dark room below decks in the Wonderbolt, seated around a wooden table. Dustario seemed calm and collected as always, looking at his cards after he dealt them, and the pink-robed Jayson Joyfelt seemed similarly neutral. Dalwin Faust, soft-spoken and sandy-haired, was regarding his hand with an intense scrutiny. Strongshield, the Honest Eye woman with her back to the wall, was frowning at her cards, but since she was almost always frowning it was not much of a tell.

And Kriseroff, who had somehow managed to lose every single game he had played in the past week on board the Wonderbolt, seemed ready to start swearing again. He had handled the first dozen or so losses admirably, but things started going downhill since then, and the last game ended with him pounding on the table hard enough that it spilled his drink over the golden eye printed on his uniform. At the very least, Kriseroff’s persistence was to be respected, even if his skills were not.

At the center of the table were the standard four cards: the lord of swords, the lady of shields, the high of hammers, and the fool of masks, with pile of other cards beside them. Coin’s starting hand was poor enough that he would likely need to discard everything before he could make a single decent play, but he had played enough Lordly String in his time to hold his own. Hopefully I can last long enough to get something, he thought, eyeing the pile of cards in the center.

Dustario eyed each of them. “I have a spare hand, up for sale,” he said, tapping another set of cards that he had dealt out next to his own. The dealer always dealt out two for himself, and could switch if he saw fit, but Dustario seemed content with his first and now left the other up to auction.

Before Coin could make an offer for it, Kriseroff’s hand slammed down. “Here, give it here, Kriseroff will give two.” He moved forward two of the wooden chips they had found aboard the ship, and looked eagerly at Dustario.

“I’ll give three,” Coin said, pushing out the needed amount.

“Four then,” Kriseroff answered intently.

Coin backed down at that, and Dustario handed over the new hand to a triumphant Kriseroff. The large man smiled, then took one look at his new cards and swore bitterly. “Cards, little cards, what is this?” he said, exasperated. “Why do you always have these numbers on you?”

It occurred to Coin that Kriseroff might be doing better if he didn’t loudly announce his disappointment with his own hands, but perhaps this would be the man’s lucky game after all. Certainly, Coin did not raise hopes about his own prospects, now that his own supply of chips were running low. His best hope, so far as he could see, could be to pray for a house card to come his way and play it with the two threes, but it was a weak move no matter what he did.

“All ready?” Dustario asked with a smile. The handsome Honest man was on a winning streak, and seemed confident that he could continue it. He tossed in some chips. “The ‘in’ will be four.”

Reluctantly, Coin pushed in four chips, as his fellow players did the same. Jayson eyed his contemplatively before throwing them in. “If wooden coins could be spent, I think you’d be a rich man before this is through, Dusty.”

“If only,” Dustario answered. “Alright then, throw them.”

Coin considered which one of his cards to throw away, picked the null, and put it down with the cards the others were throwing in. He picked up another card from the deck, and saw it was a six of swords. As he swallowed his disappointment, the sound of footsteps came down the hallway. The quarters they played in was more of a connecting room, in truth, but since there was little room to spare on the Wonderbolt they made use of what they had, and tolerated the fact that people would often edge past them to reach a different part of the ship. They all prepared to move themselves to let this person through, when they saw who it was.

Dressed in white and violet, it was Proximo Hart, the Warden of Generosity’s assistant. “Good evening friends,” he said charmingly, “and how is the game?”

“Wonderful,” Dustario said.

“Terrible,” said Kriseroff, sounding depressed.

“Six save us Kris, have you still not won?” Hart teased. “I’m sorry to say it, but there’s a limit to how much can be blamed on bad luck.”

“Ha ha,” the big man replied sourly, “yes yes, laugh at him. Everyone laugh! We will see soon who is laughing.” He looked at his hand with grim determination, and bit his lip.

Hart worked his way over to a chair. “Anyways, would you all mind if I joined you? Exciting as our mission is, I’ve found myself having very little to do, and any attempt on my part to make myself useful has failed.”

Strongshield did not look up at Hart, and kept frowning at her cards. “Suppose there’s only so many times you can brush your hair,” she said flatly.

“I can attest to that,” Dustario remarked. “Of course you can join us, Proximo. Shall I deal you a hand?”

The assistant wave his hand. “Don’t trouble yourself for now, I think I’ll just watch.” He took a seat between Dustario and Coin, and rubbed his chin thoughtfully as he looked over the game.

They played out their hands, but once all was revealed it was Strongshield that swept in the chips. “Another victory,” she said while gathering up her winnings, “and none of you can even keep up.”

“Don’t think we’re done yet,” Jayson said pointedly, “I’m feeling cheerful about this next hand.”

“Hm? Seem pretty calm, for a Laughing Friend that is.”

“I’m smiling on the inside,” Jayson replied. “Smiling on the outside contorts the face too much. The truest joy is within the soul,” he said, quoting the writings of one of the Laughing Friends.

Strongshield rolled her small brown eyes, and looked down to her new hand. “You won’t be smiling anywhere soon.”

“There’s no need to be so serious, friend,” Dustario pointed out.

“A follower of Honesty is always serious, praise the Warden,” she replied.

Proximo Hart was the one rolling his eyes now, but Jayson replied first. “It’s a harmless game of cards. Not everything has to be a competition.”

She snorted. “That’s just what people say when they’re losing. If I can beat any of you in the training yard, I can beat any of you at cards.”

“From my experience,” Proximo Hart said, “there is not a great deal of overlap between those two fields.”

“Besides,” Dustario chimed in, “I seem to remember beating you in the yard, more than once.”

Strongshield fumed. “That didn’t count. If I’d had my axe, you would have been flat on your back.”

“Much as I enjoy the idea,” he replied with a teasing smile, “the simple fact is that I was not flat on my back. In fact, I believe I was standing up, victorious and glorious and surrounded by beautiful lady-fans.” Dustario was giving her an almost flirtatious look.

She scoffed. “Pig.”

“He’s right,” Dalwin Faust said, speaking for the first time. “Except for the last part. There weren’t any lady-fans.” He was still regarding his hand closely as he talked in a very quiet voice. “You’re strong, but rely on it too much. Brute force, every time. When you didn’t have your normal weapon, it was a weakness.”

Strongshield looked at him darkly. “I’ve been in more battles than you can count, and you’re going to tell me how to fight? How much fighting have you seen?”

Dalwin shrugged. “Some. And I can count pretty high.”

“And what if you and I were fighting, hm? Would your counting help you much there?”

“Maybe. Or not.” Dalwin continued to look at his cards, picked one out and then moved it to the other side of his hand. “Dustario counts while he fights, in a way. Every step in sequence, like dancing.”

Dustario laughed. “I was trained in both, actually. I find that a little grace in a clash never hurts.”

“It might, if you aren’t careful,” Mister Hart said. “Treat fighting too much like a game, and you may just dance your way into a grave.”

“Best hope I don’t,” Dustario replied wryly, “I don’t know how you’d manage without me.” He laid his cards down, and showed that he had a minor string. Everyone groaned, and Dustario began to collect up the chips he had won. “And what about you, Mister Hart? You talk about me dancing into graves, but what is your fighting technique?”

“At the moment, my strategy is being cut to ribbons and bleeding out in the mud. It has served me well enough so far.” Hart was smiling, but there was a feeling other than happiness behind what he said, and his hand was hovering over a spot on his chest.

Dustario was arranging his winnings into little piles. “Now that’s a winning ploy if I’ve ever heard one.” He looked over to Coin Counter. “But how could I forget our resident knight? Sir Coin, I’m certain you have some skill with swords, having been in the Authority and all.”

Coin chuckled nervously. “Ah, not really. Every recruit in the Authority has to pass physical training and weapons-work—sword, shield, staff, spear, that kind of thing—but it was never my specialty.”

“Oh, don’t be humble. Come now, I’m certain you could make short work of any of us untrained rubes, sir.”

Coin recalled a time that he was paired against another recruit twice his size during staff training, and was hit in the head so hard that he had to be dragged out of the arena. “I, uh, I really doubt it.”

“So do I,” Strongshield said bluntly. “What about the pink man? Do you sing at all your troubles? How do you fight people?”

Jayson shrugged and twirled his hair. “Usually I just punch them in the groin.”

Dustario burst out laughing. “Is that all?”

“Sometimes I kick them, as well. And then I just keep doing that until they fall over.” Jayson couldn’t suppress a smile as he said it.

Dustario shook his head. “I had seven years of training in the Snowcloud White style of duelling, but apparently I never considered the sheer possibilities that come from the Jayson Joyfelt-style of relentless groin-punching. So what happens if they block your daring blow?”

“Just keep trying. They’ve got to drop their hands eventually, yes? Besides, it’s a very cost-effective technique, because if it’s done correctly there’s little chance of my enemy’s descendants seeking revenge on mine.”

“Remind me to never fight you, Jayson.”

Surprisingly, even Strongshield had to laugh. “Apologies, singer. You have the right idea about fighting after all. Not that it would help you against me.”

Kriseroff, his mood now lifted, bellowed out a laugh. “Would it not, Strongshield-friend? Ha! Take care now, Jayson-friend, she says she is immune to your technique!” He laughed again, then stroked his braided beard. “Kriseroff’s technique is simple, though maybe not so simple as Jayson-friend’s. This one attacks, and then attacks again, and then keeps attacking until there is no one left to fight back.”

“I realized that, from how how you play cards,” Dalwin Faust said softly. “You’ve lost every game, but you keep attacking. Until you win.”

Jayson leaned back in his chair. “There is a level of dedication against which there is no victory,” he said, quoting from the Moderators.

“We’ll see about that,” Dustario replied.

“No no, the friend speaks true,” Kriseroff said thoughtfully. “The persistence of an action, any action, never surrendering, that is how it must be done. That is the Honest way. That is the Warden’s way.”

“Praise the Warden of Honesty,” Strongshield said solemnly, placing a hand on the golden eye printed on her chest.

Proximo Hart scoffed lightly. “Blindly pushing forward, over and over, regardless of whether it works, does not seem like good strategy to me. Warden’s way or no.”

“Ah, for ordinary folk, perhaps it is true,” Kriseroff said. “But with the strength of the Six, and with the strength like that of the Great Honest One, there is no obstacle.”

“None can stand against him,” Strongshield agreed. “He is the true instrument of the Six and One.”

“He might be freakishly tall and strong, but the ‘Great Honest One’ is only a man,” Hart said.

Strongshield’s expression curdled like sour milk. “He is far more than that. If you cannot see it, then you are blind. The Six are sacred, and the Warden is the eye of their godhead.”

Coin did not want to enter the argument, but there had been questions laying heavy on his mind ever since he had first met the towering Warden of Honesty. “Sorry,” Coin said before Hart could give a reply, “but I… well I really haven’t been in the fandom very long. I’ve wondered… who is the Warden? Where did he come from?”

Dustario looked at Coin with an odd expression. “That’s a dangerous inquiry, Sir Coin. Not many have survived asking it.”

“What? What do you— what does— ” Coin stammered out, panicking.

Dustario laughed. “That was a joke, Sir Coin. No, in all seriousness, those are very reasonable questions. I have often wondered them myself.”

“You mean you don’t know?” Coin asked, confused.

“No one knows,” Jayson said. “Well, perhaps Lord Mars and the other Wardens do, but no one else. He came to our fandom in the Chan, during the First Rise, but no one can tell who he was before, or his name, or anything about him. He simply is.”

“And has been, and will be,” Dalwin said seriously. He set down his cards on the table, and looked over to Proximo Hart. “You may not believe it, friend, but Strongshield and Kris are not altogether wrong. The Great Honest One is beyond ordinary men.”

“I’ll believe that when I see it,” Hart answered.

“You will,” Dalwin said.

“I’ve heard some tales about him, though,” Dustario said. “Not one of them agrees with the other, but there’s some I might believe. I’ve heard he was a Mod, actually.”

“Really?” Coin asked, surprised.

“Stationed in the Chan, but once he saw the Works of the Six, he chose to leave and join us. He has the discipline of a Moderator, to be sure.” Dustario had set down his own cards now, wrapped into the conversation. “I don’t know if it’s true, but it could be.”

“I heard talk that he was an anonymite,” Proximo remarked nonchalantly. “The Chan breeds brutal men, and it might explain some of his strange customs.”

Coin could see the truth behind that, but at the same time he was not entirely convinced by either of them. Strongshield leaned forward with a frown. “You’re both wrong. You talk about the Warden like he’s a person, but he isn’t. He’s just the shape of one. That kind of crude being does not exist in him, he is so great. The Warden is an instrument, sent to us by the divine.”

“She is right to say so,” Kriseroff replied, speaking in the most serious way that Coin had ever heard him. It was unnerving to see it, but when Kriseroff spoke of his master, all of the smiles and laughs from before melted away. His dark face was stony, and his dark eyes were as bright and cold as the mountains of his homeland. “Our fandom is the chosen people of the Internet, given light from the World Beyond the Web, and the Warden is the enactor of the Six’s ideals in our world within. The Warden is the finger of God.”

The hairs on Coin’s arm stood up, he was so chilled from hearing such talk. Any Moderator would call it blasphemous to hear them speak that way, but the two Honest Eyes seemed utterly sincere. Jayson merely shrugged again. “I heard someone say that the Warden was a statue given life, and another that said he was a demon that walked in a human body. There are so many tales… are any of them true? Are they all?”

“I believe he was a criminal,” Dalwin quietly said. “Maybe he was a Mod or an anonymite as well, and maybe he is beyond men now. But that’s what I think he was. It’s never ‘I’ or ‘me’, always ‘we’. He destroyed himself. He must have hated who he used to be.”

Jayson Joyfelt and Kriseroff were staring at Dalwin strangely, but Strongshield scoffed. “Blind, all of you. The truth of his power is right in front of you, eight-feet tall, and you ignore it.”

As they continued to argue, Coin thought about what they said. Any of them could be true from what Coin had seen of the Warden of Honesty, but at the same time none of them seemed right to him. None of it made complete sense. Surely if the Warden had just been an ordinary man, or a Moderator, or anyone else, people would know who he was—enormous, one-eyed warriors of incredible strength were not exactly common, nor were men of the Warden’s personality. It would seem as though finding the Warden’s identity would be as easy as searching for tales of unpleasant, near eight-foot tall people in the Chan, and yet no one could say who the man was.

While they talked, however, Coin thought he could hear a sound coming from the hall behind him. It was very faint, just a short tap on wood, but at the same time Coin turned to see if there was someone there. He gasped when the shadow passed over the table.

The others were still arguing, but almost immediately they saw who stood before them and went silent. Kriseroff and Strongshield immediately went down on their knees, reciting something under their breaths, while Dustario and Dalwin stood and bowed. Coin did the same, while Dustario stammered out a response. “M— my lord, what can— “

The Warden of Honesty did not let him finish. His scarred and unattractive face was locked in sight down at his diminutive servants, golden eye glaring at Proximo. “You,” he said to Hart, “Lady Violet requires us. Now.”

Hart stood up, brushed off his clothes, and approached. “My lady sent you to bring me?”

“Yes.” He looked over the others in the room, his eye narrowing. “Talking. About us?”

A nervous Proximo tried to deny it. “Wh— well it was not— “

“Yes, my lord, we were,” Strongshield admitted immediately, practically putting her head to the floor. “A thousand apologies. I take full responsibility.”

The Warden looked at her, but did not seem angry. Or at least, not more than usual. “Hrm,” he grunted. Before he turned, however, his eye fell on Coin Counter. “You. Follow.”

Coin swallowed. “M— my lord?”

“Were asked for as well. By Lady Violet,” the Warden explained gruffly. He seemed almost confused that Coin had not already stood up to leave.

“Me?” Coin stammered. “But wh— “

“Did not ask,” the Warden interrupted impatiently. “This one does not question orders. Nor should that one,” he said with a gesture to Coin. “Now follow.”

As Coin rose to depart, Dustario cleared his throat, and sat down to try and play off the situation. The others pretended to do the same, but all of them were still half-looking at the Warden, as he moved towards the doorway with Hart following behind. “Ah, well,” Dustario said with a tone of feigned nonchalance, “let’s continue, then.” He picked up a card, and gave a nervous smile. “I hope you’re all ready to lose. I’m one away from a string of masks.”

“Liar,” the Warden said matter-of-factly as he was leaving. “No masks.”

Dustario was sweating in his seat, and everyone exchanged a look with him. In his surprise, he laid his cards down on the table. As the Warden of Honesty lumbered away, Coin looked over at Dustario’s hand. Not one of the cards had a mask.

Coin was turning that thought over in his mind every step of the way to Lady Violet’s cabin. He followed closely behind Hart, and as they climbed the wooden staircase to the top deck, Coin looked up to the giant ahead, and wondered.

Powers beyond ordinary men, he contemplated warily as glanced up at the Warden, marching ahead, the will of the Six in human form, the eye of their divinity, the finger of God. That the Honest Eyes spoke of the ‘Great Honest One’ in terms of a god-king was troubling enough, but the lingering doubt in Coin’s mind that their lunacy might have a shade of truth was far worse. In his own experience, the most frightening kinds of fanatics were the ones who were right.

Coin glanced up at the Warden carefully, examining the so-called deity. The man was grotesque, in truth: his skin was pale as a graveworm and leathery as an old boot, so scratched by lines and scars that his face looked like it had been carved from a gnarly stump. Coin was of the opinion that a god would be easier to look upon.

Hart dislikes him, Coin thought as they passed by a few Loyal Friends, their blue-and-rainbow uniforms flapping in the salt-sea wind, and the other Wardens are cautious of him. He recalled the conversations he had overheard in the Citadel of the Six, where the lords and ladies debated over how helpful their compatriot would be. Lady Wright joked about him, Lady Violet had her doubts, and Lord Mars defended him. The Honest Friends love and fear him, and the Honest Eyes think he’s a god. But what does he think of all of them? Coin had never seen the Warden of Honesty give any special regard to the Honest Eyes or their claims to his divinity, but at the same time he clearly never discouraged it. Does he believe it himself? Does he care?

Coin’s thoughts were interrupted when the group stopped at Lady Violet’s door. Rather than knock and wait, the Warden simply barged his way inside without a second thought, leaving Hart and Coin to follow hesitantly behind him.

Coin had never seen within the captain’s cabin: it was as spacious as a room could be on a speedship like the Wonderbolt, with tall bookshelves along the walls, a finely made rug in colors of cerulean, crimson, and saffron in the center, and stately velvet curtains draped to the sides of the windows on the back wall. There was an oaken table standing next to a constellation globe, with four chairs pulled up around it and a full dinner set covering it. Standing towards the back, were two people: one of them Coin recognized as the captain of the ship, Skytide, wearing his blue uniform. The other, with her arms behind her back and her eyes looking out the window, was Lady Violet Brushshape.

The sound of the door opening had made her jump slightly, but she recovered quickly with a beautiful smile. “My honest friend,” she said to the Warden, “you startled me. Did you forget how to knock?” she asked with playful sarcasm.

“No,” the Warden of Honesty replied, sounding vaguely confused at the question. He motioned to Coin and Hart. “Brought them.”

“So I see. Thank you, my friend, though you needn’t volunteer for fetching people on my behalf in the future—I’m certain one of the Loyal Friends would have been happy to help.”

“Hrm,” was the only response the Warden gave. He cast a look over to the other side of the room, one that Lady Violet matched with a knowing smile and a half-nod.

The Warden of Honesty proceeded away, allowing Lady Violet to turn her attention to her guests, while Captain Skytide stepped towards them as well. “My apologies for interrupting your fun, Mister Hart, but you know that I just can’t resist when it comes to that,” she teased.

“I’ve learned to deal with it, my lady,” Hart said with a wave of his hand. “I knew you couldn’t have me far away for long.”

“Oh, hush with that, Proxi,” she chuckled. “But at any rate,” she said with her eyes on Coin Counter, “I was hoping that both you and Sir Coin would be kind enough to join the captain and I for the evening. I hope you’ll forgive the abruptness of the invitation, but tonight seemed as fine a time as any.” She bowed to Coin, and looked at him with her dark eyes, a bang of long purple hair half cascading down her forehead.

Coin swallowed nervously, but smiled. “It is an honor, my lady,” he said truthfully. “But I… well, I’m afraid you’ve got me at a loss.” He glanced around the room, unsure of how he fit into it. “I’m not sure what I’ve done to deserve such a pleasure.”

Lady Violet laughed. “Sir, there’s no need to feel scrutinized. As I understand it, you are the most junior member of the investigation team accompanying us to the Dreamweave, and since I’ve already spoken with so many of the others already it only seemed fair that we all try to get to know one another better. Besides, surely we had to invite someone, yes? Now,” she said with move towards the laid-out table, “won’t you all take a seat? We may have met briefly once before, but I’m afraid that introductions were a bit stunted, considering the recent drama. Consider this my own way of making it up to you.”

Coin was still uncertain, but Lady Violet seemed nothing but sincere, and it would be extremely rude for him to refuse. He took a place at the table, with Captain Skytide seating himself next to him and Proximo Hart joining the lady on the other side. The captain bowed his head to Coin, his hook nose looming downward. “I believe that we have passed by one another by during our voyage, but I’ve never had the honor of an introduction. My name is Captain Skytide, of the Most Loyal Friend,” he said graciously, as though Coin did not already know his name.

“I’m Coin,” he said while returning the bow, “Coin Counter.”

“Well met. I understand that you hail from Central? I was born there myself.”

Coin could have guessed, considering the captain’s features and accent—the manner of pronunciation in the Devien Isles and Central were quite similar, but the captain’s inflexion was just different enough to mark him as Centrellian. It was a stronger, more refined style than the accent that Coin had: though he would not be so bold as to ask, Coin wagered that it was because Captain Skytide was born into one of Central’s prominent families.

Lady Violet delicately reached for a nearby wine bottle, and tipped some of the golden liquid into a crystal glass. “Sir Coin is a knight, as it happens. An adept Knight Regulator, at that.”

Former knight, Coin thought, wondering why everyone seemed to make that mistake.

Captain Skytide looked at him with surprise. “Truly? I happen to have a cousin in the Anti-Piracy Squadron. The Regulators are a sturdy branch, as I understand it.”

“Without a doubt,” Lady Violet remarked. “My family had some experience with the Order of the Fair Trade, operating our vineyards. Good men, and true, though not half as animated as the Knight Censors were.” She smiled at the thought of something. “Remind me Proximo, where was that incident with Sir Julius? It was the Blurr, I know, but was it in Askobarr or…”

“The fair city of Smol Shore, actually,” Proximo Hart said with a grin, “in the arrivals’ port, specifically. You’re referring to the time with ‘justicars,’ yes?”

“Yes! That one exactly,” she laughed, before taking another sip of wine. She reached over to pour some in the captain’s glass, and then continued, “Well, I simply have to share this one. Now, Proximo and I were on a mission at the time to negotiate…”

Coin nodded along with the conversation, but found his attention drifting away to the back corner of the room. He had expected that, after delivering both himself and Hart to the cabin, the Warden of Honesty would have left, but instead he simply took a place in front of the windows, looking out and not reacting to what was being spoken of.

Now why does he linger? Coin wondered. He had no cause to stay, nor did he seem interested in doing so. Coin recalled quickly that Lady Violet had seemed to indicate for her friend to stay with them—what call was there for that?

Coin would have shaken off the slight suspicion if he had not noticed a similar expression cross Hart’s face; while helping Lady Violet tell the story, the assistant shot a few looks over to the Warden of Honesty, then back to his lady. She said nothing, but gave a similar, knowing glance to her assistant. Coin had the strange feeling that there was something unspoken between the two that they were not inclined to share with him.

Before he could do much more pondering, Coin heard some laughter from the others, and heard the tail-end of some amusing anecdote.

“... well, I’m certain you can imagine the surprise he had when the report came in about who we actually were. The nerve of him! Honestly,” she said while pushing a strand of hair from her face, “I was under the assumption that when one claims to not be a homicidal insurrectionist, it would be taken at face value. I hadn’t realized I gave off an… what was it, Proximo?”

“An ‘antipattern disposition,’ my lady.”

“Yes, just so. At any rate, it certainly says a great deal about my apparent ability to intimidate perfect strangers.”

“I’ve known you for years, and I’m still terrified,” Proximo added.

“As well you should be,” Captain Skytide added with a smile, lifting a glass to Lady Violet.

She feigned looking abashed at the praise, when she turned her attention back to Coin. “Ah, but where are my manners? You must forgive me for being so presumptuous, Sir Coin. Here I’ve been, chattering about my own pithy tales with the knights, all while we have a living one here at the table!” She gently took Coin’s glass and poured some golden wine into it, then handed it back to him. “I’m certain you’ve some more exciting tales to tell, seeing your experience.”

“I — I…” Coin stammered, trying to think. The topic shifting to him was not something he was particularly expecting, nor hoping for—he tried to conjure some interesting tale from when he was working with his Order. The time I filed those reports, or the time I balanced those books? Coin wondered, grasping at straws. “I’m not sure I do, my lady.”

Hart waved his hand at the statement. “Nonsense, sir. I’ll have you know, captain,” the assistant said, “that Sir Coin helped smash the Silk Road, in the Deep Web.”

Oh, that story, Coin Counter thought, dreading that conversation that would inevitably come after. He hated talking about himself, especially when it was about things that people assumed were far more impressive than they actually were.

Captain Skytide, ordinarily so stoic, seemed entirely shocked. “Really? Light of life, sir, I had hardly expected to hear something like that. In the Deep Web… forgive me for asking, but I certainly hope you can tell us about it.”

“There’s not… well there’s not much to tell, captain,” Coin replied. A chorus of disagreement from the table told Coin that he was not escaping from this, though, and he reluctantly began. “I, ah, I suppose I can’t speak for the entire operation, seeing that I was only brought in later on. The Authority had been tracking them for years, but they were far into the Deep,” he said, his mind flashing back to what it was like to try and navigate through that Hell, “far enough that they were almost impossible to find. The scout ships can only go out so long, you see, before they have to turn back—otherwise they’ll never come out.”

Captain Skytide shifted in his seat—the thought of the Deep made him uncomfortable, no doubt. “I’ve never ventured that far from the Known Internet, myself. The tales I heard of it were enough for me, though I was affronted by Deepmen once. Fleshtrappers, trying to seize a merchant vessel I was serving on at the time.”

Coin nodded. “That’s their way: there’s no point in hunting inside the Deep, so they raid the fringes for scraps and people to haul off.” No one knew exactly what happened to the men that the fleshtrappers caught alive, though every once in while a few captives would live to tell the tale. Some were sold as slaves, without a doubt, but other reports claimed that the Deepmen had even fouler intentions in mind. “Then they disappear, on certain paths through the place—that’s the only way they can travel safely.”

“Was the Silk Road trading in that?” Hart asked, looking disgusted.

“Most were were smugglers. Drugs, weapons, other Intolerable materials, that sort of thing. There were some who dealt in both, but that’s not what they were known for. Like I said, though, the Authority had been tracking them for years—they were one of the biggest operations. Well, of the ones we knew of, anyways.”

There was no law in the Deep, nor could anyone say what lay within with certainty: everything that the Authority knew was based on what little they could gather from scouts and captured Deepmen. Few settlements could survive in that maelstrom of mist and water, but for all anyone knew there could be massive cities that no one knew of, separated by biting winds and titanic waves hundreds of feet high. No one could even say for fact how big the Deep was, whether it was just a slim border around the Web or a void that dwarfed it in size. “But there was no way we could find it, without knowing the paths that traders would take to reach the place safely.”

Lady Violet took a sip of wine. “No terror compares for women-born than the end of souls in dark water. From the breaking of dawn, the children of morn shall find themselves in black seas,” she said, reciting a poem Coin had once heard about the Deep Web. “Where worlds are lost and sky-waves scorn, the tide of time shall wane and weep…”

“...And let my widow pray and mourn, but follow me not, out to the Deep,” Captain Skytide finished.

“Very impressive,” Lady Violet said with a bow of her head. “I’ve always loved that poem. But please, Sir Coin, continue.”

“Well, ah, there was only one way to find the way to the Silk Road. They would have to have some kind of contact outside the Deep, people who could ship their goods and direct customers. It was just finding them that was the problem, but eventually my superiors got hold of a lead.”

“And that’s where you come in?” Proximo asked.

Coin nodded. “Sir Samuel Harker had me and some others work on combing through finances, finding discrepancies—that’s how we tracked down the connection. After we found out who was being supplied by whom, it was just a matter of tracking them down and getting the information we needed. And once we had that, they gathered a crackdown force to root them out.”

“I suppose, then,” Lady Brushshape said, “that you volunteered to join them?”

Coin hesitated. “More that someone else volunteered me.” Coin had actually not even realized that the research he was conducting would end in a full-scale operation until the moment that Sir Samuel included him on the list of those joining said operation. “Sir Samuel was my mentor, and he wanted me to accompany him. He was very… enthusiastic.”

“I would hate to meet a man who is enthusiastic about entering the Deep Web,” Captain Skytide said. “Meaning no offense, of course.”

Coin chuckled. “None taken. He wouldn’t take offense either, as a matter of fact.”

Lady Violet smiled, nodded, and took a delicate sip of golden wine from her glass. “I’m surprised, Sir Coin. Between this Deep Web business, and your work in Reddit, and your place here with us, you seem to find yourself continually thrust into the strangest of circumstances. The right place at the right time, so to speak.”

He smiled weakly. “Or the wrong way of both. My lady.”

“It almost stretches the imagination.” Her eyes flickered over to the back of the room. “What are your thoughts, my honest friend?”

The Warden had been so silent that Coin almost forgot he was even there. Suddenly, Coin had a strange feeling race over him, like a cold tension at the back of his mind, as though something were watching him. The Warden of Honesty did not move at all or look towards the others when he spoke up. “He is telling the truth,” he said plainly.

“I assumed nothing less,” Lady Violet replied, before taking another small drink.

Coin looked between the two of them, confused by the exchange. There was some unsaid thing between the two of them, something that involved Coin specifically, that did not bode well in his mind at all.

If the lady noticed the curiosity in both Coin’s expression and that of her assistant, she did not acknowledge it, preferring instead to change the subject. “This Sir Samuel you spoke of, you squired for him, yes? For how long?”

“Two years, my lady.”

“And you studied with the Regulators for five years before that, as well?”

“Ah, yes. Yes I did.” She already knows the answers to what she’s asking me, Coin realized. Her assistant must have told her, he thought, remembering the conversation that he had with him some time ago. It begs the question of why she is asking it again, though.

“And then you served in the Authority for another five years after you received your knighthood?” she asked as a follow-up. When Coin nodded, she continued on. “I must say, Sir Coin, that I am glad that you chose to accompany us on this mission, considering your experience. You seem to have spent most of your life either pursuing crime or training to do so.”

Coin thought of pointing out that he had not, in fact, chosen to accompany the mission, but pushed such a self-serving complaint out of his mind. None of that again, he thought, realizing that the only thing that should matter to him be that they were successful, no matter how he ended up on the task. “It has not been as exciting as you make it sound, my lady. Or as unique—there are thousands of knights. Many with greater experience.”

“Ah, but not a single one is on this boat, you see?” She laughed, but then cast her eyes down to Coin’s untouched wineglass. “I do hope you’ll indulge in some wine, my dear sir. An evening is hardly complete without it.”

“I, ah, I’m afraid not, my lady,” Coin said, abashed and embarrassed despite himself. “I haven’t a taste for it, I mean. The Authority has always found men with clear heads to be more able.”

She had a look of faint surprise. “Hm, I knew that the Moderators discouraged such things, but are you not retired?”

Coin blinked, thinking of an answer. Aren’t I? “Well… yes. Yes, I am, my lady, it’s just… well I suppose that…”

“No no no, I understand completely,” she said sympathetically. “Our loyalties to principles do not fade so easily. I apologize if I seemed to pressure you, truly.” Her dark, oval eyes fixed on Coin. “I imagine that it has been quite a shock for you in general, adjusting to life with us—with the Collective, you understand.”

Coin looked down to the floor, and sighed. “Yes, I suppose that it hasn’t all been easy. I… I am quite happy with my choice, but there was a lot to leave behind.”

“Family? Friends?” asked Skytide.

There was a brief silence before Coin Counter answered. “No, I… never knew my family. I was raised in an orphanage.”

“My friend… I am so terribly sorry,” Lady Violet said gently, and with genuine concern.

Coin swallowed, and waved away the sympathy. “It’s… well, it’s quite alright, my lady. I had many teachers, many mentors, and classmates growing up in Central. Serving with them as a Moderator was natural for me.”

“More natural than leaving it, I should think,” the lady said, eyes on Coin.

Across the table, Proximo Hart gave a look to his superior. She went on, regardless. “I hope you will forgive my presumptuousness, Sir Coin, but were I in your place, having lived all my life serving one body, one that had guided me since the day I was born, and one I had devoted my studies and livelihood to… it would have taken a great deal to convince me to leave it behind.”

Coin opened his mouth to answer, then closed it when he couldn’t think of a response. “The Six compelled me more,” he answered simply, after some thought. “My friends did.”

Lady Violet considered what he said, and then looked over to the Warden of Honesty again. Reflexively, without even needing to be told, he grunted out, “Truthful.”

The former knight glanced around the room, still confused. It only took another moment for him to realize what the Wardens were doing. She’s testing my loyalty, Coin thought, his mind racing, asking me about my past to be sure I won’t betray the fandom, just as her assistant had asked about before. But this time, she was sure to ask herself… and to have the Warden of Honesty beside her. And he can tell when men are lying, Counter realized. He still didn’t know how it was possible, but Coin had to concede that the talk the others gave about the Warden’s powers may not be altogether false, and that whatever those abilities might be, they were being focused on Coin now.

Lady Violet might have noticed his discomfort, considering how she maneuvered the conversation. “Have you ever heard how I came to join the fandom, Sir Coin?”

Coin kept an eye on the Warden of Honesty, looming statue-like in the corner of the room, and shook his head.

“I was younger then, obviously,” she continued, “young enough that I was not entirely sure what I wanted with my life. I was born into a privileged family, you see, so I never lacked for guidance of my own: I was taught the twenty-four brushstrokes, yes, and the four impassioned arts as well. I was taught how to act at formal occasions, how to speak with strangers and relations, how to write letters, how to write poetry, and, of course, what to wear. And I adored it,” she said wistfully, “every moment of it. But despite all these skills, I had no direction to apply them in—no muse, you might say. It was maddening, really. I always had so much, yet others had little, and I couldn’t reconcile myself to truly apply the gifts that had been so kindly given to me. I felt useless, you see—worse, I felt frivolous, more some expensive ornament that others had wasted precious time and money on than one that could actually be put to good use.”

She shook her head, while Skytide, Proximo, and Coin all listened. “Well, perhaps that does not sound like the grounds for some massive crisis, and perhaps in the grand scheme of things it truly wasn’t, but having everything in front of you without a single clue what to do with it was paralyzing, on a very personal level. My lady mother and teachers suggested I join the Knight Censors, while my lord father recommended I go abroad before I came to a decision. I took his advice, as it happens, on the condition that I not disgrace myself too much whilst in front of foreigners.” She laughed. “I did not succeed, as it happens. But I did end up here, in my position, by the time it was over.”

“How?” the captain asked, curious.

“Well,” Lady Violet said, “at first things were quite normal. I traveled to the Blurr, to Central, to the Sea of Sajle and then down to Land of Faces. But while I was there, the further south I got—the closer to the Chan, you see—all anyone in the Saying Sea was talking about was the new war the anonymites were fighting. The Channic have a new war every week, really, but everyone had something else to say: fandoms were fighting each other, some new insurrectionist group was rioting, the Mootking was dead or disgraced or something similar, the Moderators had mobilized ten thousand men… gossip was all over. The Exodus wasn’t underway at that point, but there were converts filtering in nonetheless, art in the markets, preachers on the street. I heard them, and saw some of their work, and I was curious. Very, very curious.” She shrugged. “I didn’t know what I was looking for when I left home. Something… something new. How could I not peek into it?”

“Even in a warzone?” Coin asked, surprised that someone as urbane as Lady Violet would want to wade into something like that.

“Well, that was the plan,” she replied. “By the time I had convinced my escorts that I was still in my right mind, however, the Moderators had already moved in and were setting up their quarantine over Comchan. I heard, though, that many in this new fandom—the ones that could not fight—had been evacuated to some grim little island in the Saying Sea.”

“Sixchan-in-the-Sea,” Captain Skytide said.

“Indeed. And so I packed my many bags, and traveled to see what all the fuss was about, not really knowing exactly what I would find. I remember the first thing I came across when I got off the boat, with all those strange people in colorful tatters running hither and thither. The docks were still handling all of the refugees, you see, but at the same time there was a crowd forming. Hundreds of people, but all quiet and listening to a small man in faded, violet robes. And I was quiet too, and I listened… and the rest, as they say, is history. Well, recent history.”

“I can’t imagine that was what your lord father had in mind when he told you to go abroad,” said Skytide with a smile.

Violet laughed. “Well, perhaps not. But both my parents were pleased as punch when they heard that I had been rubbing shoulders with the High Censor, and that I was a lady in mine own right. Truthfully, I probably could have become pirate queen of the Bay of Masks, and they still would have approved so long as people called me ‘my lady.’” She sighed happily. “Yes, they were proud, even if it was unexpected, and I was even more than that. Before those days, I had classmates and playmates and companions, but I realized soon enough that I was lacking in real, true friends. That’s what I had been missing, and that separation made me… less. Without a path ahead, skills are worthless, and what path is more worthwhile than one to others?” She looked over to Coin, knowingly, as though suggesting he listen carefully and consider what she was saying. “One is hard-pressed to find loyalty without friendship.”

Coin Counter thought carefully about what she was saying, realizing that he had to provide an answer. The Six are friendship, and Loyalty is one of their virtues. Magic entails loyalty, and true Loyalty comes only from the One True Magic, he rationalized. He had his answer. “It was your friendship that bound you to the fandom, my lady?”

She nodded, keeping her eyes on Coin. Proximo Hart and Skytide were looking between the two carefully, while the Warden of Honesty stirred slightly in the back.

“It was the same for me, my lady. Not, ah, well not all the same, but I only converted after I met my friends. They helped me.”

Lady Violet contemplated what he said. “What are they like, sir? Your friends?”

Remembering them made Coin smile sheepishly. “Geral and Esten follow the Honest Friend, like myself. Greenheart is sworn to the Kind, but we were all in it together, during the investigation in Reddit. They’re good men, all of them.”

“And the duties we’ve given to you are keeping you from them,” Lady Violet said regretfully. She sighed. “You have my apologies, Sir Coin. It occurs to me that perhaps we did not take your feelings into account properly before requesting your help.”

Coin heard something that may, by some remote chance, have resembled a scoff come from the back of the room. He shook his head at the concerns, however. “No, my lady, it’s really nothing to apologize for. I have a duty to all my friends, not to myself.” He looked to and nodded his head. “I won’t forsake my vow.”

She returned his look, and then glanced once more to the other Warden. The giant said nothing, not looking back. After a moment, he nodded.

Lady Violet smiled. “As I said, I would have expected nothing less.”

* * * * * *

“What wins the war? Numbers and equipment, say some, but in truth these are irrelevant if one does not have the willingness to fight. The ability to persevere, the total sureness of one’s cause, the utter devotion to success at all costs, these are what make the mind of the fanatic, and it is the fanatic that wins the war.

“We captured a member of a Brony insurrectionist cell in the city earlier today. He and his ‘friends’ were attempting to gain followers and overthrow the Authority stationed here from within the walls. Sir Faith ordered that the prisoner be interrogated, so we might find the identities of his fellow conspirators, but the man refused to speak after hours of questioning. He was a short man, dark haired, wearing orange clothing with a golden eye printed on the front. I gave him a piece of paper and told him that if he wrote the names of the other Bronies in the city, he would receive a lighter prison sentence. I told him, truthfully, that with martial law in place the prison would not be a comfortable place—this was his best chance to escape it.

“He asked for a pencil, and I gave it to him. Before I could think, however, he took it and pushed, slowly, into his own eye. By the time I wrested it away from him, half of his face was covered in blood. Now he resembled his master, the prisoner said. He told us that we had nothing to threaten him with that would frighten him.

“‘There is a level of dedication against which there is no victory,’ or so say our ancestors. We have not been long in the Chan, fighting this war, but now I have begun to doubt our chances of success. They say the Bronies sing when they charge into battle. Who can withstand them?”

— Excerpt from the diary of Sir Temperance Makepeace, dated during the first month of the Authority intervention in the First Rise.

Chapter XI: Prepared For This

* * * * * *

“Precise details unclear. Stop. Current projections show mistrial possibility 23.6%. Stop. Political motive highly likely. Stop. Recommend precedent Stave, Blair, Goodnam on fandom dynamics. Stop. Precaution: prior Censorate antipatterns regarding fandom in question. Stop. Further details in readings enclosed. Stop.”

“CAA [“clear and accepted”]. Stop. Prior experience with accusing party suggests possible tampering. Stop. Prior experience with defending party suggests same. Stop. Acknowledged procedure? Stop.”

“Full hearing. Stop. Rule of 3. Stop. Full jurisdiction on Dreamweave region until further notice. Stop. Override on local decision. Stop. Investigate, gain, prosecute, judge, apprehend. Stop. Caution on testimony and evidence of prejudicial, not probative, nature. Stop. ‘Hammer Vital’ in effect. Stop. Maintain diplomatic and regional stability if possible. Stop. Override: maintain full rule of law. Stop. All measures acknowledged. Stop.”

“CAA. Stop. Witness hostility and unruly citizenry may create issue. Stop. Clarify: acknowledgment of possible red rinse? Stop.”

“Repeat: all measures acknowledged. Stop. Red rinse possibility acknowledged, but RANA [“restricted and not advised”]. Stop. Repeat: ‘Hammer Vital’ is now in effect. End of line.”

— Edited correspondence between Lord Dyren Halforth and Central.
Messages from Central are printed in bold, Halforth’s replies are printed normally. Editor’s notes in brackets.

* * * * * *

Indelio was hotter than Proximo remembered, and he couldn’t help but notice as he walked towards the Wonderbolt in his fine, albeit heavy, clothes. The white color of his clothes was enough to keep off the heat normally, but he was beginning to regret wearing a long-sleeved suit as he proceeded through the dockyard back to the ship, sweat starting to make his vest cling uncomfortably. Still, it hardly dampened the high spirits he’d been having since arriving in the port of Shine.

It was not the largest city in the Devien Isles, nor even on Indelio where the great harbor of Shadeling-upon-Fade attracted ships from all across the Internet, but it was a place filled with happy memories for Proximo Hart. While he walked by the shops and homes, he could recall the days he had spent there in the past: the long holidays in the summer, playing with Gallia in the fountain, his mother’s smile. They were all from the time when he had been a boy, before he became a fool, and then before he became a man again.

It was the newest of the three major cities on Indelio, founded by an admiral and ruled by his descendants. Though it did not attract the level of commerce which Shadeling or Change did, it still enjoyed a certain amount of fame for its trade of inks and dyes, and the quality of its galleries and schools, where young men and women could learn the twenty-four traditional brushstrokes and the four impassioned arts that were taught across the Devien Isles—and, if one had a more martial interest, the Sunset Yellow style of duelling.

War rarely came to the Isles, where most just wanted to paint, trade, and attend parties to pass the time.What conflicts they had were usually resolved one-on-one and overseen by the local authorities and the Knight Censors who operated in the area. Most thought it far more civilized than the battles and fire feuds that frequented the Blurr, but Proximo had the scars to show that even the least important duels had a cost.

Proximo had hoped to stop by Lotus Row, where he had been schooled in some of his younger years. Unfortunately, his task in the city required him to search in other parts of it, including some of the unsavory ones. The Wonderbolt would rest in Shine for a brief time before it proceeded on to the Dreamweave, and Lady Violet did not intend to sit idle while they waited.

Messages had been sent before they had left the Citadel, asking Brony contacts and local information brokers to provide useful intel on the situation. Many had surfaced on Shine to hand it over personally. The Collective had many friends in the Painted Sea who were more than willing to help, and many others hoped to curry favors by providing what they knew.

Stopping in several merchant shops, printing-houses, teashops and taverns had turned up several such individuals, and the portion of their information that was useful was being delivered to Lady Violet at that very moment.

Many of the other passengers and crewmembers of the Wonderbolt had taken the opportunity to walk around the city, but as Proximo walked onto the ship he could see that a few still lingered. Dustario was leaning against the mast, chatting to a pretty Loyal Friend.

“...well of course she’s not as fast, that much I’ll grant you. All I implied was that the Honest was simply stronger,” Dustario said teasingly to his companion as Hart walked past them.

“Pssh, o’ course you’d say that,” she replied, “but I seem to remember the Loyal Friend winnin’ more than a few o’ those competitions, and one o’ them bein’ who was strongest.”

“Oh please, those never decided anything. A real test would be a fair fight, and we both know who’d win that.”

“Aye, we certainly do.”

“Was that a hint of sarcasm I detected?” Dustario said with a raised eyebrow. “Well, I don’t doubt that our dear friends have sparred from time to time, if that’s what you’d like to call it. With such confidence in your Element, perhaps you wouldn’t mind a harmless match with me, to make our respective idols proud?”

She caught the meaning easily enough, and gave a coy smile in reply. “I already got one ship under me, Dusty. Not sure I need ‘nother.”

Proximo couldn’t help but chime in. “I’m afraid it’s all for naught anyways, my friend,” he said to Dustario. “I’m sure we all know that it would be the Generous Friend who proved the strongest of all Six.”

“The Generous?” Dustario said with only half-serious incredulity. “Surely that’s a joke, and a poor one at that. What makes you think she would have a chance?”

Proximo smiled and tapped his forehead. When he saw that, Dustario scoffed and waved his hand dismissively. “Bah, bah I say to you, Mister Hart. Why not leave the poor fighters like myself and Marie alone to our troubles and go find your lady?”

“Now that you’ve recommended it, perhaps I will.” Hart clapped him on the shoulder. “Best of luck now, Dustario. I expect you’ll need it if you hope to ‘spar’ with her.”

Pushing his way into the cabin, Proximo could see that the meeting hadn’t begun yet, though most of the team was already there. There was a rainbow of uniforms around: men and women in white, saffron, pink, purple, and blue alike, near a dozen in all. Some Proximo knew well, and others he’d be meeting for the first time.

Lady Brushshape was speaking with a violet-garbed scholar from the Magic Friends, when she saw Proximo enter. “Ah, you’re here,” she said as her face lit up. “I presume that you have the information we need?”

“All that and more, my lady.” He put the folder of reports, rumors, and recollections down on the table, alongside several others that various agents had compiled. “Hopefully you’ll find it useful. I found the reports concerning the Martes family to be particularly entertaining.”

“Somehow I doubt they’ll remain as endearing in person. Thank you, Proximo.”

After a few minutes passed, they were joined by a new group entering the cabin, three Bronies returning from their own search in Shine. In the front was Prim Enproper, a short man clad in white, with a light blue vest. On his arm was a girl with the yellow robes and upturned pink hood of the Kind Friends, no doubt the one named Rosesoul.

Lagging behind the pair was the unmistakable Caleb Mathet, lumbering along with enough dangling fat that he seemed only a few pounds away from being perfectly round. He was sweating profusely, no doubt from the long walk through the sweltering heat, but nevertheless remained as courteous as ever when he sped up his pace to greet the lady with Prim.

“Lady Brushshape,” Caleb panted with as deep a bow as he could manage. “We have, ahem, have found all the contacts you asked for. I must say, it was quite the chore finding some of them, but there you are. No one said it would be easy, no one at all, eh?”

“I trust that our contacts were cooperative?” Violet asked.

“For the most part, my lady.”

“One of them insisted we meet him on a rooftop,” moaned Prim Enproper. “Up ten flights of stairs, no less. There isn’t room enough in this world for both stairs and me, I swear. Roofs are just as bad. They stay up now, but who knows what they’re planning? Gravity is too fickle for me.” He gave a depressed sigh, and stared gloomily at the wooden ceiling above them.

“But, ah, but where are my manners?” continued Caleb. “While Prim and I were in the city, we happened upon the late-coming member of our honorable band, Miss Rosesoul here.”

The Kind Friend stepped forward, and curtsied to the Warden. Rosesoul had the features of a Devien, with eyes both dark and thin, and a heart-shaped face, but also blond hair that seemed natural from where Hart stood. She was very small and somewhat plump, though not to an unattractive degree, and gave an immaculate smile to the Warden after she approached. “It is an honor to meet you, Lady Violet. I was so excited after Lady Semmer asked me to join you, knowing I’d be able to meet a legend like yourself in person.”

The Warden smiled and waved her hand. “Please, Rosesoul, you’ll make me blush. Truthfully, I was excited to hear you were joining us as well. It’s not every day that I’m able to meet with one of our contemplative sisters.”

A Sister Shy, eh? Proximo thought as he looked at the newcomer for a second time. Following the example of their mentor, the contemplatives of the Kind Friend were often considered isolated and introspective, spending their time in tight-knit groups far from civilization ruminating on the nature of Six in silence. They were not unlike the famed ascetic monks of the Authority, which made one of them a strange choice for a diplomatic mission. Still, she came at Lady Semmer’s recommendation, so she must have some skill to offer.

Despite Lady Violet’s claim, it was Rosesoul who blushed from the compliment. Proximo took the moment to introduce himself as well. “Well met, Miss Rosesoul. I have the honor of being Lady Violet’s assistant, Proximo Hart.”

“Hart?” she said with a tilt of her head. “Your name seems familiar, if you don’t mind me saying. Do you have family around here?”

He hesitated. “Yes, although—”

Proximo was cut off when the Warden of Honesty entered the room, with two of his followers at his side. One of them was the warrior-woman Strongshield, glaring around the room suspiciously with a hand on her sword hilt. The other was a more genial-looking man with trimmed blond hair. All three wore orange and yellow, with Honest Eyes printed on cuiresses that Hart would have thought to be unbearable to wear in such heat. The Warden seemed unconcerned, however, as he marched into the room, keeping his ugly head low to avoid hitting himself on the ceiling.

Rosesoul’s eyes went big as dinner plates when she saw Honesty enter. “Oh my,” she said to Proximo in a tone somewhere between shock and delight. “He is a big one, isn’t he? I heard the stories, but I never actually believed…” Her voice trailed off, and Hart couldn’t help but notice the odd look on her face as she started looking the Warden up and down.

Pushing the disturbing implications of that aside, Proximo watched as the giant and his trailing attendants made their way to the table, standing beside Lady Violet. “Have what you asked for,” he said flatly before motioning to Strongshield. She pulled out a handful of crumpled papers and tossed them onto the table. The Warden turned his eye over to Rosesoul after that. “Not from Citadel. Name?”

The Kind Friend curtsied again. “Rosesoul, m’lord. I was asked to join your mission from my place with the Benevolent Friends of the Higher Compassion. I hope to assist you in any way I can.” She fluttered her eyelashes at the Warden.

“A contemplative,” the Warden replied, betraying no concern on the matter. “Hrm.” He looked back to Violet. “Begin?”

“Yes, I suppose we’re ready now,” she said. She gathered the papers together, forming them into a neat stack in the center of the table. All the people in the room dropped their conversations and approached her, crowding around to join her before she spoke.

“Ostensibly,” Violet said to them all, “the Wonderbolt and companyhave stopped in Shine to restock and prepare for the last leg of our voyage to the Dreamweave. However, you’re all aware that our unspoken purpose was to check in with our contacts, call in our favors, and gather any and all useful information about our destination before we proceed. This task you’ve done.” She held up the one of the folders. “And done well. For that, I thank you all.” Violet turned to her assistant. “Would you care to start us off, Proximo?”

“Gladly, my lady,” Proximo replied. He picked out a folder from amid the pile. “The Dreamweave,” he said, “is only just ahead. Within the Palace of Aureliano, the two diplomats we sent to their court—Dabrius Joh and Greenglade, both—are held in custody, as they have been for the last few weeks. With our arrival imminent, the representatives from the Authority are already within the city, being hosted by the rulers of the Dreamweave.”

“That would be House Martes,” said one of the others in the room—Theosyrius Kang, a fellow follower of the Generous Friend. He was a slim figure, black in his hair and beard save for strands dyed pale, and was clad in white and grey colors. “There are a dozen families of good breeding in the Dreamweave, but the Martes rule all, and have done so for generations. Aureliano the Third rules the city and the island both, alongside a wife of two years.” Theo gave an oily smirk. “It is a shame that their prestige has not taken them far. They are quite unpopular, as I have heard it.”

“Any details?” one of the Kind Friends in the back asked.

Theosyrius shrugged, letting a grey-dyed hair fall over his eyes. “The Dreamweave was never the greatest city in the Painted Sea, but it has gained a sordid reputation of late—gangs and drugs and the like—and most blame Lord Aureliano for it. Half say he’s too harsh, the rest think he’s too soft. It’s impossible to please some people.”

Lady Violet spoke up again. “I understand that Lord Aureliano has a brother as well. What of him?”

Theosyrius snorted. “Arcadio. A great maniac, if half of what I have heard is true.”

“Indeed,” said Caleb, patting his forehead with a handkerchief. “My lady, I gleaned a great many rumors of this ‘Arcadio,’ and not a word of it was good. A man of devilish character, all told, and wrapped ‘round all manner of vile volition, I do say. They say he is a torturer, or worse.” A grimace crossed Caleb’s face, as he emphatically poked a finger into his palm for emphasis. “That one will be trouble.”

Rosesoul spoke up. “How much will we need to deal with them? It’s the Authority that’s in charge of the investigation, is it not?”

“Very true,” said Theosyrius, “but this trial is wrapped up in politics now, and the Martes will be doing everything in their power to see us condemned. We’ll have to watch our step around them. Some of the other families could be bought or convinced, but Aureliano and his kin seem convinced of our guilt. Or so my contacts say.”

“While we’re on the Authority,” another Brony said, “what should we expect from them?”

“They’ve put themselves in charge of this matter,” Lady Violet answered. “The Martes may be putting on airs, but it’s the Lord Moderator we’ll have to convince if we’re to rescue Dabrius and Greenglade. It will be more investigation than trial: both sides will present evidence, and we’ll be given leave to collect such evidence on our own.”

Caleb bobbed his head. “Quite right, my lady, quite right. As requested, Prim and I looked to find whatever we could about the people the Authority has sent, and find we did.” He fumbled through the stack of papers and pulled one of them out, opening it in his doughy hands. “The investigation will be done with a Rule of Three: three Authority representatives will be presiding over the proceedings, and the verdict must be agreed upon by at least two of them. The Lord Moderator in charge of the Dreamweave, Dyren Halforth, is one of them, and the other two are a Knight Censor and a Knight Arbiter who were randomly selected.”

“The Knight Arbiter is Sir Borlund Barr,” chimed in Prim. “There weren’t many details on him, except that he was had a… noteworthy assignment before being posted to the Painted Sea.” Prim’s look was one of downcast resignation—same as always. “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but it seems that Sir Borlund served in the Chan, during the First Rise.”

Several people in the room groaned at that.

Hadrena, another member of the Generous Friends, looked slightly amused at the news, something that Proximo did not find surprising. She was dark skinned and dark humored, tall and slim as a knife with a smile that cut like one. “I don’t suppose,” she asked, moving a finger over one of her ear-studs, “that there is any chance he fought for our side?”

“This is me we’re talking about, Hadrena,” replied Prim. “There’s never a chance for good news. Apparently Sir Borlund was part of the first force they sent to quell our fandom, but didn’t stay long. He was demoted for cowardice after three months.”

Hadrena smiled, looking up from her chair in the corner. “Perhaps there’s still reason to be optimistic, then. After all, he might just run away a second time.”

Strongshield curled her lip at that. “An enemy and a coward. Are you sure this pig was chosen randomly? The Authority probably put him there purposefully, to make sure we are condemned.”

Caleb and Prim glanced at one another. “It is… not impossible,” admitted Caleb, “but we haven’t had word that the selection was tampered with. By all accounts, it was done fairly. At any rate, it will not do to accuse them of that. Not do at all, I say.”

Strongshield scoffed and folded her arms, but said nothing more.

“What about the other knight?” asked Lady Violet.

“Alwin Cameron,” answered Caleb. “It’s strange to say, but both of us found almost nothing about him. He must be newly knighted, as no one could name a place of service, but one man claimed that he had family in the Knight Censors. We were sent records of a brother, a father, and an uncle sharing his name and all working within the Censorate, so I say that much is true. Other than that, though, he seems utterly unrecognized.”

“The only thing remarkable about him is how unremarkable he is,” said Prim. “Probably some bureaucrat given a knighthood because of the family connection. Still, he’s probably more likely to side with us than Barr is. Not that that’s saying much.”

Caleb bobbed his head. “It’s true, my lady, that Barr might cause problems. But I think the Lord Moderator begs more concern.”

“I can agree with that.” Captain Skytide stepped forward, with a hand on the lapel of his sky-blue uniform. “I’ve sailed around the Painted Sea a fair bit, and met often with men from the Authority, but this Dyren Halforth is something very different. People talk about him like he’s Tristram Twice-Dead come again, and he’s made some large ripples in the Authority as well.”

“I heard a few whispers about him as well,” said Hadrena, still luxuriating in the corner. “A very intriguing man. Pure Centrellian by birth, began study with the Knight Censors at twelve, and excelled in all subjects. He requested a squiring under a knight joining an expedition against the Chan, oddly enough. Knight after only a half-year, won a dozen medals, and was scouted by the High Censor for a lordship after another two terms. Some people say he’ll have the High Censor’s job, at some point. For now, our esteemed Lord Dyren Halforth is the chair of the Channic-Authority Relations Committee, and quite the war-hawk as I have heard it.” That enigmatic smile appeared again. “He seems to have quite the laundry list of achievements, I must say.”

“And that’s only the official history,” Theosyrius added pointedly. “I’ve heard some whispers as well, as it happens. Some gave me rumors of classified assignments done by Halforth—work with the white-hats, hunting down rogue cybramancers and the like. Wetwork, one might call it. He’s harsh, by any account. Merciless, even. One delicious morsel I caught onto,” Theosyrius said with a smile and a raised eyebrow, “is that he sentenced his own son to hang.”

Murmurs broke out amongst the Bronies. Lady Violet silenced them. “Is that true?”

Theosyrius shrugged. “Hard to say. Rumors are only rumors, my lady. Until they are not, of course.”

Lady Violet frowned. “I’ve heard as much as well. Still, Lord Mars seemed to think he could be convinced. We’ll have to look into it.” She turned to Prim and Caleb. “What about the rest of the team the Authority sent?”

“Basic investigation team, my lady,” said Prim. “A few low-level operators looking to be knighted, working alongside the city guard—and us, pretty soon. Not many notables among them, but there were a few names. Cellia Ravenry, Depravity Blair… like I said, no one that you’d know, my lady.”

One of the Kind Friends raised a hand to stop him. “Hold on a second,” he interjected. “I’m sorry to interrupt sir, but did you say Depravity Blair?”

“Technically it’s ‘Do-Not-Lead-Our-Family-Into-Depravity Blair,’ ” Prim replied. “They have some odd names in Central. Not that I should be talking.”

Lady Violet seemed to consider everything that was said carefully, then sighed and spoke. “There’s more to this, I’m sure, but it will take more time to comb through all this and confirm the facts. We can speak more about this later, everyone — I’m sure most of you have other preparations to make for our arrival. Thank you for your help,” she said. “Caymen, would you care to offer a dedication for us?”

The violet-robed man sent by Lord Feylen nodded. “With pleasure, my lady.” He bowed his head, shutting his eyes to the ground. The rest of the room did the same.

“In the name of the Honest Friend,” he said in a reverent voice, “may we find the truth to absolve our brothers in the Dreamweave, and remain pure of deception ourselves. In the name of the Magic Friend, may we remember that the greatest strength in this world comes from the bond between one another, and the love around us. And in the name of the Generous Friend, may we extend the aid of our hands to all those in need, no matter the cost to ourselves. By your inspiration, our actions are taken, Six Friends Who Are One, and to your name are our lives dedicated. Six and One.”

“Six and One,” came the reply.

After that, the men and women began to stream out of the room, going back to the decks so they could return to their rooms, their ships, or to the city for the remains of the day. Proximo caught Prim Enproper’s eye before he left. “So, where to now, Prim?” he asked.

“Off to find some meager nourishment,” Prim said despondently. “We worked straight through lunch, Caleb and I, and now the hunger’s setting in. I’d give the world for a bagel. Not that I have the world, mind you. I’d have nowhere to put it, first of all.” He frowned. “I saw a place on the street. ‘All-day food.’ All-day... who on in the Web has the time for that?” He shook his head in disbelief and traipsed on.

Before Proximo also walked out, however, Lady Violet stopped Theosyrius, taking his arm with her hand. She kept her voice low, but Proximo could still hear the two vaguely. “Anything about them?” she asked quietly.

Theo hesitated. “Nothing, so far as I can tell. Though I have heard some details about them that ma—”

“Later,” she interrupted him. “That’s best saved for another time as well, I think. Thank you for searching, Theo.” After that, Theosyrius excused himself with a bow, and hurriedly walked out. Only Proximo, Lady Violet, and the Warden of Honesty were left in the room.

Honesty was the first to speak. “Is this one excused?” he asked Violet. It was odd that such an imposing man felt the need to ask her for such a thing, but his voice showed the same deference that Proximo noticed him give to Lord Feylen weeks prior.

Lady Brushshape seemed to notice the strangeness of it as well. “You don’t need to ask me, you know,” she laughed. “You’re as much a Warden as I am.”

“We are in your service. Until mission is complete,” he replied matter-of-factly.

She shook her head, but smiled. “Very well then. The answer is yes, so long as there was nothing else you wanted to talk about, friend.”

“Nothing. Objective clear. Captives must be freed. We will do this.”

“I know. Just remember your caution, Honesty. There’s more than one way to solve this,” she said firmly. Proximo couldn’t help but notice how deliberate that request was. Does she fear what he might do as well? he wondered. He made a mental note to ask her later.

“Hrm,” was the Warden’s only response. After that, he turned around and left the cabin as well.

Lady Violet’s eyes lingered on the doorway after her honest friend departed. “Is everything alright, my lady?” Proximo said. She seemed troubled.

She shook her head. “Fine, Proximo, just nerves.” She sighed. “This one might be a challenge, I’m afraid.”

Proximo went to her side. “We’ve been through far worse, my lady. Remember that time with the Escapists?” he said with his most reassuring smile.

The lady laughed. “Too clearly, I think. I’m still fairly sure that our little experience at the banquet was the fastest I’ve ever stood up in my life. It was exhausting, if I remember correctly.”

Proximo nodded. “If you don’t mind my asking, my lady,” he said gently, “what was it that you and Theo had to speak about?”

She gave her assistant a look, but waved her hand. “Just a feeling I wanted looked into, nothing more. If it becomes relevant, I’ll let you know.”

He suspected that wasn’t the whole truth, but when the doubt started to come back to her face, he felt it was best to change the subject. “Would my lady care for my help in planning an outfit for tomorrow?”

Lady Violet’s face lit up immediately. “I would like nothing better, Mister Hart.”

* * * * * *

“The Devien Isles stand as one of the largest and most prosperous sites in the Painted Sea, though they were not always a united political entity. Comprised of six major islands and dozens of smaller ones, the Isles were once the homes of several petty sites, each vying for influence and citizens. In time, these smaller nations either declined into nothing or were absorbed by a new order, formed by the cooperation of nobles families from each of the various factions.

“Certain differences do, of course, persist between the individual islands. Sublimides has always been the largest, with its port of Silkensigh serving as the de-facto capital of the Isles, whereas Indelio and Artemides have become known for their valued merchants and Kursedos for its skilled craftsmen. Each cultivates their own specific style of expression and own particular trade goods (though olives, dyes, wine, and of course art are mainstays from all of them), and even have developed varying schools of dueling and fighting to aid its citizens in self-defense, settling matters of honor, or simply staying fit.

“The Isles are a society based around talent, prestige, courtesy, and personal honor: one’s place in society is generally determined by the recognition and acclaim they have received from others for their work. In practice, this has meant that the Isles are largely controlled by various wealthy families who can better afford the extensive schooling necessary to learn the twenty-four traditional brushstrokes and the four impassioned arts that are accepted — these elites are called ‘The Ones of Gifted Lineage,’ many of whom claim to be descended from their legendary forefather, Devio.

“When disputes arise or matters come to light that affect all of the Isles, the first-born children of these proud houses come together into a single august body, known as the Chamber, in order to resolve the issues — but this is rarely needed. Unlike the Blurr, the larger, more populated, and more unstable land to the south, the Isles rarely see the need for full-blown conflict, preferring to resolve matters between individuals or families on a private basis, usually through subtle politics or duelling.

“Also unlike the Blurr, the Devien Isles largely accept the laws and principles of the Moderator Authority: rather than view Central with suspicion or resentment, the Deviens are more than happy to allow a sizable Moderator presence in their land, accepting the judgements of the Knight Censors and taking a certain care to keep their behavior within Authority standards. That being said, works that are considered to be ‘of an indecent quality’ are still common in the Isles, and their distribution is still confined to special red-zones established by the Censors…”

— “The Painted Sea (Put Briefly)”, by Eriaria Habe

Chapter XII: Manehattan

* * * * * *

“A common criticism laid at the feet of Devien society is that their oft-tauted courtesies and desire for excellence are merely a thin cover that gilds a far dirtier reality. There is a certain element of truth to this: while the scores of elite families in the Isles produce no end of astonishing creativity and pride themselves on their reputations, one cannot deny that in the lower echelons of society, a vast number of the art traded in and out of the land are, quite simply, junk.

"Those without the patience, leisure, or wealth to study the prerequisite techniques vaunted by the nobility—the techniques that mark one as an artist deserving respect—ordinarily content themselves by making cheap prints and low-quality, mass-produced works that can be widely distributed and widely bought, and most often these are either largely derided trash made without proper training or are ‘crowd-pleasers’ that rake in sales by appealing to frankly base pleasures (generally of the startlingly indecent variety).

“Were one to imagine a society, however, where this alleged veneer of propriety did not even exist however, one need only drift their gaze south to see a living example. The Blurr is one of the Devien Isles’ close neighbors in the Painted Sea, and a far different land indeed, despite their shared interests and heritage. A land of greater size and diversity than the Isles, the Blurr is a site of wide, open plains, rocky outcroppings, and plateaus cooked by the hot sun overhead.

"Though it lacks rolling green hills and gentle waves of their northern sisterland, the Blurr is nevertheless a place of great natural beauty, and is well-known for breeding some of the fastest and sleekest horses in the Known Internet. It is also more populous than the Isles, or indeed many sites in the east: sprawling cities like Askobarr and Transid dwarf even the largest metropoli constructed by Devien hands, and contain a far greater variety of life and living as well (though the less said about the foul port of Tolerance, the better).

“This greater diversity, however, brings greater fractiousness. The Blurr does not possess the aristocratic ruling class of the Isles, but instead instills its people with a far more individualistic and egalitarian sensibility. What this means in practice, however, is that the site is dominated by various powerful, ideological factions that people are eager to join, most notably the fandoms. Many of the Great Fandoms and scores of lesser ones maintain impressive footholds in the Blurr, and are constantly vying and juggling for power amongst themselves, dominating almost every aspect of day-to-day life.

"Though there are innumerable small subfandoms that attempt to worm their way up the hierarchy, some of the most powerful groups by far are the immensely influential Tripartisan Alliance, the long-standing though waning DA, the oft-overlooked Homesteaders, and, as always, the Animen United. Other fandoms do not share the same titanic power as these few, but nevertheless maintain a healthy influence, or are growing at a steady pace. The Marvellien faction of the Comican has recently seen an explosion in activity, while the Brony Collective has secured a relatively stable niche, though it is opposed by a dedicated anti-fandom nearly as large.

“What this translates to is a land of great political instability, one where personal feelings are frequently offended and where tensions are frequently high. Conflict and strife between the ruling groups are far more common in the Blurr than anywhere else in the Painted Sea, with fire-feuds and even illegal wars more regularly waged. Blurrites also have a tendency to become wrapped in foreign controversies as well, as evidenced by the recent strife between them and various other sites. Special note must be made at this point for the insurgents that, sadly, have become the veritable face of the Blurr for many: the Oppressed.

“The Oppressed cannot be said to be a recent phenomenon, but their activity has greatly intensified in the past several years. A highly vocal and extremely dedicated movement, the Oppressed constitute the militant arm of the Blurr’s many social campaigns, battling against the supposed tyrants that they believe seek to control or limit them. In reality, their acts are generally targeted against those that fail to meet their ideological standards or unwisely oppose one of their members, with these insurrectionists utilizing terror tactics to drive out anyone they believe to be against their platform. Though vehemently in opposition to the Channic anonymites (and, in turn, overwhelmingly hated by the Channic anonymites), the Oppressed actually resemble the masked-men in a variety of ways, particularly in their fierce paranoia of outsiders and their penchant for violent action and assassination to advance their agendas.

"Admitted enemies of the Oppressed ‘justicars’ and even neutral actors who nevertheless find themselves standing against the group are sometimes found dead, usually by strangulation with a strand of red silk that is left behind as a warning.

Contrary to popular belief, the numbers of the justicars are by most estimates quite small, but these attention-grabbing methods garner them a highly disproportionate reputation among outside observers, with many mistaking their presence as ordinary and acceptable for the average Blurrite. The tendency to incorrectly see the fingerprints of the Oppressed on virtually every controversy and issue has increased dramatically in recent years, with many decrying the common paranoia almost as much as they deplore the justicars themselves. Military actions involving the Oppressed have also been seen far more recently, particularly in the context of the Great Gamer War, as well as smaller-scale fire-feuds waged by the Comican and the Brony Collective...”

— “The Painted Sea (Put Briefly)”, by Eriaria Habe

* * * * * *

“The velvet?”

“Too heavy.”

“Not the scarlet-cloth one either, then?”

“Not if the weather in the Dreamweave is anything like Indelio. I can hardly meet with a Lord Moderator all sweaty and hot, now can I?” She gave an exaggerated shudder at the idea.

“The sindon dress, perhaps?”

“Hmm, put that under ‘maybe.’ The color might be an issue, of course. Too much white or black and Lord Halforth might see us as copying their uniforms.”

“There’s the purple Kursedian gown, my lady. And a silk formal dress the same color.”

“That Kursedian gown always struck me as too social for something like this. The silk though… I only worry that it would be too fine. The Moderators don’t care for rich clothing. Perhaps something simpler would be best.”

“Boiled leather? Sackcloth?”

“Alright, alright, now you’re not taking me seriously at all, Proximo. The very idea of it!” Lady Violet said in mock horror.

“Apologies, my lady,” Proximo replied. “It has been two hours, though—the mind tends to wander.” It had taken that long to come to decisions regarding Lady Violet’s shoes, jewellry, and headwear, and while time might have flown by, the strain was beginning to be felt. For all that time, they had not left the captain’s cabin—Proximo was standing in front of an open cabinet, while Lady Violet sat comfortably to the side, examining his suggestions. Outside the rear window, one could see the port of Shine still glowing with activity in the late-day sun.

Violet sighed. “Yes, I suppose you’re right.” Leaning up in her chair, she tapped a hand on the table excitedly. “That settles it, then—you and I are going out ‘on the town,’ as it were.”

“Now? My lady, there’s still so much left to—"

“Pish posh, Proxi,” she said with a wave of her hand. “All that can be done later, and we’re only here in Shine for a few more hours before we leave. Besides, a little fun will do you good—you really work much too hard on my account.”

“I’m not sure it’s…”

“Well, I hate to do this, Proximo, but you’ve brought it on yourself now,” she said teasingly. She sank down low into her chair, closed her eyes forlornly, covered her forehead with the back of her hand, and let out a depressed sigh. “Puh-leeease?” she pleaded miserably. After a moment, she opened one eye to see if her assistant was convinced, then added, “Also, this is an order.”

Proximo laughed. “Fine, you have me backed into a corner. Lead on, my lady.”

Violet sprang up with a triumphant smile, and opened the door for her assistant. The deck of the Wonderbolt II was relatively subdued, though with plenty of Loyal Friends loading supplies onto the ship. It had been some time since the meeting with the other diplomats ended, but a few were still remaining on the host ship, chatting with one another or with crew members. One of them, Prim Enproper, was leaning against the railing with a depressed look on his face when he noticed Proximo and Violet pass by.

“Afternoon, Lady Brushshape,” he said in a dull, monotone voice. “Off to do something fun?”

“Just to enjoy the city a little before we leave, Prim,” she replied cheerfully.

“Oh. I wish I could understand the appeal,” he sighed morosely. “Cities never agreed with me, not that anyone ever does. Did you know that every person that has ever lived in a city has, at some point in their life, died? I don’t throw with those kinds of odds.”

“Come now, Prim, you really must go out and enjoy yourself more.”

“You sound just like my mother, meaning no offense, my lady. Always ‘move out of the house’-this or ‘stop disgracing our entire family line’-that, or ‘why don’t you find yourself a nice girl’-such-and-such. I did try with the last one. I remember meeting a woman once, but she died of tuberculosis shortly after. I have that effect on people.” He gave a downtrodden sigh and rested his chin on the ship’s railing.

Lady Violet was in the middle of saying something reassuring to Prim when the Warden of Honesty approached. He was flanked on both sides by two of his Honest Eyes, and seemed intent on speaking with the lady. “Leaving?” he asked.

Violet turned to him with a smile. “Yes, my friend. Just to peruse the city for a time—Proximo and I should return in a few hours.”

The idea made the Warden clearly uncomfortable. “Should not go without escort,” he grumbled. “We can accompany,” the Warden said, gesturing to himself and the guards on either side of him.

Violet waved her hand at the thought. “Oh please, Honesty, I can manage quite well enough on my own. You know that having a dozen guards around me during every social occasion makes me feel discourteous. Besides, I’ll have Proximo with me.”

That obviously did not comfort the Warden of Honesty at all. “It is not safe.”

She laughed. “Honesty, it’s the tourist district of the city. The closest thing to danger here is the cutthroat pricing of prints and knick-knacks. I think I’ll survive.” After seeing the look on the Warden’s face, he gave a reassuring smile. “Fine, if I take a few guards—not a whole battalion. Would that be enough?”

The Warden stared down, hesitant. “Yes,” he replied after a pause.

“Very well then! Though I must insist that they not crowd the two of us—I at least want to give the semblance of nonchalance this evening.”

The Warden did not respond, but instead looked down to the two men at either side of him and motioned for them to go along with Proximo and Violet. The two of them bowed deeply to their lord as he walked away, only rising once the Warden had departed. The guards were vaguely familiar to Proximo, though he had never been formally introduced to either of them. One was the same squat, ugly, bald man with the disgusting star-shaped scars on both of his hands that Proximo had seen repeatedly a few times, while the other was a new face. This one was also short, but very muscular and far more cheerful looking than his frowning companion.

The angry-looking one made the introductions. “I’m Red Autumn. This one,” he pointed his thumb at his fellow Honest Eye, “is Crispin.” The guard called Crispin smiled and waved at Violet and Proximo, but did not say anything.

“Well met,” Lady Violet said politely. “If you have not already been acquainted with my dear assistant, this is Proximo Hart, my most leal servant.”

“You make me sound so important, my lady,” Proximo said. He bowed to the pair of Honest Eyes. “Good to meet both of you. Thank you for the protection this evening, though I hope we won’t need it.”

Red Autumn shrugged and Crispin smiled. The group turned around to head out for the city, when Red spoke up behind them. “You two should probably be armed, though.”

“Truly?” Violet asked. “I’m certain that you two will provide much better protection than we could ever supply to ourselves.”

“If you don’t want more of us guarding you, then you both shouldn’t be empty handed,” Red grumbled. “The Great Honest One demands we protect you. We cannot fail him, and you going armed can’t hurt.”

“It might, actually,” Lady Violet said. “I failed duelling school when my parents thought to enroll me. To be honest, I can barely cut my own meals without hurting myself.”

“Considering that I’m the one that cuts them for her, I will testify to the truth of that,” Proximo said.

He could see that the Honest Eyes were every bit as unconvinced as their master, so Violet relented. “Hold on one moment,” she said before speeding off to the captain’s cabin.

Proximo was left alone with his two guards-to-be, and tried to make small talk. “So,” he said, “how long have you been with the fandom?”

“First Rise,” Red grunted. “We’re Faustians, the both of us.” Crispin nodded.

“Ah, you fought with the Warden in the Chan, then?”

“Yes,” Red Autumn replied, chest swelling with pride. “I took my name from the time that I joined with his glory. His eye burned away all falseness within our souls, and set us free.” Crispin solemnly placed a hand on the insignia printed upon his armor in response, and bowed his head.

Proximo was suppressing the urge to roll his eyes when Lady Violet returned, holding something in her hands. “Would these do?” she asked, allowing the two guards to see a pair of finely-made daggers. They were the same that had been gifted to them by Madelin Wright, prior to them leaving the Citadel for their mission, the one’s with hilts made of white teywood and sharp blades pale as the moon, both with purple gemstones in the hilt.

Crispin fawned over the weapons, admiring them closely, while Red frowned. “Anything larger?”

“Nothing, I’m afraid,” Violet said apologetically. “We Generous Friends do not have much in the way of martial prowess.”

Red Autumn grimaced, and placed a hand on his own weapon. He had a large, ugly knife of his own at his belt, but also a warhammer that looked like a smaller, lighter version of the one belonging to the Warden of Honesty. Crispin, who was still looking at the daggers with an almost childlike fascination, carried a simple sword. “Will they let us bring these in the city?” Red asked suspiciously.

“I have the necessary permits to allow my bodyguards to carry weapons,” she explained, “so we shouldn’t have any issues from the Mods or the city watch so long as we don’t cause unnecessary trouble. We weren’t planning on that, were we Proximo?”

“Only the most necessary trouble will be done, my lady.”

“Well, there you have it,” she said happily. “Shall we go?”

With Red and Crispin taking the lead, the four of them proceeded off the ship and out onto the docks of Shine. There was a veritable hoard of people crowding the place, ebbing and flowing this way and that out of their own vessels or boarding houses or backstreets, craning and shuffling past to move from one side of the busy yard to the other. Workers lugged massive stacked crates on their shoulders, setting them down to be loaded, bought, moved, and sold again however the strange cadence of the Devien markets and their foreign contributors demanded.

Proximo stepped gingerly through the mess, watching sailors and tradesmen passing by or conversing loudly, and only narrowly avoiding being hit by a cart of oysters being pushed forward in front of him.

Moving past the initial glut of harborfolk, he saw the sweeping rainbow of people—visitors, pilgrims, residents, and tourists that had poured into the port from every corner of the Known Web. Native Deviens with dyed hair chattered amiably with pale Blurrites and dusky Etsians, Sajlic traders in rich robes with braided beards examined wares alongside the somber-dressed Centrallians, as well as southrons from the Saying Sea, Facers, and fandom-followers of all kinds imaginable.

Proximo wagered that perhaps for every six people in crowd, one of them had the asymmetrical garb and jutting hair of the Animen. Many others wore the colors of the Comican, or instead had the sleek naval uniforms of the Fleet, or long duster coats, or innumerable other uniforms from the fandoms great and small alike. He could even spy some of his own brothers and sisters on the streets, clothed in white robes or blue shirts or upturned golden hoods. Proximo even thought he spied anonymite masks, and perhaps, even less likely, one of the cybrahakar among the people wandering the cobbled streets, though they rarely went far from their frozen tomb-cities in the far north.

The party of four made their own path through, and found themselves in Lotus Row, still as bustling and bright as Proximo remembered it from his old school days. Long, straight rows of clear glass windows were adorned with sweeping drapes and stately mannequins that presented the latest fashions being sold. On one side, with pearl pillars of teywood standing in front, was an academy of arts that Proximo recognized well from his younger years, though the dark red door of the place had been closed for the day hours before. The Row was a wide and paved street, rarely seeing the use of horses or carriages down the path that was ordinarily glutted with tourists and travellers. Down each side were flat sidewalks that stretched down like lines of white ink painted on with a brush, sitting before the lilac and vermillion storefronts that rose above them.

It was one of these many tradeshops that caught Lady Violet’s eye. “Oh, let’s stop in this one!” she said, taking her assistant’s arm and leading both him and her guards towards one of the scarlet entrance-ways. The sign above the establishment was was printed with long golden letters that read: Indelian Effervesce: Fine Garments and Attire.

The store-owner’s eyes passed over them amiably from behind the green countertop when they walked in, though he was too busy making a sale to offer his greetings. The shop was lined from back to front with clothes in a hundred different styles, whether draped on wall-rails or carefully placed upon modelling props to showcase the most prominent brands. Lady Violet made her way immediately to the more expensive and glamorous items as her retinue fell behind.

Lady Violet traced her fingers through the dozens of choices available on the wall, her excitement plain for her servant to see. Though she tried her hardest to be demure and decorous around others, Proximo knew better than anyone that she never could stop enjoying the little things.

His own mind was wandering as his eyes glanced over the displays, mostly to how droopy and uncomfortable his belt was feeling with the dagger attached to it. Proximo loathed fighting and preferred to stay as far away from weapons as possible, so the feeling of the razor-sharp blade slung precariously on his side was heavy in more ways than one.

Violet must have noticed his discomfort. “Proximo!” she exclaimed while holding a dress in front of her. “You’re looking positively depressed for someone in a fancy clothes store—what’s the matter?”

Proximo hesitated and looked around to see if the two Honest Eyes were close enough to hear. Red Autumn was a few yards away looking both baffled at the idea of there being such a wide variety of pointless frivolities available and disgruntled that he had to spend any time near them. Crispin, on the other hand, seemed extremely chipper, covering the close-cut golden hair on his head with a large, feathery hat. The two of them were still keeping a very close watch on both their companions and the single door that led into the Indelian Effervesce, but Proximo wagered that they were, at least, far enough to not listen in on what he said.

“Apologies, my lady,” Proximo said softly, “I just feel a bit… off. Wearing this, I mean,” he gestured to the weapon. “I know it probably sounds silly, but it doesn’t feel right on me at all.”

Lady Violet shrugged, exchanging the garment she was holding for another. “I understand what you mean, Proxi, but it might be for the best.” Her eyes flickered over to the two guards, then to the knife on her own hip. “I seriously doubt that we would ever be in danger here, but if it makes them more comfortable, then why not?”

“It just seems a tad unnecessary.”

“Perhaps, but maybe my honest friend is right, and it is better to be safe than sorry, as it were.” She shrugged once more. “Or not. I’m not very comfortable with the more martial side of life either, but one has to learn to set aside one’s own feelings on things. Besides, I think it makes me look fierce, armed like this. Don’t you think?”

“Absolutely terrifying, my lady.”

“Mm-hm, that’s what I thought.” She patted a hand on the sheathed dagger. “You must at least admire the craftsmanship that went into these, Proximo. They have a certain… austere beauty to them. It was a well-meant gift, on Maddy’s part.”

Proximo reached his hand into his pocket. “True enough, but I think I prefer the one Lord Jestin gave me. Less risk of death.”

He pulled out the bronze pocket-watch, feeling its slight, pleasant weight in his hand. Though it failed to actually tell time, Proximo had kept the gift with him since they had left the Citadel—Jestin Jen was a man that he considered a close friend, and it helped him to have a token of that friendship close. The etched image of a winged tiger on the front conveyed a certain fierceness that Proximo knew neither he nor Lord Jen had, but it was a comfort nonetheless.

Violet smiled at the idea of it. “It was a kind thing, I must admit. Shame that it doesn’t work, though. Perhaps, while we’re here, we could find someone to fix it? It hardly seems to serve its purpose, broken like that.”

“It might be broken,” Proximo replied, “but it’s serves its purpose well enough for me.” After seeing the look that Violet was sending him, he explained, “I believe it is meant to be symbolic, I mean.”

“Ah, that does sound like something Jestin would do. It really can never be straightforward with him, can it?” She chuckled, and then ran her fingers over a pair of hats on a nearby stand. “Well, I suppose the use of his gift to me was a bit more readily apparent.”

“That being?”

“A book of history, concerned with the Devien Isles. And it was recently written as well, so they had a section concerning the Dreamweave. It was all very interesting.” Suddenly, her eyes lit up, and she gave a cry of delight. “Oh, look at this one, Proxi!”

She picked up a very large, very ornate white hat with a wide, drooping brim. Placed on her head, it was big enough to cast a shadow that nearly covered her completely. “Very stately, don’t you think?” she said, posing with it and fluttering her eyelashes.

Proximo couldn’t help but laugh. “It’s a bit much, isn’t it?”

“Nonsense!” she said emphatically. She spun around to face her two guards. “Now, honest opinions from the two of you: what do you think?” She tilted down the hat slightly and gave a coy smile.

“Sure,” Red Autumn grunted, clearly not caring. Crispin, however, almost seemed to glow in approval, nodding his head frantically.

“Well there you are, Proximo,” she said victoriously, “outnumbered three-to-one.”

“Your love of giant hats will be your downfall, my lady.”

“You mean to say,” she said with a raised eyebrow, “that you’re opposing my purchase? Are you prepared to kill me? Because that’s what it’ll take.”

“My duty is to look out for your well-being, my lady,” Proximo said sanctimoniously. “I will fight it tooth and nail.”

When they were at the counter moments later, paying for the hat and some other things, Proximo couldn’t help but notice that Lady Violet was staring out the store’s windows cautiously. Even while she placed the money on the counter and took the boxed hat from the store-owner’s hands, she kept one eye on the street outside.

Proximo decided to inquire about this as they left. “Is something the matter, my lady?”

She frowned, then thought for a moment. “...no. No, it’s quite alright.”

“Can we go back to the ship now?” Red Autumn asked irritably. He had been sulking for some time now, no doubt due to some displeasure for finery and fun that he’d inherited from his master. Proximo found the attitude distasteful, all things considered.

“Oh, where’s your sense of good times, Mister Autumn?” Lady Violet asked amiably. “Come now, the city’s beautiful! Like stepping out into a canvas,” she said, holding up her hands as though framing a picture. “Now I must insist that you at least try to enjoy yourself before this is over, sir. I do adore my honest friends, but you all have a penchant for being far too serious. Come now, smile a little!”

Crispin, apparently thinking that it was he who was being addressed, broke into a huge, beaming grin while Red contented himself by grumbling and seething. It occurred to Proximo that Crispin, while certainly friendly, might not be entirely… there.

“That’s more like it!” Violet said cheerfully. “Now then, I wouldn’t mind sitting down for a bit. Proximo,” she said to her assistant, “do you know of any places of interest around here? Preferably a little further away?”

Proximo thought for a moment. “There’s a tea shop down the Row that I would visit, when I was younger.”

“Perfect! Lead the way, then.”

They continued through Lotus Row, the crowds thinning slightly as they passed further down and away from the docks. Every once in awhile, Lady Violet would stop at a stall in the street, chat for a moment with the proprietor, then handle one of the items—once a steel breastplate that had been polished to a mirror shine, then a small hand mirror—before setting it down and continuing. Had it been anyone else, Proximo would have assumed it was mere browsing, but he knew her well enough that the pattern seemed oddly out of place to him. He thought of asking what she was up to, but dismissed the idea as they approached their destination.

The tea shop was much as Hart remembered it, and once they had been admitted by the doorman they proceeded up a short flight of stairs to an open terrace. The noise of the streets was still audible, but fainter here, and instead the low tones of polite conversation came from the two dozen or so small, circular tables, while a man with a stringed instrument played and sang in the corner. Violet took the lead now, and chose a seat with the back to a wall, while Proximo sat opposite of her—Red and Crispin chose a different one, facing the door, apparently mindful of maintaining a ‘semblance of nonchalance,’ as the lady had said.

Violet seemed content, seated and listening. “A lovely atmosphere,” she said wistfully. “Good choice, Mister Hart.”

“I aim to please, as always, my lady.”

The lady raised a stately hand to flag over the waiter, then said, “A green for him. A purple for me, if you please.” Proximo saw her eyes flick quickly to the doorway after the order was complete and the server proceeded away. As they waited, the melody of the shop-singer could be heard, a twangy provincial voice singing of history.

“Devio walked in cloudless clime
the sun was white before our time.
The scarlet sky waned overhead,
above the emerald riverbed,
o’er cyan fields and saffron lakes
to the mist-waves where horizon breaks.

“Devio saw the darkling shade
of Indelio beside the Fade.
He reckoned Marches green and high,
in Sublimides where Kursia died,
and saw the Inkwell spill to sea
by Autumn Ides in Atremides.

“Devio measured Heaven’s Field,
and ‘neath the sight of God appealed
to have the hand of paint and seal,
to catch the world of true and real
in canvas-stock and paper-stay,
to shape the Marches with his clay…”

Proximo had been so focused on the music that he did not notice when the waiter placed two cups on tiny saucers in front of them, nor did he see that Violet had taken a newspaper off a nearby table to read. He was about to chastise her teasingly for reading at the table, when he turned the paper towards him, pointing to the headline. “Would you look at that, Proxi? It never really ends.”

He glanced down at the large, curving letters printed at the top of the front page: HOSTILITIES RESUME. His eyes went up and down the first few lines of article as Violet shook her head. “ ‘The Great Gamer War’ has started in earnest, it seems.”

“Again?” Proximo said, weary of the idea. He began reading the passage more quickly to get what information he could. “I thought the Mods had negotiated a ceasefire? Didn’t Twicechan agree?”

“For whatever good it did, yes. I didn’t delude myself into thinking it would last, but I hoped we might have seen at least a year of peace before it all went downhill again—a foolish thought, I suppose.”

Proximo skimmed through the lines, picking up information. ‘Despite outward hopes, fresh demands arise from both the pro and anti-Oppressed camps… terror attacks during Summer Sale… the recent expulsion and removal of Channic combatants from their home isles only served to heighten hostilities and stoke anger… political refugees, having fled to Twicechan, claim the Mootking to have been compromised by Moderator and Oppressed interests… Mootking Kulk vows further opposition… Central has yet to respond, however…’

He frowned at the unfortunate news. “Do you suppose the Mods will intervene again?”

“I doubt they’ll enjoy it, but I also doubt they’ll have much choice. I have to say, though: I’d never expected to see a Mootking as willing to bring down the Hammer of Central as this one. I know the Channic are upset about it.”

“The Channic are always upset.”

“Point taken. Still though,” she said with a sigh.

Before she spoke again, however, Proximo saw her eyes flick over to something behind him again, before she smiled slightly.

Quickly pulling out a pen, she swiftly grabbed the newspaper, scribbled something Proximo could not see over the front page, then flipped it over and passed it to her assistant.

“Mister Hart,” she said courteously, “could I ask you to please pass that paper to Red, if you don’t mind?”

Her assistant shot her a confused look, but did as he was told. Without looking at the message, he handed it off to the guard. Red Autumn looked annoyed at first, gained a look of realization when he flipped over the paper and read whatever was on the bottom. Proximo could see him tense up, then pass the note to Crispin. His hand hovered close to the knife on his belt.

Worried now, Proximo turned back to Lady Violet, opened his mouth to ask, and was immediately silenced when she spoke first.

“Apologies, Proxi,” she said nonchalantly, very carefully keeping her gaze precisely in front of her. “I would have mentioned it earlier, but I wasn’t certain until now. I must ask that you not look behind us. We’re being followed.”

True to the lady’s command, Proximo did not look behind, much as he wanted to. “Who?”

“I can’t say I recognize the man, but he’s been right behind us since we got off the boat—he stops whenever we do, and then starts as soon as we go on.” He kept her eyes firmly on Proximo, not looking at all towards the apparent shadow that was lingering behind them. “On the bright side, it’s just him, from what I can tell. Here,” she said, before fumbling at her belt. Surprisingly, she pulled out her dagger, and passed it gently over to Proximo. “Angle it just so.”

Proximo looked down at the knife, pretending to be examining it for rust, all while surreptitiously watching the clear reflection that the peculiar metal in the blade gave off. There was a number of seated tables behind him, but less than a handful had only a single person sitting in it.

“Do you see the bearded young man in red? The foreigner, I mean.”

Proximo picked up the man quickly, seated alone and looking aloof at a corner table not far from the door. He was wearing a crimson surcoat, and was clearly not a Devien, judging by his features. Though he was feigning disinterest, Proximo could see his glance returning to Violet’s way several times. Hart placed the knife down quickly, so as not to attract his attention.

“Should we leave, my lady?” he asked, nervous.

“Tempting, but I’m not certain that’s the ideal choice. Like I said, he seems to be alone, so I have the suspicion that it’s merely… surveillance that he’s interested in. It’s not an uncommon thing, considering our mission, to have a spy or two watching out. Honestly, if we just bolted out right now, he would probably realize that we knew he was there.” She smiled, seemingly vaguely amused. “It would give away the game, you see.”

“Try to be serious, my lady,” Proximo chastised. “This could be dire.”

“I’m always serious, Mister Hart,” Lady Violet replied firmly, “even when it doesn’t seem like it. Especially when it doesn’t seem like it.” She pushed a tress of purple hair out of her eyes, then gracefully lifted up her teacup to take a brief drink. “I really must ask that y— oh, hello.”

Confused, Proximo wanted to turn around and she what she was interested in now, but restrained himself. As it happens, it mattered little, as a person Proximo did not recognize walked past him, towards Lady Violet. Hart heard a scuffling sound behind him, no doubt Red and Crispin standing to eliminate a possible threat… but they stood down when Violet waved the stranger over, and he handed her a sealed letter. She smiled, bid the person to come closer, and whispered something in the stranger’s ear—in a silent reply to whatever question she had asked, the man shook his head. After that, he departed as soon as he had arrived.

“What was that about?” Proximo asked immediately.

“More information from our sources in the Dreamweave, it seems. I’m surprised that this one is still reporting, to be honest. All the better for us, even if he is a bit late sending it.” Using her knife, she broke open the seal envelope and read down the paper enclosed inside, her dark eyes darting hither and thither across the page.

“Something important?” he ventured, still conscious of and uncomfortable about the spy lingering behind him.

“Most things are, I find,” she replied. She refolded the letter, placed it inside the envelope, then tucked it away. “Current events, really. You needn't concern yourself with it, my dear assistant.”

Proximo raised an eyebrow at that. “Oh really? You’re making it sound all the more intriguing, my lady. Something that you would prefer to not share?” He tilted his head at her, watching as she shifted in her seat at the question. “You know that you can trust me, my lady, if it really is something important.”

“I know,” she replied meaningfully. “But there’s really no need for concern. If anything becomes relevant, you’ll be the first to know.”

He nodded, though he still suspected that she was keeping something from him. Proximo did his best to shrug it off anyways, when a thought came to mind. “Who are our contacts in the Dreamweave?”

“Pardon?”

“I know that the Collective has its own eyes and ears in the Painted Sea, but I hadn’t met any from the Dreamweave until now. Obviously they’re there as well, though, or we wouldn’t have reports sent by them,” he explained. “If you don’t mind my asking, my lady, who are they? It would be good to know, seeing that we’ll have to keep up with them once we’re in court.”

She did not answer immediately, and thought carefully before speaking. “Forgive me, Proximo,” she said slowly, “but I would prefer not to say.”

“My lady?” Proximo said, taken aback.

“It really has nothing to do with any… lack of faith in you, Proxi,” she apologized. “I simply cannot say.” She reached out and put her hand on his. “You understand, don’t you?”

Yes, he thought. It was, of course, understandable from a professional standpoint, but for some more personal reason it unnerved the assistant, knowing that he did not have his lady’s confidence. “If I’ve acted in any way that would shake your trust in me…”

“No, no Proxi, of course not,” she said emphatically. “Listen to me, please: there are a few people in the world that I trust completely, and without question. Mars is one of them, so is Maddy, and the other Wardens, my family, yes.... and you. It’s all the other people that I worry about.” She smiled wanly. “It isn’t lack of trust, Proximo. Just… professional caution.”

“You know that I’m not some loose-lipped gossip hop, willing to let privileged information slip out on a whim, my lady. If you have some secret plan in mind, I would ne— “

“If I had some secret plan in mind, I would tell you before any other person. Have I ever given you reason to doubt that I never doubt you?”

Proximo leaned back in his chair. “What about your plan with Coin Counter?”

Lady Violet tilted her head. “The Knight Regulator? What about him?”

“You had him for dinner aboard the Wonderbolt, with the captain and I. You were questioning him.”

“Am I not allowed to have an interest in the lives of my friends and subordinates?” she asked innocently. “He is new to the Collective. I merely wanted to check on his well-being.”

“You say ‘check,’” Proximo replied, “but it seemed closer to ‘interrogate’. What was all that with the Warden of Honesty? I half expected some Knight Prefect to accuse him of apostasy, the way you were charging him.”

“You’re exaggerating.”

“And you’re dodging the question, my lady. What was the need for it?” He saw a look from the lady that was clearly meant to remind him that she was under no obligation to answer, and so he added, “Unless this is a secret plan I’m not meant to know?”

Lady Violet gave a resigned sigh. “I felt some fielding of his loyalty was not entirely out of the question, given his record. You had some doubts yourself, if I recall.”

“And I reported to you that I was satisfied with his explanation. I’m confused as to why you felt the need to sic the Warden of Honesty on the poor man, regardless. Was my word not enough?”

“Oh, come now, Proximo, you’re just being petty. I was simply verifying and seeing for myself, is all. Honesty has a good sense for truthfulness.”

“You’re sounding like one of those Honest Eye cultists. Like he has some magical powers.”

“Two of those ‘cultists’ are protecting our lives as we speak,” she pointed out, sounding slightly perturbed. “Perhaps some gratitude would not be out of the order.”

“My lady,” Proximo said in a low voice, glancing over to the unaware Red and Crispin, “their views are insanity. They’re fanatics.”

“And?”

Proximo looked at her, not quite believing what he had heard. “Regardless,” he sighed, “I’m assuming that there was a more specific reason why he in particular had to be scrutinized.”

“There is. I’m surprised that you’re asking now, of all times. I would have gladly told you why it was done immediately, had you asked.”

“I had assumed you would include me in whatever plot you had.”

“And so I am,” she said sardonically. “I believed—and still believe—that Sir Coin represents a valuable asset to our success. We will need to work closely with an Authority investigation team while we’re staying in the Dreamweave, and we’ll need people who can work closely with them in turn. If we can have people who can understand the Mods, make them trust us, perhaps favor us, then it will all go the more smoothly.” She picked up her cup delicately and took another sip. “Who better to treat with Knights than a Knight? Not to mention he has a wealth of experience in such matters.”

Proximo considered that. The thought had occurred to him as well, and it seemed reasonable enough. He couldn’t help but continue, though. “You wished to test his loyalties further then? To see if he would agree.”

“Naturally. It was a necessary precaution, considering what’s at stake, and it was ultimately harmless either way.” She eyed him as she took another drink. “Unless you disapprove?”

He frowned slightly. “It strikes me as lacking in honesty.”

“To whom? Sir Coin or yourself?”

“Both, I suppose.”

“Well, I’m sorry that you feel that way,” she replied, obviously eager to stop the conversation.

Proximo’s eyes narrowed, despite himself. “Fine.”

They sat in silence for a time, neither speaking nor looking at one another. Proximo left himself to his thoughts, discontent. She has a point, of course, he admitted to himself. It is a difficult position they’re in, and being certain of who receives what information was a natural measure to take. But that didn’t make being left out any less distressing, or her decision to lure Coin into little more than an interrogation feel any less… wrong. It wasn’t a rational feeling, he knew, but something felt off-key about the whole affair.

In the background, he could hear the other patrons moving and talking. The singer’s voice could also be heard, in the middle of an encore of the same song from earlier. The lyrics drifted over listfully, and Proximo contented himself by listening to them.

“Devio’s fellows saw the land
of beauty that came from his hand.
They stared in wonder at the night
he painted pale, the colors bright,
and wept to see the perfect face
of the statue clothed in silk and lace.

“Devio saw them bend their knees
In Silkensigh, in Sublimides,
to offer praise and beg for boon
beneath the sky, under the moon.
There they would crowd for faintest chance
for the slightest sight of the master’s glance.

“But did she come to see his deed,
beside his house, there by the Sea?
And had the one his eye had caught
come here to see the work he brought?
And was the distance far apart
between them halved by way of art?

“Her ink-spell hair could not be seen,
nor would he find her eyes of green
in any crowd or painted scene
that he could conjure on a screen.
For long ago she slipped away,
to pass beyond the veil of day.

“Devio labored without end,
deaf to the praise that they would send,
for the only one he sought to see
was the image that would never be,
the only beauty for which he would wake,
was the only one he could not make.”

The singer rested, placing his instrument down, as the assembled people applauded. Proximo sighed, the words resonating in his mind as he thought. He glanced over hesitantly to Lady Violet, only to see that she was doing the same to him. Both looked away again when they met eyes.

After a moment’s pause, Violet cleared her throat. “You know,” she said, “there will be much against us. In the Dreamweave, I mean.”

Proximo nodded silently. After a time, he said quietly, “I’m sorry, my lady. That… that wasn’t very mature of me.”

“I’m sorry as well,” she said, smiling gently. “It felt like the most professional avenue, truly, but perhaps it wasn’t the best one for us.” She reached out an open hand. “Partners?”

Proximo took the hand. “Always, my lady.”

She smiled. “Well then,” she sighed, “I’m finished with my tea. Shall we go?”

“What about our shadow?” Proximo asked, thinking of the man following them.

“Oh, still there. I imagine that he’ll be following us back to the ship as well, but what can you do?”

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re much too nonchalant about these situations?”

She shrugged. “You learn to live with it.”

They rose to leave, with Red and Crispin coming over immediately. “Is there a reason why we’re still here?” Red asked, disgruntled. “A man spies on us across town, and the first thing we do is stop for tea.”

“Oh, you make it sound as though you didn’t enjoy yourself, Mister Autumn,” Violet teased.

A grunted “Let’s go” was the only response she got. They paid the bill at the door and traced their way down the Row, past the shops, past the docks, up the gangway and back on-board the Wonderbolt. It was only at the end that Proximo allowed himself the luxury of turning around to see where he had come from. All around, the buzz and commotion of Shine stretched far away. He did not see, however, their man in red—the one following them seemed to have cut away.

While he thought about this, Hart heard the lady being greeted by Captain Skytide. “...good to see you once again. We shall be ready to depart within a few hours, once you command it.”

“By all means, captain, take us underway as soon as you’re able. I’ve enjoyed the voyage, but duty is ahead, as always.”

“As always, my lady.” He turned to shout orders at the crew, leaving lady and assistant in the middle of the deck, surrounded by rambunctious Loyal Friends.

“Who do you suppose he was for, my lady?” Proximo asked, the question having been heavy on his mind. When she appeared confused, he added, “Our shadow, I mean. I wonder whom he must have been on the employ of.”

Lady Violet considered this. “It could easily be the Mods—they’ve been known for such intelligence-gathering. Or perhaps some crook hired by Dreamweave nobles, to find out what they can from us. Or the Chamber keeping tabs on foreign dignitaries. You can mark this, though: it won’t be the last of such interest. I doubt it was even the first of it.”

The assistant found himself in agreement. It felt strange, to be returning to a place that he had known so well when he was a child, and finding it much the same as an adult. It was stranger, though, to find oneself wrapped up in such odd intricacies at the same time—no doubt, this would be a trend once he stepped foot in the Dreamweave again for the first time in years.

It’s easier with a friend, though, he thought, it always is.

Proximo crossed his arms and leaned back, still pondering in his head. “You don’t suppose there was anyone else that might want us watched, do you?”

“Not that I know of. Surely we’re not that interesting, are we?”

They laughed together, and went inside. The last part of the journey was ahead, and after that, few could say what might come.

* * * * * *

“Indelio Friendquarter respond. Stop.”

“Star. Stop. Inkie responds. Stop. What is priority, Star? Stop.”

“Canterlot. Stop. Please acknowledge immediate. Stop. New pattern active. Stop.”

“Acknowledged. Stop. What is word from Element? Stop.”

“Element demanding full Weather Team pattern. Stop. ‘Rain to Cloudsdale.’ Stop. Active immediate. Stop. All vessels crewed and on stand-by until further notice. Stop. Captains are to send immediate reports to Star active now. Stop. Element will send further instructions if needed. Stop. Addition: dispatch MoAw assets for well-being assessment on abroad-friends, active immediate. Stop. Tail and report. Stop. No direct contact. Stop.”

“Star, is this broad order for Devien Friendsector, or Indelio Friendquarter only? Stop.”

“Former. Stop.”

“Star, this is militant-level fast strike preparation order. Stop. Is this fire-feud? Stop.”

“Not relevant to orders. Stop. Acknowledge compliance, Indelio. Stop.”

“Star, Indelio Friendquarter requests passcode acknowledge from Element before compliance. Stop.”

“This is Element. Stop. Passcode is ‘Danger-Professionalism.’ Stop. Now would you. Stop. Ignoring my orders and. Stop. Wasting time. Stop. Hate these things. Stop. Don’t make me come over there. Stop.”

“Sorry, Element. Stop. Immediate compliance acknowledged. Stop. MoAw assets scrambled for Indelio arrival. End of line.”

Chapter XIV: Making Sense

* * * * * *

“The Logos is the truth, the Logos is the right, the Logos is the truth and the code of our world. It is by this design that we are given form and soul, it is by this design that the Web exists, it is by this design that we were set in motion. Through the Logos we obtain wisdom, through the Logos we obtain reason, through the Logos we obtain the truth and the code of our world…”

“...for in the beginning the Web as we know did not exist, and there was no connection or methods to cross the great oceans and divides between each place, and the sites of men rose and fell without knowledge of one another. But in time, when the sites became aware of one another, there was confusion and the pains of birth of a new world, and the discoveries made men capricious and untrusting in the order of this born Web. And when gold and steel changed hands, so the hearts and cloaks of men changed and turned to violence, until all the world could have become a burnt offering.

“Only at this time did the will of the Logos see fit to deliver a new balance to a changing world, where a Web once unbound by law or regulation would now bow to the peace and order of an objective right. When Our Founder found his home in Central polluted by pirates and thieves who preyed on the weak, he searched this new world and found others like him, and together in the Scouring of Central they drove out the wicked and created a divine governance that would encompass all people. When the original High Administration saw that a common law was needed, they began the sacred records that formed an Authority, to create a just and forever lasting peace…”

— Excerpts from “The Books of Black and White”

* * * * * *

“It once was that Our Founder heard of a man who, seeing a charging horse about to run another person over in the streets, pushed the stranger out of the way and took the blow himself. With his dying breath, this man asked if the stranger was hurt. Our Founder remarked that this man truly understood the Way of the Moderator.”

— Excerpt from the “Book of Encounters,” compiled in “The Books of Black and White”

* * * * * *

Coin Counter could not feel at ease in the streets of the Dreamweave. The colored buildings seemed to loom over him when he walked by, threatening him with homes that did not want him there, and crowds that demanded he leave. The worst part was that it was hardly worth the trouble worrying about now, when they seemed safe enough. Walking up from the ships had been harder than this: there, they had been forced into the center of attention, pushing their way through the mobs, surrounded by the city watch, only a moment away from an unkind word, then a bared sword, then a sudden shock.

Coin was no stranger to fear. Visiting the Citadel made him nervous. Delving into the Deep Web made him terrified; Coin could still remember shaking so hard when they had reached the perimeter of the raid that one of his fellow knights had thought he had been about to collapse. Being knighted had made him afraid, though not in the same way. So had that night in Reddit, when he had made the choice to switch whom he served forever.

At that moment, all he was doing was walking down a partially deserted street, with a band of other armed people at his side. And yet he couldn't shake a feeling of danger; that he was stepping in enemy territory, somewhere he was not meant to be, somewhere where he was not welcome.

Somewhere where he was hated.

Coin didn't doubt that most of the people in the Dreamweave cared very little about current trouble with the Brony Collective, and likely cared very little about him either... but at the same time, he could not forget the screaming, cursing men of the mobs either. The idea of being trapped in the crowd again made him uneasy.

Shaking his head, he tried to remain in the present. That was where they needed him, anyways. Alongside Dustario, Coin was walking briskly down a part of the city called Sighing Street, which led to the area the Authority Peacekeepers were investigating. Several other members of the Honest Friends were beside them; they had had barely enough time to reach the rooms they were staying in before they had received orders to report to one Do-Not-Lead-Our-Family-Into-Depravity Blair immediately. The portion of the Honest Friends that were to aid in the investigation numbered at over a dozen, though only part of that total was meeting with the Mods today.

“Six save us,” Daria Faust said as they walked in a close-knit group down the street, “Six save us, I mean, I can't believe we're back out already.” She sounded nervous, a feeling that Coin could understand completely. And it was apparent that the female member of the Three Fausts had, like Coin, been brought along purely for her help in the investigation. Though she was nominally a member of the honor guard, she confessed to having little skill in arms, and had had considerable trouble putting on her sword belt before they left. She bit her lip while staring up at the buildings, as though expecting something to fly out of them at any moment.

“I don't like it either,” said one of the other Honest Friends. Coin hadn't met him on the journey from the Blogosphere, but the bespectacled Brony had introduced himself as Hans later on. “They didn't seem too pleased to see us earlier. Are you sure it's safe?” Hans asked while he rubbed his dark fingers on the golden apple necklace dangling from his throat.

“Maybe so, or maybe not,” replied Dustario, “but we've been ordered by the Lord Moderator to meet with this 'Depravity' person immediately. We're hardly in a position to refuse, are we? Besides,” he said as he tossed a grin to the back of the group, “we have our steadfast protectors here.”

To the rear, Crispin Peck sensed he was being spoken about and waved happily to Dustario and the others. The diminutive Honest Friend hadn't spoken a word since Dustario introduced him, but seemed extremely cheerful. He was short but meaty, muscled, and well-suited to the armor he wore, which had the Honest Eye printed upon it.

Kriseroff smiled as well. “Har! It is Kriseroff's pleasure to protect his smaller, skinnier friends, Dustario-friend!” Suddenly though, his face darkened. “But he will need food soon. Hungry, very hungry. Hopefully the Mods have food, or he will need to eat Crispin! Har!”

Crispin looked aghast and made an odd clacking noise when he heard this, but after some words of reassurance and apology from Kriseroff he seemed as spirited as ever. Striding forward to the front, the Generous Friend named Theosyrius chuckled.

“Apple-eating cannibals,” he said with a thin smile, “a strange sight, indeed.” Theosyrius had been sent with them to represent the Warden of Generosity. He wore a waistcoat and half-cape as pale as the streaks in his dyed hair and beard. He had introduced himself politely, but Coin still wasn’t sure of his character. He was proper and well-dressed, but he had a way of talking with a self-superior edge that Coin wasn’t altogether fond of.

“Well, one shouldn't hope for trouble,” Theosyrius continued, “but it helps to be prepared for it. Hopefully a fully armed group with three extra guards brought for good measure deters any would-be assassins. Besides,” he said with a pat to his belt, “one always needs a bit of... practice, when it comes to the sword.” Hanging on his side was a razor-thin, pearl-handled dueling blade, which Theosyrius placed a gentle hand on.

Someone in the back snorted. “Leave the fighting to us, thin-man,” huffed Red Autumn, the Honest Friend with six-pointed stars carved into his hands. The squat, bald man was trailing behind Kriseroff and Crispin, trying to keep up with his short legs. “Wouldn't pick my teeth with a little thing like that.”

Theosyrius sent back a smug, sideways look. “I trained four years in dueling, I'll have you know.”

“I fought in the Chan,” shot back Red Autumn. “Think your little school teaches killing Channic? How 'bout Mods? I've done more of both than I could count.”

“Har! I did not know Red-friend could count!” bellowed Kriseroff.

Dustario smiled. “Well, arithmetic aside, I should not expect 'killing Mods' to come in handy here. I'm certain this man Depravity can be reasoned with.”

“Trying to reason with depravity has caused a fair share of grief, in my experience,” said Theosyrius dryly.

While the others joked, Coin kept his eyes on the buildings along the sides of the street. They all seemed either half-ruined or abandoned completely, with only husks remaining of the homes that used to stand. Coin had been told that this part of the city, “Nightside”, was largely deserted aside from criminals and those who had nowhere else to go, but it was strange to actually see.

It occurred to Coin that he had never seen a place like this before; from the massive halls of Central, to the packed sub-sections of Reddit, to the color-filled streets surrounding the Citadel of the Six, he had never seen a city that was simply abandoned. Decayed and troubled, yes, but this place looked as though it had gone past that long ago—its people had just given up and left. And what made that happen? Coin thought curiously. Was it only time, or is there someone to blame?

Dustario seemed to notice Coin's concerns, and nudged his shoulder. “Feeling well, friend? You haven't said a word since we left the Palace.”

“Fine,” Coin replied. “Fine, really. This place though... I've never seen anything like it.”

Dustario nodded his head. “It is odd, isn't it? When we arrived, the streets seemed full of people, but now we walk through a whole quarter of the city, and it seems practically empty. It's almost as thou—"

Suddenly, he stopped. “Hold on,” Dustario said. Looking forward, Coin could see that his eyes were fixed on something printed on a wall up ahead. “Is that...”

He ran towards it quickly, leaving the rest of them behind. Daria shouted out a protest. “Dusty! We need to stay together!” she called after him. He had already turned a corner, however, and once they caught up they found him standing before a wall plastered with posters and graffiti.

Coin was confused for a moment, then realized what he was staring at. On one of posters was a singing figure garbed in pink robes, with the question “Are you a Laughing Friend?” printed above and below the picture. On another, with a small green heart painted over it, was the image of a single golden eye, with the words “Are you an Honest Friend?”.

When Dustario saw the rest had arrived, he turned and grinned. “Brony slogans and Brony signs. See that, Sir Coin? There were friends of ours walking here before us.”

Theosyrius did not seem comforted. He walked up to the wall and moved aside a stack of wooden pallets leaning against it, then peered behind them. “Friends,” he said gravely, “and something else. Look.”

When they saw the message behind it, Red and Kriseroff spat, while Hans and Daria went pale. Coin read the words, but did not recognize them: splashed in faded white paint was a different question, “Who is the Oathbreaker?” It struck him as familiar, somehow, but he could not place where he had heard it before.

Coin Counter was lost, but that the message was significant was clear. The rest of the party stared at the words silently. Finally, he asked “What does–“

“Dog!” Kriseroff suddenly yelled. He grabbed the two people closest to him and pointed, as a shaggy black dog came bolting towards them. Coin instinctively put a hand on his sword-hilt, but it wasn't needed: the dog's tail was wagging happily, and as soon as it approached Kriseroff it immediately sat down and began panting.

Kriseroff gave a deep cry and picked up the dog in his massive arms, letting it lick his face while he laughed. Crispin was rubbing the dog's stomach gleefully when someone called out to them. Gazing down the street, Coin spotted a man standing on the path further down.

“Hey! That's my dog, if you don't mind. Come over here,” the man said.

They followed, with Kriseroff still holding the dog, until they came to an open square with several people standing in it. In the center was a patch of dirt surrounded by empty stone benches, with several rundown buildings flanking each side. One of them had a faded sign and several Peacekeepers in front of it. The Peacekeepers were all wearing chain-mail or boiled leather with white uniforms, aside from one. A bored-looking man near the entrance had more black on his clothes than the others, showing his place as a knight in the Authority. He was older than Coin, but still relatively young, with short blond hair that was threatening to recede long before the man's time. He had his arms crossed when the Bronies came into view.

“Oh goody, the horse-lovers have arrived. Now we're safe,” the knight said. “Please stop emasculating my dog further, and put him down.”

Kriseroff reluctantly did exactly that, looking mournful as he did. The dog began wiggling and pawing, throwing his head back towards his master to bark.

“Here boy,” said the knight, “stop humiliating me and come over, damn you.”

The dog froze, stared at his master, then immediately flopped onto the ground and began rolling back and forth without a care in the world.

The knight stared at his pet with a look somewhere between disappointment and resignation. “Some guard dog you turned out to be.” He sighed, turning to the group with a mock-bow. “Sir Depravity Blair, at your service. Yes, it is my real name. You've already met Roger,” Blair said with a gesture towards the black dog, who started to wag his tail upon hearing his name. Roger was still rolling around in front of Kriseroff, but now was shaking himself from side-to-side and kicking his legs in the air as well.

It was the Generous Friend who returned the greeting. “Theosyrius Kang, at your service,” he said with a smile and a bow. “Of my honest friends, this one is called Dustario. The giant at the back whom dear Roger has taken a liking to is Kriseroff Hathi, and the ones to the sides of him are Crispin Peck on the right and Red Autumn on the left. Miss Faust is our lady-companion, the gentleman in the glasses is Hans Rahjalten, and if I am not mistaken this is Sir Coin Counter.”

“Sir Coin Counter?” replied Blair with a raised eyebrow. “Is that a joke?”

“Certainly not, Sir Depravity,” Theosyrius replied with slightly more emphasis on the knight's own name than necessary. “Sir Coin is a true and tested knight, from what he tells me, and it is known that Mods never lie. Is that not right, Sir Coin?”

“Ah, yes,” Coin stammered, “well, formerly. I was formerly a knight, is what I mean, not that I formerly never lied.”

“Of course,” Sir Depravity said, his eyes narrowing on Coin. “I'm happy to see that I've been saddled with traitors as well as profligates for this case. My luck.”

“You're mistaken,” Dustario spoke up defensively. “My friend is no traitor, and we are no profligates.”

“That remains to be seen. Isn't that right, Roger?” The dog barked and stood back up, shook the dirt from himself, and pranced back to Depravity's side. “He's useless for the most part,” said Sir Depravity, “but at least he always agrees.” He lowered a hand and scratched the dog's ear. “So, what do you want, exactly?”

“Just to be briefed on what is known, and what is not,” said Theosyrius with a courteous bow. “The Brony Collective would simply like to take a look at the scene of this heinous crime so we can begin proving our friends' innocence.”

“Uh-huh.” The knight rolled his eyes. “I would say no, but I have orders from Lord Halforth saying I can't, so do whatever it is you want and leave. Do yourselves a favor and don't tamper with what's left: most of the actual evidence was carried off ages ago, but that doesn't mean you get to play around with whatever you want. And if you need anything else, please hesitate to ask me and go talk to one of my subordinates instead. Now if you'll excuse me, I'll be over in my 'anti-horse-love corner' in that direction.” With that, he walked off, with Roger in tow.

“Sir Depravity-Sir is rude,” Kriseroff blurted out.

“I can still hear you,” Sir Depravity-Sir called out as he was walking away.

“Sir Depravity-Sir has good hearing,” Kriseroff said with a grin.

“Try to control yourself, Mister Kriseroff,” an exasperated Theosyrius said, once the knight was out of earshot. “You are currently one offended knight or one over-snuggled dog away from an international incident, and I don't need to add that to our list of concerns. Still,” he said with a sigh, “that probably went as well as could be hoped. At least he gave us leave to look around.”

Dustario nodded. “Fan out, everyone. We aren't sure how much time we have, so try to cover everything. You each know your own expertise, so find your places and learn what you can. Crispin, Kriseroff, and Red,” he said to the three Honest Eyes, “I know you're not part of the investigation team, so just help us however you feel you can. Don't break anything, Kris.”

“I will not break or touch anything if that's what Dustario-friend so wants,” Kriseroff grumbled. “And also will not speak or move or yell for the dog, is that right?”

“Move if you like,” Dustario said, “the rest are forbidden.”

The team broke up into different parts, spreading out into the square to look around and find other Peacekeepers to speak with. Aside from them, the square was empty, surrounded only by sagging or half-ruined buildings. Coin doubted that many people would hang around this place even in the best of times, but it seemed that the recent murder and the presence of the Peacekeepers had driven everyone away. The square itself might have been impressive once, but now all that was left were the shells of shops and homes, their forgotten shutters and doors hanging open and moving quietly with the wind. On the ground, however, Coin noticed two flags, one colored red that was placed directly in front of a dilapidated tavern, and a yellow one that stood just behind the street that the Bronies had just come from.

Someone must have seen him looking at the flags, as a friendly voice said, “Those mark where the bodies were found. Nasty business.”

The speaker was a young man with short auburn hair, dressed in a white uniform. Next to him was a woman clothed in the same dress, very pale with large, sunken black eyes, high cheekbones and dark hair that was only a half-inch or so long. She tilted her head in curiosity when the Bronies approached, but the man extended a welcoming hand to Dustario.

“You the Brony reps? Nice to meet yah,” he said as he shook hands. “This here is Abigail Cawtler, and I’m Perseverance Cartwright. Call me Percy.”

“Dustario. And yes, we are the Bronies. A pleasure to meet you, Perseverance.”

“I’m serious, please call me Percy.”

“If you wanted to see the corpses, they’ve already been moved,” said Abigail. “The rot set in after a day. They were messy when I last saw them. By now they’re probably brown and green and buried.” She sighed wistfully and poked at the red flag in front of her.

Theosyrius bowed. “Truthfully, we were not expecting they would still be in a proper condition. We were hoping, however, that you might be able to tell us a bit more about the crime committed here. It’s our duty to determine the truth of it, after all.”

“Sure thing,” said Percy. He walked over to Abigail and rested his hand on the flag. “Two stills, but you already knew that. Sir Harald and his squire both, and neither of ‘em should’ve been here. No one saw ‘em leave, no one claims to know they were gone ‘til morning, when they found the rooms empty. Probably left five or six hours after the evening recitations, wandered out here, and wound up dead.”

“What can you tell us about the murderers?” asked Daria Faust.

“Other than that they might be your friends?” Percy asked with a raised eyebrow. “Not a whole lot. At least three of them, but I say four. The city watch might be a pack o’ reprobates, but they can at least recognize footprints. By the time we got here, the whole plaza had been stomped to Hell by all the guards, but they left the trails intact.”

He extended a hand to Abigail, and she reached into her shoulder bag and pulled out a folder. Percy reached inside, took out a solitary piece of paper, and beckoned the group to look at it.

“This is a sketch of the prints we found,” he said as he traced a line across the page. It was a simple mock-up of the plaza, copying the layouts of the buildings and providing several sets of the tracks that were individually colored. “This red line here? That’s Sir Harald, far as we could tell. Walked out from that way,” he pointed to the street that Coin and the others had come from, “then came up over here to this tavern, the Laughing Man.

“There were three other people around it—my guess is that Sir Harald saw the first one standing in front of the building, walked over, and then was jumped by the other two when he wasn’t looking. If those two were hiding in that corner over there, it would’ve been hard to see ‘em at night.”

“I’ve seen scenes like this one, and tracks alone can be misleading,” said Hans. He took off his glasses and polished them on a handkerchief. “You mentioned that there were at least three people involved. How are you so sure?”

“Three wounds,” replied Abigail with a glazed look, “ two knives and a bolt. Six inch wound to the side, seven inch wound to the stomach, crossbow bolt to the back. Three different angles, one knife serrated and one not. It was messy. They needed more people to cut him than they hoped, so they all came quickly, and chopped into him before he could realize it.” She spoke in an odd monotone, as though she were talking about something far less gruesome. Coin found it strangely unsettling.

Percy nodded. “The wounds were from three completely different angles, and three completely different weapons. Plus it matches the tracks we found. It’s possible that it was just one or two changing positions and weapons, but it ain’t likely.”

“If there were at least three killers, why are our friends being accused?” Red Autumn asked forcefully. He crossed his arms and looked as grim as possible at the Peacekeepers. “There are only two of them. Not enough.”

“At least they can count,” said Sir Depravity. He had wandered back over to his fellow Mods, seemingly incapable of not butting into the conversation, while Roger wagged his tail behind him. “Yes, there’s a difference between two and three, but your diplomats could have easily had some friends of their own. One of them had ties to criminals, we’re told. And Lord Aureliano thinks there’s some sort of underground pack of subversives and traitors in the city, plotting to take it over. Or maybe your leaders sent him the help they needed.” He shrugged.

Crispin and Kriseroff looked horrified at the suggestion, and Red Autumn seemed mortally offended. “I won’t hear insults against my lord, not from you or anyone else.” Crispin nodded along with what his fellow Honest Eye said.

“Your lord? That would be the big ugly mountain, yes?” Sir Depravity said with an amused look. “And you three are his fan-club, or something?”

Crispin and Kriseroff nodded again, but Red snarled. “The Warden is infallible. Outsiders like you should remember that.”

“Oh, I’m sure I’ll keep it in mind.”

“Pardon me,” Dustario said, eager to interrupt the conversation, “but my honest friend has a point. How could our friends be accused of this? Meaning no offense, I fail to see how this evidence you’ve collected points to them.”

The knight sighed contemptuously. “I really hoped I wouldn’t need to explain all of this. Alright, you? You’re in charge?” He pointed to Theosyrius. “Come with me. I don’t have the patience to talk to the rest of you.” He walked off without another word.

Dustario and Theosyrius looked to one another, then turned back to the rest of the group. “Hm, it seems I’ll be getting a heart-to-heart,” said Theosyrius, adjusting his lapel. “The rest of you just, ah, just stay here then.”

“You shouldn’t be long,” Dustario said. “We’ll just find out what we can while you’re off, alright?” Theosyrius bowed and followed behind Depravity before he disappeared inside one of the abandoned buildings, leaving the rest of them behind.

The Peacekeeper called Percy rolled his eyes after they had gone. “Sorry about the sir. I bet he wasn’t the best first impression yah could’ve gotten.”

“He doesn’t…” stammered Daria Faust, “he doesn’t seem to… well, he doesn’t seem to like us, I mean.”

Percy shrugged. “Sir Depravity’s like that to everyone. Don’t take it too personal-like.”

“It’s fine,” Dustario said with a wave of his hand, “one needs a thick skin in this business.” He looked towards the building that the knight and Theosyrius had disappeared into. “Still, I wouldn’t mind knowing what the man has to say. Why are our friends under suspicion?”

Percy held up his hands. “You’re askin’ the wrong man, there. I mean, I know most of it, but sir’s the one that’s concerned with all this political stuff, him and the judges. Abigail and Cellia and yours truly are just here to check the crime scene, investigate where we can on the Dreamweave, and help however Lord Halforth wants us to.”

“Who’s Cellia?” Hans asked.

“Cellia? Oh right, I suppose you haven’t met her yet. ‘Ay Cellia!” he yelled into the nearby tavern, “Come out and meet the Bronies, would yah?”

“Just a moment!” a woman’s voice replied from inside.

“Probably lookin’ over the place for the fifth time,” Percy said. “Yeah, she’s the wiz-kid ‘round here. Lot ‘o commendations for her investigative work, back in the Devien Isles. First day she was here, she must’ve walked around this courtyard twelve times, retracing steps, checkin’ all the places they might have to hide. Good work, though she’s not nearly as much a hand with the dead body stuff as Abigail.”

Abigail Cawter gave a small smile when she heard the compliment, though Coin thought it was an odd thing to be flattered by. She gave a strange impression, but that didn’t seem to prevent Dustario from moving in. “Field examination, eh? Sounds like exciting work.” He gave a handsome smile.

She shrugged. “Not really. They don’t normally move much.”

“Do anything else fun?”

Abigail thought for a moment. “I like observation.”

“Ah? You like art, or animals, or…”

“People.”

“Oh.” Dustario blinked. “Oh. Do they ever... have anything to say about that?”

“No. Not really.”

The situation was rescued when another person emerged from the building, a woman of dark skin and medium height. She wore a well-fitted uniform, mostly white with lines of black here and there, a chestplate of the same coloring, and a black, wide-brimmed hat. Her hair was black as well, tied back into a tight, efficient bun that would have allowed her to wear a helmet easily. Her face was graced with wide lips, round eyes that were a dark green, and high, prominent cheekbones. She stood very straight and walked forward vigorously as she approach, a pad of paper under her arm and a pencil tucked behind one of her large ears. “Hello? Percy, you needed—”

She stopped when she noticed the rest of the group. “Oh, hello,” she said while putting her right fist to her left shoulder in a respectful salute and bowing her head. “I am Cellia Ravenry, Peacekeeper of the Moderator Authority, currently in service to Sir Depravity Blair. You must be the Bronies.”

Dustario stopped looking strangely at Abigail so as to introduce their group. “Indeed we are, ma’am. My name is Dustario of the Honest Friends, and it is a pleasure to meet you,” he said with a bow.

After starting with himself, Dustario began to introduce each of them in turn, giving their name and rank. Each time, Cellia bowed and and answered politely. “Pleased to meet you, Mister Kriseroff,” she said politely when she approached the man. She paused, then asked, “Hm. Forgive me, but you seem familiar. Have you ever been to Central?”

Kriseroff opened his mouth to answer, then stopped, then closed it again suddenly and looked at Dustario. Cellia seemed confused, until Dustario spoke up. “He’s been forbidden from speaking until I feel that he can be trusted with the ability. Or until I stop enjoying the recent quiet.”

The silent friend shot his leader a dirty look, but Cellia laughed softly. When she turned to Crispin Peck, she asked, “I suppose you can speak, yes?”

Crispin grinned, but shook his head. He opened his mouth as if to stick out his tongue… only to reveal that he had none. Cellia and Percy jumped back, as did Coin when he saw the maiming, while Abigail leaned in more closely to see the wound. Crispin seemed amused by the attention, but Cellia apparently still felt the need for an apology.

“I… I’m sorry, I didn’t realize that…” she stammered.

Crispin interrupted her with a carefree wave of his hand, then began to make an odd sound with the back of his throat. It took a moment for Coin to realize that he was laughing.

“My honest friend might not be able to speak,” said Dustario, “but he’s always had a certain amount to say. He’s actually Channic by birth, and happened to have been home during the First Rise.” The tongueless man in question nodded wistfully at Dustario’s explanation. “Around the same time,” he continued, “he received his injury. It was… actually, was it before or after you converted, friend?”

Crispin tapped his chin thoughtfully, then shrugged. Whatever his memory of the incident was, he seemed to sincerely not recall or care.

Cellia still seemed slightly shaken, but she recovered well. “Well,” she said, before a short pause. “Well,” she repeated, “it is good to meet you. I suppose you are all hoping for some information regarding the murders?”

“If you don’t mind,” Dustario said. “Coin, Daria, and Red, could you join Miss Ravenry and learn what we need to know? I’ll need a moment with Mister Cartwright and Miss Cawtler over here.”

Daria nodded while Red stomped behind her and Coin followed behind him. Cellia led them to the yellow flag that marked where Sir Harald’s squire was found. “The placement of the bodies was strange,” she said as they approached, “Sir Harald obviously walked out to the front of that tavern, the Laughing Man, but his squire stayed here. There weren’t any footprints that suggested that he went any further than this spot.” She planted her feet down on a patch of ground just around the corner. “My first question is, why did he stay behind?”

Daria piped up immediately. “Maybe he didn’t want to follow Sir Harald? Or he was ordered to stay back?”

“It could be,” Cellia answered. “Not wanting to follow Sir Harald could be explained by simple nerves: it was night, he was only a squire, and this place can be dangerous after dark. If he was ordered to stay behind, that begs the question of why again.”

Coin looked more closely. He was not as accustomed to crime scenes as some in the Knight Regulators, but simple observation and logic could get one far on its own. Moving his head slightly, he could see that the wall in front would completely cover anyone standing behind it, letting him see into the plaza and observe Dustario and the others, even while they likely couldn’t see him. “He could have stayed as a kind of look-out,” Coin said. “If you, ah, if you tried standing right here, I suppose you could see out there fairly clearly.”

Cellia nodded. “That was my thought as well.” She walked out from the corner and pointed towards the Laughing Man. “The Books of Black and White tell us that the simplest answer is often the best, but assuming that the squire wasn’t staying behind without orders, Harald may have told him to remain here to keep an eye out for others. If they were expecting trouble, Sir Harald may have wanted to go first, so the squire might have a chance to escape if things turned poorly.”

“Or he was a coward, and let his master be killed,” Red said grouchily.

“It’s not impossible,” Cellia admitted. “Though that wouldn’t explain why he didn’t simply run. It’s hard to say exactly when the two were struck down, but it must have been fairly soon after one another. If Sir Harald had to walk all the way out there, why wouldn’t the squire turn back right away?”

“Hmm, good point,” Daria Faust said. She seemed more comfortable now that she was surrounded by armed Moderators and wading deeper into the nuances of the scene. She’s not used to danger, but she knows a puzzle when she see’s it, Coin thought. “Do you know why they were here to begin with?” she asked with a quick glance at the buildings around her. “It doesn’t seem like a place for a Mod and his squire, I mean.”

The Peacekeeper sighed. “No, that I am less sure of. I spoke with several people at the Palace, and none of them saw the two leave, or mentioned hearing anything about where they were going. They came out here for a reason, but whatever it may have been, they told no one.” She frowned. “And that’s another thing. Sir Harald had brought guards with him to the Dreamweave, but he came out here with no one but his squire. Why?”

Red Autumn scoffed. “Maybe he didn’t want to be seen. Place is a den of scum, plenty of disgusting things to buy and see. Moderators are all the same. Talk about sin and profligates in the day, then do it themselves when people aren’t looking. Came out here to buy something special, bit of Trance, maybe, then it goes south with the dealer and he winds up dead. Simple.”

Coin noticed a discomfort in Cellia’s face when Red suggested that a knight might be crooked. “It’s… not impossible,” she admitted again, “but I don’t think so. I read through Sir Harald’s profile, and if there’s one thing he was not, it’s corrupt.”

Red huffed. “Alright, so he walks out here, gets attacked by some bum for his wallet, and that’s it. Easy! There’s a hundred reasons why, and none of them involve our friends.”

Cellia was not convinced. “If it was a mugging, why wouldn’t the thieves take anything? And they would have had to have been some very bold muggers to rob a Knight Censor and his squire as well, and unusually well-equipped besides.”

“Maybe that was just it,” Daria suggested. “They rob two men wandering around at night, realize too late who they were, and run before someone could catch them.”

“If being caught was their worry, why leave the body out where anyone could find it? There were not enough people around for us to have a single witness, so it seems unlikely that they would be concerned with being spotted. I suppose it could have just been a panicked mistake, but in my opinion this was far too coordinated to be something spur-of-the-moment.” Cellia looked down at the yellow flag, where a body once lay, with a determined expression. “I’ve seen a share of robberies gone wrong, but this wasn’t one. This is assassination, without a doubt in my mind.”

“But why?” Coin blurted out. If there was one thing that had to be known when investigating a crime, it is the motive. Coin had learned that well enough during his time in the Authority, but it was a simple fact that even an amateur would know. Why Sir Harald was in Nightside was important, and why he had come with no one save his squire was as well — but why someone would kill him was key.

Cellia seemed as uncertain as he was. “It is hard to say for sure. But Sir Harald did not make friends here in the Dreamweave, from what I understand. Several people were against him… including your friends, if I’m not mistaken.”

Red Autumn scowled. “I won’t hear accusations against them. The Warden has said that they will be freed, and they will.”

“That depends on whether their innocence can be established,” Cellia said in the most official way she could manage, straightening her back as she talked. She certainly seemed more professional than Sir Depravity or Percy, standing so firmly and speaking so formally. From Coin’s experience that was the mark of a truly dedicated student in the Authority — not just someone who joined the Moderators for the pay or the adventure, but a true believer hungry to prove their worth. He had seen many people like that in the academy. In fact, he himself had been one.

Red’s scowl deepened when he heard that. “I’ll be back,” he said angrily as he stormed back to the others.

Cellia looked at him closely as he walked past her, keeping a keen eye on how he moved. After he went by, she loosened and turned back to Coin and Daria Faust. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend him like that.”

Daria waved her hand. “He’s always like that,” she said casually. “He wouldn’t be so angry if you were a Brony, like us I mean.”

“I hope he’ll accept my apology when I get a chance,” Cellia said. She pulled the pencil out from behind her ear and started fidgeting with it. “I prefer to not have people angry with me.”

“You’ll be fine,” Daria responded amiably. “So how long have you been a Peacekeeper?” she asked.

“Three years. I took the position after I graduated from the Centrellian Academy of Culture and Guidance, and have been working under Sir Depravity since then.”

“You prefered field work to squiring?” Coin asked. That was the usual case; after a student graduated from one of the academies, they would either become a squire under an assigned knight or join the Peacekeepers or Lawbringers instead. Being a squire essentially meant being tutored again for another few years, and was a good way to gain a knighthood, but for most Knight Censors this also meant little time chasing criminals and more time approving paintings and books. Not everyone who joined the Peacekeepers wished for a knighthood, or indeed received one, but those who did could count on far more experience in the field than the squire of the average Knight Censor would.

Cellia nodded. “Yes, I received some offers for squire work, but I felt that a proper Moderator should have as much time on the ground as possible before they are knighted, and not wait for later. Thankfully, I had the recommendations to be able to work under” — and here she paused before speaking in a voice of reverence and awe — “Lord Halforth.” She paused again, eyes seeming wistful at the thought of it, before coming back to the Web and speaking again to the people in front of her. “But yes, it was just as you said… I’m sorry, I don’t believe I heard your name earlier,” she said to Coin.

Daria spoke up before he could. “He’s Coin Counter,” she said. Then she stopped suddenly, “Sir Coin Counter, I mean. Sorry, Sir Coin.”

Sir Coin was about to tell Daria once again that she, and in fact no one, had to call him “sir”, when he noticed Cellia’s eyes light up.

“You were a knight?" she asked excitedly. Her words began to speed up as she leaned in closely and shot out a dozen questions. “When were you knighted? Where did you serve? Were you a Knight Censor? If you were, are there any places you would recommend serving, because I’m looking for any advice I can on that. Actually, who knighted you, and how much combat have you seen, and also what academy did you join, that I’d like to know as well. Did you go to the same school as me? I thought I had seen you before, were you in Sir Kennan Doyles’ course on legal theory? I always— “

She stopped herself when she noticed that Coin was still trying to process the deluge of questions. “Oh. Oh, I’m sorry,” she said as she stepped back nervously. “Sorry, I’m just a bit curious about being a knight.” She straightened herself back up again, and tried to recover her formalness. “It has always been my goal, you see.”

Though still a bit off-balance from the barrage of inquiry, Coin understood completely. “Don’t worry,” he said, “it wasn’t so long ago that I was doing the same thing. I was actually a Knight Regulator.”

Cellia nodded, seeming deeply impressed regardless of the fact that there were thousands of Knight Regulators, and Coin was hardly a noteworthy one. “I considered joining them as well, sir. But when I heard about the good work being done by Lord Halforth,” she said with the same tone of near-worship upon pronouncing the Lord Moderator’s name that Coin had heard earlier, “I knew which I would choose. What was it like, sir?”

Coin was about to answer truthfully that it had been mostly mundane desk-work occasionally interrupted by sheer terror, when Daria spoke up again. “It must have really exciting. You know that he helped take down the Silk Road?”

“You were in the operation against the Silk Road?" Cellia asked, mystified.

“It wasn’t really—well I was hardly... “ Coin stammered while regretting Daria’s choice of words for the second time.

“No no, it’s fine,” Cellia said. “I understand that you would rather not talk about it right now. I’m sorry if was prying too much, sir,” she said sincerely, though with a bit of disappointment at having to miss the opportunity to pry. “It’s just, I don’t normally have the chance to ask a true knight for advice on this. Sir Depravity is… not always willing to help.”

“You’ve wanted to be a knight a long time?” Daria asked.

Cellia nodded, and looked very serious. “Both of my parents come from a long line of Moderators. One of my ancestors fought alongside Tristram the Twice-Dead during the Scouring of Central, and stood around him when he died his second time and came back. Another held the banner during the talks that brought the Painted Sea into our order. There were three Ravenry’s fighting for the true Authority during the Three-Year Apostasy of Sopan and his ilk, and my mother and father have lived their lives in service to it as well. It is my duty to continue that tradition.” She looked at Coin. “Were your parents knights as well?”

“I… well I’m not sure,” he answered truthfully. “I never knew my parents. I grew up in an Authority school in Central.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Cellia replied, with a sympathetic look.

Before Coin could reply, Dustario called over to the them. “Over here, you three!” he said loudly. “I think Theo might be returning.”

“Be right over!” Daria cried, seeming safely past her prior apprehension. Cellia and Coin Counter followed behind her as they strolled back to the others.

A question lingered in Coin’s mind, however, and as they walked he cleared his throat. “I was wondering,” he said to Cellia after catching her attention, “wondering about something one of the others asked earlier. Why are the Bronies being accused, exactly? It seems as though anyone could be the killers.”

Cellia looked as Coin curiously as they drew nearer to the group. “Did Sir Depravity not tell you all? Just the night before it happened, they we— “

She was interrupted by Dustario calling out again. “Look alive, friends,” he said, “here they come.”

The two had emerged out of a building on the side, but had been talking for some time after coming out. Now, however, Sir Depravity Blair sauntered past the others and Theosyrius walked behind him, approached Dustario with a meaningful look.

“I fear that I shall need to cut my time here short, Dustario. Can you spare any men to escort me back to the Palace?”

Dustario nodded. “Kris, head back with Theosyrius and make sure he gets there in one piece. Will you need another?”

“I can go, if needed,” Coin Counter said. The others would be safe with the two remaining Honest Friends and the four Moderators, but Coin still didn’t like the look of Nightside and a small party of just Kriseroff and Theosyrius might still be in danger. He was sure that the others would get along well enough without him anyways.

“I would appreciate it, if you could spare him,” Theosyrius Kang said to Dustario. He seemed anxious to leave, but also anxious to walk through Nightside again: Coin couldn’t help but wonder where the cocksure confidence from earlier had gone. Kang was fingering the pearl hilt of the thin sword at his belt nervously.

Dustario looked to Coin. “Well, I would hate to lose your talents out here, but it would probably be best. Stay safe, friend. But what business do you have at the Palace, Theo?”

“Lady Brushshape will need some word about what was found here, best sooner rather than later. And our friends are still rotting in their prison cells,” he said with a worried look. “If what Sir Depravity says is true, I should like to speak with them.”

* * * * * *

“With such a massive organization as the Authority, it is inevitable that it encompass dozens of partnerships, interest groups, committees, sub-committees, and staffers in order to accommodate such a wide range of needs. Still, it is as true today as it has been for some time that there are only a few key, highly regarded orders whose servants work under the names ‘Moderators’. They are detailed below:

“The Knight Regulators operate in the realms of trade and commerce, working with tax collectors, bankers, and businessmen, and supervising the shipping, receiving, and selling of goods across the Internet. Some serve as agents of the mighty Centrelllian Bank, while others may work in the Anti-Piracy Squadrons or other organizations dedicated to curbing smuggling or the trade of illegal products.

“The Knight Arbiters focus on resolving disputes and checking smaller, more day-to-day crimes that nevertheless fall under Authority jurisdiction, rather than that of local powers. In regions with proud and individualistic cultures, such as the Land of Faces, Arbiters act as a neutral middle ground that is useful for ending conflict while allowing the participants to save face. Besides this, Knight Aribiters are often thought of as a ‘catch-all’ order: they are versatile enough to be used in various areas, and thus help in addressing the routine work of the Authority.

“The Knight Enlighteners are scholars, teachers, and natural philosophers. They operate under the Rule of Zephemiah, as it was said by their order’s founder so long ago: ‘There is no truth but truth’. As such, the nature of existence and the world we live in is the ultimate pursuit of the Enlighteners, who supervise the acquisition and dissemination of knowledge. They maintain the Great Wiki and its derivatives, provide historical and scientific insight to the High Administration when it is needed, and conduct the surveys that help the Authority in determining the state of the Internet. They are famed for their neutrality in political issues: during times of controversy and rare civil strife within the Authority, the Enlighteners almost always avoid choosing sides.

“The Knight Censors are tasked with ensuring the survival of public decency and morality, specifically in the field of artistic expression. In sites that function under Authority rule, all art—from paintings to pottery to opera and beyond—must be cleared with the local Censorate (though the standards such Knights are allowed to apply varies depending on the community). The Censors separate the works that are fit for public consumption and those that are not, and either restrict the latter or permit it only in sanctioned red-zones, where such salacious content can be found under strict supervision to prevent its contamination spreading.

“The Cybramancers’ Guild is unique among the branches in that it has no true knights: the titles given by the Guild are derived from the tradition of the cybrahakar, whose influence over the order was guaranteed by the Peace of Reylen. The Guild existed as a concept since the Authority’s founding, but only became a major organization long after the others in response to the growing threat of cybramancy in civilized society. As such, the Guild is dedicated to the regulation, supervision, and registration of all cybramancers in the Internet, ensuring that the danger posed by their existence is kept under control. Contrary to its name, not all of the Guild’s members are, in fact, cybramancers: many of its high-ranking members are born without the curse, thus allowing them to more freely oversee those that do.

“Finally, there are the Knight Prefects, sometimes referred to as the ‘white hats’. The Prefects were founded by the exalted Tristram Twice-Dead, and strive to achieve his level of purity in mind and spirit in their own lives. The Prefectorate is the smallest of all the orders, but is by far the most powerful: they answer solely to the High Administration, and are able to go to the furthest bounds of the law so long as the Admins sanction it. They are tasked with ensuring the cohesion of the other branches, weeding out corruption and disloyalty, and dealing with problems too delicate for other Moderators. This can include rebellious lords, traitor Mods, fleshtrappers raiding from the Deep Web, or rogue cybramancers.”

— “Central, and Our Authority (Put Briefly),” by Eriaria Habe

Chapter XV: My New Statue

Chapter XIV: My New Statue

* * * * * *

Sir Williaume:

“Now, before the Authority existed the Web was a much different place than it is now. Our best source on the time comes from the Books of Black and White, but some good pieces of information can be found in documents of the Enlightenment Nonconform as well. This may surprise some of you, since sources we find in the Nonconform are usually too seeped in local folklore or contradictory testimony to be useful, but nonetheless I feel they need to be approached as [here he gasps for comedic effect] historical documents! [another gasp, the students laugh] Yes, God forbid a historian want to find useful information in historical documents, but I suppose that just goes to show what an old fossil I am. But yes, good stuff can be found in the Nonconform—less of it than the untrue claims, of course, but still good stuff nonetheless. But what can I say? Now, can anyone here describe what we know about Web in ancient times? Yes, you there?” [he points to a student with their hand raised]

Student:

“Uh, it was really hard to get around? Like in the Deep Web?”

Sir Williaume:

“It was isolated! Now, if any of you have ever read accounts of the Deep Web—like Lord Jacq Tuttle’s excellent book on his travels in the Deep Web, which I think is brilliant—you’ll know that it is an untamed place. Tough, rough seas, and almost omnipresent fog that makes it impossible to sail! To the extent that no one is certain how much land is actually present in the Deep—some say little, some say lots—and the only ways to navigate are with nearly impossible to locate trails and channels, like the Torric Line, that raiders use to attack outside settlements or smuggle illegal goods. These kinds of conditions once covered all of the Internet, but that’s not the worst of it! Histories Chapter One from the Books of Black and White and similar accounts in the Nonconform tells us that huge creatures from the sea would pull down ships and attack even coastlines, suggesting that the krakens and sea serpents that still live at the far edges of the world—or perhaps even worse things—were far more common and active at the time.

“The result of this was that when people began to emerge on different sites in the Web, they had no real contact with one another: people might have lived out their whole lives without ever knowing other communities existed! This meant highly isolated, insular societies, without any kind of external trade or connection, living in uncivilized, tribal groups. But what happened?”

Student:

“The Deep Web retreated.”

Sir Williaume:

“It retreated! How long it took to do so is unclear, but eventually the conditions died down, and people began to develop sailing and navigation. Why did this retreat occur? Well, most scholars—myself included—hold that it was the will of the Logos that allowed the Web to come together. But more on that later.

“Now, when these isolated people sailed out, they found other groups, they had the difficulty of adjusting to a world where other people could access their sites, could meet their citizens, could desire the things they owned! People who had different cultures, different beliefs, and different languages! So it came to war, in many cases. It reminds me of the time when I was as young as all of you — back in the times that man forgot [the class laughs]—and when I was in the academy, and I was introduced to my roommate, Zeremy, in the living quarters. I remember standing in my room, when in walks in a six-foot, four hundred-pound man, with a mop-top and robes that looked like they had half a keg of beer spilled onto them, and I asked him, “Are you my roommate?” And when he of course said yes, I remember thinking [he contorts his face into disbelief] “Well this is great!” [laughter] But in all seriousness, we had good times together, with our own circle of friends. But what can I say? So yes, warfare was common: constant, brutal fighting, slaving, and conquering. Histories Chapter Two tells us of entire cities being laid waste, rivers running red with blood, the strong dominating the weak. So not a nice place to live.

“Even the ground we stand on now [for emphasis, he stomps his feet on the ground] in Central, was the home of corsairs and pirates, who carved out their own personal kingdoms and made their livings raiding the nearby sites. So overall, it was a nasty, brutish time to live in the world. Thankfully, those days were ended with the efforts of Our Founder, John the Traveller.”

— The above is a transcript of a lecture taught by Sir Williaume Jame of the Order of the Enlightened Mind, as part of a course offered in the Centrellian Academy of General Learning on early and archaic history of the Web and the Authority.

Sir Williaume’s dialogue appears in bold, those of his students appear in regular font, while the editor’s notes appear in brackets. This transcript was written by Sir Solomon Parker, as part of the Knight Enlighteners’ teaching census initiative.

* * * * * *

“Pray watch yerself, m’lady,” the guard said as they walked down the steep and dimly-lit stairwell, “the way down can be a bit tricky.”

It was a narrow path to a dark end, and a steep one as well, but Lady Violet walked it gracefully, clutching to no one and taking each step with a noble composure. Coin Counter did not have the same finesse, but did his best as well, gripping the banister and shuffling his way through.

Behind him were two others, a man from the Kind Friends and a Generous friend named Prim Enproper, while Theosyrius and Lady Violet walked in the front. Behind all of them was the Warden of Honesty, lumbering grimly down the steps. Originally, he had insisted on going in front of Lady Violet, but after some difficulty in fitting down the passage he had been forced to take up the rear, sidling awkwardly downstairs more slowly than anyone else. Kriseroff had been excused earlier, much to the man’s disappointment, but he had seemed less let-down after hearing that there was a sleeping area set up for the Honest Friends—he had gone off in search of that when they had parted.

“The dungeon’ll be just a little ways more, m’lady,” said the guardsman in the front. He wore the uniform of the city watch, with a red coat draped over armor and a yellow shirt. He wore no helmet, and his bare head seemed more than a little grimey from the time he’d spent in the basement of the Palace of Aureliano as a keykeeper of the dungeon. “Just watch yer step,” he said after almost tripping on a particularly sloped step.

“Stairs,” said Prim after stumbling slightly, “I’ve always hated stairs.” He had looked glum when he had seen the way down to the dungeons. From what Coin understood he was a man that never hesitated to raise a complaint. “It’s unnatural, honestly. If God had wanted man to go up, he would have given us wings.”

“But these stairs are going down,” pointed out the man from the Kind Friends behind him.

“Even worse. We don’t have claws or whiskers either, so we aren’t moles. Though I suppose that the dark can have some advantages,” he said morosely. “No one can see me, for one. I was once at a party where they turned out all the lights, and a girl I met offered to marry me. The betrothal only lasted until the lights came back on.” He sighed wearily. “Stairs are non-negotiable, though.”

Lady Violet laughed. “Rather intolerant of you, isn’t it Prim? What did the poor stairs ever do to you?”

“What didn’t they do? Stairs killed my entire family, I’ll have you know. They were going to a reunion that was up a flight of stairs, and the evil thing tripped them. It was like dominoes, but with people dying.”

Despite Prim’s misgivings, they reached the bottom in good time. The room they arrived in had a desk, strewn with paper and garbage, and a bored guard behind it. Opposite from him was a sealed metal door, behind which the rest of the dungeon—and the imprisoned Brony diplomats—no doubt lay. Coin still did not know exactly what prompted Theosyrius to hurry back to the Palace, or to insist that he accompany the Warden of Generosity in seeing the captives, but he knew he would learn soon enough.

The guard behind the desk raised his eyebrows upon seeing the Bronies enter, and set aside the newspaper that he had been reading in order to examine what it was that had decided to stumble into his domain.

Violet noticed the look and bowed her head in hello. “Good afternoon,” she said.

The guard behind the desk did not respond, and instead looked to the other guard who had escorted them downstairs. “It’s talking to me, Cabrio,” he said flatly, “what do I do?”

The guard called Cabrio sniffed and wiped his nose on his sleeve. “They’re just here to see the prisoner, m’colleague.”

“If there’s anything left of him, you mean,” his counterpart said. He rolled his eyes, and picked up his newspaper again. “Just go through and shut the door behind you.”

Cabrio nodded and took one of the iron keys from the ring on his belt, and pushed it into the lock of the metal door. It screeched as he turned it open, revealing a dirty and poorly-lit hallway behind it. He peered inside, looking to the left and right, before gingerly stepping inside, as though he expected something to jump out at him. “Stay close behind now, m’lady,” he said as he carefully motioned to the group.

Lady Violet looked to the Warden of Honesty uneasily, and he elected to go through first. The rest followed, close behind, into the dungeon proper.

There were cells, small and cramped, on either side of the central hallway, and most were filled. A few filthy, ragged bodies were forced into almost all of them, a horrid mass of dirt, dust, and bones in shape of people that watched hungrily as the Bronies walked by. Some of them did not seem to notice that others had entered, looking numbly at the floor or lying silently on the rough straw that served as a bed and who knew what else. Most took attention, though, and Coin could not count the glassy, hollow eyes that followed them, one by one, as they passed by.

The prisoners looked at them, some fearful, some loathing. There was a terrible, aching sense of hate in their gaze, as though they had been trapped so long that the mere sight of someone who could see the sun or breath fresh air was as unbearable as the cages themselves. Coin had seen many prisons and dungeons in his time, but rarely one so deplorably kept.

Cabrio sniffed again as he walked in front, then seemed to regret it once the smell hit his nose. He wiped it, then looked back. “Yer friend should be in one of these, I think. One up ahead.”

Lady Violet nodded, but said nothing while she glanced around with a look of horror. The Warden of Honesty was as stoic as ever, but the rest of the Bronies seemed unnerved as well, seeing and smelling the utter misery of the place.

Some of the prisoners seemed to take a greater notice in the people walking by, and began jeering as they passed. Lady Violet was walking in the front now, and more than a few were calling out to her, leering and shouting… but once they saw the Warden of Honesty trail behind her, they went quiet and backed away. One of them was bolder than the others though, and leaned against the bars of his cell with a sordid look. “Well hello,” he said, mopping back his long and greasy hair, “been a while since I’ve seen that. How long have I been here, ‘ey? Too long, to not remember what that looks like.” He reached an arm through, trying to grab her as she passed. “Are you new here? Maybe we can share—"

The Warden of Honesty moved like lightning, seizing the man’s arm and twisting sharply before the prisoner could even think. The man howled in agony, kicking at the ground and pulling away uselessly, incapable of escaping the grip of the giant’s mailed fist. He twisted and writhed ferociously, but the Warden was not moved at all, and tightened his hand.

Cabrio doubled back on him. “‘Oy!” he yelled, too intimidated to move much closer. “Leggo of ‘im now, yah hear?” He did not seem eager to force the Warden to do so, but tried to appear as fierce as he could.

Still ignoring the shrieking prisoner, the Warden looked back to Lady Violet, as though for instructions. She took a look at the prisoner, then to Cabrio. “Release him,” she said immediately.

The Warden did so immediately, and the man scurried back to the corner of his cell, clearly terrified. The giant took one last look at him, then began to move forward again. There were no more jeers from the prisoners after that.

Stepping down the mud-caked hallway, they approached the end, but no one had spoken up or recognized the two Bronies that were being held. Coin began to wonder whether there was not another level of the dungeons entirely, one even darker and deeper where they were being held in total darkness, until Lady Violet stopped sharply at one of the last cells. It was the third to the end, on the right side of another metal door that was fastened shut. The Warden of Generosity almost went past the cell, but just before she walked away she gave a last look, and gaped at what was inside. “Greenglade?” she asked, shocked.

Coin peered inside the cell. It was every bit as filthy as the others, but with even less light, as though they had deliberately placed him as far from a lamp as possible. At first, Coin thought that it was empty, aside from a crumpled ball of yellow rags in the corner. It was only when it began to stir that he realized it was not ragged clothes but a particularly ragged man.

The robes he wore were yellow, but only barely: they were so soiled and caked in filth that he was practically brown from head to toe, and his feet were bare and black. He had his knees pulled up to his chest, with his arms wrapped around them and his head buried between. When he heard his name he looked up, a pair of blue eyes peering out of the mangy brown hair and beard that covered most of his face, his mouth agape at the sound of someone finally having come. His eyes widened when he saw who it was, then filled with tears.

“Lady Violet?” he asked incredulously.

Coin did not know what Greenglade had looked like before they had placed him in prison, but the sight of him shocked Lady Violet so much that she could only nod in reply. He rushed over, practically tripping over himself to grab the bars before collapsing to his knees. “Oh, thank God you came for me!” he sobbed, looking up at her with red, bloodshot eyes. “You came!"

Lady Violet covered her mouth in horror when she saw him pressed against the bars, crying. “Six save us,” she murmured, “Greenglade, what happened to you?”

The man on the floor could do nothing but shake his head and grip the bars tighter. Lady Violet quickly turned to Cabrio. “Open the cell door.”

The keykeeper looked around, uncertain that he should do as she said, until she rounded on him fiercely. “Open it. Now."

Cabrio nodded, fumbled with the lock and opened the door. Lady Violet rushed inside, knelt down and embraced Greenglade in a hug, as he began to break down completely.

The rest of them looked on dumbly, none of them sure what to do. The Kind Friend who had accompanied them seemed in a state close to shock, Prim appeared even more dejected than usual, and Theosyrius looked as though he were about to vomit. Even the Warden of Honesty seemed more stiff, looking at Lady Violet hugging the sobbing man. Half of Coin wanted to put a hand on Greenglade’s shoulder, to say something to comfort the man, but he couldn’t bring himself to move, and instead they all just listened to the quiet weeping, helpless.

It was Prim Enproper who spoke up first, in a soft voice. “Well,” he said, taking a sharp swallow, “well, you don’t look good, Green.”

Greenglade looked up, only just noticing there was anyone else there. “Prim? You’re here?” He glanced over to his fellow Kind Friend. “Mattieu? You too?”

“Of course we are,” Prim said quietly.

“Always,” said Mattieu, the Kind Friend, still reeling from the appearance of his fellow.

Upon seeing them all, Greenglade seemed to recover somewhat, and broke away from the hug to sit back down onto the floor. “I’m so glad you all came for me. I’d started to think…” He shook his head, and wiped his eyes with a dirt-covered hand.

Lady Violet put her hand on his shoulder. Her beautiful clothes were stained brown after embracing Greenglade, but she did not seem to notice or care. “Greenglade,” she said slowly, “tell us what happened.”

He swallowed, and did as asked. “It was in the morning. I woke up like I always did, but the guards broke down my door and dragged me away. They said that I had killed Sir Harald and his squire as well, and threw me down here with Dabrius. They wouldn’t tell us anything else, but once in awhile they would take one of us away, ask us questions, then throw us back in the cells again.”

“Ask what?” Prim questioned softly

“Where I was the night before, whether I knew where Dabrius had gone, why I had killed Sir Harald… my lady, I never killed anyone! I’ve never even held a sword before!”

“I believe you,” Lady Violet assured him. “You mentioned the night before?”

Greenglade swallowed again. “We were having dinner at one of the taverns nearby. Dabrius and I, that is. The Moonlight Inn, out near the docks—it’s where we would always go. Dabrius was angry, so we had some drinks to lighten the mood and talked. That was ten o’clock, I think.” He looked at the ground sheepishly. “I must have had too much to drink, because it gets hazy after that, but I never left the inn, I swear it.”

“When did you get back to the Palace?” Mattieu asked, stepping inside the cell.

Greenglade thought. “It must have been five in the morning at that point. I had fallen asleep in the inn for a while, but Dabrius woke me up and helped me to my room, and then I slept until the next morning, when they came for me.”

Lady Violet considered what he said for a moment. “Theo,” she said to the man behind her, “you mentioned that Sir Harald and his squire might have left six or so hours after their evening recitations?”

“The Peacekeepers seemed to believe that was likely, yes,” Theosyrius answered, hesitantly waiting outside the cell door. Half of him seemed to want to step inside, but the other half seemed to have a stranglehold on his sense of sight and smell, and did not want to sully itself by entering the dank cage.

The Warden of Generosity frowned at the answer, and Coin couldn’t help but share the feeling. Assuming Sir Harald performed the recitations at eight or nine, the normal time for the ritual to be done, they would have left the Palace at two or three in the morning. That’s assuming that Perseverance Cartwright and the rest of the Peacekeepers were right in their estimate, Coin thought, but if they are then the timeframes match up. That hour-long gap was enough to cast doubt on the Bronies.

“You said you fell asleep sometime between ten and five,” Lady Violet asked, “you can’t remember anything that happened then? You say that you didn’t leave, but what about Dabrius?”

Greenglade brought his knees back up to his chest. “I think he was there. I don’t remember him ever leaving, and he was there to get me home at the end.”

Lady Violet turned to the Warden of Honesty. “My honest friend?”

The Warden stared intensely at the man squatting on the floor. Greenglade seemed to sense it, and tensed up upon seeing the man looking down on him. After a moment of contemplation, the Warden of Honesty broke his gaze. “Telling the truth,” he said gruffly.

Lady Violet nodded. “We’ll have to send some people to this tavern. Hopefully someone there can remember seeing them.” She crossed her arms, and looked up to the eye of her friend. “If we can find some witnesses willing to testify to them being at there all night, then we have an alibi.”

The Warden acknowledged the idea, but was silent. Prim Enproper was looking at the Warden strangely, as though he was trying to understand something that was just said. Instead of asking, however, he turned to speak to Greenglade instead. “Why was Dabrius angry?”

“Pardon?”

“You said you two went to the inn because Dabrius was angry. Why was that?”

“Yes,” Theosyrius said, “I’d like to know that as well. The Moderators had mentioned a conversation he had with Sir Harald.”

Greenglade cast his eyes down. “He… he had spoken with Sir Harald.”

“And?” Lady Violet asked.

He seemed reluctant to say more, but did so regardless. “It was earlier in the day, around six. Dabrius and I talked to Sir Harald almost every day, to try and make him side with us, so we found him in the main hall talking with the Martes. Dabrius asked him if he was closer to a decision, and that we’d been waiting long enough.” Greenglade’s fingers tightened on the sides of his knees. “The Martes started insulting him, calling us criminals, so Dabrius yelled back at them. I tried to stop him, but he wouldn’t listen, and soon he was yelling at Sir Harald as well.”

“And what did he say?” Theosyrius ventured apprehensively.

Greenglade was so hesitant to speak further that for a moment Coin thought he might not. He opened his mouth, then closed it, then opened it again. “My lady,” he said to Lady Violet, “you must understand that we had been trying to convince Sir Harald for months at that point, all while the nobles and Sir Harald were insulting us. He refused to even listen to us, really, and whenever he did he would only sneer, just like the Dreamweavers would. It had been months without any progress, and Dabrius was just frustrated and— “

“Greenglade,” Lady Violet said firmly, “what did Dabrius say?”

He looked ashamed. “He told Sir Harald that we’d been waiting too long, and that he was sick of listening to the Martes talk about us. He said that if the Authority wanted to solve the problem, they shouldn’t have sent... forgive me, my lady, but he said that should have sent someone content to do more than sit on his ass and talk sh— er, nonsense.” He stared up apologetically. “Sir Harald went all red and told him to try repeating that, and then…”

“And then?” Lady Violet said, cringing already.

“Dabrius said that Sir Harald should watch himself, and that he would find a way to replace him with someone better.”

Prim groaned, and Lady Violet sighed upon hearing the words. Theosyrius wasn’t happy either. “Just like Sir Depravity said,” he remarked, “I worried that it might be so.”

“I’m so sorry, my lady,” Greenglade said quickly. “I tried to stop him, really, but I couldn’t. He knew it wasn’t the right thing to say, he told me that later on, but he was just so frustrated…” He brought his knees in closer again. “It really was terrible, trying to make Sir Harald see reason, but it was wrong. I know that.”

“We need to talk to Dabrius,” Lady Violet said to the others. She glanced around her, but the man was nowhere to be found. “Where is he?”

Greenglade buried his head in his knees. “They took him. I haven’t seen him in… in… Six save me, how long have I been down here?”

Lady Violet turned to Cabrio the keykeeper. “Dabrius Joh, the other Brony prisoner, where is he?”

Cabrio, who had only been half-paying attention during this, seemed startled by the question. “What… well I don’t… wait who?”

Mattieu seemed impatient to know, and approached the man. “The. Other. Prisoner. There were two, were there not? What kind of keykeeper are you?”

“I don’t suppose he escaped, did he?” Prim asked. “That would make all of this so much easier.”

Cabrio still seemed confused and gaped at the inquiries. “That other one? I think ‘e was carted out two weeks ago. ‘Aven’t seen him since then.” He tried to straighten himself, pulling down on the tails of his dirty uniform.

“You mean to say,” Lady Violet said with a hint of frustration, “that you don’t know where he is?”

“Nah,” Cabrio said. “Er, yah, that’s it. Well, ‘e’ll probably be down there, if they took him off.” He point to another door, sealed shut, that presumably led to another set of dungeons.

Mattieu seemed past his temper. “Six save us man, how do you lose a person? Isn’t this supposed to be your job?”

Cabrio had not stopped being confused, but stood defensively at Mattieu. “Now listen, I’m not in charge o’ all of this place, yah know? I only work down in this part once a week, besides. I don’t work bad, neither, and I always give all o’ them more food than they’re ‘pposed to get and such as well. I’m not bad at keykeepin’.”

“If you’re a good keykeeper,” Prim said flatly, “then take that key, open that door, and don’t keep us waiting.”

“Ah,” Cabrio said sheepishly, “I can’t, actually. Don’t have permission. Not ‘pposed to go down there. ‘Sides, m’Lord Arcadio’s goin’ in there soon, and we ain’t to disturb ‘im.”

“Arcadio?” Prim said, glancing over to Lady Violet upon hearing the name. “That’s Lord Aureliano’s brother?”

“Aye,” Cabrio said, wiping his nose on the sleeve of his uniform. “‘E’s the commander, so’s we ain’t allowed to bother ‘im when ‘e’s down in there, so I’m not goin’ in when ‘e’s about to go in. ‘E’ll get angry.”

"I’m angry,” Mattieu said, “angry that we cannot even speak with one of our friends, while the other is kept in conditions like this. I should like to—”

"Should like?" a voice called mockingly from down the hall. “Do you hear how they presume?” The man laughed.

Coin and the others turned to see who was coming, and saw a man approaching quickly from the other end of the dungeon, flanked by guards on either side. All of the cells went quiet as he went by, and the prisoners seemed to retreat as far back into the cells—and into themselves—as possible as he passed them. They were all wearing the uniforms of the city watch, but the man who had spoken had one that was different: rather than a red coat, he wore a crimson cape that hung across his shoulder, and a yellow cuirass of felt with steel sewn between the fabric. The clasp that pierced his cloak in place was the shape of a winged tiger, and there was more finery on his clothing than those of the men to either side.

“Look at him there,” he said with a smile to the guards accompanying him, “getting so angry. They should learn to keep their tempers. I hope,” he called over, “you weren’t thinking of letting them in, were you Cabrio?”

“No m’lord, no,” Cabrio answered sheepishly, looking down at the floor.

A lord, then? Coin thought, looking more closely at the man who came towards them. It was not Lord Aureliano, that was certain, but now that Coin saw him more clearly, there seemed to be a resemblance. He was stronger, leaner, and more handsome than Aureliano, definitely, but they had a similar look. This man was sharper, though, with a trimmed goatee and long, black hair, one strand of which had been dyed red and was dangling in front of his face.

Lady Violet noticed the similarity as well. “Do I have the honor of addressing Arcadio, brother of Lord Aureliano?”

He laughed. “You do indeed. And you are the Brony woman.”

Lady Violet bowed, and the others did the same… aside from the Warden of Honesty. “I am both a Brony and a woman, or so I’ve been told,” she replied. “I have heard a great deal about you.”

“It’s all true, as well,” Arcadio said with a mock bow in return. “The man, the myth, the legend, that’s what I am. Indeed you have the honor of meeting me, and yet I still haven’t heard a ‘thank you’ from any of your sort. I saved all your lives, you know.”

“Truly?” Lady Violet asked innocently. “Refresh my memory, it’s been a long day.”

“I’m the commander of the city watch, and had it not been for my guards I’ll bet that your little party wouldn’t have made within eyesight of the Palace. You’re welcome,” he said. “Though maybe you should have taken the hint. The people don’t want you here, the city doesn’t want you here, my brother doesn’t want you here, and more importantly I don’t want you here.” He smiled sharply and leaned in slightly to address Lady Violet. “So, with pleasantries out of the way, why are you here?”

“In this dungeon, or in this city?”

“Either. Both.” Arcadio laughed. “You’ll find soon enough that this whole city will be your dungeon, and to you this dungeon will be the whole city, however long that takes. And it won’t be as comfortable as the cell your filthy friend is in, either. Now, I’ll ask again: why are you here?”

“You know full well why,” Mattieu chimed in, clearly past his patience. “We came here to see our friends, and when we arrived we saw this. I’ve never seen such disgraceful conditions in my life,” he said irately, “and what’s more this keykeeper is forbidding us to even see Dabrius. If you think for one moment that you can—”

Arcadio interrupted by bursting out into laughter. “Good Lord, you hear how he talks?” he said to the men beside him. “It’s almost as though he believes he’s someone important, or that anyone cares what he thinks. You know what I think?” Arcadio asked as he stepped towards Mattieu. “I think that when you stand there in your stupid little robes and talking out of your tiny little head, you look like a child—so eager to be a grown-up, aren’t you? Perhaps you should let us real adults speak in peace, little child, before you throw tantrums,” he said, and then laughed right in Mattieu’s red face.

Mattieu looked ready to punch Arcadio straight in his laughing mouth when Lady Violet put a hand on his shoulder and drew him back. “Mattieu, take a moment,” she said.

“Yes Mattieu,” Arcadio chimed in contemptuously, “go stand in the corner and ‘take a moment.’ Important people are talking.”

Mattieu could do nothing but obey, though not without a murderous look to Arcadio. The lord did not seem to care at all, and instead turned his attention back to Lady Violet. “You’re much dirtier than I expected, you know.” He looked down at the mud that was still clinging to the Warden of Generosity after tending to Greenglade.

“I’m so sorry to have disappointed,” she replied calmly. “Perhaps if the conditions of your charge were more hygienic, the sight might be less offensive?”

“I see you’ve already started making yourself right at home, then. That’s good, you’ll be seeing a lot more of these cells, I wager. Don’t worry though, you’ll have plenty of company, including my two favorite prisoners—isn’t that right, Favorite Prisoner One?” Arcadio said to Greenglade.

Greenglade had been completely silent during the whole conversation, but as soon as he saw that Arcadio became interested in him, his eyes were wide with fear and he scuttled quickly into a dark corner. “Get that man away from me!” he screamed, balling himself up.

Arcadio seemed to find this amusing. “Aw, look! It remembers me. Don’t worry, we’ve been having a wonderful time down here. I’m sure that we’ll have good times as well,” he said to Lady Violet, “once you join him, that is.”

Lady Violet was stone-faced, but one could practically feel the anger coming off of her when she looked coldly to the man in front of her. The Warden of Honesty didn’t bother to hide it, staring down at Arcadio like a roach in dire need of a boot—his giant hands were threateningly close to a sword-hilt at his belt. Lady Violet did not see fit to discourage him, but turned to Arcadio instead. “Where is Dabrius Joh?”

“Who?” he asked with the least sincere smile that Coin had ever seen.

“The other prisoner,” she asked forcefully, taking a step towards Arcadio, guards or not.

All she got in response was a yawn. “So sorry, but we just have so many other prisoners. You’ll have to be more specific.” Violet looked as though she were about to slap him across the face when he deemed to answer. “Unless,” he said with a sideways glance, “you mean Favorite Prisoner Two? Black hair with blue dye, beard, middling height, angry, likes to throw things?”

“Sounds about right,” Prim replied, staring absently at Arcadio. It was hard to tell what Prim was thinking about the man, but likely it was nothing good.

“Ah, well his poor behavior, sadly, forced me to move him down to the lower floor. He was a danger to himself and others, I’m sorry to say, and with any luck he’ll learn some manners down there.”

Lady Violet clenched her jaw. “May we see him?”

Arcadio pretended to consider it. “Hmm,” he murmured while tapping his bearded chin. “No.”

She looked at him in disbelief. “May I ask why?"

He gave an unctuous grin, and answered in the voice one would use to address a child that didn’t understand something. “Well, since you’ve been so polite, I’ll tell you.” He leaned in closely, right to her ear, and whispered, “Because I. Don’t. Want to. And really, that’s all there is to it.”

Lady Violet drew away from him in disgust, and at the same time the Warden of Honesty had had enough. He drew in between them quickly, towering over Arcadio with a hand on his sword-hilt. “Back,” the Warden said angrily.

The two guards put their hands on weapons as well, but Arcadio did not seem afraid at all. “Big man!” he said with amusement. “I was wondering when you would talk. You seem stronger than the rest of these.” Arcadio’s hands went to two thick, golden hilts at his belt, where a pair of sheathed knives lay. “Perhaps you want to try this now?”

Surprisingly enough—surprising even to himself — it was Coin that stepped forward. “Do you know know the law?” he asked Arcadio—it was hardly cautious, but after what Coin had heard the time for caution was over. “Dabrius is one of the accused, and you’re forbidding us from seeing him to gather testimony. That’s Interference with Justice.”

“He’s right,” Theosyrius said accusingly. “You think the Lord Moderator won’t hear of this?”

Arcadio looked at Theosyrius with loathing. “Going to run and tell the Mods? Good luck getting Halforth on your side, then. My brother has his ear, and when it comes down to your word or mine, who do you think he’ll believe? The person in charge of this city, or a pack of perverts like yourselves? Especially,” he said with a glance back to Greenglade, “when you’re defending confessed murderers.”

It took half a moment for Lady Violet to process the words. “Greenglade,” she asked carefully, “what is he talking about?”

The prisoner looked at her panicked, looking so absurdly guilty that Coin wondered if he would start weeping again. “My lady, it’s not true. Not a word of it. They… they made me sign it. ‘It’ll be better this way,’ that’s what they said, they— “

“It seems your friend,” Arcadio said, “had a guilty conscience. Why, it was only a week or so after he was imprisoned that he insisted upon writing a confession to his role in the murder of Sir Harald and the squire.” He reached into a pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. “Yes, I have a copy right here, if you like. A full confession, with his signature at the bottom, no less.”

“They made me sign it!” Greenglade shouted, desperate for anyone to believe him. “Every time I tried to sleep, every moment, they would wake me up, and they wouldn’t bring us food either! After they took Dabrius away…” he said chokingly. “When they put it in front of me… I didn’t know what they were making me sign, they just said that I would be released if I cooperated, and so would Dabrius. I didn’t know, my lady, I swear it!”

“Hm!” Arcadio replied, amused, “how strange. I seem to remember him leaping at the chance to clear his troubled heart of the crippling guilt, and tell us how he conspired with his friend and other Bronies to do away with Sir Harald. After all, that would have meant a new negotiator being sent to the Dreamweave, one that would be more inclined to side with the horse-lovers.”

"Liar,” the Warden of Honesty said furiously.

Arcadio smiled at him and waved the confession. “But it seems that it’s my word against yours again—I wonder which one the Lord Moderator will believe?”

Lady Violet’s almond eyes narrowed. “If you seriously think you can get away with this, you’re sadly mistaken.”

Arcadio laughed. “‘Get away with it?’ I think you’ll find that I can ‘get away’ with whatever I want. Because that’s what I can do in this city—anything I want. Anything at all, really.” He signaled to his guards and walked forward, pushing Theosyrius out of the way and proceeding to the locked door. “I’ll say hello to Dabrius, shall I? I’m sure he’ll be happy to see me, as always.”

With that, he opened the door stepped inside with his guards, and slammed it behind him. The rest of them were left staring at the door he’d just vanished behind, and then looking to each other.

“Wow,” Prim said solemnly, “what an ass.”

Lady Violet looked over to the prisoner and rested her hands on the cell bars. “Greenglade.”

“My lady,” he said quicky, “please. I swear to the Six and all that is holy that I never knew what they were making me write. ‘It’ll be better this way,’ that’s what they said, they just kept saying that over and over, never letting me sleep or eat or… and then I’d hear him coming down the halls again. I couldn’t think straight, I couldn’t think at all, I couldn’t…”

“Did you hear about this as well?” she asked Theosyrius.

He hesitated. “Sir Depravity mentioned it. Truthfully, I did not believe him at first, but that was partly why I came back.”

“What are we going to do?” Mattieu said softly.

“We’re going to gather our own evidence to disprove whatever nonsense the Martes have drudged up,” Lady Violet replied, determined. “We’re going to force them to cooperate no matter what it takes, make Lord Halforth see the truth, and most of all,” she said with her eyes on Greenglade, “we’re going to bring you two home.”

Greenglade stared up at her with bloodshot eyes. “Thank you my lady. For coming for me. I know you’ll do everything, but…” He hesitated. “Please, swear to me that you won’t leave us here.”

“I swear it,” Lady Violet replied, kneeling down to him. “By the Six and One, I will not leave this island without you.” And for the first time, Greenglade gave a fragile smile.

The walk back to their rooms was long, and done in silence. As they walked up stairs and down halls, passing by servants and nobles giving dirty looks, not one of them said a word.

After some time, they reached the living quarters that the Martes family had set aside for the Brony guests. They were small rooms, even for the Wardens, but most of the Bronies did not even have these: Coin and much of the honor guard were lodged in a formerly abandoned barracks on the other side of Palace, with nearly all of the fifty-six Honest Friends cramped together. The fact that the different Bronies were so far spread out was more than slightly inconvenient, and forced the guards to make accommodations to account for how far away they were from their posts.

Lady Violet’s quarters were the largest that the Martes had provided, and accordingly the Bronies had offered it to their most senior leaders: Lady Violet had originally refused, but the Warden of Honesty would not accept it and neither would anyone else. Stepping inside the room, Coin saw that even the most sizable room was still fairly paltry, being smaller than the captain’s cabin aboard the Wonderbolt II. Red sheets covered the bed, and red paint covered the walls, while a wardrobe well-stuffed with clothes stood in the corner. Someone had found a few chairs and placed them in the room: Theosyrius immediately took one, while Mattieu and Prim followed. The Warden of Honesty remained standing, and Coin did the same, leaning against the wall by the door.

Lady Violet stood as well, looking quietly out of the single window in the room. She had her hands folded behind her back, and seemed to be thinking intensely—no doubt about what had transpired in the dungeon. Still looking out the window, she spoke up. “So,” she said, “what are our thoughts?”

The rest of them looked between one another. Prim was the first to speak. “Greenglade seems to be in some difficulty,” he said matter-of-factly.

“Dabrius is likely in worse trouble,” Theosyrius said with a clearing of his throat. “We need to speak with him, as soon as possible.” He leaned forward, and put his hands together in front of him. “I suggest we bring this to the Lord Moderator, and quickly.”

“This trial is a sham,” Mattieu said bitterly. “If the Lord Moderator doesn’t already see that, he is either blind or stupid. And if he does see it, he must be letting this go forward out of some hatred for us. That worm in the dungeon was right enough—Halforth won’t side with us, if it comes to it.”

“We have to try, nevertheless,” Theosyrius replied. “He must let us speak with Dabrius, and hopefully we can convince him to move our friend as well.” He looked over to Mattieu. “I am loath to say it, but Greenglade seems to have been driven half-mad.”

Mattieu looked offended, but Prim spoke first. “My kind friend has always been sensitive,” he said morosely, “but being trapped in a place like that was more than anyone could likely handle intact. That Arcadio has done something to him.”

“Arcadio,” Mattieu spat vehemently. “He’s the mad one. I hardly believed the reports I read about him, but it seems he’s a lunatic after all. If there were any justice to be had in this place, that man would be the one in a cell, not our friends. You should have let me punch that pinched head of his in, my lady, and we would have been better off for it.”

Lady Violet gave him a sideways glance. “That is not a kind thing to say, Mattieu, particularly for one wearing your colors. At any rate, speaking that way will not help us here.”

“Hm, maybe not,” he grudgingly admitted. “It does feel good though.”

They were interrupted by a knock at the door. “Ah, that’ll be him,” Lady Violet said. “Come in, Proximo.”

Her assistant opened the door and stepped inside, clothed in the deep violet vest and tie he had worn while meeting with the Lord Moderator earlier that day. “Ah, my lady, I heard you had returned. You will happy to know that I have taken full account of—" He suddenly stopped and looked at his lady in surprise. “Six save us, my lady! What in the Web happened to your dress?”

Lady Violet told all of the details of the encounter with Greenglade in the dungeon, ending with the story of Dabrius threatened Sir Harald. Proximo the assistant listened intently, then commented, “Well that’s bad” at her conclusion. When she continued to speak of the false confession, he said with concern, “Well that’s worse.”

“Indeed it is,” Lady Violet said. She turned away from the window and faced the others. “We will, of course, need to bring this to Lord Halforth’s attention as soon as possible. Mattieu may be correct in saying that he will remain unsympathetic, but it must be brought up nonetheless.” She thought for a moment. “Sir Coin? You have experience in the Authority, if I’m not mistaken. What is your reckoning of the Lord Moderator?”

Coin was startled, not expecting to have been consulted. “Lord Halforth? I… well I can’t claim to know him. There were stories of him, when I was in the Knight Regulators. People spoke very highly of him—a few said he would become High Censor someday.” He tried to collect his thoughts on the subject—he remembered that Cellia Ravenry, the Peacekeeper, seemed to revere the man. “My lady… I would think that the Lord Moderator be open to the truth. He is just, from what I understand.”

Lady Violet nodded. “Very well. It would be handy, then, for us to find favor with the rest of his Moderators. My honest friend?” She looked to the Warden of Honesty, and he looked down at her in return. “Would you feel it appropriate to have the investigation team work more closely with the Peacekeepers?”

The Warden answered immediately. “Outsiders. Cannot be trusted.”

Proximo glared at the Warden, but Lady Violet shrugged. “Perhaps or perhaps not, though I’m certainly not as sure of it as you are, my honest friend. Trust, however, is hardly the question at this moment. They will work closely in order to gain more information and favor, if possible… though a certain distance will be needed. If your team finds anything compromising, only share it at your discretion, and do not allow the Peacekeepers to grab hold of anything that may threaten Greenglade or Dabrius.” She put her hand on the Warden’s huge arm. “Would you do this?”

The Warden took no time considering it, though he did not seem happy (if he ever did). “Hrm,” he grunted in affirmation.

“Wonderful,” Lady Violet replied. “We will meet with the rest of our diplomats later as a body so I can tell you all what I intend. Before that, however, we must set our minds to the next task—dinner.”

Coin was lost, and so was Mattieu by the looks of it. “Sorry?”

“The Martes family is holding a ball tonight to honor the arrival of guests. As is custom, we have been extended an invitation—through clenched teeth, no doubt, but an invitation nonetheless.”

Mattieu was gaping. “Apologies my lady, but aren’t they accusing us of murder? And now they throw a celebration, and we’re invited?”

Lady Violet laughed. “These are the Devien Isles, Mattieu, or close enough, at least. A foreigner like yourself—meaning no offense—would not understand it at first, but if one noble family is housing other people under their roof, even people they hate, then they must extend hospitality. That is why our arrival was given such a show in the Palace earlier today, as well. It’s a custom stretching back to the days of Devio himself that a certain amount of celebration be offered, even in circumstances like this. However,” she said admittedly, “a party like this is no doubt more to give a show of extravagance than anything else. They may claim to be giving consideration to the Moderators and us, but it is an ample time to show off their own prestige and wealth as well. No doubt as a means to intimidate us.”

“They’ll succeed with me, I’m afraid,” Prim Enproper said mournfully. “I’ve been party to several parties, and few end well for me.”

“Even good times are politics here,” Lady Violet said dryly. “So, we shall need a bit of extravagance ourselves, won’t we?” She looked over to Proximo Hart. “I think some new clothes are in order, Mister Hart. Something with jewelry, without a doubt.”

* * * * * *

“After the first initial weeks of confusion, the Brony War began in earnest upon the Chan, reaching far beyond its original point of inception to affect every part of the isles. Whereas before the two sides—the Bronies on the one and the opposing anonymites on the other—were largely disorganized bands engaging in riots and sporadic violence, now the parties were beginning to form closely into true armies. Most of these forces were not even close to official militaries, led instead by charismatic amateur generals or enraged locals that simply joined other groups out of solidarity, they nevertheless fought fiercely against one another. In Comchan, towns and settlements began to fall one after another to the Brony converts, and though they met strong resistance in the other provinces the south was soon under their control.

“It was at this time that the first major figures in what would be called the Brony Collective emerged. The first was a woman from the Land of Faces, by the name of Madelin Wright: a sailor by trade and a talented fighter, her charisma and daring won several key victories for her followers, and soon a considerable force formed underneath her. The only thing she loved more than ships or swords were her new-found friends, and in turn they came to greatly admire her courage and loyalty. The second was another of an altogether different character: Feylen Mars, who gained a smaller but more intense reputation as not a military leader, but rather as a thinker and speaker. His lectures on the Brony idea not only won converts, but helped in binding the isolated factions together into one fandom—this would be an invaluable help later on.

“Wright was undoubtedly the most famous figure at the time, however, due in no small part to her bold actions in the early stages of the war. Hearing of the rising Brony presence in Greatchan and seeing opportunity, she gather a loyal band of followers and crossed to the larger island, meeting up with other Bronies and beginning her campaign. A series of lightning attacks on ill-prepared Channic outposts and towns that had declared opposition to the Bronies sent the anonymites reeling and provided the Bronies with much needed arms and equipment. The early success was due in no small part to the muddled and slow response given by the current Mootking, known by the maskname ‘Vaed,’ who made little effort to actively oppose what he saw as a minor nuisance across his “kingdom.” At any rate, the Brony attacks had been crippling several regional rivals, and the holder of the Baymaster’s Mask saw no reason to bestir himself in stopping them—the factionalism and in-fighting of the opposition forces, unable to unite behind a common cause, would prove an enormous advantage for the Bronies in the war. Rather than march out, the Mootking Vaed decided to issue pseudo-decrees that proclaimed his own dedication to resist the Bronies, and then allowed the problem to sort itself out.

“While the Mootking drank and cheered in Baysmouth, the Bronies continued to press their successes. More converts streamed into the fandom, mostly young men that were dissatisfied with the complacent cynicism that the Chan was so often mired in and sought a new opportunity. The novelty of the new fandom was a great aid to recruitment, as was the solidarity and amicability that members showed one another, each calling the other “friend” and singing while they marched. The masses of Bronies in Greatchan began to resemble a proper army: they donned blue uniforms, used captured money and supplies to arm and equip themselves in armor and horses, and waited solely on the orders of the “Lightning Lady,” as they had come to call Madelin Wright. The anonymites fighting against her preferred the name “Half-Devil” for her short stature (as well as other more obscene titles). Wright relished all of this, and each victory against the poorly organized Channic made her bolder than the last.

“Wright had little experience in war when she first began fighting, but proved herself to be an natural tactician and an even stronger leader—men under her command refused to be led by anyone else, so great was their respect, and her generous rewards to those that impressed her made soldiers fight all the harder to win her attention. One band of men that captured an anonymite town were awarded a huge commission of money, while one man that alone survived an enemy attack was given command over 200 soldiers on the spot. She was once so amused by another soldier that had somehow contrived to capture 50 barrels of wine on his own that she not only let him keep the entirety of the goods, but also made him an officer and invited him to dinner. Eventually, despite still being outnumbered, she had 3000 loyal men under her command, and continued to sweep through the Channic moors to destroy the opposition. Her greatest move yet, however, was only just coming to fruition.

“Emboldened (and some say cocky) after a series of smaller, easier victories, Wright decided to make the last move anyone expected—the capture of Baysmouth, the Channic capital. Her closest officers were shocked when she proposed the plan: even at their current strength, they could not hope to win the city through force, they claimed, and it would take weeks to pacify the population even if they won. Wright, however, saw an opportunity. The Mootking had already declared against them, but was more famous for his parties than his skill in battle, and was not popular among certain citizens. Brony converts had secretly begun emerging in secret cells throughout Baysmouth, despite attempts at persecution from their fellow Channic, and though strong fighters the forces at Baysmouth still had little in terms of organization or command (recall that a Mootking of the Chan has only the power that his fellows allow him, and they otherwise will not follow any kind of order). She would not win the city through force, but through guile.

“She ordered that the largest portion of her troops remain north of the city, just far enough away that it did not appear to be threatening the city, and ordered them to move aggressively towards different areas—Channic scouts would report the Bronies moving in every direction but south, and they naturally assumed that only a fool would attempt to take the Channis capital with so small an army. Meanwhile, a small force moved quickly and secretly towards the Baysmouth. Getting in contact with Bronies with the city, they found their ways within the walls, disguising themselves as ordinary citizens or merchants. Soon enough, they were ready to move.

“They sent word to the main army, less than a day’s ride away, telling them they were ready. Getting the news, the Bronies wheeled south, moving like lightning towards the city. Surprised but not worried, Mootking Vaed ordered his fellows to prepare to defend the walls… only for the Bronies already inside to begin their own attack. Taking up arms, they swiftly attacked the anonymites, burning down guard barracks and breaking open the gates on the night before the main army came. The defenders were so surprised that little resistance was possible despite their greater numbers, and by the time that the Wright’s main force arrived it was long too late. They swiftly overwhelmed the damaged defenses and captured the city. Panicking, the Mootking only barely managed to flee the Slouch-Hall before Wright herself marched inside, and escaped Baysmouth only by abandoning his mask and disguising himself—a mark of incredible shame for an anonymite.

“Wright’s army—what would later be called the “Loyal Friends”—was thrilled by their relatively easy victory. Yesterday, they had been a mere curiosity that could only match small Channic settlements, but now they had captured the greatest city in the isles. The anonymites were scattered, and their palace was occupied. Some were so confident after their success that there was talk of crowning Madelin Wright the new Mootking—there is no evidence that she supported this notion, but at the same time she never spoke against it. Across the Chan, the Bronies cheered.

“It was not to last, however. The Channic were stunned by the sudden loss of their city, but the rage it produced would be enough to win it back. Vaed, desperate to earn back his title and home, prayed to the Beast in the Bay and did what was unthinkable for any man of the Chan: he wrote to the Moderator Authority and asked for aid. The Mods had been looking on the war from a distance: they did not sympathize with the Bronies, seeing them as brigands and profligates engaged in an illegal revolt, but at the same time the Authority were not welcome to intervene in the Chan—the famous hatred between the anonymites and the Moderators had led to the Mootking refusing to allow any interference with his reign. Now, however, the gloves were off, and the Authority began preparation to invade on behalf of the opposition forces. Mootking Vaed was left to desperately try and assuage his outraged supporters, who were furious at both his loss of Baysmouth and having the gall to invite their most hated enemies to their land.

“The next morning, the Mootking was found in his bed… with his throat slit. A new Mootking was swiftly crowned, and this time there would be no delay or hesitation in dealing with the Bronies—the war would be won. Thus began the reign of the Mootking Rohd, a man famed for both his cunning and ruthlessness. The new ruler, however, did not chose to reverse his predecessor’s decision regarding the Authority, however: in order to crush the rebellion, they would need their aid. Two weeks after the First Battle of Baysmouth, an Authority force landed on the Chan. The true Brony War had just begun.”

—Excerpt from The Brony War, by Lorelove

Chapter XVI: A Beautiful Heart

Chapter XV: A Beautiful Heart

* * * * * *

Under the bay, below the waves,

the blackest depths, the sunken grave,

the Beast has slumbered in the brine,

before the earth, before all time.

In coldest, rotting, crushing deep,

the Beast who dreams will stir from sleep.

Yellow, ancient, clouded sight,

peering dimly in the night.

'Round the sulfurous, spewing vents,

tendrils slither from the rent.

'Neath the conscious mud and slate,

a breach does form, and then the hate

and fate shall curse and blight the shore

around the bay, to heart and core.

— “The Land of Masks,” Stanzas III-IV

* * * * * *

“Now, I will need an honest opinion, Proximo,” Lady Violet said from behind the door.

Proximo looked up from the jewelry box he was fingering through to answer past the closed door. “I can give nothing less, my lady. I had hoped you knew that by now.”

“I never allow my hopes to rise too high, Mister Hart,” she called teasingly from inside. “Otherwise, what do you have? Constant disappointment!”

Proximo had already changed into clean evening-wear, with a white, buttoned suit over a deep violet shirt. A binding cloth, also purple, was wrapped around his waist, and on his right breast was a blue diamond in the appropriate shape for one of the Generous Friends. Lady Violet, however, was still in the midst of finding her own ensemble, and it had fallen to Proximo to determine what accessory would suit her best for the ball. He had been torn between a diamond and a pearl necklace when he heard her call from within. “Alright, here goes nothing,” she said, and opened the door.

He had seen the dress before, but it was a sight to behold nonetheless. With the grime from the dungeon washed off, Lady Violet was as pure and beautiful as she had ever been. Her purple hair hung down in dark curls down her shoulders, and a sash of violet silk ran from her right shoulder to her left side. A cloth band of the same color was wound across her waist, but the rest of her dress was clean white. Her tannish face was paled by powder, her lips crimson red, her eyes dark and lashes long. She spun around a little when she stepped outside. “Well,” she said, leaning on the doorway, “what do you think?”

“My lady,” he said with as low a bow as he could manage without dropping the jewelry box, “you are as becoming as something that has already become, as beautiful as the longest day is long, and a sight for even the sorest of eyes. Your very being makes me unworthy in comparison. You are stunning.” He tried to lace his words with a semblance of sarcasm, if only to save face—every word of it was true, but he would never hear the end of it if she knew that.

Lady Violet laughed. “You always know just what to say. I’ll say again that you’re looking astonishingly handsome as well. I had high hopes, you know, despite every intention to do otherwise, and yet you’ve met every one of them,” she said with a bow of her own. “But enough of our mutual congratulations. What are your thoughts on the jewels?”

Proximo thought carefully. He looked between the diamond necklace, blue like that of the Friend’s herself, and the white pearls. Both somehow seemed lacking, now that he had seen her properly dressed. For a moment he did not know how to answer… until he spied a ruby in the corner. He picked it out, smiled, then handed it to her just as another assistant had done for someone who meant as much to that one as Violet did to Proximo.

Lady Violet wrapped it carefully around her neck and fastened it into place. It was a golden choker that hung firmly in place above her breast, and in the center was a large red jewel shaped like a heart. Proximo could see a dozen of his own reflections in it, it was so polished and alive with light. Lady Violet touched it gently with her fingertips. “An excellent choice, Mister Hart,” she said meaningfully.

“I’d hoped so, my lady,” Proximo replied.

Sadly, they heard several people coming from up the hallway. Not all of the Bronies in the Dreamweave would be attending the ball, nor even most of them. The party approaching was not all of the ones who were to join them either, but each was dressed as well as Proximo—though obviously not as well as Lady Violet.

Theosyrius was clad in white, with touches of grey in his cuffs, tie, and waistcoat. Skylark of the Kind Friends was draped in a long gown of soft yellow, light blue, and rose, with a golden butterfly necklace and an upturned hood. Caleb stood behind them, in a large suit with long tails to match his large size, and Dustario had joined them, clad in an amber-orange coat with a golden shirt underneath.

“I suppose you two are ready are you?” Dustario said with a handsome smile. “Was my lady still hoping to arrive late?”

“Only fashionably so,” she replied. “We can meet the others downstairs, I think. You all look wonderful.”

“Not nearly so wonderful as yourself, my lady,” Caleb said with a bob of the head. “Truly one of surpassing loveliness, I believe. Yes, I do think so, my lady.” He lowered his voice and darted his head behind him, before speaking further. “One other thing, my lady, one other: you may wish to speak with our Lord of Honesty before we proceed to dinner. He is behind us now. Most unsuitable, I believe.”

Sure enough, the Warden was indeed there, with one of his Honest Eyes at his side. The man accompanying him was one that Proximo had seen previously, but he did not know his name; he was clad largely in dusky gold and leather, all of an acceptable though not terribly fashionable quality. A pin showing the golden eye of his master was on his right breast, and his face was a friendly one, with short blond hair.

The Warden, however, was dressed no differently than he normally was, clad in heavy plate armor and a scowl. He is dressed for a battlefield, not a ballroom, Proximo noticed in disbelief. He had suspected that this might be the case, though he had still held out hope that it might not, for some reason.

Lady Violet did not seem quite as concerned. “My honest friend,” she said with a resigned laugh, “you do not appear dressed for the occasion.”

“Group of people in room,” the Warden said bitterly, “not ‘occasion’. Do not require ornaments.”

“And what, if you don’t mind my asking,” she said jokingly while lifting the end of her dress and doing a spin, “is your opinion on my ‘ornaments’?”

“We do not have opinions,” he replied bluntly. He did look over the clothing she was wearing, however. “It is long. Loose. Inefficient. Hampering. Will not serve in emergency. Would advise different choice.”

Proximo looked at the Warden, slightly offended, but Lady Violet smiled and put a hand on the giant’s arm. “That’s not untrue, but a little inefficiency is needed in times like this. Bear with me, my honest friend. In fact,” she said coyly, “I have something for you.”

The Warden stood stone-still while Lady Violet went inside her room. After rummaging through the wardrobe, she returned with a colorful bundle in her arms. “I suspected that this exact scenario would happen, if you believe it, and so I bought something for you while we were in Shine.” She folded it, and revealed that it was a very large cloak, colored a deep, dark orange with flaxen trimming that wound around the edges in a swirling pattern. It looked similar to the style used by the traders of the Sajle, and was high-quality at that.

The Warden gave it an uncomfortable stare. Lady Violet, seeing this, looked at him sympathetically and said, “This is a gift, Honesty, and it would please me if you would wear it tonight. After that, you need never touch it again, I swear it.”

He gave it another long look, then took it. Rather than unfasten the cape he was already wearing, like any sane man might, he simply draped the new cloak on top of it and locked it in place with a bronze seal at his neck. Proximo could see the wisdom behind Lady Violet’s choice immediately: the Warden of Honesty might refuse to take off his damnable armor, but at the very least they could cover it. The cloak would not hide it completely, but it would remove the offensive sight for the most part, and the fine material it was made from would not look too out of place at the event.

The Warden of Honesty himself looked even more miserable than usual, if that were possible. “Go?” he asked almost pleadingly.

Violet tried to suppress a smile. “Yes, I think we’re ready now. The ballroom is below us, on the first floor of the Palace. We can head there now.”

They moved as a body, filling the hallways as they moved down. The Warden stomped ahead in the front, while Proximo and Lady Violet stepped lightly in the back. The Giant of Honesty walked sullenly, but Proximo noticed him pull something out while they walked, and hold whatever it was in his hands.

The assistant turned to Lady Violet. “My lady, are you certain that it’s wise to bring the Warden of Honesty to this? He’s hardly suited for the occasion.”

“He’s one of two Wardens here in the Dreamweave,” Lady Violet pointed out, “and if you haven’t noticed, he is not easy to miss. It would be taken as an indirect insult if he didn’t attend, I think.”

“I’m more worried about the direct insults, my lady. Such as the ones the Warden might deliver to the Martes or the Mods.” He leaned his head in, and spoke more quietly. “My lady, why do you bother defending him? I think it’s fairly obvious that he doesn’t know how to act at an event like this. He won’t help us.”

Violet gave him a look. “I defend him,” she remarked, “because he is my friend, and I enjoy having him by my side. I thought I asked you to try and get along with him?”

“I’m only trying to be practical, my lady.”

“Well, thankfully my honest friend is nothing if not pragmatic. Give him a chance, Proximo.”

The assistant did not share his lady’s confidence, but he knew better than to speak further. They proceeded downstairs until they reached a large, connecting corridor furnished with a long carpet. At the right end was a massing of people, all wearing different colorful outfits, a few of which caught Proximo’s eyes. “Down there, my lady?” he asked.

“Yes, that should be it. I think I see some of the others now.”

There was a pair of large doors flung open, and inside Proximo could see a room basked in light and color. It seemed quite full, though a number of guests were still trickling in from the hall outside. Among them were the rest of the Brony guests that would join them tonight: most of them were the remaining Generous Friends, the Kind Friends as well, and a handful of Honest men and women as well. In total, the total number was scarcely more than a dozen—peering in to see the bevy of people inside, Proximo could not help but feel outnumbered.

Prim Enproper approached, clad in purple, white, and blue, and seeming every bit as dejected as usual. “My lady, I’d like to say again how unfortunate it is that you’ve chosen me to accompany you tonight.”

“Prim, I’m certain you will acquit yourself just fine,” she replied.

“You say that, my lady, but you haven’t seen my dancing yet,” Prim said mournfully. “I don’t mean to alarm you, but there have been serious accidents in the past. That’s why I can never go back to Am-Azon. Also, because I can’t afford the ship fare.”

Violet laughed. “Try to chin up, Prim.” She looked around at the party about her, then glanced inside the ballroom. There was music and chatter floating out of the doors, and the smell of food as well. “Well then,” she said, “ready to make an appearance?”

After the chorus of affirmatives, Lady Violet beckoned the Warden of Honesty and Proximo to her sides, and stepped gracefully inside.

On every side was someone chattering or watching as the Bronies made their way into the room. Circular tables covered with bronze-colored cloths were all around, with guests buzzing around like bees. The center of the room had been cleared away, leaving it open to dancers that twirled about with one another. On the floor was a crest displayed on the tiles, showing a winged tiger, while at the head of the room was a raised dais with several seats across a long table.

There were three seats in the center, two of which were occupied by Lord Aureliano and his wife. On their right were another three seats, where three men and women that Proximo did not recognize sat—they were most likely nobles close to the Martes family.

Finally, on the left, were a final three seats filled by Lord Moderator Halforth, Sir Alwin, and Sir Borlund. While the Martes were smiling and laughing with their compatriots, none of the three Mods seemed happy: Sir Borlund seemed to almost be stewing in anger, while Lord Halforth looked impatient and Sir Alwin nervous.

The conversations around them continued as the Bronies passed through, but one could tell that eyes were following them. Lord Aureliano was eyeing them contemptuously, while Borlund scowled and Lord Halforth watched carefully. Some of the talk died down as they walked by, only to start up again in lower voices after they passed them. Most people seemed to either be staring at Lady Violet or the Warden of Honesty, though for what Proximo imagined were very different reasons. There was a multitude of ugly looks, but otherwise nothing was said between the other guests and the Bronies.

They found that a number of tables had been set aside for the Bronies in the far corner of the room, well-removed from the action of the ball but still well within eyesight of the Martes in their seats. The Bronies spread out between them, but made sure to leave at least one chair empty: during a celebration in the Devien Isles, it was customary to leave space for any other party-goer that may wish to sit down and speak. It was a useful way to hide scheming with socializing, Proximo had found, and it had served him and Lady Violet well on past missions.

Lady Violet took a seat with her back to the wall after the Warden of Honesty nodded to it approvingly. Proximo, accordingly, took his place at her side, while two of his fellow Generous Friends, Prim and Hadrena, and two of the Kind Friends, Skylark and Rosesoul, sat around as well. He had no doubt that the others would likely be trading places with different Bronies at different tables throughout the night, but they settled for now.

In his seat, Proximo quickly took stock of what was around him. The table was fully set, with cutlery and red napkins at every seat as well as a few others in the middle. Each person had a glass filled with ice water, though he had no doubt that they would be filled with something else before the evening was over. Proximo would not have minded a glass of wine himself, but that could wait until later. Lady Violet was scanning the scene as well, though she was more intent on the people in the room—specifically, her eyes were locked on the dais where the Lord Moderator sat.

“My lady,” Proximo said after seeing her expression, “were you considering speaking with Lord Halforth now? I understand that we intend to complain about the prison situation.”

Lady Violet frowned. “I was considering it, but now I’m not as certain. We need his attention as soon as possible, but part of me wonders whether trying now would hurt our chances more than help.”

“He certainly does not seem in a talking mood, my lady,” Skylark said calmly. She was correct in saying so: even from a distance it was clear that the Lord Moderator was irritated with something. He sat ramrod stiff in his seat, grey eyes holding on the center of the room with a vague curl of displeasure on his lips. “I don’t believe that Lord Halforth is the festive type,” Skylark continued.

“Perhaps it would be prudent to wait for him to come to us, my lady?” Hadrena said. She was gowned in very deep purple, with only a small trimming of white on a few garments. In her ears were over a dozen piercings, all of which were either gold or encrusted with purple gems, and when combined with her tall figure and sharp features, she looked positively regal. “It would be impolite for him not to offer a greeting.”

Lady Violet considered that. “Yes, that might be best for now. Either way, though, we’ll need to venture out from this table at some point, or they might think that we—"

She stopped talking when she noticed that the Warden of Honesty had not sat down. Instead, he merely loomed over the table, looking down at the chair next to his generous friend. Recalling the meeting chamber in the Citadel of the Six, Proximo suddenly realized that the seat was tiny compared to the Warden’s ordinary chair.

Violet seemed to noticed as well, and tried to stifle a laugh. “My honest friend,” she said with a shake of her head, “I’m sorry to say it, but I’m not certain that seat will serve for you.”

“Hrm,” the Warden grunted. He continued to consider the chair, then sharply turned and marched away.

“Honesty?” Lady Violet called.

“Will return. Not long,” the Warden of Honesty said quickly as he walked off. Keeping to the sides of the room to avoid the crowds, he made his way to the main entrance of the ballroom and stomped out, earning some strange looks from the other guests.

Glancing at the dais, Proximo could see that Aureliano and Pilara were looking at the Warden depart, and at the chairs they provided, and were laughing to one another. When the other guests saw that their host was laughing, they did the same. I suppose they couldn’t resist a jab at the Warden’s expense, Proximo thought, realizing that they no doubt understood that he wouldn’t fit their accommodations. At least it wasn’t Lady Violet. Yet.

Violet had a concerned look as she strained to see the Warden departing, one that Proximo readily noticed. “My lady,” he said carefully, “I’m not certain that we can— “

Before he could say more, however, he was surprised to see that someone had approached their table—not a Brony, but someone else had quietly walked over and taken the empty seat closest to Lady Violet while they had been watching the Warden leave. It was a man, clearly a Devien from his features, slightly overweight and likely older than Proximo, by his guess.

Lady Violet turned to see the man, but rather than being startled she merely said, “Good evening.”

“Is it?” the man replied, glancing around the table. “That remains to be seen, I think. It’s been a horrendously boring day for me so far, but perhaps things will brighten from here.” He wiggled his shoulders slightly in his chair, trying to get comfortable, and then began to slouch in a very unseemly way.

Whoever he was, he was dressed more slovenly than most at the party: his clothes were well-made but worn haphazardly, with cuffs and collar unevenly sticking out in some places and smashed flat in others, and his hair was in disarray. Rather than be slicked back or carefully groomed in the normal style, it was choppily strewn all over, with bangs hanging on his forehead and a cowlick in the back, as though he had just woken up, and it had a very messy dyework that looked like someone had simply splashed streaks of brown into his naturally black hair.

Glancing over the man’s sloppy appearance, Lady Violet pressed forward. “I am not certain we have had the honor of meeting previously. My name is Lady Violet Brushshape, the Warden of Generosity of the Brony Collective.” She dipped her head in a bow—seeming amused, the stranger did the same thing while keeping his thin eyes intently on the lady’s face. “These friends of mine have the honor of being Skylark, Hadrena, Rosesoul, Prim, and my dear assistant Proximo.”

Each of them dipped their heads as they were introduced, and waited for the man to give his own name. They were kept waiting for a few long moments, while the stranger simply looked at each of them with an odd half-smile.

Finally, after the awkward pause, he spoke up. “I see. We’ve reached the point in the conversation where introductions are being made, and now the turn has come around to me. So far, this is going swimmingly.” He jerked his head around and began to yell at the other people in the room. “Don’t worry everyone!” he shouted loudly at no one in particular. “I’ve managed to outwit them all thus far, but keep on your toes, this is getting very exciting!”

The Moderators heard him and were looking strangely at the Brony’s table, but the rest of the room apparently either could not hear him or were trying desperately to ignore the man. More than a few glanced over to see who was shouting, but none called back or even looked him in the eye, instead returning to their own conversation and dancing. The man did not acknowledge this lack of reaction, and when he turned back to the Bronies in front of him he acted as though he had not said anything at all, and began unfolding his napkin instead, blissfully unaware of the confused looks he was getting.

Proximo was completely lost, but Lady Violet managed to retain her composure. “I’m afraid,” she said in a measured tone, “that you have us all at a loss, sir. I hope you won’t mind if I ask for a name?”

That seemed to delight the man to no end. "A name? Yes! Yes, indeed I can give you that, but only a name, mind you, no more. Oh! Everyone!” he cried to the rest of the room again. “I’ve successfully parried her remarks, don’t fear, and I’m beginning to press the ‘name’ issue with due haste!” Once again he was ignored by almost everyone, though now Lord Halforth seemed to be watching him with hawkish interest.

The man again acted as though nothing had happened, and instead turned back to Lady Violet. “I shall tell you my name now, if you’re ready. You must understand that I, like everyone else here, have several names to make use of. You only asked for one of them, however, so I’ll tell you that the family name is the only one anyone cares about, and that is the one I use. So,” he said while leaning forward as though telling a secret, “it so happened that when I came here I used the name ‘Withins-Bei,’ and that I’ve come to be called ‘Withins-Bei,’ and that you may now refer to me as… Withins-Bei.”

“Withins-Bei?” Lady Violet said, considering the name. “You mean the Withins-Bei family of Kursedos? I must admit, I was hardly expecting to meet a member of your house here, of all places. Do you, by any chance, know Olivia Withins-Bei? She’s an old friend of mine.”

The odd guest waved his hand absently. “One of my innumerable cousins, no doubt. Our cups ran over with sisters and cousins and aunts back at Withinswyle Hall, what with all the Withins on one side and all the Bei’s on the other, and us in the middle with the worst of both sorts.”

He reached out and snatched a glass of water, slurped some of it, then swished it loudly in his mouth as though he were at a wine-tasting. “Now, I seem to vaguely recall being the child of someone—my mother, most likely—and that her and my father had the name ‘Withins-Bei’ as well, but the details escape me. For some time now, I have been more of a member of the Dreamweave Withins-Bei’s, which is to say that I have been the only member of the Dreamweave Withins-Bei’s.”

“You have no kin here in the city?” Skylark asked.

“Not unless those sweet girls in the red-zone are telling the truth,” he said with a yawn. “They aren’t of course, but I don’t hold it against them. There aren’t many people alive as honest as I, and I can hardly expect that standard of virtue to apply to everyone.”

Violet and Prim exchanged a look. Hadrena seemed amused. “And what do you do here, Mister Withins-Bei?”

He shook his head sharply. “No, no, you’re saying it all wrong. It’s not ‘Mister Withins-Bei,’ it is simply ‘Withins-Bei.’ The title is purely silent.” He yawned again, and rolled his eyes around the table. “But what does this Withins-Bei do? Why, I amuse myself. My life is hideous in its simplicity. When I feel hungry, I eat fine meals, and when I am thirsty I drink cheap wine. When I have a feeling of boredom I go to the theater, and when I have the pang of loneliness I go to the red-zone. My life is sensation followed by response, but I don’t stop at that. I am an appraiser of amusements, and I am always finding some new inconsolable way to continue my art.”

“Sounds lively,” Prim said flatly.

“Live-ly?” the strange man repeated. “Yes, I suppose living is the chief concern. My existence is merely existing, you must understand, and so I have come to the Dreamweave to pursue this craft until that horrible seizing of my life finally arrives. I am in a comfortable position, to be sure. Every month, my family sends me a few rolls of paper, and then I take the paper, and then I spend the paper. It makes no sense to me at all, but so far it has suited me fabulously. My limbs have been in motion all my life, and yet not once—not even for a moment—have they ever moved me towards work.”

“Fascinating,” Hadrena said with a smirk.

“It is! But it can cause me no end of trouble, all the same. I should warn you right now that every person in this hall—present company excluded, of course—despises me. It is jealousy, really.”

“They despise you?” Rosesoul asked, seeming both concerned and curious.

“Yes, well, one doesn’t like to brag,” he said coyly, “but they do indeed. It embarrasses me to no end. This may surprise you all, but I have a habit of irritating people.” As Withins-Bei said this, he picked his feet off the ground, lifted his legs up, and propped them up on the tabletop, his boots going right next to Prim’s face.

“That is surprising,” Lady Violet said, betraying no emotion on the matter.

Looking at the dirty boots only a short distance away from his face, Prim sighed and seemed as resigned to the circumstances as he was to practically everything, but Proximo was now fairly certain that this Withins-Bei man was either drunk or drugged or both.

“Yes indeed. All I do is talk to them, and yet they become so angry with me. I can hardly help it, really: I was born smirking. And yet my natural proclivities are no end of offense to them all, and thus I am cast out like a leper might be.”

“But you still come to parties like this?” Rosesoul inquired.

“Oh, but of course. I was invited, you see. Lord Aureliano himself passed along an invitation.”

“But don’t they hate you?”

“Yes, but they love money. And money I have,” Withins-Bei said with a wistful smile. “And in return for what I allow them, they allow me to continue my quest for distraction at my own leisure, without any of the uncomfortable restraints offered by the Mods or the city watch or anyone else. It’s very convenient that Arcadio is so accommodating to men of my caliber. Indeed, that is why I chose the Dreamweave, of all places, to settle myself down.”

Rosesoul frowned, not seeming to like the implications of what Withins-Bei said. Proximo could not help but agree. Is what he saying true? Cash for immunity? I’m not certain we can trust what this man says… but at the same time, I’m not certain I’d put it past the Martes.

Lady Violet caught on immediately. “You are in the Martes family’s good graces, then?” she said. She rested her chin on her hand and smiled at Withins-Bei. “Would you care to tell us more about them, perhaps?”

Withins-Bei laughed and wagged a finger. “Now, now, if one were more suspicious, one would guess you were trying to use me as some kind of source for information to help your cause.”

“Perish the thought,” Lady Violet said coyly.

“I consider myself an expert on beauty, and you are indeed beautiful, but I’m afraid I cannot sell myself off in such a way,” Withins-Bei said with a sigh. “My coming here was for another avenue of amusement, my lady, nothing more. I fear that if— oh, hullo!”

Proximo looked at the entrance to the ballroom, where Withins-Bei’s eyes were fixed, and gasped in horror. The Warden of Honesty was walking into the party again, clad in his new cloak and marching forward with his ordinary grim determination. On his shoulders, however, was a very large chair that he must have pilfered from one of the other rooms.

Behind him was a servant of some kind, seeming panicked and trying to keep up with the Warden’s stride, his mouth moving quickly as he did so. He was doing his best to step in front of the Warden or grab his arm, but could do nothing to stop a man two feet taller than him from going forward, stolen chair or not. When the servant looked up and realized that he was already in the middle of the ballroom, he froze in place and then walked out as quickly as he could.

The volume of chatter in the room dropped considerably as people gaped at the Warden walking by. He did not seem to notice, and instead marched directly back to the table, eye locked forward. When he approached, he looked down and saw that the place he originally picked next to Lady Violet was taken — specifically, it was filled by Withins-Bei, who looked as though he were about to explode with laughter, tears welling up in his eyes. The Warden frowned, placed his boot against Withins-Bei’s seat and pushed him slowly in the opposite direction, letting it make a horrid screeching sound that filled the entire room as he did so. Then, he unceremoniously dropped his own huge seat with a crash next to Lady Violet, and sat down.

Most of the room was staring at the Warden of Honesty. Lord Aureliano and Lady Pilara were looking in disbelief, as were all of their hanger-ons. Sir Borlund mouth was drooped slightly, and Sir Alwin Cameron was bug-eyed. Lord Halforth’s expression had changed upon seeing the Warden, but only slightly, with his eyebrows raised and his mouth flat. Aureliano was giving looks to the Lord Moderator, as though he expected him to do something about it, but Halforth merely turned back to a dish of food that was in front of him and said nothing. The room began to go back to their business, albeit all still keeping one eye on the Brony table as they did so.

The Warden of Honesty did not react to any of this, and even ignored the looks his fellow Bronies were giving. Most of the Generous Friends were shocked, aside from Prim who merely raised an eyebrow before sadly looking at Withins-Bei’s boots again. Dustario was trying to stifle his laughter, while the Honest Eye that had accompanied the Warden was whispering some kind of chant under his breath. Lady Violet had a hand over her mouth, and was looking in a very keen way at her fellow Warden.

“My honest friend?” she said slowly, once the ball began to start again.

“Yes?” he replied tersely.

“I see you found yourself a chair.”

“Yes. We apologize we were not quicker.”

“Honesty,” Violet continued in as firm a voice as he had ever heard her speak to the Warden, “there are a number of reasons why one should not steal chairs at parties.”

The Warden seemed offended, but did not break his gaze forward. “Not ‘steal’. We are guests. This one needed seat. Seat was not here. We found it.”

“May I ask where?”

“Two corridors down. Last on left. Sitting room.” His eye flickered down to Lady Violet and saw her expression. “We will return it after.”

Proximo was fighting the urge to tell Lady Violet that he had warned her about this sort of thing happening, and she seemed to be angry herself when she began to speak again. “Honesty…”

She was interrupted by Withins-Bei finally bursting out into hysterical laughter. “I take it all back,” he said, wiping his eyes with the napkin he had been playing with. “I was so, so hoping that I’d be able to meet you tonight, sir,” he said to the Warden of Honesty, “but I never even imagined that I would enjoy it this much. Thank you, thank you, thank you for that.” The Warden of Honesty was not acknowledging the thanks, but Withins-Bei had already turned his attention elsewhere. “My lady,” he said, “I told you that I was here for the sake of novelty, and you have not disappointed. I knew this evening would brighten up, and see how it did! It was poetry in motion, seeing all of them gawking at him, and for giving me that one moment, I’m certain that I know how to repay you.”

Lady Violet blinked in surprise. “I had thought you couldn’t… what was it? ‘Sell yourself off in that way’?”

Withins-Bei, still grinning wildly, shooed the thought away with his hand. “Forget that nonsense, I’ve sold myself for far less than that moment before, and I’ll certainly do it again. Do you still have questions? I’ll happily be your little informant or traitor or whatever it is you need for now.”

“Just for now?” Lady Violet asked, not missing a beat.

Withins-Bei considered that. “For now it is only for now. But ask me again in a day or so, and perhaps I’ll wish to make this partnership more permanent, so long as you can continue to distract me. Now,” he said, “what is it that you want to know?”

Lady Violet leaned backed gracefully in her chair, and daintily took a nearby water. “There are a number of nobles who call this city home. Tell me about them, first and foremost.”

“I’m surprised you need such information,” Withins-Bei said innocently. “I was under the impression that fandoms like yours had spies and sources under every stone — same with the Martes, same with the Mods.”

“Humor me, then.”

Good move, Proximo thought. They did indeed have some sources on the Dreamweave before they travelled there, but at the same time the word of a noble who lived there himself might drag up something more.

Withins-Bei shrugged. “The Martes, I suppose, are the most important—granted, that’s ‘important’ when compared with the rest of this hole of a city. Our great benefactor Aureliano rules the city, as his father did and his father before him, but everyone knows that he’s torn between his wife and his brother. Pilara whispers in one ear, Arcadio whispers in another, and Aureliano moves about accordingly. It is very convenient.”

“Lady Pilara, then,” Lady Violet said casually. “What can you tell us about her?”

“She has only graced the court with her presence for some two years now. Before that, she was the daughter of some Blurrite merchant. He enjoyed the idea of his daughter being in charge of an island and Aureliano enjoyed the idea of her, so the match was made swimmingly.”

He sipped from his water glass, then made a pronounced gagging noise. “Urgh. A terrible vintage.” He waved his hand around in the air to motion for some drinks to be brought to the table. “At any rate, Pilara is the light our own little paradise here, and you see how she shines up there at the top of the dais, speaking so softly at her husband’s side! He adores her, really—it’s almost sickening. However,” he said, “while I have no desire to be disloyal, it might interest you to know that not everyone feels the same.”

“And why is that?” Skylark asked.

“She’s a foreigner. And overproud, and fickle. And she doesn’t keep well to one bed, if all the fanciful rumors I hear around my head have a wrinkle of truth.” He gave a rather odious smile. “Or perhaps not. I hear so many voices, and so few have my kind of integrity. Others in court are far less wholesome than I.”

Proximo glanced up at Lady Pilara in her seat. She was gowned just as finely as she was when the Bronies first arrived, dressed in silk and gold lace, but the expression she wore had not changed either. Her eyes were half-closed, her mouth curled slightly into a smile, looking down at the scene like someone observing a mildly amusing diversion. He still did not like the look of her one bit, no matter how beautiful she was.

“These others you’re talking about,” Hadrena said, “who are they?”

“Why, my peers and colleagues, of course.” He closed his eyes, and smiled softly before a brief sigh. “Look behind me—not for too long, mind you, or they’ll notice—and you’ll see a gentleman with silver-dyed hair and violet highlights, wearing both colors in his suit. That would be Lord Wireton, sitting at the table closest to the door. The lady chatting with him is Lady Hallhave, and the gentleman with long hair in red and burgundy at the table across is Amberten.”

Still continuing to not look behind him, he rattled off several other names. “Amberten has four brothers, two of which are here and likely sitting with him now, if they aren’t dancing. The other two are probably in Nightside for a good time. The done old man whom I imagine is falling asleep in his soup at the table directly in front of the dais is Pendros Haxtoll, the last of his noble line. The dusky man wearing black and brown at the same table is Johastoff—a trader from the Sajle cities, with connections to Pilara’s father, and poor Pendros' only friend. And the man who almost certainly staggering drunk at his point, wearing gold and… green, I think, near the back curtains is Willburm, while his wife is hopefully off speaking with someone else.”

Just as he finished, a servant approached with a bottle of wine, which Withins-Bei happily accepted and poured into a glass for himself and one for Lady Violet.

Proximo’s eyes darted quickly around the room: every one of the people that Withins-Bei mentioned was indeed in the room, and precisely where he placed them. Hadrena seemed almost impressed.

Lady Violet took the wine and sipped. “And these noble friends of yours,” Lady Violet said meaningfully, “do any of them have cause to be… agreeable?”

Withins-Bei smiled deviously. “Would you like me to provide a list?”

“Oh, please do.”

“Very well then, I shall. But first,” he said before gulping down a mouthful of his wine, “I believe it may be best that you dance, my assorted new compatriots.”

“Dance?” Rosesoul repeated, confused.

“This is a ball, isn’t it? It would be remiss of you all to stay huddled here at your own little island,” he said matter-of-factly, “and I doubt any of you have a desire to be less than courteous. Or suspicious-looking, considering that you’ve done nothing but plot with me since you arrived.”

Proximo saw the wisdom of that, as he looked over to see the crowd of people twirling and spinning around each other in the center of the room. Ordinarily one would wait for another’s invitation before dancing… but since no such offer was likely forthcoming from the nobles of the Dreamweave, it seemed they had to move first.

“Very well,” Lady Violet said. “Proximo, would you care to join me for a moment?”

“Have I any choice at all, my lady?” he replied with a smile.

“I sincerely doubt it.”

Hadrena extended her hand to Theosyrius, who was sitting behind her… though Proximo was certain she would have rather danced with Skylark, if she thought the other would accept. Rosesoul looked across from her. “Would my lord care to dance?” she asked the Warden of Honesty.

“No,” he said immediately.

“I would love to dance, if you’ll have me,” Dustario said courteously. Rosesoul was happy to accept, but obviously disappointed — though what she had expected from asking the Warden was beyond Proximo.

“For the sake of public safety, I think I’ll stay here,” Prim said before reaching for the wine. Violet nodded in response, and with that they proceeded to the floor.

Working their way past the tables, Proximo knew that the rest of the room was watching them, but he tried not to notice as he locked fingers with Lady Violet and began to dance. There were musicians in the corner of the room, playing some soft, upbeat song, so Violet and Proximo stepped lightly as they spun in tandem. Proximo Hart did not consider himself an extremely accomplished dancer, at least when compared to his partner, and so he made sure to look as natural as possible while counting off steps in his head. Right, two three, step, two three, turn one two…

Lady Violet’s hand was on his shoulder, and both looked carefully to the other, if only so they would not have to acknowledge the stares they were getting. As Proximo glanced around to make sure that their path on the dance floor wasn’t crowded, however, he could not help but glimpse a few faces. A majority were unfriendly, sadly enough; darting his eyes up to the dais, he noticed that Aureliano and Pilara were looking down at them, curling their lips and laughing with one another. Lord Halforth was looking in another direction, as though trying to ignore the scene. The other dancing pairs were giving the Bronies a wide berth, though Proximo saw that the dancing Bronies themselves seemed to be enjoying themselves—Dustario was laughing with Rosesoul, and even Hadrena had a slight half-smile.

As they turned another time in tune with the music, Lady Violet spoke softly under her breath. “I should warn you, Mister Hart, that part of the reason we’re dancing is so we can discuss our table-guest out of his hearing.”

“He does seem prone to cause discussion, my lady.” Truthfully, Proximo wasn’t sure what to think of this Withins-Bei character—he did not seem as though he were lying when he spoke, but at the same time he hardly appeared trustworthy. The man was one that flitted through life, going from pleasure to pleasure, not caring where they came from or who was involved in getting them… or who got hurt in the process. Proximo knew the sort—he had been one, once. The scar across his chest tingled slightly as he thought about it, but he tried to push it out of his mind. “He appears to be very familiar with the Dreamweave court.”

Lady Violet stepped around, and Proximo followed suit. “If he had been directly lying in what he said, I imagine the Warden of Honesty would have told us so. The information he has could be very useful, as could his cooperation… but at the same time, a man as inconstant as he appears to be is one I’m not inclined to easily trust.”

Proximo tried to keep an ear on the music as he thought. “We had best keep him close enough to be useful, but far enough that any disloyalty won’t damage us, then. Finding out what he wants will be the first step to getting any kind of partnership, I think.”

“Well, we already know what that is—distraction. He said it himself, Mister Hart.” She smiled at her partner. “I suppose we can manage to continue being ‘amusing’ if it means keeping his trust, don’t you?”

“Of course, my lady. I should tell you now, though, that I’ve been feeling unnaturally serious as of late—I fear I can’t keep up this present air of carefree cheerfulness for too long.”

“We all suffer for fandom and friends, Mister Hart. Keep your chin up, now.”

The dance continued for a time, but once the music slowed down and the musicians played their last notes, the dancing partners on the floor broke about, bowed to one another, and turned to another partner. Proximo saw that Caleb had lumbered over to the dancefloor in the meantime, and was approaching Lady Violet. “I am hardly worthy to ask, my lady,” he said while extending a fat hand, “but may I have the honor?”

She bowed to her new partner and began to dance with him as the music started again, but Proximo saw little reason to continue, and headed back to his seat instead. There he found himself with Prim and Withins-Bei sharing wine, while the Warden of Honesty sat quietly. As Proximo worked his way back into his seat, Withins-Bei managed to detach himself from the wine bottle long enough to pay a compliment. “Your lady is an excellent dancer, sir. It is always so refreshing to see young love on the floor—it almost warms my poor, shriveled heart.”

Proximo smiled courteously. “I think you may be misreading the situation, my lord.”

“I’m not a lord. But perhaps you’re right after all.” He shrugged, and began to help himself to yet more wine. “Still, I pride myself on my intuition. I can almost always tell what other people want—that way I can get it first.”

Proximo was about to give a witty response to that, when he eyes became fixed on something across the room. It was a man that must have just walked in—there was no way he could have been in the ballroom all along, or Proximo would have noticed sooner—and was seated alone at a table close to the dais.

He was the strangest-looking man that Proximo had ever seen in his life. He was very thin, and wore long robes, colored a deep-sea blue, as he delicately sipped from a water glass. The bizarre thing, however, was his skin: it looked naturally black, definitely northern in origin, but large patches of it were spotted white as milk. A huge blotch of pale flesh curled up from his neck to his chin, while another covered almost his whole left hand and much of the space around his right eye. They might have been hideous burn-scars of some kind, but Proximo couldn’t figure how they had managed to cover such random parts of his person.

Withins-Bei must have noticed him staring. “Ah, I see you’ve taken notice of the local grotesque. That would be Heylen Ott, our friendly neighborhood freak.”

A cybrahakar name, Proximo thought as he looked at the man, very thin, and blue robes. That might explain it.

Withins-Bei seemed to read his thoughts. “You’re wondering about his skin, but you’re too polite to ask.” He laughed dryly at his hesitation. “You must learn to not take account of such petty things as courtesy, or you’ll never learn anything interesting in the world. Heylen Ott is a cybramancer—Grandmance of the Dreamweave, in fact, as appointed by the Guild. The cursed blood is known to warp the body, and Ott is no different: he was born with dark skin, like his mother from the Sajle, but when he dies he shall be completely white, like those disgusting patches of skin you see on him. It’s quite sad, really.”

Proximo could not help but be annoyed at the careless way Withins-Bei was talking about others, but at the same time he had trouble looking away from Heylen Ott. It made him ashamed to be gawking at a perfect stranger, so he distracted himself by searching for Lady Violet on the dancefloor. She was performing every bit as well there as she had earlier, and Proximo was surprised to see that Caleb was as well. Large as he was, he was amazingly light on his feet, as he stepped gracefully through a happy dance with Lady Violet.

At the same time, though, he looked up to see Lord Halforth in his seat. The Lord Moderator was listening to something that Aureliano had said, and looking down at a table far to the left of him with a certain amount of displeasure. It was hard to see who was sitting at said table, but Proximo was more concerned with Mod himself. “What do you know about Lord Halforth?” he asked Withins-Bei. It would pay to know more about the man who would decide the fate of his friends.

He raised an eyebrow. “More than some, not as much as others. Truthfully, I have had little time to know him, considering that he has only been here a short while. I know what they say about him, though. I’ve heard he’s dutiful and effective, why else would the Authority shower him with such praise and honors? I’ve heard that he’s hard and cold, or else all the ne’er-do-wells of this island would not fear his presence so much. And I’ve heard he’s merciless to the guilty. You know he condemned his own son to hang?”

“That’s only a rumor,” Prim interjected.

“Rumor or not, it makes for an interesting character, doesn’t it?” Withins-Bei smiled smugly. “It must be strange, knowing that the lives of your friends lie in the hands of that man.”

Rumors are only rumors, Proximo thought, there may be no truth to it at all. And yet…

His train of thought was interrupted when Lady Violet return to the table, along with a smiling Caleb. “Honestly, Caleb,” she said cheerfully, “it never ceases to amaze me how talented you are on the floor. I would never have guessed it.”

Caleb responded with a buttery smile. “One always aims to surprise and please, my lady, one certainly does.”

Skylark returned with her partner as well, and both she and the others sat down to their original seats. As Lady Violet took her seat, however, Proximo saw that some newcomers were entering the room. Three of them were guards, but the other was someone that Proximo hadn’t seen before. He was lean, but strong looking, with a beard and black hair that had a single strand of red through it, and was wearing yellow, gold, bronze, and a crimson-red cape across his shoulders. Proximo looked between the man and Lord Aureliano, and noted a certain similarity—then he realized who he must have been.

“My lady,” Proximo said, “is that Arcadio over there?”

“Yes indeed,” Violet replied, her voice emotionless but her eyes angry. The Warden of Honesty was staring as well, and scowling at the man that sauntered across the room.

Arcadio made his way through, his guards trailing behind, and received a warm greeting from his brother Aureliano. The two embraced, and Arcadio took his place at his brother’s side, smiling and laughing with him as he helped himself to a glass of wine.

Withins-Bei noticed the Bronies’ expressions. “I take it that you’ve already had the honor of meeting the wise Lord Arcadio? I imagine that was exciting.”

“That is one word for it,” Lady Violet replied.

“He’s the one you spoke of, my lady?” Skylark said with concern. She frowned, appraising Arcadio’s character from afar. “I don’t like the way he moves. The way he walks, that look in his eyes when he speaks and sees… there is a corruption in that one, my lady.”

Prim was casting Skylark a strange look, but Withins-Bei chuckled. “You’re being so harsh on him, all of you. He is such an interesting fellow, after all. Time spent abroad, a few years in the Chan, a few years in the Deep Web if you believe that talk. And when he returned he was given command of the city watch to preoccupy him: a pack of gutter-rats with spears at first, but now they’re better trained and better equipped than ever, and they’re loyal only to him.” He looked knowingly to Lady Violet. “That’s one thing you should learn quickly: Aureliano may claim to rule from the Palace, but it is Arcadio that controls the streets, and everything in them. There are no businesses that run in the Dreamweave without his say-so, or without paying protection to the watch—at reasonable terms, of course, for such stalwart defenders as Arcadio.”

“And our friends are under his custody,” Prim said with no shortage of resentment.

“Is that the case?” Withins-Bei said. “Then please forgive me, because I’m afraid I must be serious for a moment.” He looked at Lady Violet, unblinking and for the first time not smiling. “If you wish for your friends to remain alive and whole before this is over, you must get them out of Arcadio’s hands as soon as you can. Him and I are much alike, in our own depraved little ways, but he is fond of things far beyond me. Your friends will not last long in his company, I’m afraid.”

The Warden of Honesty clenched his fist, and gave a look that could have cracked stone to the table where Arcadio sat. The people on the dais did not seem to notice or care, but instead continued to laugh among themselves. While they were doing so, however, Aureliano pointed out the same table he had brought to Halforth’s attention earlier, and after doing so Arcadio smiled, picked himself up, and proceeded across the room. Aureliano looked slightly concerned when he did so, and seemed to try and coax his brother away from whatever his plan was, but Arcadio was already on the move.

Proximo strained to glimpse the person seated at the table, and saw an extremely defeated-looking girl sitting by herself. Her eyes were downcast, and only occasionally looked up to see other guests walking by and chuckling to themselves, after which she seemed to sink further and further into her chair. She had short hair, black and undyed, and the kind of mouth that parted slightly to show her front-most teeth. Though not extraordinarily beautiful, she nevertheless had a kind of delicate prettiness to her, but for some reason she was being either completely ignored or subtly mocked by everyone around her.

No one had made any attempt to sit with her, and whenever she looked up hopefully at someone they passed by without a care, aside from the few that seemed embarrassed to be refusing her. Even the ones uncomfortable doing so still walked by, however, and every time it seemed to break her down a little more. She could not have been older than twenty, and was perhaps younger.

Proximo was about to ask Withins-Bei who she was, when Lady Violet beat him to it. “Who is that girl over there, sitting on her own?” she asked with sincere concern.

Withins-Bei glanced over, then laughed. “Oh, her? Imelia Kohburn. Her family is one of the oldest in the Dreamweave, but they’re second-rate nowadays. It’s just her and her grandmother left, I think, and the latter can’t leave the house anymore. I imagine the Martes invited her out of some kind of courtesy,” he said. “Or perhaps they just enjoy having a fun little target.”

“Won’t anyone dance with her?” Skylark asked.

“I wouldn’t think so, much as she would appreciate it. Likely they think something will rub off on them, or they’ll catch the Martes’ ire. She’s been very popular in all the best court discussions as of late. I imagine they’d hate for someone to ruin their fun.”

“Why?” Lady Violet said with a deep frown.

“She’s pregnant.” Lady Violet cast Withins-Bei an alarmed look, so he continued. “With an unknown father, mind you. She’s refused to tell Pilara or anyone else who it was that got her with child, and she’s been a pariah ever since.” Withins-Bei said this with a smile, but Proximo could hear a bitterness underlying his words. “Just another harmless game by us noble men and women, you see.”

Lady Violet looked at Withins-Bei with equal parts anger and disgust before saying something in protest, but Proximo was not listening as he watched Arcadio cross the room to Imelia’s table. People parted out of his way when he came close, and Aureliano was wearing an uncomfortable look as he watched his brother go.

Grabbing a bottle of wine from another table, Arcadio came up upon Imelia, took her glass, and began pouring a drink for himself while she looked up at him, wide-eyed. After resting the bottle in front of her, he knelt down and began to whisper something in her ear. Then he extended an open hand to her, and she reached out to take it… but as soon as she did, he pulled away with a smile, turning around sharply and leaving her alone with the bottle.

People began to laugh, though there was a certain discomfort with some of them, and a few, like the old Pendros Haxtell that Withins-Bei had pointed out earlier, turned away from the scene. Aureliano smiled, but was shifting in his seat and did not look at Imelia after his brother walked away. The two knights seats at the high table were trying to ignore what had happened, but Lord Halforth stared with an icy cold expression at Arcadio as he proudly marched back to his place of honor at the front of the room.

Lady Violet looked as though she were about to be sick. “Six save us. I’m going over there right now, you all… Proximo?”

Proximo could barely hear the others as he walked quickly across the room, trying to force the red anger out of his face as he crossed the floor. There were a few strange looks, but he was past caring, and it was all he could do to maintain his composure as he approached.

She either did not notice that Proximo had walked up beside her, or was no longer able to acknowledge it, so he spoke first. “Pardon me, but would you care to dance?” he asked respectfully.

At first she didn’t seem to hear him, but then she looked up to see him there. Her eyes were red, and Proximo could tell that she was close to tears. He extended a hand gently, but she seemed reluctant to take it. “Is this a trick?” she asked quietly.

“No,” Proximo replied as clearly as he could.

She looked warily at the hand for a moment, then took it. Proximo led her out to the floor, when a slow, sad song was starting to croon from the musician’s corner. Imelia stood a head shorter than Proximo, and her eyes were darting around nervously as they started to dance, as though she were expecting a joke at her expense in any moment. She was quiet, but then ventured to ask, “Who…”

“Proximo Hart. Assistant Warden of Generosity,” he replied.

She blinked in surprise. “Oh. You’re one of those people.”

“Yes, I am,” he said sympathetically. “If that is an issue, I…”

“No!” she said suddenly. “No, no, that wasn’t what I meant at all. It’s just… I’m sorry.” She looked away, embarrassed. “My name is Imelia.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Imelia,” he said sincerely. He was trying to avoid looking at anyone else in the room as much as possible, and when he turned with her in time with the beat he did not look up to see who was watching. “I hope my invitation didn’t take you by surprise. That was not my intent.”

“Oh, no, not that. I’ve always loved to dance, but…” She looked down sadly again, and seemed to be fighting back tears. “I should tell you now, why they all hate me, why no one talks to me anymore. I’m…”

Proximo stopped her gently. “You don’t need to tell me anything, if you don’t want to. Either I know already, and I’ve elected to ignore it, or I don’t know and I have no interest in prying from you.”

She seemed infinitely grateful when he said that, and breathed a sigh of relief that she wouldn’t need to say more. For a time, they simply moved silently, swaying with the music. There was clearly something she wanted to ask, however, and eventually she blurted out, “Why?”

Because you didn’t deserve to be treated that way, Proximo thought, but instead he pondered a different answer. “My lady, “I wear the colors of the Generous Friend, and flawed as I am I do my best to live up to them. I was not always this way,” he said, the scar across his chest stinging slightly as he remembered it, “but it would seem to me now that civility and respect are not earned but owed, to everyone. Nothing one does excuses him from adhering to that rule, and nothing one can do exempts them from being treated fairly.”

They both looked at one another, her eyes no longer so red or hesitant. Proximo smiled softly when he saw the improvement. “Truthfully though,” he added, “one should never need a reason to ask a beautiful woman to dance. You deserve nothing less.”

For the first time, she smiled, and seeing that was the only reason or reward that Proximo had ever needed. The music came to a close, and at the end he looked up to the high table to see what his hosts thought of the performance. The two knights were still ignoring the scene, and Lord Aureliano was picking at the rim of his wine glass in discomfort, but Lady Pilara was giving a half-smile with half-closed eyes glinting in a vaguely threatening way. The look that Arcadio was giving, on the other hand, had no amusement at all, despite the upward curl of his thin mouth, and his stare was full of something odious. Proximo returned the glare with an icy look of his own.

Though the dance was over, Imelia seemed to be loath to break her hand away from Proximo’s, still half-clinging on as she looked up at him. She did not appear to know quite what to say next, now that it was done, so he tried to open up the conversation again. “If you would like, my lady,” he said, “you’re more than welcome to join my friends and I at our table. I’m certain they would love to meet you, and it would be better company then you’ve had thus far.”

She considered it, but shook her head. “No, thank you but I… I think I had better just leave. I should be home anyways, my grandmother will be expecting me back soon.” It was an obvious lie, but one that Proximo did not hold against her—he would not likely wish to stay either, were he in her shoes. She bit her lip, nervous to say more. “But… maybe, if you’re willing, we could meet again?”

She was looking at him hopefully, and even if Proximo had considered refusing it is unlikely that he’d have been able to. I’m the first friend she’s had in some time, he thought sadly. He knew how that felt, after all. “My lady,” he said earnestly, “I would like nothing more. If there is ever anything you need, or any help you might want, don’t hesitate to find me.”

Imelia smiled again, and wiped her eyes with her sleeve. “Thank you. I don’t… I’m not… thank you.” Slowly, she let go of Proximo’s hands and walked out of the ballroom, stepping lightly through the doors and down the hall.

Proximo returned to his friends and found them all glad to see him. Lady Violet was beaming, and touched his hand as he sat down. “That,” she said proudly, “that was a noble thing, Mister Hart.”

Dustario leaned back in his chair and clapped Proximo on the back. “Damn good work out there, Proxi,” he said with a grin. There was a chorus of agreements from the rest of the Bronies—even Prim seemed slightly upbeat.

Withins-Bei was giving an odd look to Proximo, his head tilted slightly. “The way they were watching you,” he said, “you’d think you were dancing on hot coals, sir.” He drained another glass of wine and smiled. “I believe that you will all prove most interesting as you stay here in our fair city.”

Proximo settled into his seat and started to pour himself a glass, feeling happy. Hopefully that helped her, even only a little, he thought. It can’t make God knows how much abuse slung at her any less painful, but at least she knows that she isn’t alone. That much, at least, could make a world of difference for someone who had their life turned on its head.

While he sipped at his wine, however, Proximo noticed something in the far corner of the room.

He had been unable to see them earlier, when a crowd of people stood in front of them, and they were so pushed into a dark alcove of the ballroom that he might not have see them even then if he hadn’t strained his eyes in curiosity. There, all seated and looking to one another, were three figures. They were all wearing strange, dark, patchy clothing that was incredibly out of place, considering where they were, and none of them seemed to be talking.

And all of their faces were covered by masks.

Proximo nudged Lady Violet, and directed her attention over. At first she didn’t seem them, but then she tilted her head in curiosity and looked to Withins-Bei. “Those three, over there in the corner of the room,” she said to him, gesturing subtly to the far table. “Who are they?”

Withins-Bei tried to make himself sound bored, but Proximo could tell that he was being deliberately enigmatic when he saw the three and replied. “Three anonymites of the Chan, if you’d believe it. They arrived here two days before you all, and I’ve been seeing them around the Palace ever since.”

“Anonymites?” Rosesoul said, startled. “Here? By the Kind, what are they after?”

She sounded uncomfortable at the thought of even sharing the room with the three distant figures, and Proximo could not help but sympathize. Though he had never been to the Chan—that dreaded place of dark water and hideous demon-gods—he had met anonymites in the past and heard many stories about their homeland. The whole island was in a constant flux of anarchy and war, with the Moderators only barely able to hold a tiny presence in certain cities—even then, they could rarely intervene, and were often expelled. In that land, strange people wore strange masks to hide their face and name, which the Channic held to be sacred and thought all others were unworthy to know, and stalked through crumbling streets ablaze with fire to avoid the sight of some horror they thought dwelt under the ocean. It was an infamous place, and while its inhabitants were extremely proud of their home, the rest of the civilized Web held them in varying degrees of contempt, disgust, and fear.

Withins-Bei laughed. “You sound so afraid. The Channic are only people, my lady—a bit rougher, perhaps, but all flesh and bone and blood. Aside from the wood on their faces, that is, and the metal in their hands. As to why they’re here…” He shrugged. “I couldn’t say. They probably bribed someone or another to get an invitation, but what they’re looking for is beyond me. Despite rumors to the contrary, I’m not omniscient, dear chums.”

Proximo listened to the words as he stared over at the three anonymites huddled together. It was unwise to look so obviously their way, he knew, but Withins-Bei made him curious, and the possibility of why these Channic were in the city made him even curiouser. Three anonymites of the Chan, here in the Dreamweave, arriving as soon as all this drama comes up? It could easily be a coincidence… but at the same time….

While Proximo looked over, however, he saw the one of the three people stirring. How he had noticed, Proximo was not sure, but the gawking at their table must have been more obvious than the Bronies had thought, because the masked man seemed to be staring right back at them. It was hard to tell, but the eyes of the mask—encircled by odd spirals and dotted with white paint, appeared to be fixed on Proximo and his friends. The anonymite tilted his head to the side, and then lowered it slightly. It took only a moment for the assistant to realize that the man was half-bowing. He can see us, Proximo thought, as his friends looked away.

* * * * * *

“How does one describe the Chan? Many have tried, and found words lacking. Wild, untamed, lawless. Brilliant and beautiful, fickle and cruel, dark and dangerous, good and evil. All are equally acceptable, and equally applicable, and indeed “equal” is another word to describe the state of the Channic. Perhaps the best word is simply “strange,” for those small, rocky, bleak islands squatting in the Saying Sea are nothing if not foreign, even alien to outsiders. Other places in the Web emulate them, many others despise them, but none can possibly match them when it comes to strangeness.

“How old is the Chan? Old, that much we can say. The isles themselves are ancient, though it is difficult to tell exactly when they were settled by the first to call themselves ‘Channic.’ The anonymite legends say that they came from the Deep Web, born from smoke and soot and given form and life by an old power that dwells there. Some of these myths claim they were born in the damned halls of the Black Palace, and sent out from the Deep to live unbowed by any man alive. If that was their goal, they indeed succeeded. The Channic also state that the first settlers arrived in the place that their oldest city, Moot’s Point, now stands, and it was there that the first anonymite ‘laws’ (if one can call them that) were made and the first Mootking, called Crof, was chosen to wear the Baymaster’s Mask. Since the oldest ruins and artifacts all seem to be found in that area, it would seem that this legend, at least, is true.

“Despite the fact that they have a king, the Channic are ruled by no one. Mootkings are chosen purely by enough Channic simply saying that they are the Mootking, regardless of who they are or where they come from. There is no succession and no formal gathering to decide who the new Mootking is, should one die, which has led to long periods where there is none at all or where there are many at once. The only real criteria for a legitimate king is that they generally must be crowned in Moot’s Point and rule from the Slouchhall in the Channic capital, Baysmouth, but even these bare rules are little more than guidelines, and are often forgotten. The Mootking has no power save for the power he takes for himself, and the only sway he has over his people is found in his ability to compel them to follow him through either force or fraud, meaning that a certain points the Chan has been united under particularly fierce and cunning rulers and at others has dissolved under the rule of weak or indulgent kings whose rule did not extend outside their own door.

“The Moderators have no more power than the Mootking, and often much less. The king, at least, is Channic and was chosen by the Channic, but the Mods have always been seen as foreigners, oppressors, and enemies to many in the Chan. The Authority has never been fully accepted to even the smallest degree, and even the tiny amount of knights and lords allowed in are often maligned and hated. The Channic have an enormous fear of control or intervention in their lives, and are fiercely, fanatically independent—every Channic considers himself, and himself alone, to be his own lord, king, and god, and will only obey the whims of his own body. Any perceived attempt to establish law or authority over them is immediately met with riots, wars, and assassinations, and thus only the truly unlucky or daring Mods are sent to the Chan, and only the strongest (or the most corrupt) are able to leave intact.

Every once in a while, the Authority will attempt another large offensive to bring the Channic under heel when they grow too rabid or dangerous, but in time everything inevitably reverts back to as it always has been—the dark, angry, paranoid, resentful Chan that will always be. It is little wonder that ordinary men and women of the Web avoid the place, but fortune-hunters, thrill-seekers, pirates, criminals, and curious rogues of all sorts nevertheless flood the islands, and many, in time, carve their own masks and stay for good, draw by the intoxicating freedom that the Chan offers. Nothing is illegal, save for law itself, and all is permitted, something that has no end of appeal for certain types…”

— “The Chan, the Beast, and Their People,” by Allek Yellowtail

Chapter XVII: Everything's Staged

Chapter XVII: Everything’s Staged

* * * * * *

“To understand what a thing is, one must understand the cause of a thing. To understand what the Authority is, one must search at the beginning, and the beginning of the Authority is John the Traveller. John Wise, John True, John Just, John the Righteous, John the Revelator, John the Traveller, John Our Founder. Truly we say that no man otherwise has ever been so blessed by the will of the Logos.

“Long ago, the land called “Central” had no Central; not the white-black towers, nor the Engines, nor the Great Wiki, nor the followers of the Logos. It was cursed, and the rulers were the corsairs and the Pirate King, who were strong and preyed upon the weak. The only truth was the one they chose, the only justice the advantage of the powerful. So it was, and would continue to be, until John.

“He was born in his house in Central, in the sixth year of the Pirate King’s reign. His father was a fisherman, his mother a potter, and in time she gave birth to a younger sister, Abigail. John learned his father’s trade and others, for he was exceptional and excelled in all things he put his efforts towards. But few understood him, for he was quiet and contemplative, and many thought the boy strange and spurned him. His sister did not, though, and she was his closest friend.

“At twelve, John’s father died, drowned at sea. So his family was also left adrift, leaving them in the care of their mother. Only three years after, though, his mother also passed away, and John was left alone with his sister. His talents let him work and prevent his sibling from starving, but little else was possible. His neighbors encouraged him to seek a position with the corsairs, as most young orphans did to provide for themselves. John refused, and worked harder.

“At sixteen, John was a man, and found better work that helped his sister, for he kept none of his earnings for himself but gave all to his beloved sibling. He had no other friends, for all others he met were crude or false or in the hand of the corsairs, whom John had grown to despise for their evil. So when at rest, John would climb to the high hills around Central, to weigh and consider himself and the world, and would refuse to see anyone so long as he remained there.

“One day, John returned to his silent place, and remained there for three weeks. His neighbors worried, and many thought he had been lost to the wild or to the corsairs. But when John came down from the hills, he appeared older than he had ever been, and told them all that he had been revealed the truth by Heaven.”

— Excerpt from the “Book of Histories,” in the Books of Black and White. Being a compilation of hundreds of documents declared to be true and canonical by the Knight Enlighteners, the Books contain various accounts of the early Authority—this particular passage is concerned with the youth of the Authority’s founder, called John the Traveler.

* * * * * *

Improbability Factor: Authority antipattern; when a problem is present and known, but not dealt with as it is considered ‘unlikely’ to surface. See also: “blind faith”

* * * * * *

It had been a long walk to the other side of the Palace, but there was no escaping their mission. The Martes had placed the Bronies in the western wing of the building, each in different rooms that were widely spread out to be as inconvenient as possible, while the Honest Friends were housed in an abandoned barracks nearby. The honored guests of the Dreamweave, however, such as the Lord Moderator and his entourage, were settled in the east wing, in rooms that felt very far away to Proximo. He and Lady Violet trailed through the red hallways and sloped staircases to reach Lord Halforth, seeing that a word would be needed sooner rather than later.

It was still early in the day, but Lady Violet had insisted on departing as soon as possible to plead their case to the Moderators. Truthfully, she was slightly impatient to do so: the Warden of Generosity had a desperate desire to have the imprisoned Bronies in the dungeon properly cared for, and without Lord Halforth’s support it was unlikely to happen. Proximo had not visited the dungeon himself, but from what he understood dwelling there had not been a pleasant experience for Greenglade, and still no one knew what state Dabrius Joh was in. The captain of the guards, Arcadio, had forbidden any contact between the prisoner and his friends—that would also need to change. Proximo had hoped that they would be able to bring up the matter at the dinner the night before, but the Lord Moderator had defied their expectations and not approached them, nor had he been willing to see anyone after the celebration had ended.

Proximo kept pace with Lady Violet as best he could as she sped briskly through the Palace. The girl whom he had danced with, Imelia Kohburn, was foremost in his mind. Proximo could not claim to know her closely, but he still hoped she was well after having left so suddenly. It was only reasonable that she would do so, considering how she had been looked upon by her fellow guests, and Proximo realized how difficult it could be to cope with situations like that. She offered to see me again, Proximo thought, moving to stand at Violet’s side, perhaps I should take her up on that. Just to see if she’s still well.

There were other things on his mind, though. The Bronies had made a strange new “friend” in Withins-Bei, but Proximo seriously doubted the man’s integrity. And for whatever reason, Hart had trouble shaking the thought of the three anonymites from his head. They had not even spoken, nor had he introduced himself, but at the same time Proximo’s instincts had nothing good to say about the trio. It may be nothing, he reasoned, or it may not.

“Bright faces, Mister Hart,” Lady Violet said to him as they approached a corner. “The Lord Moderator’s chambers are just beyond.”

Indeed they were, as Proximo could tell from the voices wafting down the hall from a room with an open door. The one talking was gruff, deep, and thoroughly angry, meaning that it was almost certainly Sir Borlund Barr. “...this has gone on long enough. They’re guilty, we all know it.”

Another voice, refined and emotionless, came out. “Your certainty is impressive, Sir Borlund, considering that you have reviewed none of the evidence.”

“What are you accusing me of?” Borlund replied angrily, as Violet and Proximo approached the door. “They’re perverts and profligates, led by a whore and a lunatic, nothing but irritating, simpering fools and— “

“And what’s worse,” Lady Violet said, stepping inside with Proximo close behind, “they have such terrible hearing.”

Lord Halforth and Sir Borlund did not seem surprised, but Sir Alwin Cameron, standing further off in the room and wearing the same too-small black and white uniform that Proximo had seen earlier, appeared startled as they stepped inside.

The room, he could not help but notice, was huge when compared with those of Lady Violet and Proximo: the main portion they had entered was three times the size of their own chambers, and there were three other doors leading off to separate areas on the sides. At the same time, though, it was incredibly bare, as for whatever reason almost all of the decorations and furniture had been removed. The only things in the room were a plain wood table, six chairs, and an ornate bed that did not look as though it had been slept in.

Lady Violet bowed to the Lord Moderator, but Sir Borlund’s mustache twitched when he saw them. “Were you listening to our conversation? Don’t you know what privacy is?”

“Something one forfeits if they speak loudly enough, sir,” Lady Violet replied innocently.

Careful, my lady, Proximo thought as he looked warily at Sir Borlund’s angry face. Quips would not get them very far here, and Barr seemed to be the temperamental type. Still, he did call her ‘whore.’ Unsurprisingly, Lady Violet had a particular dislike for being called that.

Sir Borlund started to shout a response when the Lord Moderator raised his hand. “That is quite enough of that, from both of you.” He folded his black gloved hands in front of him, and stared closely with his grey eyes. “I was expecting you, Brony. There was something you wished to speak of?”

“Yes indeed, my lord.” She made a motion to the table. “Could we, perhaps, sit?”

Lord Halforth nodded, and proceeded over to take a seat. Sir Borlund gave a loathing look to Violet, then did the same, while Sir Alwin followed meekly behind. The lanky knight did an awkward bow of sorts to the lady, and shuffled over to another chair. Lady Violet and Proximo followed suit.

Lord Halforth reached over to a silver tray, with a set of cups, a teapot, and a metal cylinder sitting on it. “There is tea, if you would care for some,” he said formally. Lady Violet politely accepted, and filled a cup with tea. The Lord Moderator, however, reached past the pot and took the cylinder instead, unscrewing the top and pouring a steaming drink into a small cup. Proximo was not certain what it was, but it did not smell like tea or coffee.

The old Lord Moderator sipped carefully, and examined the two people in front of him. “I see your Warden of Honesty did not care to join you,” he stated after a moment of consideration.

“There was a matter concerning our guards that required his attention, unfortunately,” she replied.

And you did not want him to embarrass us again, her assistant thought. Lady Violet would never have said as much, but Proximo thought it was clear that, after the previous night, the Warden should be kept at a fair distance from high society.

“A shame. But at any rate,” he said in a leveled tone after another sip, “what was it that you wished to bring to me? Something concerning the accused, I believe?”

Lady Violet nodded. “My lord,” she said with sincere concern, “there are two prisoners from our fandom currently in the dungeon. The conditions of one were so deplorable that I’m loath to even speak of it, and the other we were not allowed to even see.”

“You wish to complain?” Lord Halforth asked.

“I ask that the two be kept in a manner that allows them some degree of decency and humanity, and that we be allowed to speak with both of the accused so we might understand their testimony.”

“They’re prisoners,” Borlund huffed. “Do you expect them to be in first-class apartments? Criminals belong in cells, get used to it.”

“I’m not asking for them to be boarded in a tavern, my lord,” Lady Violet explained calmly, “just that conditions be improved in their holding area. They’re dark, filthy, filled with vermin, and I’ve good reason to believe that my friends have been hideously mistreated there.”

Lord Halforth raised his eyebrows slightly. “Do you have any proof of this abuse?”

“His word.”

“The word of a confessed criminal,” Sir Borlund interjected, “obviously trying to slander his accusers so blame is passed on.”

“That ‘confession’ that you mentioned is false, sir,” Lady Violet said firmly. “It was written under duress, signed under threat of torture, and has not a single ink drop of truth.”

“The man signed his own name to it, and now you deny it?” Sir Borlund asked angrily. “The truth only serves when it’s convenient to you, eh? Despicable. Even if you’re right, that only proves that he is a liar that cannot be trusted.”

Lady Violet looked at Sir Borlund in disbelief. “Pardon me sir, but what sort of logic is that?”

“Enough,” Lord Halforth said, irritated. He held the bridge of his nose in his hand, then took another sip of the drink in front of him. “If we’re to continue this, both of you are to stand down. You are a knight, Barr, and you claim to be a lady, horse-lover. Act like it.” He steepled his fingers and looked carefully at Lady Violet. “As to the confession, I have seen many of its kind in my career. Some false, many true. In some cases, the accused is simply overcome with guilt, or believes he can escape with a lighter sentence should he confess. And at times, once he has reconsidered his position, he recants the confession with hopes that he can get away from even that. It is not unusual.”

“That may be, my lord,” Lady Violet said, “but from my understanding of procedure involving confessions, there are warning signs that one might be untrue. Isolation from peers, mistreatment, promises of safety, use of pressuring tactics are all among them. This so-called confession raises many of these concerns.”

“According to you,” Borlund said dismissively.

“My lord,” Violet replied, remaining composed, “a blind man could see how poorly our friends are being kept. Surely you see how they would lead to Greenglade confessing falsely?”

“I am not an idiot, horse-lover,” Lord Halforth said with curtly. “Ensuring that the prisoners were kept in a proper station was among my first acts upon arriving here. I was assured that there was no cause for concern, and I trust the word of my subordinates.”

“Forgive me, my lord,” Lady Violet insisted, “but exactly who were these subordinates?”

“The leader of my staff, Sir Do-Not-Lead-Our-Family-Into-Depravity Blair, who has never failed to serve faithfully in the past. And Sir Alwin as well.” He glanced over to the knight he just mentioned. “Sir Alwin, I realize that you have already reported to me on the matter, but did you find the prison to be satisfactory, or objectionable?”

The gawkish knight’s eyes bulged out oddly when the question was asked of him, and he began stammering. “I— I did not… they…” Suddenly, he caught sight of Sir Borlund, who was glaring murderously at the skinny youth, and Sir Alwin resigned himself to an answer. “They were satisfactory, your honor.”

“Good,” Lord Halforth replied, though he did not seem entirely satisfied. “Still, accusations as serious as your own deserve investigation. I will promise nothing on the matter, but it will be looked into.”

What’s the point, if they’ll just return false reports again? Proximo thought glumly. He tried to not appear angry when he looked over at Sir Alwin. The young knight had sunk into his chair, his head jerked down and his expression dejected. He seemed miserable, but it was difficult to feel sorry for him after he had just condemned Greenglade and Dabrius to yet more horrors in the dungeon.

Lady Violet remained determined. “My lord, I must insist that— ”

“You are in no position to ‘insist’ upon anything, Brony, and I suggest you remember that,” Lord Halforth said coolly. “I have no reason to doubt the testimony of either of these men, and every reason to believe that your own is self-serving. You will forgive me if I side with the former.”

“My apologies, my lord,” Violet replied, slightly angry, “but with the safety of my friends at stake, I must ask. What reason I have given to be unworthy of trust?”

The Moderator scoffed. “Sir Depravity and Sir Alwin have sworn vows of honesty and loyalty to the Authority and their superiors. You have given no such oath to me. Frankly, it is I that should ask you what possible reason I have to trust a word you say. Your fandom has never lacked for miscreant behaviors, and your catering to any manner of prurient, subnormal interests is well-known. Lying, I can only imagine, is hardly alien.”

Sir Borlund nodded. “That’s the right of it. The horse-lovers have no honor, and deserve none.”

Halforth shot him a sideways glare. “I would not speak so harshly on the matter of honor, Barr. Considering your record.” He took a final sip of his drink as Sir Borlund’s face went red, then carefully placed the cup down. “Do not mistake me, I have no intention of dismissing any evidence you bring before me. It is a poor Moderator that allows personal animosities to cloud his judgement. But do not ask me to make exceptions for your people. Either all criminals—and yes, accused criminals — are treated the same, or there is no basis to call them ‘criminals’ at all. That is fairness, and the Authority expects each man to adhere to this.”

Proximo could see the frustration in the eyes of the lady, but she did not allow it to creep into her expression. “I understand, my lord. And yet my friends will still suffer in their prison, and I’m afraid I cannot accept that easily.”

A pair of flinty grey eyes stared back at her intensely, devoid of emotion but with a dull, icy shine. Lord Halforth steepled his fingers, and spoke in a measured tone. “Your acceptance,” he said, “is irrelevant. It has begun without your acceptance, and it will continue regardless of it. Perhaps, horse-lover, you should consider for a moment how little the affairs of you and the rest of this wretched island matter in the larger picture. The Authority, myself included, has greater concerns than the interests of spoiled fandoms or spoiled nobles. I suppose you know of the recent gamer conflict?”

“It was hard to avoid news of it, my lord.”

“Indeed. ‘The Great Gamer War’, they call it now. We may have brokered a peace, but the wounds will last years, and now they’ve reopened once again. Half of the gamers cry ‘Oppression!’ and the other half yell ‘Corruption!’, and all the others are left in the middle. The Channic blame the Oppressed, the Oppressed hate the Channic, and both are more than willing to kill the other if we are not between them. Not since the days of Lord Ira the Apostate has that region seen such turmoil. Even the Knight Enlighteners were taking sides, hard to believe as it is. Dozens of BLP violations, knights demoted or reprimanded, to the point that the High Enlightener himself was forced to step in.”

He waved a hand absently. “Meanwhile, we have a new offensive underway in the Chan to bring them under heel again, while fanatics run roughshod over the Blurr and pirates nurse their latest wounds. The Web is all ablaze, as it always has been, with thousands and thousands living and fighting and killing and dying.” He stared again at Lady Violet. “Yes, I have greater concerns on my mind than whether your ‘friends’ are comfortable in their cells. You are free to accept that fact or not, but I will hear no more of it.”

Lady Violet looked as though she wanted to protest further, but instead she glanced quickly to Proximo. It’s no use, he tried to say in his expression, and when Violet saw this she sighed. “I see. Then there is one other thing I need to ask: that we be allowed to speak with Dabrius Joh.”

“That was mentioned by the Martes. Arcadio claims that your Dabrius had to be placed in solitary confinement, due to misbehavior.” Lord Halforth tilted his head just slightly. “Engaging in another of your inhuman vices, perhaps?”

Lady Violet’s firm tone made it clear what she thought of that. “I think very little of what Arcadio claims, my lord. And regardless, we need our friend’s testimony if we’re to make our case.”

The Lord Moderator’s mouth twitched slightly, as though he was halfway into a smile before he decided otherwise. “I am inclined to agree, my lady. I will see that it is done.” He stood up, and moved towards a different room. “You are excused,” he said, folding his arms behind his back and walking out.

The two Bronies bowed to the remaining Mods, but got no response, with Borlund ignoring them and Alwin looking too ashamed to speak. Following behind Violet once again, Proximo made his way back to their rooms.

The lady was walking more briskly than before, and her face was clenched tighter as well. Proximo put his hand on her shoulder. “There was nothing else we could do, my lady.”

She shook her head. “Was there? I doubt it will be of any comfort to Greenglade or Dabrius.” Her eyebrows furrowed in anger. “I’m the Warden of Generosity. My purpose is to help people, but what good can I do for my friends? I feel useless.”

Proximo stopped her lightly with his hand. “Don’t say that, my lady. We will rescue them, in time. Blaming yourself for the Martes or the Mods won’t help us, or our friends.”

“That is kind of you to say, Proximo, but don’t expect that I will let this go easily.” She began to walk forward again, with more purpose than before. “After we return to our wing, call the rest of the diplomatic team, and the Warden of Honesty. Time to get serious.”

After they returned to their side of the Palace, the assistant did as he was bid, and before long there were thirteen Bronies all trying to cram into one room. When it was obvious that such a plan wouldn’t work, they commandeered the hallway instead, posting guards at either end to prevent eavesdropping. When she was ready, Lady Violet stood in the center of them, raised a hand to silence their chatter, and then began to speak. “I have had a word with the Lord Moderator,” she said solemnly, “and sadly, it seems our worst fears are true. Our friends will remain in Arcadio’s custody.”

A chorus of groans and sighs went up, and a sea of angry or sad expressions swept through the group. “I told you Halforth wouldn’t side with us,” Mattieu Winely said fiercely. “The man’s infamous, and he has no reason to do us any kindness. We’ll have to work around it.”

“Is there no way of persuading him?” Rosesoul asked as she knelt on the floor. “Surely if he knows what state Greenglade is in…”

“Lord Halforth has inquired about the prison conditions, but he trusted two of his subordinates to report to him on the matter,” Proximo said. “Both lied, from the looks of things, and the Lord Moderator has no reason to distrust their word. I doubt we can persuade him otherwise,” he said sadly.

“For now,” Lady Violet added.

“I’m useless enough every day as it is,” Prim Enproper interjected, “so I hope you don’t mean to say there’s nothing we can do about them. I’m not leaving those two down there, not after what I saw.”

There were several supportive cries at that, including a “Hear, hear!” from Caleb. The Warden of Honesty, standing statue-still in the back, nodded and bluntly said, “Demand they be moved. No other answer.”

“My lord,” Proximo said with equal bluntness, “we have already been refused as it is. Simply asking again won’t help us now.”

“Then ask better,” the Warden said curtly. There were a few laughs at that, but Proximo seriously doubted that it was meant as a joke.

“What we need,” Theosyrius said, “is leverage. Something to make him see our side of things, so to speak.” He smiled and leaned against the wall.

Jayson Joyfelt, wearing his loose pink robes and sitting cross-legged on the floor, laughed. “I hope you’re not seriously considering bribery are you?”

Theosyrius gave a smug shrug. “My dear friends, we are generous, are we not? Certainly those are the colors I wear. Is it at all moral to allow others to suffer as mere minions to a salary? I’m simply suggesting that some small persuasion would help our case.”

Caleb and Rosesoul looked scandalized at the prospect, but Lady Violet simply shook her head. “I’ll have nothing strictly illegal, we’re in a large enough hole as it is. Besides, it would be incredibly foolish, meaning no offense.”

“Everyone has their price, my lady,” Theosyrius replied.

“Lord Halforth does not,” Caleb said firmly.

“That’s true enough, no doubt ‘bout it,” chimed in Donnet, another man from the Generous Friends. Proximo hadn’t seen Donnet since they arrived in the Dreamweave, as he had not attended last night’s ball for whatever reason. He was clad mostly in purple, with a bald head and a strange pair of spectacles, with each lense a different color. The one in the right eye was red, and the one in the left was blue, and each had a little handle on the side that Donnet would occasionally flick to change the colors inside. “I heard ‘o a man tried to bribe Halforth once. Ended wit’ more hangin’ than the guy mighta preferred.”

“It’s a Rule of Three, we only need two of the Mods to side with us,” Theosyrius pointed out. “Perhaps Sir Borlund or Sir Alwin could be more reasonable.”

“Borlund would never consider it. He hates us too much,” Prim insisted. “I think trying the currency route will end with one of us having a longer neck than before. Probably me.”

“I agree,” Lady Violet said, “and I won’t hear any more of it. Not with the Moderators, at least. Still,” she said while lightly rubbing her chin, “I have a feeling that we may be able to bring Sir Alwin around. He seems quite different from Halforth or Borlund.”

“I think ‘spineless’ is the word my lady wishes to use,” Hadrena said, dark lips half-smiling. “In all likelihood, this is his first real assignment out in the world. Poor thing.”

“You believe we can bring him around with charm alone?” Theosyrius asked Violet.

“I believe that Sir Borlund is a lost cause, and we need at least one of the knights on our side. We have to try.” She put her hands behind her back and looked over the assembled friends. “In the meantime, we need to get to work if we’re to convince anyone of our innocence, and that means evidence. I need testimony, I need witnesses, I need rumors and gossip and slander, any and all. We need eyes and ears on every street, in every bar, anywhere that someone might find something of use.”

“We should start with the tavern that Dabrius and Greenglade were in, the night before the murder,” Prim said. “The last place they were seen would be the best place to pick up, I think.”

“Agreed,” Lady Violet said with a nod. “My honest friend, have your team start themselves at The Moonlight Inn, not far from the docks. Search after any leads you can find, and sweep through Nightside as well. If there is anyone alive that can shed light on who was where and when, see that they are found.”

“Will be done,” the Warden of Honesty said with a bow of his head.

“If it ain’t too much askin’, m’lady,” Donnet said, “I might be one t’ help with that. Not a man ‘ere knows filthy sinks as much better as me.”

“True enough.” The lady smiled mischievously. “Still know your old tricks, Donnet?”

“Ain’t like to forget ‘em, m’lady,” he replied with a smile of his own.

“I would not doubt it. Theo, you go as well. And keep your eyes open—you know what for.”

“What about the rest of us?” Mattieu asked earnestly. He seemed eager to get to work—considering that Greenglade was a close friend to him, that was not unexpected.

“You will all be doing an investigation of your own,” Lady Violet said. “The Martes are doing everything they can to get Lord Halforth’s ear and twist him to their side. If we’re to stop them, we’ll need to outmaneuver them, and that means friends in their court. More eyes and ears, like I said. It will help us keep watch on Arcadio and his like, at the very least.”

“And this is where the currency route comes back in,” Prim said flatly.

“It would seem so. Hopefully this kind of ‘friend’ is cheap in the Dreamweave.”

“I thought we weren’t bribing people?” Hadrena remarked innocently, cold smile growing wider.

“We aren’t,” Lady Violet replied. “There are no laws against paying fellow citizens to tell you what they know. ‘Bribery’ implies that we are manipulating public officials to suit our needs.”

“Which would be wrong,” Proximo added.

“I can assure you all,” she continued, “that we will not be doing anything illegal or immoral in doing so. A few coins for a few words seems a fair bargain to me.”

There were murmurs of agreement across the board, though Caleb, Rosesoul, and the Warden of Honesty still seemed somewhat uncomfortable. In the back of the hall, the representative from the Magic Friends, Caymen Diallep, had been chatting quietly with Skylark of the Kind, but then raised his voice. “My lady,” the lavender-clad scholar said, “do we plan to make use of the friend we have already made?”

“That being?”

“Withins-Bei,” Skylark replied.

“What is a ’withinsbay’?” the Warden of Honesty asked gruffly.

“The Dreamweave lordling from last night?” Hadrena laughed. “That wine-sodden fool? You can’t mean to trust that one.”

“Trust is a very strong word,” Lady Violet replied, “but he has offered his help. I am not one to turn that down at the drop of the hat.”

“I get the feeling that Withins-Bei could drop a lot more than hats, my lady,” Prim said. “He could drop our case, if he used our own information against us, which might end with Greenglade and Dabrius dropping from a gibbet.”

“Agreed,” Mattieu added. “He has no cause for loyalty, and we can’t put our own at risk. Better to cut him loose.”

“I would rather not jump ahead on this, friends,” the lady insisted. “He has offered not just information from himself, but the names of people in the city that might help us. If that’s true, he may be invaluable.”

“Or dangerous,” Hadrena pointed out.

“I am not suggesting that we clap him on the back and dress him in our colors, just that we not dismiss the possibility outright. I believe that it is an avenue worth pursuing.”

“To merely speak and seem strange is not cause for condemnation on its own,” Caymen said to the others, “nor should we turn our backs on those that we might find good after all. The Six themselves taught us this—Season of Discovery, ninth Episode.”

Hadrena considered this. “Hm. Perhaps.”

Theosyrius stepped forward. “I agree that we should not be quick to turn away Withins-Bei, my lady. But, at the same time, we have heard nothing of another friend we may have made yesterday evening.”

Proximo tried to think of whom Theo was referring to, and only one person came to mind. He was sincerely hoping that his guess was wrong, when Skylark spoke up. “I hope you don’t mean the girl, Imelia Kohburn.”

“I do indeed, friends,” Theosyrius said enthusiastically. “I believe that, after the show that Mister Hart put on last night, she could be a great asset.”

There were varying shades of discomfort spread across the room. “I would rather not, Theo,” Proximo said as firmly as he could. Truthfully, the thought of her having to be used for some political game made him extremely uncomfortable, even if it were for a good cause. We have no business putting her through that, he thought.

“We shouldn’t be passing up opportunities like this, friend,” Theosyrius said sympathetically. “If she can help us free Greenglade or Dabrius…”

“I think Proximo is right on this, Theo,” Lady Violet said, stepping in. “She’s been through quite enough as it is.”

Theosyrius could see that he was outnumbered, and so he backed down. “As you say, my lady. I’m only thinking of our success.”

“I know.” With nothing else to discuss, the lady looked over her fellows. “It seems to me that if Greenglade and Dabrius are to be freed, it won’t be the Martes or the Mods or anyone else that can do it. It is on our heads, and ours alone. You all have your orders. Six and One.”

"Six and One,” they replied. Gradually, they dispersed, going to their own task. Proximo and Lady Violet were left alone.

“My lady,” Hart said, “have you any task for me?”

She smiled. “As always, Mister Hart, I intend to have you at my side. I think I know where to start.” She gave him her arm, and he looped his through hers. “Ready to make some friends?”

* * * * * *

“I have often heard it said among some that individual achievement is what is most important. I encountered a man that bragged that he, and he alone, had built the home he lived in, failing to mention that the tools he used and the materials he built it from were all procured by other people. ‘I did this on my own’ (they say) ‘and that makes me great’ (they think). ‘On my own...’

“I disagree with the notion that anything can be on one’s own. We each have our skills, and we each have our limits, and it is only when working in harmony that anything great can be done. A single person can only go so far before he requires the work and aid of someone else, so why pretend otherwise? Recall a lesson of the Honest Friend: ‘While friendship is about giving of ourselves, it’s also about accepting what our friends have to offer.’

“It is a terrible thing for a man to be alone.”

— “Lecture on Labor,” by Lord Feylen Mars

Chapter XVIII: Cider Slider

* * * * * *

“Death to the profligate.”

— Mantra of the Moderator Authority. This phrase appears 36 times in the original Books of Black and White.

* * * * * *

“Should be soon up,” the Generous man named Donnet said, “lemme know when y’see it, hear?”

Coin Counter kept his eyes open as he scanned the docks from afar. There were three main ways in and out of the city: the Green Gate in the north, the Mirror Gate in the south-east, and the Winged Gate along the western wall. It was the last one that Coin was approaching now, the largest and most ornate of all three and the one that received the largest traffic, as it opened into the Dreamweave’s main harbor. In the early afternoon, as it was now, the great doors were flung open, allowing a steady stream of citizens and travellers to pass through, either to the city proper or to the shipyard.

Alongside the other Bronies—the rough-talking Donnet in the front, Theosyrius by his side, and Strongshield and Daria Faust behind—Coin passed under the gateway, looking up to see the stonework as he passed. Truthfully, the walls of cities around the Devien Isles saw little use, with their people more inclined to art than war, but they were often built and maintained anyways as a sign of status. The ancestors of the Martes were no different, clearly, with the thirty-foot high fortification that circled the city, with towers that stretched higher at certain points.

“Huh,” Daria Faust said as she looked above, “they have high walls, for a small city.”

Coin chuckled. “Maybe so, but you can tell they’re only supposed to be decorative. They aren’t as wide as they should be for their height. Besides, these aren’t anything compared to the Century Walls from home.”

“Well that’s hardly fair,” Theosyrius chimed in, “there’s no city in the world with taller walls than Central. There’s little point to comparing it to this.”

“Yeah, sir,” Daria said playfully. She stuck out her tongue, and Coin laughed.

“That’ll be enough o’ the idle chatter-chat, back there,” Donnet said, his tone serious. He was an odd-looking man, dressed mostly in purple with only a touch of white here and there. He had a lumpy, shaved head with wide lips, and wore a pair of small, round, colorful spectacles that’s lenses were a dark violet. “We got a job ‘ere. Now, the Moonlight should be squattin’ somewhere on the eastwardly side o’ the harbor, so keep y’heads on.”

Coin did just that, looking over the dockyard that unfolded in front of them. The docks hugged the coast of Dreamweave Bay, the same mess of planks and walkways that they had seen after stepping off the Wonderbolt. The ships that had carried the Bronies to the Dreamweave were gone now—part of the conditions of their ‘stay’ in the city—and their absence only added to the emptiness that Coin had noticed when they first arrived. For even a moderately large harbor, the number of ships docked was quite small, and few of the vessels in the port flew foreign colors. Compared with the harbor near the Citadel of Six, or, in even greater contrast, the tightly packed ports in Reddit and Central, the Dreamweave seemed almost bare. Fishermen and merchants still wandered listlessly around the yard, mixing with customers and travelers, but there were fewer people than one would have expected.

Apparently this port has fallen out of favor, Coin thought to himself as he surveyed the relatively sparse crowd. The small pack of Bronies traced their way down the eastward path, moving past a group of rich-looking sorts with red hair and fine clothes, and looking down each of the buildings on the side for The Moonlight Inn. It was the right place to start, if they were to prove the alibi Greenglade and Dabrius claimed to have.

Despite the wealthy appearance of several trading-houses and the people that walked to-and-from them, Coin could see grime beneath the glid. Almost every block of houses had a beggar or two in front of them, calling for alms or just sitting miserably and staring at those that walked by without a care. One of them noticed the colors that the Bronies wore, and stumbled up. “You there!” he called in a coarse, halting voice. “You there, fine man, friend man, wearing that white? Generous, yeah? A few byts, just a few…” The vagrant had a wild expression and a twitchy manner to him, and teeth with an odd appearance—pale to the extent that it almost looked translucent. An addict, no doubt.

Theosyrius looked over to Donnet. “Give him that and he’ll be shot up with Lauder within a minute, I don’t doubt it.”

“I’m off that!” the man replied desperately. “I’m trying, just trying, just a few, please!”

Donnet unhesitatingly pulled out several coins and handed them over. “That much’ll buy a hot meal or two. Don’t waste it.”

The beggar starting bowing and stepping away. “Thank you, thanks, thanks. I won’t, you hear?” He shook his head jerkingly. “Used to be in that trade-house, that one down the street, ‘till now I mean. Don’t waste it, I won’t.”

As the man staggered off, Theo gave a disapproving look to Donnet. “You may be Generous, but that hardly means being gullible. That one will be laughing at you with his dealer within an hour.”

“Or I just fed a starvin’ man,” Donnet said pointedly. “I’ve seen a lot o’ guys like that in my time. I don’t think ‘e was lyin’.”

Theo scoffed. “You have far too much trust in those sorts.”

“Seein’ that I was grown up with ‘those sorts’, I’d suppose so.”

The group kept going forward, but Coin hadn’t caught sight of the Moonlight yet. All he had seen were more beggars and a few angry young people ganged up in some dark alleys, no doubt waiting for nightfall to step out and cause trouble. A few started eyeing Coin as he walked by, making him draw closer to Daria and Strongshield. In fact, there were more than few people looking at the Bronies; like their initial arrival, it seemed as though all the people passing by could spare a moment to glare at the colorful band, and most did not seem pleased to see the foreign fans walking the same street as they were.

In the middle of the street, a group of citizens walked towards the Bronies. All of them had colored, spiked hair and mismatched clothes, marking them as members of the Animen fandom, whose seers claimed themselves to be wed to otherworldly brides. They seemed to have taken notice of Coin and the others, changing their path in order to stand directly in front of the Bronies as they tried to press forward.

One of them, with light blue dyes in his hair, stepped in front of Donnet. The Generous man stopped, then tried to move to the side, only for the Animan to take a respective step to block him again.

Donnet raised an eyebrow. “Really?” he said, tilting his head.

The Animan crossed his arms. “Yeah. I got sick of you types everywhere I went in the Painted Sea, and now you think you can just walk around here as well?”

“Seems like it,” Donnet remarked.

“We’re not trying to cause trouble,” Daria chimed in, “we just want to g— “

“Piss off, Brony,” one of the others blocking them said. There were five in their group, and they started to circle around the Bronies. Coin adjusted himself accordingly, moving in closer to the rest of the team as Strongshield flexed her hands. “Why don’t you horse-lovers just leave us alone? Th’other fandoms can let be, but all you lot care about is puttin’ ye trash on us. Only reason you dress like that is ta force your ‘Six’ down our throats,” the man said, pointing to the orange-gold uniform that Daria was wearing. The accuser himself was wearing bright colors and strange asymmetrical garb that plainly showed his own fandom for anyone to see, but he did not seem to grasp the irony.

Voices were picking up around them, as angry people called out from the crowd on the docks. “Foreign bastards!” shouted one man, shaking his fist at the Bronies. “Out with them!” yelled another.

People were beginning to press in, and Coin saw Daria and Theosyrius looking around nervously. Donnet, however, did not step back, and instead frowned and stood right in front of the blue-haired Animan. He flicked at one of the lens in his glasses, and the color changed to red while he stared down the gang. “We ‘ere are diplomatic sorts, on invite from that shiny house on the hill. Think you can start a fight the Mods won’t wanna finish?” The people around didn’t move, but seemed to consider what he said. Donnet then turned his head back slightly. “Strongshield,” he asked, “how many ‘o them could you take?”

“More than they have,” she answered bluntly.

Donnet looked at the Animen carefully. “Still sure?”

At first, Coin did not think they would break. But the blue-haired man stepped away in disgust, and the rest did the same. Their leader spat at the ground next to Donnet’s feet. “Fine. But this isn’t over, horse-lover. We’ll see who the Mods help when you’re at the gallows.”

“Right,” Donnet said, as he watched the people disperse. As the Animen stalked away, the beginnings of the mob did so as well, casting only dirty looks before walking off. Everyone else on the street returned to their businesses and pretended as though nothing had happened. “Arses,” Donnet muttered as he began to walk forward again.

Theosyrius was still sweating, and sped up to take his place by Donnet’s side. “We should get off the streets, if that happens again I—"

“You’re in luck, then,” Donnet said, “that’ll be the Moonlight." He pointed forward to a ruddy building at the corner of the next block, painted black with white pinpricks on the columns in front of the door. Hanging in front was a sign—though Coin couldn’t make out any of the words, it had what appeared to be a yellow crescent moon painted on it.

“Good eye,” Daria said, hesitantly looking about to gauge any oncoming threats while she moved with the group.

As they walked up to the doors, Donnet turned back and spoke. “‘Ey Coin? You were a Reg, right?”

“A Reg?” Coin repeated, confused. “A… oh, you mean a Knight Regulator! Yes, I was.”

“Figured. Keep those Moddy eyes o’ yours open, see? Scan ‘round, like you do. I’ve got a feeling ‘bout this sink.” Looking back and forth quickly, Donnet flexed his fingers and swung open the doors.

The Moonlight was, appropriately, dark, with the handful of customers slouched around small tables that were lit only by the thin lines of light that streamed in from the window. The open door cast a long pillar of yellow across the room, stretching to a bar counter on the other side, where a thin man stood leaning over and looking straight ahead.

Doing as he was asked, Coin Counter looked around warily as they entered the room. The floors were poorly swept and the tables littered with things that prior customers had left behind: bottles and crumpled paper and stains. A curved sword hung on a plaque over the bar, slightly crooked, and on the walls were a number of cheap prints that showed green hills and fine mansions.

Coin glanced at the people seated around them. Despite how early it was in the day, most were either drunk or worse, crumpled on their stools half- or fully asleep with red, miserable eyes and half-shaved faces. The way that a few of them were twitching in their seats said a great deal about what they did in their spare time, a tell that Coin had learned to recognize during his time with the Regulators. A few people were looking bitterly at the Bronies as they passed, but most were too far into their cups to acknowledge them.

Donnet drew up to the bar, standing before the bartender. The man was tall and thin as a rake, with droopy eyes that had been fixed on his new arrivals since they opened the door. Donnet placed a hand on the counter and leaned in. “Heard that you’ve seen some o’ our kind ‘round here before.”

The bartender looked at them grimly, and folded his arms. “I don’t serve that kind now.”

“Now,” Donnet repeated, “but not a few weeks some ago? Two Bronies, one o’ ‘em in yellow, the other in white, most like.”

“I’ve had enough from the city watch about those two,” he replied unsympathetically. “They asked for twice as much of their ‘protection money’ when they found out I was serving horse-lovers, and they turned my bar upside down looking for evidence after your friends killed that Mod. I don’t want anything to do with it.”

“We have a notice from Lord Halforth,” Theosyrius said, taking out the paper he spoke of. “We’re to be allowed free use of the city to collect evidence and testimony, and that includes your bar. You can read the signature at the bottom, if you please.”

The barkeep did not take the form. “You can get a paper signed by God in Heaven Himself, for all I care. The city watch runs the city, not the Mods, and unless you can get me word from Arcadio that my bar won’t be roughed up for letting you in, I’m not helping anyone.”

Small chance of getting that, Coin thought. His first meeting with the captain of the city watch did not make Coin Counter inclined to think that Arcadio would help them.

“So, you had the city watch droolin’ down your neck, and now you’ve got more Mods pokin’ ‘round the same,” Donnet said with a nod. “If the watch’s got you payin’ fer that kind o’ ‘protectin’’, why don’t we help you?” He pulled out a wad of green and gold bills, and placed them on the countertop. “Two hundred byts. From Generous sorts.”

The owner stared at the money. “What do you want?”

“Eye ‘round a bit. Might ask you a question or some.”

“Six hundred, then.”

“Are you mad?” Theosyrius gasped. “We could probably buy this filthy bar with that much.”

Donnet held up a hand to keep him quiet. “‘Ey, Sir Coin?” he said. “How many twitchin’ addicts did you see after we walked in?”

Startled by the question, Coin tried to remember. “Three,” he said after a second. Truthfully, he was only certain about two of them, but the third seemed shaky enough.

Raising an eyebrow, Donnet flicked one of his lenses to turn them both yellow. “Mods are keepin’ an ear to what we say lately,” he explained nonchalantly. The owner was looking angrily at Donnet when the Brony put a few more bills on the table. “I don’t much like associatin’ to Mods. Two-fifty,” the Generous man said, “and we also won’t talk ‘bout the crowd here.”

The bartender grimaced, then sighed. “They were in the room upstairs. Don’t talk to any of my customers, and follow me.”

He led them to a staircase behind the bar, and climbed the rickety steps to the top. While he did so, Donnet spoke quietly. “Docks are bad,” he said.

The owner laughed bitterly. “The docks are dead. The city’s dead. Have you seen the streets? The only talent left in this God-forsaken place is cutting throats and selling your arse for Lauder. Anyone with any sense left a long time ago.”

“Why don’t you?” Daria asked, seeming uncomfortable.

“Where would I go?” the man said as they reached the end of the stairs. “I’ve little enough money for passage to much of anywhere, and even if I got away from here, what’s next? Die in a gutter?” He shook his head. “I’m never leaving this place.”

They came to a large, spacious room filled with long tables and benches. The windows were open, filling the room with bars of light and the salty smell of the green sea. It was dirtier than the rooms downstairs, clearly cleaned and used less often, and there was no one currently inhabiting it.

“They came here a few times,” the owner explained. “There weren’t many places in the city that would serve them, but their money was good so I didn’t care much about the ban. They always took this room, whenever they were around.”

Coin and the others spread out to examine the room. There was little in it that was out of the ordinary: the left wall was facing the harbor, while the front had a cold hearth and a door that led out into a balcony. As far as Coin could see, that and the main door were the only exits.

“Was there any others ‘ere with ‘em?” Donnet asked as he scanned the tables.

“No. I passed by the room a few times, but there wasn’t anyone else.”

Then there was no one that was with them the whole night, Coin thought. It would make finding a credible alibi that much harder.

“How often did you see the two o’ ‘em, then? What were they doin’?” Donnet asked.

The owner shrugged. “Not often. They keep to themselves, and I didn’t much want to cozy up with the horse-lovers. After they got their food and two drinks, I really only passed by a few times on the way upstairs.” He leaned against the doorframe. “As to what they were doing, I heard talking the first time I passed. After that, it was quiet.”

“Quiet?” Daria repeated, not liking the sound of it. “Did they ever leave?”

“Neither of them walked out the front door, but they weren’t in there all night, no,” the man replied.

The Bronies all exchanged a worried look. Greenglade said they were there the whole evening, Coin recalled. He couldn’t have been lying, could he?

Theosyrius cleared his throat. “How did you…”

“Because later on in the evening I looked inside and one of them wasn’t there,” he said bluntly, “that’s how I know. The other one was passed out and sleeping in his seat, but the one with the blue dye and the beard was gone. The one in white.”

“Dabrius,” Donnet said.

“You’re sure he wasn’t just in another room? Somewhere else in the bar?” Daria asked.

“I go up and down this place. He wasn’t there. Besides, I checked back an hour or so later, and he still wasn’t with the other. He took off to somewhere else.”

“What time was this?” Theosyrius ventured, considering what the bartender had said.

The man thought for a moment. “I’m not sure. Late. Probably midnight, or a little after, the first time. Then again at one or two in the morning, I suppose.”

“But you said that he never left through the front door,” Coin realized. “If he left, how else could he have gotten out?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. That door downstairs is the only way in and out, but I’m telling you now that I never saw your friend go out of it until morning, and neither did the guy I left downstairs at the bar while I was gone, or any of my patrons.”

“He could have climbed out the window,” Theosyrius pointed out.

“The only windows I have either open out into the street or into the back-alley,” the owner replied, rolling his eyes. “I know it’s hard to believe, but the docks are a popular place at night, for all the wrong reasons. I have someone keep watch outside the front of the bar to warn me if there’s trouble. If there were Bronies falling out of the sky, someone would have noticed.”

“What ‘bout this alley, then?” Donnet said, walking across the room. He went over to the only other door, the one that connected to a balcony. “Seems like ‘e coulda done disappearin’ down there.”

Coin joined him at the door, and looked out. The balcony was small, and did not offer much of a view. Directly below was the alley, enclosed by walls and buildings on every side. It was dark and dirty down there, but it was not so far down that one couldn’t jump safely, and Coin noticed that a pile of junk to the side of the balcony was tall enough that someone could climb back onto the balcony if they did so.

But the bartender seemed less convinced. “He might have jumped down there, but there would be nowhere to go. That used to open up into the next street, but they closed it off with other buildings and walls a long while ago. The only other place it goes to is the backdoor of the bar, and we use it for storage sometimes. I don’t know why he would be hiding down there, but one of us would have seen him when we went into the alley for our stuff.”

“Mind if we spec it out down there?” Donnet asked, walking back into the room.

“I don’t care. Just find whatever you want and go.”

Coin and Donnet checked in the alley. There was nothing remarkable in the small space: a pile of crates stood in the corner, no doubt the extra storage the owner had mentioned, and another pile under the balcony, but aside from that it was bare of anything but trash. There was nowhere in the alley where someone could have hidden in, and no other openings from which someone could escape. Every side was covered either by a tall, dividing wall, or the side of a neighboring building, just as they had been told.

“I don’t see any way he could have gotten out,” Coin said as he looked around carefully. Some of the walls had graffiti on them—a name on one, another with a crude painting of flies and a small green heart clandestinely printed in the corner—but aside from that he could see nothing of note.

Donnet nodded. “If that guy’s tellin’ the truth—and I think ‘e is—then I dunno how Dabrius coulda gotten out o’ there without bein’ seen.”

Coin tried to think. None of it makes sense, he thought, Greenglade seemed certain that Dabrius was with him. If he was truly drunk enough, then perhaps he was mistaken and the bartender is right. But if that’s the case, where did Dabrius go? And why? Of course, there was the possibility that Dabrius Joh had been in Nightside, just as the Martes and the Moderators claimed he had been, at the same time that Sir Harald and the squire had been there… but Coin did not want to believe that.

Convinced that they’d found a literal and figurative dead end, Coin and Donnet returned upstairs to the others. Theosyrius was in the middle of asking a question. “...and how much of this do the city watch and the Moderators know?”

“All of it, of course,” the bartender said sharply. “Do you think I’m doing you some kind of favor? They asked me everything, and I told them everything. I can testify to all of it, and I might have to before this nonsense is over.”

“Did you hear anythin’ from the two that struck you important?” Donnet asked as he stepped inside. “Anythin’ ‘bout where Dabrius mighta vanned off to?”

“No. Only thing I heard from them was later in the morning, when your two friends were walking out the front door together. One of them was too drunk to stand, but the other one—Dabrius, you called him—he was still fit enough to say goodnight.”

“You didn’t think to ask where he had gone earlier?” Daria put in.

“I did,” the man snapped, “and he told me it wasn’t my business. And it wasn’t.”

Donnet stood still, rubbing the back of his neck and considering what the bartender had said. Then he sighed. “Alright. I think we’re wrapped ‘ere. We got other places t’check, friends.”

The droopy-eyed owner walked past Donnet and led them downstairs. The bar was much the same as it had been the last time Coin had seen it: dim, dreary, and filled with ambivalent clients. The owner took his place behind the bar, and the Bronies began to file out when Donnet turned and placed his hand on the bar once more.

“Thanks fer the help,” he said calmly.

“Thanks for the two-fifty,” the bartender replied curtly.

“If you hear anythin’ that might be o’ interest…”

“Then you’d better prepare more money. Now get out.”

The Bronies did so, and pooled back out into the street. As they walked, Daria leaned in to Coin and whispered, “So how’d you know how many of them were addicts? It’s a neat trick, I mean.”

“Part of being a Knight Regulator is knowing the enemy,” Coin explained while he took a step down from the Moonlight’s porch. “Once you learn how to spot the addicts, finding the, ah, the source is all too easy, so we’re trained to pick up on the symptoms at a glance. For Lauder, it’s easiest to tell when someone hasn’t had their fill recently.That’s when the twitching comes in, and the color fades out of their face and teeth.”

“Nasty stuff,” Donnet remarked. He flicked the sides of his glasses, turning the lens color to yellow. “People start on it t’simmer down, but drinkin’ one drop might be ‘nuff to get you hooked. Expensive too. See too many people thrown to the streets ‘cause o’ that scat. Doesn’t help that withdrawal’s like torture.”

Theosyrius eyed him carefully. “You have… ahem, some experience with it? Did you ever…”

“No,” Donnet replied bluntly. “Half the neighborhood, but not me. Ran in the family, though.” He was quiet for a moment, as was everyone else, before he fingered his spectacles again and changed the color to purple. “We got more work to do.”

“Where next?” Daria asked, while they stepped back into the middle of the docks.

“Dabrius and Greenglade both were hangin’ around all parts o’ the city. We’ll have to chat ‘bout them in a few more venues. And I’ve a couple interestin’ new questions transpirin’.”

“Such as?” Theosyrius inquired with a raised eyebrow.

“Such as how a man disappears into thin air,” Donnet said. He grimaced at the thought of it. “An’ where Dabrius managed to van off to, that night.”

They ventured back the way they came, keeping a sharp eye on the Dreamweavers that walked past them. Hopefully they restrain themselves, Coin thought. The people of the city clearly had no love for the Brony Collective, and any city watchmen that might have been around seemed to have little desire in holding their citizens back. I can only imagine who’s behind that, he pondered ruefully, remembering their commander, Arcadio.

As they walked towards their next destination, however, Donnet stopped abruptly.

“What is it,” Daria asked nervously. “More trouble?”

Donnet did not answer at first, squinting his eyes at something up ahead. “Banish me now,” he said in disbelief, “it couldn’t be…”

He walked forward again at a quick, deliberate pace, the rest of the group falling behind him, until he stopped once again, staring down at a patch of ground directly in front of the Winged Gate they had come from. “What’s all this about?” Theosyrius demanded, his eyes darting around at the Dreamweavers that passed them by. “We shouldn’t just hang around here, if we’ve found what we need lets— “

Donnet stopped him with a hand on the arm, still looking down on the stone street in front of him. He pointed to an unusual mark upon the ground: a dull, greyish-black smear that was spread and curled in front of them, as though splattered on the cobblestones. Whatever it was, Coin had not noticed it when they first arrived on the street, due to it being concealed then by a crowd of people. It was laid bare for all the Bronies to see now, however; the thing resembled a scorch mark, as though a fire had been lit there recently and then extinguished, leaving the ashen scar behind.

Coin heard Daria gasp behind him, but he was still lost as to what the mark was or why Donnet had taken an interest in it… until he recalled something that had happened in the Dreamweave months before Coin ever came to it.

That can’t be, he thought, his mind racing, it isn’t possible. But they said it was done here, in front of the harbor gate… That was why Dabrius and Greenglade were sent there in the beginning, wasn’t it? But it can’t be… There was no way that such an act could have left its traces there for so long: if it was really that long ago, it would have faded or been washed away by now. And yet there it was, printed like indelible ink, directly before the Winged Gate and the guards watching over.

Some months prior, this was where a Brony of the Collective had burned himself alive.

Theosyrius’ eyes went wide when he realized what Donnet was thinking. “You cannot actually think… it couldn’t have lasted, I mean, that’s… that’s…”

“You there!” Donnet cried out to someone. “Yeah, yeah you! Over ‘ere, c’mon!” He waved a hand over frantically, his gaze returning to the mark on the street.

A man approached them, and Coin saw that it was none other than the twitching beggar that Donnet had given alms to earlier. He was wringing his hands anxiously, wide eyes twitching between the Bronies. “Yes, friend man? You… you don’t want it back, do you friend man? Oh please, I haven’t gotten food yet, please—- “

“No, not that,” Donnet answered firmly. He pointed down at the black patch. “What is this? What ‘appened here?”

The beggar’s open eyes widened even more when he saw the spot. “The bad happened, friend man. That’s where that Cassio killed himself, right there.”

“Cassio?” Coin asked, feeling ill.

“Your Brony, that one with the pink hood, that one,” the beggar said, shaking when he said it. “Called up to the guards, told ‘em he’d had enough, about the unjust, the ban. He’d been shouting to ‘em for weeks, but they’d never listen. They were laughing, and he lit a match. Laughing…” he trailed off, twitching more and more. "Fire and screams…”

“Six save us,” Strongshield muttered. She took a step away from the black ash and began recanting a chant to the Warden and the Six Friends to herself.

“That’s impossible," Theosyrius said firmly, though his voice was wavering when he said it. “There’s no way it could still be here, after all that time. You’re lying.”

“Can’t wash it out,” the beggar said, quivering, shaking his head in a manic way, “can’t wash it away. They tried, all day, all the time, to scrape it away. City Watch on their knees, with brushes and water, Arcadio was shouting. Never leaves, never gone, never, never. Can’t wash it away. A curse…” he muttered, clenching his head tightly, as though it hurt to say it. “Cursed, we are cursed! They laughed, and he laughed up there at him, and we can’t wash it away…”

Theosyrius was mouthing the word ‘impossible,’ but said nothing as he looked down at the remnants. Coin was speechless as well. It went against every law of common sense he knew of for the fire of a burning man to remain so fused to the stone after all this time, and yet there it was, black and curling and lying permanently on the floor of the docks. There was no explanation in his mind that could explain how it was still there. None of them spoke, standing together as a still island while the stream of Dreamweavers parted and passed around them, uncaring.

Daria was the first to speak up. “May he go with the strength of Six,” she said. Her hand was over her heart, her head bowed and her voice solemn. “Out to the Beyond beyond, and to the Summer Lands.”

Donnet did not reply for a moment, keeping silent. “Aye,” he said at last. Turning away, he signalled for the others to follow. “This Cassio was a friend o’ the Collective, and ‘e died ‘cause o’ the ban ‘ere. Want t’set it right? Then we get to work.”

They trailed behind him obediently, though Strongshield did not move until she finished her prayer. As they were about to pass through the Winged Gate, Coin glanced back at the mark in the street, where the Brony named Cassio had writhed and screamed in the flames he lit. Coin looked up at the guards on the wall—they were mulling around, doing little, though several were staring right back at him. That beggar called this a cursed city, Coin thought, now I wonder if it’s true. In how many places would men watch and laugh while a man burned alive?

* * * * * *

“Before we can continue with the narrative of Madelin Wright and her doomed offensive into Greatchan, or with the dual responses of the anonymites and the Authority, we must first turn to the story of another. While the bold action of Lady Wright did much to win the war for the Bronies, it was only half of the military equation, so to speak. It was the Loyal Friends that burned Greatchan, that captured Baysmouth, that stormed past Paulton and Doublesdale, and who issued the final blow that ended the First Rise. But it was the Honest Friends that held Comchan, despite invasion, assassination, and blockade from all sides, and had it not been for their efforts the very home of the Brony fandom would have been razed and lost. It was the Honest Friends… and on top of that, it was an honest man.

“But who is this man? To that question, we have little answer. Before he even had the title of ‘Warden of Honesty,’ he was only known as ‘Honesty’ or ‘the Honest Man,’ and it was by those names that he would refer to himself, in the few instances when he chose to. I have had the privilege of knowing the Warden of Honesty as he has served at his post in the Citadel of the Six, but even so he is a most private man that is not inclined to speaking of his own past. Divorced from any chance for an autobiographical reveal of his past life and name, and without any alternative nomenclature to chose from, we must make do with what we have, and simply refer to him as ‘Honesty.’

“While he first appeared on the Chan during the tumult of the First Rise, his background is an utter mystery. No one matching his description appears in any records of the Chan or the Authority, nor have any credible tales or rumors been found that suggest that anyone resembling him has lived in Comchan, or any of the surrounding territories. Considering how unusual said description of him is, it should not difficult to find traces of him in the historical record, and yet we have no indication of his existence outside of spurious sources may be safely discounted. Great speculation exists on the subject, but for now it must be regarded as simply that—speculation.

“At any rate, the one called Honesty first came to prominence in southern Comchan, the area now called Sixchan-on-the-Shore, where the earliest roots of the Brony Collective were made. The earliest reports of him are dated to two weeks before Madelin Wright left Comchan to begin her invasion of Greatchan—it is conceivable that she heard distant tales of a gigantic local leader before she left, but it is unlikely, and during my interviews with her she could not recall any such mention. His own role, then, was one that grew independently. With the chaotic beginnings of the fandom, various petty commanders and organizers emerged during this period, leading small bands of Bronies in several different settlements. Lord Honesty appeared in one such town, one that was fiercely contested between Brony and anti-Brony factions. The Channic settlement of Yellowake had been burning for some time before his appearance, but neither side was able to fully defeat the other. This changed with his arrival.

“Lord Honesty offered his services to the entrenched Bronies: this became partaking in raids against the anonymites, which soon became leading the same raids. With his aid, the friends were able to push back the enemy, and soon Yellowake was under Brony control. The remaining Channic were smashed—some fled to the hills, others surrendered or converted. Those who refused to do either were caught and—on Honesty’s orders—hanged from the town walls. The first settlement secure, Lord Honesty moved on, with his new followers in tow. Whatever leadership they had prior to his arrival, it was now dissolved; they would follow the Honest Man, and him alone.

“Clothed in orange and gold, the Lord of Honesty’s followers moved across southern Comchan, lending their strength to each local Brony cadre and aiding them in destroying the opposition. Bit by bit, town by town, the entire south was united under Brony forces. Tales spread wildly about the new leader: it was said that he was a warrior without equal, and without fear. In every battle, he would always go where the fighting was fiercest, and yet he would always emerge uninjured and not even slowed in his implacable advance. Weaker leaders of small Brony factions soon buckled under his influence and bent the knee to the Honest Man, marching under the red-apple standard of the Friend… or under the sign of a golden eye, a symbol taken up by Lord Honesty’s most fanatic devotees. It did not have the same bravado as Wright’s Greatchan Campaign, but soon the Honest Man had amassed a powerful army that controlled a great deal of territory, and was absolutely loyal only to his express commands.

“It was not finished yet, however. Comchan was still filled with scattered Brony supporters—these, Honesty determined, had to be united under one fandomic command before victory could be possible. Gathering up his forces, he aggressively pushed out of the Bronies’ strongest holdings into the hotly disputed north. As was the case with Wright’s campaign’s, it was the disunity of the Channic that proved their undoing: none of the traditional fandom factions or anonymite groups in Comchan had the sway to combat the threat on their own, and by the time that they realized the need to rally each other, it was too late. Starting on one end of the island, Honesty vowed to not rest his advance until he could hear the waves of the distant sea. Anyone that threatened his friends, or blocked his path, would meet the hammer or the noose.

“Over a month later, and with many bodies behind him, he succeeded in his goal. The Orange March of the Honest Friends would prove to be one of the great strategic successes of the early First Rise: from the south-eastern shore to the Bay of Masks, almost every settlement and center in Comchan was under Brony influence.

“So it was that the fandom managed to carve a foothold in the westernmost island of the Chan. This would prove an invaluable aid to the nascent Collective in the times that would follow shortly after: the fandom’s darkest hour, beginning with the catastrophic loss of black Baysmouth.”

— Excerpt from The Brony War, by Lorelove

Chapter XIX: Find a Way

* * * * * *

“Tolerance! Too often we hear the klaxon call of that hateful word, gnawing away at our will to act. Our Moderacy compels us to seek justice and order, and this task requires the pursuit and punishment of those that threaten the divine law as promulgated to us by the Logos-Most-High. And to be sure, a fair portion of this sacred rite demands of us a special attention to certain deviant behaviors — those that cannot be allowed to exist in a civilized society. The catalogue of these Intolerables is too long to dictate here, and are best found elsewhere, but the truth is this: these absolutes exist, and that they must be stamped out wherever they might be found.

“But what does the profligate say when we carry out our duty, and he is found at the end of the gavel or the noose? Why, he cries out that we must be ‘More tolerant!’ And what is worse, the profligate—our most hated enemy—is not alone in saying this. It has become all too common to hear those guilty of even the most base and vile of the Intolerables defended by those who pick up the demand of ‘tolerance.’ ‘It does no harm,’ they say, ‘you have no right,’ they add. It is not with the worst crimes that these misguided complaints are most often heard, however. Rather, it is with the small offenses, the mild errors, the aesthetic divergences, the licentious indulgence or the slip of judgement in the moment. Hear how the misled take up the battlecry of the evil, once that slogan is able to justify their own weakness in some small fashion!

“And ‘weakness’ must be the word we keep in mind. What does this word ‘tolerance’ actually mean? Perhaps it appears obvious, but we must unpack this so casually-used term if we are to combat the effect. The Oppressed of the Blurr are particularly fond of it: whenever one can be found that violates the vaunted sensibilities of their justicars, do not be surprised when you see that word ‘intolerant’ within their accusations against the perceived offender! And what is the punishment for ‘intolerance?’ To be humiliated before one’s neighbors, to be driven from one’s home, to be utterly hated, and to be strangled by a red ribbon until dead.

“You see, then, the utter hypocrisy of the ‘tolerant!’ For what are the things they call ‘intolerant?’ They are restrictions that keep others from acting in a way that is clearly objectionable—the things that do not properly conform with the Logos. The profligate rails against the supposed injustice of such strictures, but in truth their calls for tolerance are precisely the same thing. They are demands that others act in the same way that they do, and working against any dissent. Even those who are not violent in their outbursts act in a similar way: so long as you nod and passively agree to follow their rules and their standards, the profligate is content to smile and congratulate himself on how truly understanding and open-minded he is. But the moment that one may disagree with what they say, or worse, act contrary to their oh-so-tolerant codes? Why, then there is no saving the poor soul who dares to stray away! Succor that dissenter, plead with him, bribe him, harass him, threaten him, burn him or break him, anything to destroy that contrarian!

“The strangest trend we now see, then, is the habit of our enemies to use tolerance to promote intolerance—the only difference is that it is now their intolerance that has sway. And that was the only goal all along: not a ‘tolerant’ society, for a truly tolerant land cannot exist, but rather one that perfectly fits with what they believe and desire for their own selfish gain.

“Let us then purge this word, this ‘tolerance’ from our collective vocabulary. It is useless to us. By presuming that we must ‘tolerate’ certain crimes, we weaken our resolve and our certainty of right and wrong. It undermines the foundation of our entire society when we make the mistake of allowing offenses to pass under our sight, for it makes us numb to the simple fact that there are evils in this world against which there can be no middle ground, and there can be no compromise. If an entirely tolerant society cannot be—and it cannot, for all people need structure in their lives in order to function fully, and that means absolute stances on the worst crimes our race is capable of—then we have no reason to pretend otherwise and put on airs of our ‘tolerance.’ Let us leave such pathetic devotions behind us. We are only stronger upon doing so.”

— “On Tolerance,” by the Lord Moderator Dyren Halforth. It is dated two years before the First Rise.

* * * * * *

The ambush was complete and ready to proceed, hidden in plain sight and poised to spring at a moment’s notice. The hunters were scattered loosely in the entrance hall of Aureliano’s Palace, taking their places behind pillars or in nearby rooms, cutting off all points of exit. All that was missing was the target.

It would be the end of a hunt that Proximo had grown to resent, these past two days they’d conducted it. For that brief time, the diplomats of the fandom had been hard at work, opening contact with nobles and courtiers willing to offer aid for a price, and scouring the site for whatever leads they could find. Not all had born fruit (Proximo had had enough wine thrown at him to make that obvious), but many had, and yet there was one particular charge that remained out of their reach. Proximo waited quietly by Lady Violet’s side, standing by in a far corner, concealed by a wall, waiting for the moment to strike against this loose end.

The moment came quicker than even he had hoped. There were footsteps coming into the hall, a nervous patter of feet, and few enough steps had sounded to tell Proximo that this person was, at last, alone. Lady Violet, dressed in ‘stealthy’ purple of her choosing, fixed her eyes on the look-out, waiting for the signal. The sound of the anxious steps grew closer and louder, and Proximo readied himself. Then, swiftly and in all haste, the look-out gave the command.

They rushed out and converged quickly, before their prey could have a moment to turn and flee. And there, in the middle of the room, stood the young and imperiled Sir Alwin Cameron, one of their three judges for the investigation.

“Sir Alwin!” Lady Violet said cheerfully, relishing a plan come together. “I was hoping we might have a word.”

For half a moment, Proximo thought the nervous knight would try to bolt out of the room again, but he quickly saw that such a route was impossible: a number of other Bronies had moved into the room, walking past the Palace guards that stood at several entrances and were looking on the scene with a certain clandestine interest. Out of the side, looming tall and appearing especially impatient, was the Warden of Honesty, in all his ugly terror. Sir Alwin, dressed in his ill-fitting black-and-white robes and looking very alone, was already engaged by the enemy, and now quite surrounded.

No escape for you this time, Proximo thought triumphantly, though feeling slightly silly that they had been forced to such means just to talk with the man.

Sir Alwin’s large, bulging eyes darting around, scanning for any possible avenue of escape. Finding none, he resigned himself to defeat. “Ah… alright,” he stammered, his head bowed.

“Oh, how wonderful!” Lady Violet replied earnestly, with only the slightest hint of unlady-like smugness. “I’ve had a separate room set aside for us, if you please—some privacy is needed, as always,” she said, shooting a glance to the Palace guards who were looking and listening on.

The Bronies led their quarry to small sitting room down a nearby hall, flanked by guardsmen of their own and filled with appropriate furniture. Lady Violet led Sir Alwin to a seat, coming close to sitting him down forcibly herself, while she and Proximo took their places opposite to him. To either side of the knight, their other friends to their places: Hadrena, looking dark and tall and dangerous as always, took her place at his left, while Skylark of the Kind, hooded and serene, sat at his right. And standing directly in front of Sir Alwin, so that he would have no choice but to stare directly at him, was the Warden of Honesty, placed there in order to dispense with any remaining illusions the knight might have as to his position.

“Well,” Lady Violet said, helping herself blissfully to a pot of tea that was prepared for the occasion, “this has truly been an exciting past few days, Sir Alwin. I do hope you’ll accept my apologies for not meeting to speak with you sooner, but—due to no fault on your part, I’m certain—it has been quite a struggle to find a moment alone with you.”

“Er, well I— ah, yes,” the knight said haltingly, trying to look anywhere but at Lady Violet.

“Yes indeed,” she said with a polite laugh, “strange as it might seem, there’s been no end of things standing between this little meeting of our’s. It almost seems that every time I’ve walked into a room that you happened to occupy, you would take the chance to dart off on some account before I or anyone else had a chance to speak with you! And then of course there was the time yesterday—you remember, I’m sure—when we almost had a chance before Sir Borlund so courteously dragged you off, or the time before that—which you no doubt recall as well—when the Lord and Lady Martes had that urgent business they insisted took up so much of your valuable time. What was that errand, I wonder?” she asked innocently, cocking her head to the side. “I wasn’t even aware that mere noblemen could command a knight of the Authority so easily.”

Before he could jabber out a stunted answer, she gave another brief laugh. “If I weren’t a much better informed, better educated person than the Martes and Sir Borlund no doubt believe me to be, I might even say that…” She shook her head, chuckling at the thought, “Well, one might have even said that you were… oh, how do you say? Avoiding us, Sir Alwin.”

Sir Alwin paled, looking up at the Warden of Honesty, whose expression Proximo could only imagine was close to murderous after how much trouble it had been the past few days just to speak with the simpering twig-man in front of them. “Ah…” he choked out, his voice catching in his long throat.

Lady Violet gave a reassuring smile that was only partly insincere. “Oh, don’t look so glum, sir! I didn’t mean to tease you so, truly. I know you’ve had much on your mind, and would never be so lacking in sense of duty as to ignore the people in your charge, so we really do appreciate you taking this time from your day to sit down with all of us. Is that not so?”

“Indeed, my lady,” Proixmo affirmed obediently, adjusting his light-blue tie.

“Truly, a pleasure to meet you, sir,” Skylark said, smiling warmly.

“At last,” said Hadrena, her own smile containing more of a threat.

“Hrm,” the Warden of Honesty grunted from behind.

Sir Alwin Cameron, despite being tall as a particularly skinny tree, seemed to shrink considerably in his seat. Lady Violet continued, regardless. “Well, it’s no matter now. I imagine that we’ll have a bit of time before any of your fellow Mods or other prying folk might interrupt, so perhaps we can get down to brass tacks, as it were. We’re all friends here, no?” she said, taking a drink of tea, and offering it to Sir Alwin, who only shook his head in response to the offer. “And, in fact, the subject of friends is precisely why we’re having this discussion. I’m sure a man of your education understands what I mean.”

“My lady,” Sir Alwin said slowly, trying to regain some of his composure, “if— if you’re referring to the state of the Brony prisoners, I am not in any authority to—"

“To? To what?” Hadrena asked pointedly. “To help them in any meaningful way, or just to retract the blatant lies you gave to the Lord Moderator? The lies that helped our friends be trapped in cells to be beaten and starved and God knows what else by Arcadio and his goons?”

“My la— lady,” Cameron struggled to say, going red with shame, “His Honor, Lord Halforth asked me to report truthfully on whether the, ah, the conditions were appropriate for the accused, and I was fairly convinced th—"

“That they were ‘satisfactory?’” Hadrena ventured again, with razor-sharp smirk. “Your eyesight cannot possibly be that bad, can it? You aren’t truly blind, are you, sir?”

“Hadrena, please,” Skylark said calmly, performing her own role admirably. She laid a gentle hand on Sir Alwin’s arm, causing him to seize up slightly. “I’m certain that Sir Alwin had his own reasons to report such things to the Lord Halforth, His Most High Honor. For what we know, he might have simply been deceived, as his superior was.”

Lady Violet nodded in solemn agreement. “Very true. Was that so, Sir Alwin? I can only imagine that Arcadio might have tried to prevent you from seeing what we did. I doubt any just man could look on the state of our friends and not raise an objection. Have you seen my friend Greenglade’s place, Sir Alwin? Have you seen the filth, the rot he was living in, the torture he’s suffered? One wouldn’t believe you have, being a just man.”

Sir Alwin looked up reluctantly at the Warden of Honesty, then down at the floor. “I have,” he answered.

“And you considered Arcadio’s personal pleasure palace to be a fitting place for two innocent men?” Hadrena said, accusatively.

“I… no,” replied the knight, defeated.

“But then why would you keep the truth from Lord Halforth, Hammer of the Channic?” Skylark asked, feigning astonishment. “Surely it is a matter of duty for a man of your rank to remain truthful, sir.”

Sir Alwin did not answer, just sinking more into his chair. Lady Violet did not look for a response, instead taking a sip of tea with her thin eyes closed. She did, however, tap her foot against Proximo’s leg, indicating what he was to do. The assistant cleared his throat, and made a well-educated guess. “Would one be wrong to suggest, sir, that your reason might include Sir Borlund or the Martes in some capacity?”

The young man’s gawkish eyes flittered over to Proximo. “They are quite convinced of your guilt.”

“That much is obvious,” Hadrena said. “That does not change you perjuring yourself for their sake. Might I ask what Greenglade or Dabrius have ever done to injure you, that you must inflict this on them?”

“I have simply acted how I felt was best serving the law an—"

"Liar," the Warden of Honesty said in his own particular brand of brutish intimidation.

Skylark put her hand on the quaking Mod’s shoulder. “I understand your hesitation, sir,” she said with a genuine compassion, “but please understand that our friends’ wellbeing is at stake. We’re not asking that you find them innocent before we’ve shown you the proof: just that you sympathize with their position. This is your first assignment, isn’t it?”

The young knight nodded his head, seeming overwhelmed.

“Sir Alwin,” Lady Violet said calmly, “I understand that you might not believe me, but I truly bear no ill will towards you. And I truly don’t think that you hold any hate for me or mine either. Which leads me to think,” she continued, “that you have not been a completely willing participant in this folly.”

The knight looked at all the people waiting on his words, closed his eyes, and sighed. “My lady, I will not deny any personal… qualms. But I can’t just, just disobey my superiors.”

“I didn’t realize that Sir Borlund Barr was superior to anyone,” Hadrena pointed out.

“He has seniority,” the knight replied. “I can’t go against him, my lady. I can’t.”

Proximo understood that there was more to Alwin’s decision to bow to whatever his ‘superior’ desired than just compliance to rank, but Lady Violet spoke before he did. “My good sir, you are your own man,” she said matter-of-factly. “And in your position, you are naught but an equal to Sir Borlund. You are not bound to follow him or anyone else step-for-step, and I must wonder whether doing so is worth compromising the ideals your order is founded on. Like justice and honesty, for example. Your own conscience is what you should rule on.”

She looked as though she were about to continue, when a very loud, very angry, very familiar noise leaked in from the halls outside. Lady Violet closed her eyes, rubbed her temples, and inhaled sharply to prepare herself for what she knew was stomping its way towards them.

Sir Borlund appeared in the doorway in a moment, already shouting. “What is this?” he demanded immediately, looking around at the assembled Bronies surrounding the other knight. His moustache twitched on his ruddy face, while a vein bulged out in his neck. “You,” he said sharply to Sir Alwin, “get up. These sorts don’t deserve our presence.”

“Good afternoon to you as well, Sir Borlund,” Lady Violet said, still rubbing her head.

"Don’t prattle at me, horse-lover!” the large man yelled. “Cameron. We. Are. Leaving,” he said.

Lady Violet looked at Sir Alwin, as though asking him whether he would take her advice. For a second, Proximo thought the anxious, awkward, foolish young man might say something… but instead he stood up in silence, and walked out with his apparent ‘superior.’ Though Sir Alwin stood much taller than Barr, the knight was so stooped over in defeat that one might not even have noticed.

Hadrena’s lip curled after the two walked off. “Balefire and damnation,” she cursed, “what a waste of time.”

“I’d hoped that would have amounted to more,” Skylark admitted sheepishly. “Perhaps we should try approaching him again, my lady? He hardly seemed happy with his position, ruling against us.”

“Had a chance to correct lie,” the Warden of Honesty said in disgust. “Did not accept. Will not, if asked again. A coward. Waste of time, trying to convince him. Every moment, our friends suffer.”

“Patience, my honest friend,” Violet replied, placing a hand on his arm. “We’ll find a way.”

The Warden glanced down at her, considering what she said, and nodded. “Hrm,” he grunted in response.

Lady Violet just sighed, and stood up. “Let’s go down into the city. I’d like to see how our investigators are coming along.”

The rest of her entourage exchanged glances, then fell in behind her as they walked out of the Palace and into the open city. The afternoon sun was high and bright overhead, lighting up the Dreamweave below as activity in the main square grew steadily. The Warden of Honesty took the lead, marching down the Palace steps with the four diplomats behind him and seven hand-picked guards on all sides. Lady Violet looked out onto the city below as they stepped their way towards the center, her expression gloomy.

“One judge claims impartiality, but doubts us at every turn; the second doesn’t even bother with the pretense of objectivity; and the third is too far under his fellow’s thumb to even breathe his own opinion. And we need at least two of them to believe our innocence, if we’re to have any chance of freeing our friends,” she said, the odds clearly weighing on her.

“With the right evidence, Lord Halforth will be duty-bound to side with us,” Skylark pointed out, “and I know we can find it.”

“That still leaves the problem of Barr and Cameron, though,” Proximo said. “Sir Alwin might believe our testimony and wish to see us freed, but if Sir Borlund holds him by the throat it won’t matter.”

“What we need is to drive a wedge in, my lady,” Hadrena suggested, lifting her purple dress as she stepped gingerly down the stairs. “If we can pull that craven coward away from his fat handler long enough, he’ll be more receptive of what we have to say. We need only convince him to strike out on his own, and think for himself. Or at least to stop kowtowing it to Barr.”

“That begs the question of how, though,” Proximo pointed out. “We’re hardly in a position to order the Mods around, and none of their staffers can be persuaded to join us, I’m certain. If the reports that the investigation team sent us are accurate, all of the others in Lord Halforth’s retinue are either fanatically loyal or despise us too much to help. And we need someone with a closer ear to Cameron if he’s to hear our case with Sir Borlund or the Martes interfering.”

That comment from her assistant seemed to get Lady Violet thinking: he could practically see the gears turning in her mind when he spoke. A subtle look of inspiration came over her face, followed by a smile. “I think it’s time to see how some of our units on the ground are faring,” she said as they stepped off the staircase and into the square.

They had gotten used to dirty looks from the Dreamweavers the past few days, but Proximo had not been on the streets enough to anticipate just how many he would get. As they rounded the fountain of Aureliano the First, passing by his outstretched hand, he saw dozens of angry eyes following him. Men in fine clothing, women in poor garments, children and old men and sick men all alike were giving a stare that made Proximo feel very unwanted. He picked up his pace, eager to leave the crowded area, and moved closer to Lady Violet.

The square was crowded enough that people had to clear a path for the foreign envoys, however clearly reluctant they were. Then, in the front, a few people — dressed poorly and swaying as they stood—refused to move. The Honest guard in the front stopped, and tried to move another way, only to find those blocking them shift to the side to halt them once again. Proixmo heard people in the crowd murmuring, then saying, then shouting curses at them. Lady Violet tried to step forward… when a thrown bottle exploded on the ground in front of her, littering the walk with broken glass.

Immediately, the Warden of Honesty unslung the hammer from his back with one hand, and drew the longest, ugliest knife that Proximo had ever seen with the other—and then took a huge, threatening step forward. The anger in the crowd turned swiftly to panic, as the people blocking them quickly pushed each other down to get away. The way now clear, the Bronies moved out of the way as quickly as they could, ducking into a less crowded street and pushing on.

Once they were a fair ways away, Proximo stopped a moment to catch his breath. Hadrena did the same, leaning against a wall and turning her sharp, regal face towards the way they came. “Don’t these people have better things to do than bother us?” she asked angrily.

“I imagine they say the same about us,” Skylark said, breathing heavily. One of the Honest Friends walked up to her and put his hand on her arm, as though to ask if she was alright. She nodded to him in response.

Proximo strode over to Lady Violet. “My lady, are you…”

“I’m fine, Proxi, don’t worry,” she said, only slightly winded. She looked at the Warden of Honesty. The giant still had his weapons drawn and ready, and was looking furiously down the direction that they came from.

Violet put a hand on him. “Honesty,” she said carefully.

The Warden’s eye flicked down to her, then to the weapons in his hand. Then, he lowered them both, took a step away, and holstered them back where they belonged. “Not hurt?” he asked with grave concern.

“Not hurt,” Lady Violet replied, smiling sadly.

One of the Honest Friends approached: a Sajlic woman of medium height, with a braid of dark hair down to her shoulders and a golden bandana around her neck. “The crowd did not follow, Lord-Warden. Hopefully we shall not be needing to engage.”

“Either way, my lord, we should keep moving soon,” said another of the guards. It occurred to Proximo that he had seen this member of the Honest Friends before: the one with the short-trimmed blond hair that had attended the Warden during the planning in Shine and the ball a few nights previously. Though he was one of the Honest Eyes, Proximo still felt embarrassed that he had not learned the man’s name — he made a mental note to correct that later. “It doesn’t take much to whip these crowds up, if the past few days have been any sign.”

“Has that happened before?” Hadrena asked as she scanned around them. The backstreet they were on was most clear, though a few confused and intimidated Dreamweavers were scuttling quickly past them as they stood on the side of the wynd. “The citizens accosting our people, I mean. I saw them during our arrival, of course, but besides that—"

“Three times,” the Warden of Honesty replied tersely. “That was third.”

“Three times in three days,” Skylark said, now worried. “This does not bode well.”

Proximo had to agree. What in the Web has made these people hate us so much? he wondered. And how are we meant to accomplish anything if the streets aren’t safe? Much of Proximo’s work thus far had been in the Palace, but he could hardly expect to remain in there the whole time, his friends even less so. He thought perhaps the city watch might be trying to control the mobs, for the sake of peace if nothing else, but none of them had moved to stop the ones that had cornered them before.

Violet shook her head. “Come now, we must reach the others.”

The path they had chosen was High-Hill Way, Proximo soon learned, but it soon turned crooked and twisted its way into several turns and corners, sagging buildings strung with paper lanterns hanging above them. It took them past the Green Gate, the entrance of the city that faced to the northwest, and the least used of them all if Proximo’s memory served. Past that, squatting in a remote corner towards the Bay, was the half-abandoned slum of Nightside, on the outskirts of which the Brony teams in the field were gathered.

He saw them at the corner of a nearby alley, talking quietly and carefully watching the people that passed them by. Donnet, his colored spectacles flipped to a purple lens, stood at the center, with the Honest Friends Daria and Dalwin Faust beside him on one side, listening carefully. Dustario was on the other side, cleaning a knife with a yellow rag, when he saw his friends approach and waved them over.

The assembled group stood at attention when they saw the Wardens, and bowed to their leaders. “M’lady, good t’see you,” Donnet said in greeting.

“To what do we owe the pleasure, my lord?” Dustario asked, seeming anxious to be speaking with his own Warden.

“We just wanted to check on progress, friends,” Violet replied, taking in the dilapidated surroundings.

Donnet raised an eyebrow behind his glasses. “That tells me gettin’ Sir Shakey was either more easy or a lot less than planned.”

Violet sighed. “You never miss a beat, Donnet. Things are more complicated than one would hope.”

He shrugged. “I can handle complicated, m’lady.” Swatting a finger against his glasses, he changed the color inside to a sickly yellow.

“I’m sorry to say, my lady, but things have been slow here as well,” Dustario said sheepishly. “I understand that there’s been some success in finding willing ‘friends’ in the Palace, but here on the ground we haven’t had nearly the same luck.”

“They don’t like us,” Daria Faust said nervously, brushing a strand of short dark hair behind her ear. “The Dreamweavers, I mean. Donnet has to bribe them to say anything, and it usually isn’t helpful.”

“You’ve found no witnesses to Dabrius that night?” Proximo asked. “No one that can support our alibi?”

“Not a one,” Donnet replied bitterly. “Least none that’ll talk. Them dee-dubs are clamped tight, an’ ain’t willin’ to help much. ‘Specially with the watch watchin’ out, like they do.” He gestured his head to something behind Proximo: when the assistant turned, he saw two watchmen standing beside one another, clothed in their red and yellow uniforms with the bronze circles on their chest catching the afternoon sun just so. Their eyes were fixed firmly on the Bronies. “S’always at least two o’ ‘em hangin’ close, most times. Even if you can’t sight ‘em.”

“I wasn’t certain before, my lady,” Dustario said, his voice low, “but it seems to me that if there were any people in the city that were willing to talk with us before we arrived, the city watch probably ‘convinced’ them to stay quiet. That Arcadio has been at work, and now the only ones that we can question are either too scared to speak out or never liked our kind to begin with.”

Lady Violet frowned. “Have you tried all of the places that Greenglade mentioned? The list he provided the last time we spoke was long. What of all the local haunts? Still nothing at all?”

“We haven’t tried every last one of them, my lady,” Dalwin Faust said softly, his sad eyes blinking slowly. “We may yet find what we seek. But there has been less in the way of luck so far.”

Violet considered what he said carefully. “We must try, without a doubt. There must be some way to con—"

She stopped, hearing something coming their way. Proximo braced himself at the sound of many footsteps coming towards them, but when he turned to see what was on its way, it was not a mob of Dreamweavers heading down the street. Rather, it was a crowd of several members of the city watch, led by a man in a black and white uniform.

The person leading them was wearing a sour expression, had a receding hairline, and was a knight, judging from the amount of dark color in his garb. By his side was a shaggy black dog, ears bouncing and tongue rolling out of its mouth carelessly as it bounded happily next to its master. The knight led the watchmen past the Bronies, not sparing them a look, and quickly rounded the corner to head into Nightside.

“What’s all that about?” Hadrena wondered after they had passed.

“Oh!” Daria Faust exclaimed, remembering something and turning to the Warden of Honesty. “Sorry, my lord, we were about to tell you: there’s something going on with the Mods in there. In Nightside, I mean: a bunch of them went in earlier, and Lord Halforth was with them.”

“An’ lookin’ purposeful-like, no less,” Donnet said, sounding bitter. He rolled his eyes. “Never get in a black-hand’s way when ‘e’s lookin’ purposeful—that purpose’s usually hangin’ someone, most times.”

“Lord Halforth, you say?” Lady Violet got a familiar look on her face—a mix of curiosity and willful intention towards some plan. “I wouldn’t mind a word with him. Follow me, everyone—let’s see if he’s in a position to talk.”

“What if he’s busy?” Daria asked, seeming nervous. “Like, with executing criminals or something, I mean.”

“I’m prepared to wait. If Halforth is after criminals, it won’t take him long to finish, I think. Come, now.”

Dutifully, they followed behind Lady Violet, their guards staying particularly close now that they were entering Nightside proper. Proximo could see why: if the rest of the Dreamweave was in a slow decline, this district was in freefall. Most of the buildings looked as though they had been abandoned for years, either boarded up completely or collapsing in on top of themselves after years of rot. What ones remained open were uninviting, to say the least: unlit tenements or half-shacks that barely stood with the decades weighing down heavily on them. Foul and profane graffiti was spread ungraciously across the remains of storefronts, while windows that had clearly been smashed and doors that were clearly broken in remained open and uncovered like wounds in the buildings’ sides.

A few people could be found stumbling blearily through the empty lanes, and a few more could be glimpsed peering out of half-closed windows, but for the most part the place was entirely empty. It was like nowhere that Proximo had ever seen, and more than a little unnerving.

Just in front of him, the Warden of Honesty stirred. “Disguising scent,” he muttered.

One of the Honest Eyes, the blond one, caught the words. “Pardon, my lord?” he asked inquisitively.

“A scent over the city,” the Warden of Honesty replied quietly. “Hangs over. Over streets, the Palace. Like perfume, all the finery they cling to. But cheap. Unpleasant. Meant to overpower senses. Not intended to beautify, but disguise. Mask something. Conceal odor of decay.” He frowned, and narrowed his eye. “Not perfume. Embalming fluid. This city is a rotting corpse.”

He said nothing more, but continued to walk forward as though there had been no mention of it at all. The rest of the Bronies looked to one another in confusion, unsure of what to say. They made their way forward.

A sound could be heard hanging over the otherwise silent ruin: the faint sounds of talking, moving, and shouting. Not the shouting of people in danger or in battle, but rather something resembling a conversation between at least two people—or, more accurately, a heated argument. Tracing the path the watchmen had made and following the noise, the Bronies made their way through Nightside at a brisk pace.

They arrived at a strange scene. There was a small block of buildings, with people being pushed out in single file. The ones moving out into the streets were Dreamweavers, and were all poorly dressed and unhealthy-seeming, aside from a handful of higher-class sorts. All of them looked somewhere between haggard, anxious, and terrified as they were herded out into the open—herded by Mods. There were not many of them, but just the few assembled men and women in Authority colors were enough to intimidate the people they were escorting out of the buildings. Some of the Dreamweavers spoke among themselves in low voices, others tripped over themselves, but all moved, not eager to disobey whatever orders the Peacekeepers had given to remove them.

In front of it all, with his arms folded behind his back and a distinctly neutral expression on his face, was Lord Dyren Halforth. His lined, weathered face was seemingly fixed in only mild interest in the drama unfolding in front of him, his hat’s wide brim casting a shadow over his visage. He was also very clearly not looking at the furious man next to him, a fat fellow with fine clothes and a red face, who was the source of the angry shouting.

“...You’ve not a right to do this, sir!” the man yelled, waved his hands around. “This is my establishment, my property! I tell you now, the Martes will hear of this, and they—"

“They will what, pray tell?” Lord Halforth replied, his voice cool. “As you say, you are the one most responsible for this wretched den of iniquity. Certainly you are aware, then, that it is in clear violation of established zoning and franchise regulations, as well as innumerable offenses against the decency and moral character laws of the city. At the very least—and I do mean the very least—such tedium should be restricted to the red-zone, which is some distance from this spot.”

His grey eyes were focused intently on the people now fully removed from the buildings, whom his Peacekeepers were now separating into different groups. “This would ignore, however, the Intolerables I have already noted, including five counts of possession of illegal substances and one count of merchanting in the same materials. I do not intend to ignore that. If the Martes intended to, then I would be forced to act accordingly.”

Proximo took another look at the building that Halforth had so thoroughly emptied. It was certainly in better shape than most of the hovels surrounding it, and was adorned with several bright, eye-catching red banners. Crimson lanterns, not yet lit for the evening, were hanging from pegs on its porch. Judging from what the Moderator had said, the decorations adorning the place, and the questionable dress of some of the people Proximo saw in the crowd, there was little doubt as to what the establishment was.

The red-faced proprietor continued to look incensed. “Spare me the sermon, this is a harmless business—"

“I disagree. Thankfully,” Halforth continued, still not looking at the man, “the point in question here is not opinion or agreement, but rather law and judgement. I tell you now, the law will find you lacking, and the same will ring true for your customers. There will be fines, for those that can pay them, and for those that cannot there will be the chance for liberation, through service or confinement as need be. After their charges have been made clear to them and their guilt ascertained, of course.”

The concept of actually facing punishment unnerved the man. “And I?” he asked, no longer so demanding.

“The same. Though,” he said with the same level of vague disinterest, “the sentence for owning and allowing such improper properties will naturally be several degrees higher than merely perusing them. This walled deviation of yours will be confiscated, first of all, and put up for auction. Though I do hope they clean it first.”

The man’s eyes went wide, and he quickly began stammering. “I… I can pay.”

“That must be encouraging for you. The fine for such crimes is ordinarily quite high, though, and paying it will not change the demand that this building be taken from your frankly suspect possession.”

“No, I mean if you don’t charge me then… well I’m sure I can m— “

The grey eyes snapped towards the simpering man very suddenly. “Think carefully how you wish to complete that sentence. I once encountered a man who sought to bribe me. On the gallows, I suspect, he learned to rue that mistake. However briefly.” The stare he gave to the owner was forceful enough to not only quiet him but send him into shakes as well.

Ignoring the quivering and gibbering man next to him, Lord Halforth turned his attention to two Peacekeepers that had approached him. One of them was a young man with well-groomed auburn hair, and the other was a dusky woman with her black hair tightly tied into a bun, who was likely the same age but somehow appeared far more mature. Both of them came before the Lord Moderator, raised their right arms to the left shoulders of their white uniforms, and bowed their heads.

“We rounded up the lot of ‘em, yer honor,” the man said. In his hands, he was cradling the wooden stock of an Authority repeater: the crossbow was loaded, though not primed to fire, the metal box clamped to its side no doubt filled with bolts to be readied by wrenching down the lever on the weapons’ underside. “What next?”

“I shall have you see the accused off in a moment, Mister Cartwright,” the Lord Moderator replied immediately, “as soon as I have taken proper stock of our resources. You may return to your place until I have further need of you. And Mister Cartwright?”

“Yes, yer honor?”

“Take this one with you and add him to the collection,” Lord Halforth said with a gesture to the still speechless man that had been speaking with. “I believe that his taste for conversation is quite sated for now. I will give the order when we may depart.”

The Peacekeeper Cartwright did as he was told, and escorted the criminal away. The other, the woman, kept her place silently, awaiting orders. Lord Halforth’s attention came upon her quickly. “Miss Ravenry?”

“Yes, your honor?” she replied enthusiastically, though with a formal voice.

“Attend me for a moment. This will be useful for your studies.”

The woman had a face of very barely contained glee when she came to her superior’s side, even though from Proximo had seen occupying such a place was relatively hazardous. She stood proudly, ramrod straight and with a uniform almost as clean as the Lord Moderator’s. Proximo had not met this Miss Ravenry yet, but she was clearly very eager to serve.

All of this talk, however, had seemed to make the knight—the one that had been leading the city watch troops — impatient. He and the guardsmen had been waiting for the Lord Moderator to finish, and the knight looked ready to go on. “Your honor? Not that this isn’t fascinating, but I have the city watch here, as you asked.”

“And so the absent watchmen at last arrive. Thank you, Sir Depravity. Could you please bring their ringleaders forward?”

Two members of the city watch were grabbed by the knight and pushed out. They stood in front of the Lord Moderator, not seeming clear on what to do. He did not look at them, but instead fixed his sight on what was in front of him once again.

“You are to escort these accused criminals back to the holding place in the Palace and keep them detained there until I, or my fellow Moderators, are able to properly hear their pleas and sentence them. My subordinates, Mister Cartwright and Miss Cawtler, will be reading them their charges now, I imagine. Additionally, I expect you to devote some of your men to cleaning the interior of this building, stripping it down, and preparing it for seizure. If my initial inspection was any indication, the leftmost corner of the second floor will require particular attention.”

The two guards looked to one another, confused. “Is M’Lord Arcadio here?” one of them asked, eventually.

“That is a question, and not a response to my order. To answer it, however: no, he is not. However irrelevant that may be.”

The other one rubbed the back of his neck, meaty hand brushing against the rim of his half-helmet. “I, ah, I dunno if we should be doing all this, you know, if the commander hasn’t ordered.”

“We take orders from him," the first added. “That’s why he’s the commander.”

“A logical conclusion,” Lord Halforth replied, sounding annoyed. “Since I am a Moderator empowered by Central and given authority over this island so long as my investigation continues, however, I will remind you that local powers are currently outranked by me and my fellow judges in certain matters. Criminal justice is one of them.”

“The point being?” one of the guards asked, clearly not grasping the gravity of who he was speaking to.

“The point being," the knight, Sir Depravity, replied angrily, “that Lord Halforth is the commander of your commander, and if you don’t want me to arrest you for Interference with Justice, you’ll move and follow the orders you’ve been given. Is that understood or not?”

It very clearly was, seeing that the city watch present then high-tailed it to the prisoners as fast as they could. Seeing that the business was done, Lady Violet immediately approached the Lord Moderator, ready to talk about whatever was on her mind. Despite her patiently standing almost next to him, however, he did not take notice of her. “Miss Ravenry?” he asked, eyes forward.

“Yes, your honor?”

“When I was sitting through the proprietor’s jabber, he mentioned that an establishment such as this was harmless, in an attempt to avoid punishment. What is your reckoning of such words?”

The novice folded her arms behind her back, not unlike her mentor, and said in a formal manner, “A rogue value judgement arriving from a biased perspective, your honor. Framing the issue in terms of harm or lack thereof deflects culpability through means of dilution, introducing subjective matters into an objective question of legality. As such, it is irrelevant.” She had listed off her reasoning in a clipped, dignified, and controlled fashion, a way that told Proximo that this was a question she was well-trained to answer. She then gave a look of momentary doubt. “Right?” she asked hesitantly.

“Quite so,” Lord Halforth said, emotionless. “Divorced from the salient problem at hand, however, what are your feelings on the veracity of such a claim to harmlessness?”

Miss Ravenry considered the notion for a moment. “Speaking theoretically,” she said carefully, weighing her words closely as she spoke, “I would again disagree with the claim. It seems likely to me th—"

“Seems?” Lord Halforth interjected.

“Apologies, your honor,” she said quickly, catching whatever mistake she had made. “It is likely that, even setting aside the obvious harm inflicted on one’s person by means of flesh and drug abuse, the damage to one’s sense of selfhood and perspective is ever-present.”

“I see. Pray excuse me for a moment, Miss Ravenry.” Without turning his gaze, Halforth addressed the people assembled to his other side. “If you’re looking for some manner of satisfaction, Bronies, you will be disappointed. As of my arrival on the premises, this crimson catastrophe has been effectively closed and purged. You will need to pause your propriety elsewhere, if it must be done.”

“The stables are open, as I understand it,” added the knight that lingered on the scene, the one that Halforth had named Sir Depravity. It was no doubt the same Depravity Blair that Proximo had been hearing about over the past few days, and his appearance certainly matched the given description. The man was older than Proximo but younger than Halforth, with light hair and dark brown eyes that were prone to roll and look contemptuously at things. Proximo had the feeling that they would not get along.

“My Lord Halforth,” Lady Violet said with a bow of her head, tactfully ignoring the insulting insinuations. “It would seem that you have wasted no time in applying your talents here, in the Dreamweave.”

“A necessary measure, unfortunately,” Halforth replied, a measure of distaste in his voice. He turned his head slightly, to look up at the giant Warden next to Lady Violet. “Warden Honesty. I trust that you are enjoying your time in the city?”

“No,” the Warden replied immediately. “It is dirty, poorly kept, unruly. Filled with outsiders, unbelievers. Enjoyment impossible.”

The faintest smile appeared on the Lord Moderator’s face. “I am forced to agree. Though my primary duty is to oversee your investigation, it would seem that this area has been subjected to several appalling lapses. It would be an aberration of my duties to leave such matters uncleansed.”

“These ones are to be cleaned, then?” Lady Violet asked, looking to the assembled prisoners, whom the Peacekeepers and city watch were preparing to move.

“Indeed. The traditional city dungeons have been stretched beyond their capacity for some time now, as I have been told, so I converted several unused facilities in the Palace for a holding area. It will serve well enough, until their misdeeds are properly processed.”

“The conditions of these facilities were up to standard?”

“If that is meant to be an oblique criticism of your compatriots’ conditions, I would ask you speak your fictions openly.”

“Not fiction,” the Warden of Honesty replied angrily. He looked down piercingly at Lord Halforth. “Your subordinates lie. Friends should be moved.”

Lady Violet looked as though she were about to interject, no doubt to try and cover for what Honesty had said, but Sir Depravity beat her to it. “I’m glad to hear that I’m the one being accused of indecency in a conversation with horse-lovers,” he said, eyes narrowing on the Warden. “By all rights, your people should have been among the refuse squatting in that red building. Not that an ogre like you would get much interest. Were you born that ugly, or did you have to work to it?”

“I would thank you if you did not insult my friends, sir,” Lady Violet replied coolly. She was speaking politely, but Proximo could sense the anger under it—Sir Depravity’s choice to forsake her friends was not one easily forgotten.

“And I would thank your friend if he didn’t insult my honor,” the knight replied. The look that he gave to Violet was a mix of being smug, knowing, and filled with contempt. He knows what he did, Proximo thought, and he knows that we know. And he doesn’t care at all.

“You seem unwelcome to my kind, sir. Might I ask what we have done to warrant such treatment?”

Sir Depravity Blair rolled his eyes. “The day I bend over for horse-lover questions is the day Central is lost to the Deep. Don’t flatter yourself, though—you aren't worth my hate.”

“Sir Depravity?” Lord Halforth said, seeming weary of the conversation. “Your dog is missing.”

The knight had a sudden moment of realization, and then starting turning around and looking for something. “Dammit all,” he swore with exasperation, "Roger! Where did he go? Roger!" In the distance, something barked in response to his calls.

“Do look for him, sir. I would hate for our merry company to lose its mascot so soon,” said the Lord Moderator, lip twitching slightly into a thin smile.

Sir Depravity cursed again, then stomped off to find his missing pet. It was Hadrena that spoke up after he had gone. “Your servant despises us, Lord Halforth.”

“Lying for animosity,” Honesty said bluntly. “Should disregard.”

“He has served me faithfully and well for twelve years. On three occasions, he saved my life,” the Lord Moderator said dismissively. “And in all that time, he has never once failed me. I trust my subordinates with my life, and I have no reason to trust any of you. You wish to make claims about their supposed deceptions? Then bring me evidence, or do not waste my time further.” His tone made it clear that he would not hear any more on the subject.

“Is his attitude so ordinary, then?” Lady Violet asked.

“Sir Depravity speaks his mind and cares little for airy persiflage, so yes. It is a quality I admire, not that it is your concern in the least. Has it occurred to you that it is possible for one to see little value in your impure devotions without commanding some conspiratorial cabal designed to sabotage your lives? Such paranoia is more suited to the Channic or Blurrite feel-mongers, by my reckoning.”

“With all due respect, my lord,” Lady Violet said both politely and defensively, “there is nothing ‘impure’ about our devotions.”

“Oh?” Lord Halforth said, sounding very vaguely amused. “You deny the ribald presence of… let us say, salacious and base materials within your fandom? Or members that subordinate themselves to it?”

Small chance of denying that, Proximo thought. It wasn’t something he concerned himself with, but he knew for a fact of such practices, even among his close co-workers. Donnet and Mattieu Winely had a habit with certain literature, and Dustario no doubt had some art that would likely blind a Censor like Halforth. He didn’t care to voice such thoughts, however.

“I would not be so bold, my lord,” Lady Violet replied honestly. “But one would have to concede it is no more seen than in any other group.”

“It is not the amount of such weaknesses, but rather the nature of them unique to yours’ that is objectionable,” the Lord Moderator replied, leaving his meaning in the air. “Miss Ravenry?” he said to his attendant, “take note of this.”

Miss Ravenry flipped open a notepad, and listened intently with pencil in hand as her leader spoke. “The profligate,” he said with a gesture towards the captured patrons standing in front of the closed building, “will partake in any amount of earthly desires, not comprehending their fleeting nature. Rather than seeking to join with the immortal and objective cause, they instead link themselves only to satisfaction of their own body. They are compelled by instinct, and they move without thought or reason towards those demands — in doing this, their perspective becomes increasingly focused inward, on themselves and no one else.

“The needs of others are lost on the profligate,” he continued, “it is only want and feeling and self-interest that they can understand. They come to the notion that their own happiness—if one can even call it that—is more important than that of their neighbors. And, whether by the money in their pockets or in their living flesh or even as a still image, the profligate observes and utilizes human beings as mere instruments towards satisfying those desires—the person is lost on them. The one that they use is no longer a man or woman, just a method of gaining or satisfying something. It is in this way that respect for selfhood dies, and selfishness at all costs begins. The bane of honor, the obliteration of duty, the pulverizing of will and reason.”

The Lord Moderator frowned in disgust. “Harmless," he scoffed. “You did not come here to see me deal out justice, I am assuming,” he said to the Bronies. “What is it you want from this servant?”

“A moment of your time, my lord. So that we might discuss the arrangements between our respective investigation teams. Though if it pleases my lord,” Lady Violet said with a smile to the woman beside him, “it would seem that you also have us at a loss. I’m afraid that your assistant and I have not been introduced.”

“It would seem so.” He waved a hand to his shadow-servant. “Miss Cellia Ravenry, serving in my staff as a Peacekeeper for Sir Depravity. My leal aide.”

Cellia smiled, saluted, and bowed to the Bronies. “A pleasure to meet you, my lady. I had the honor of meeting some of your ranks earlier, if I recall correctly.”

“If what they told me was any indication, I’d wager so,” Violet laughed. “Your lord is lucky to have one as talented as yourself, if they spoke truly. Well met, Miss Ravenry.”

Cellia blushed slightly at the praise, but the Lord Moderator seemed eager to end the small-talk. “Pleasantries aside,” he said, “what is your intent involving the investigation? If it is to request that any other of my staff be dismissed, then you had best stay yourself.”

“Not in the least, my lord. On the contrary, I was wondering if you’d be willing to add one.”

She explained the nature of her proposal, as the Lord Moderator stood and listened silently. “There is precedent for it, my lord,” she pointed out. “The Putnam decision in Askobarr, most recently.”

“I know precedent,” Halforth snapped. “Lord Putnam made a correct choice, in his case, though he has always been too willing to please and appease others. Still,” he mulled, “so long as it is surveyed carefully, it may have merit.”

He frowned, thinking it over. “Miss Ravenry? What is your judgement?”

Cellia Ravenry’s eyes widened, staring at her superior half-agape. “Your honor?”

“If you are to be a knight, you will need to learn to weigh decisions such as this. You have more immediate experience with their investigating officers than I, and can speak more to their effectiveness: what is your decision?”

She thought it over carefully, musing on merits and demerits in her mind. “I believe that—”

“You believe?" Lord Halforth interrupted. “There is no room for detached opinion or equivocation in knighthood. Rephrase.”

“Sorry, your honor,” Cellia said, embarrassed. “I mean to say that, from what has been observed, they have operatives of merit. It would be valuable, as a whole, and involve little risk so long as the proper oversight is maintained. I am prepared to take responsibility for it, your honor, should my judgement prove poor,” she said, bowing her head respectfully.

A smile came upon Halforth’s expression. “Commendable. Personal responsibility is vital for your future—you are learning well.” Cellia smiled proudly at her mentor’s praise, while he turned to Lady Violet. “Your proposed liaison will need to be suitable, however. I will have no bumbling amateurs slowing down our progress. And they will be very limited in their privileges: their duty will be communication between you and I, seeing that I apparently will be busier than I had initially hoped during my time here. Anything more than that, I leave to the discretion of Sir Depravity and Miss Ravenry. Do you have such a candidate?”

Lady Violet smiled. “I believe I have just the man.”

The rest was just details. Halforth still seemed skeptical, but for all his snide remarks and lack of consideration, Proximo had to admit that he put great faith and confidence in his fellows — he respected Miss Ravenry’s advice and agreed to the proposal accordingly. Of course, this did nothing to change how truncated and constantly monitored this representative would have to be in order to preserve Mod security, but it was something.

“If that is all,” the Lord Moderator said once they were finished, “then my work here is done for now. If you wish to inform your follower that they are to work with mine, you should do so sooner rather than later.”

“Perhaps my assistant could accompany you back to the Palace?” Lady Violet suggested.

“I shall allow it. So long as he can keep pace.” Lord Halforth folded his arms behind his back and walked towards the guarded prisoners, Cellia following close behind.

“Are you sure you have no further need of me, my lady?” Proximo asked, a bit uneasy. “After what happened with the crowd earlier, I would hate to think you were unprotected.”

Violet waved the thought away. “I’ll have my Honest Friends, Proximo, and my honest friend, of course. In all fairness, it would be more reasonable for me to worry about you, were it not for you being accompanied by a full team of Moderators. There are few people in the Web stupid enough to accost a man of Halforth’s position. I’ll meet with you in a few hours; inform our friend of his new role, and I shall check on the progress of our other ground units.”

Proximo bowed, split off from his fellows, and joined the line of watchmen and criminals and Moderators back to the Palace, a veritable column of red and yellow uniforms led by black and white ones. Hart found himself next to one of the Peacekeepers, not wishing to depend too much on the city watch that had done little to protect them earlier that day. It was the auburn haired one with the crossbow, the one called Cartwright, that Proximo stood by as they marched.

“Good day, ain’t it?” the PK said to Proximo after a short time, as they walked up Aureliano’s Way to the Palace on the hill. “The name’s Percy Cartwright, by the way. Sorry we ain’t met yet, but yah know the way things run here, I suppose. City might be a bit of a hole, but at least it keeps yah busy,” he grinned.

“I suppose so,” Proximo replied courteously, sparing a glance at the criminals they were escorting, the result of Mods ‘keeping busy.’ The wretches might have been completely guilty, but it was hard to not feel slightly sorry for them, seeing them stepping shamefully in front of their fellow citizens. “Lord Halforth has made himself well-known to this city in such a short few days. Is he usually so… proactive?”

Percy Cartwright laughed. “That’s a roundabout way of askin’ ‘is he always such a scary stick,’ ain’t it? Yeah, he does damn good work. Glad I work under him—life’d be boring otherwise.” He leaned in and spoke to Proximo under his breath. “Don’t go and tell him I called him a stick now, y’hear?”

The journey back to where Proximo came from was far quieter than his initial one: not a single person heckled at the Mods as they passed, and most moved quickly out of the way when they realized Halforth was coming. Smart move, Proximo thought, the Six only knows what regulations he might find them breaking. If the Dreamweavers held the same hatred for foreign Mods as they did for foreign fandoms, they were aware enough to keep it silent.

They reached the foot of the Palace in short order, the Mods and watch breaking off to escort their prisoners to the holding area the Martes had so graciously given to Halforth. Proximo proceeded inside the manse on his own, looking for his brothers and sisters that he knew to be conducted investigations inside—the one that he looked for in particular, the one that Lady Violet had already chosen as an envoy to the Moderators—would be with them.

The Great Hall was still nearly empty, the only people inside being the guards and a portrait of the city’s founder, Aureliano the First, looking heroic at the front of the room. As Proximo walked towards the western wing, however, he heard a man’s voice come from behind him.

“Why, hullo there!” the man shouted cheerfully with a mocking air. “Just the man I sought—my friend, my ally, my stalwart, my shield against all things, how do you do today, Grand Horse-lover Assistant?”

Proximo stifled a groan, knowing immediately who it was talking. To his disappointment, that prediction proved true when he turned around and saw Withins-Bei swaying towards him.

“My lord,” Proximo said courteously, “how good to see you again."

“Urgh, you are so tediously less honest than that hulking horror that lurches around with you,” Withins-Bei replied with a roll of his eyes. His appearance was as haphazard as always, fine clothes scuffed and torn, and his hair messy and hanging down loosely over his thin eyes. The lordling sighed. “I should have hoped that after all my betrayal and treason against my liege you would have been appreciative enough to at least tell me how irritating you find me. But alas,” he said, “such is the way of courteous people. At any rate, I’ve some new aid for you and your hilarious cause—I haven’t grown bored of you yet, so don’t breathe relief before you’re well and really rid of me.”

“Truly?” Proximo asked, intrigued. Truthfully, though Withins-Bei was an utter pain to deal with, he had also been most helpful in securing the Bronies contacts and sources within the Dreamweave. And unlike most of the resources they made use of, he had demanded no compensation in cash for his services—apparently he found the drama unfolding so amusing that helping the people the Martes despised was payment enough. “I would be happy to pass along the news to Lady Violet, as to this help. What is it, then?”

“Actually, this particular morsel is for you alone… what was the name again? Proximo?”

“Proximo Hart.”

“So you are,” Withins-Bei said with an odd smile crossing his face. “Come to my side for a moment, Proximo Hart—it’s story time.”

Proximo shot the pudgy man a look, but followed nevertheless, curious as to what he was talking about. Withins-Bei waved him over to him, standing directly in the sight of the portrait that stood at the furthest end of the room. “Have you heard much of how this city came to be, Hart?” he asked, smiling wanly at the painting.

Proximo looked at the same piece of art. It was the same one that had been hanging there when the Bronies had first arrived, but he had never taken the time to look at it in great detail. It showed the city’s founder, the first Aureliano Martes to call himself Lord of the Dreamweave, standing proudly in long and stately robes, looking down directly at those that entered his mansion. One of his hands rested on a stack of canvas, the other rested at his side clutching a builder’s hammer closely. The face of Aureliano the First was old, weathered, experienced, but still lively and strong after many years. “I haven’t, I confess.”

Withins-Bei seemed to take that as an invitation. “Aureliano Martes, the first of his glorious name,” he said in a drawn-out way, “was an Indelian trader, who shipped his dyes and inks across the Web and made a fair fortune doing so. He was inventive and restless, talented and ambitious, and so he was everything that Deviens love and admire, and his enterprising brought him great acclaim. But one day, he did something very stupid. He had a dream. And in that dream he saw a beautiful city of mirrors, where the halls and homes and streets were all like polished glass that showed only his reflection and that of his children and his children’s children. And so his fate was sealed: he gathered up his fortune and family, and began to build a new city on this little green island, which he named after the dream he had, in gratitude.

“And so,” he continued, “since that day the lords of this city that waxed and waned proud have had the name Aureliano, and more importantly have carried the family name Martes—the only name that matters, remember? It’s so strange,” he remarked with a half-sad look in his eyes, “how the name can be so much the same, and yet the men so different. What would the First think of the Third, I wonder? What would he think of Arcadio?”

For a moment, Withins-Bei said nothing, staring silently at the portrait as Proximo did the same. “Good history,” Proximo said, “but what has it to do with me?”

Withins-Bei smiled smugly. “It occurred to me earlier today that I had never caught your family name when we were first introduced. The name that mattered. It wasn’t until I had the most fascinating party come to me that I learned it, and now I can only wonder why you weren’t toting that little privilege without shame. Are you related to the Indelio Harts, by any chance?”

“I am,” Proximo said, now feeling uncomfortable.

“A Hart of Hartshold,” Withins-Bei smirked, “and not far from hold or home, either. Are you a nephew of Lord Theostinian then, or a—"

“A son, actually.

The disheveled noble burst out laughing. “Oh that is too funny. You know, when she first told me your full name and asked me to find you, I almost didn’t believe her — I had long thought that the son of Theostinian was… well, let’s say in no position to be visiting this little slice of paradise.”

“What do you mean, my lord?” Proximo asked, confused. Truthfully, he had hoped that he wouldn’t be recognized while in the Dreamweave, guessing that the reputation he had left behind in Indelio would not be a good one, but Withins-Bei seemed to be hinting at something else. And that 'she’ that the man had mentioned as having sent him made Proximo worried. It couldn’t be her could it? Hart thought, memories of his family racing back. ‘I can see who you care for more,’ he remembered hearing. ‘Join your friends then. And do not return.’

“I do hope that you’ll stop calling me ‘lord,’ dear Hart of Hartshold,” Withins-Bei said unctuously. “It leaves the wrong impression as to my role in life. Still,” he added cryptically, “Though I suppose acting as the beautiful lady’s errand boy is a bit of a lordly thing for me to do, isn’t it? How chivalrous of me. She was practically soaked with anticipation, having me find you, that handsome young thing. Of course, I had to tell her that she wasn’t your type, seeing that she only has two legs, no tail and—"

“Alright, alright,” Proximo interrupted, having heard enough for one day, “get to the point, Withins-Bei.”

“Now that’s more like it!” the noble replied, delighted. “She was insistent, though. How could I resist? And so here I am, fulfilling my duty. It wasn’t even difficult.”

“I’m happy to hear it. I suppose you can take me to see this ‘she’ you refer to?” Proximo asked, fearing the worst. Not now, he pleaded in his mind, Six save me, not now. His family was the last thing he wanted to deal with, under the circumstances.

“Take you to her?” Withins-Bei chuckled. “Why, she’s been listening this whole time. She’s just too shy, bless her, to try and say hello herself. Oh my lady, my lady!” he cried out.

Proximo steeled himself to see a slender woman dressed in green and white appear… but was surprised that someone else entirely was approaching instead.

She was walking towards them quickly and sheepishly, red-faced and embarrassed. Eyes under short dark hair tried to avoid meeting Proximo’s as she stepped forward. When she stopped in front of the two of them, she hesitated to speak, giving Withins-Bei a chance to jump in instead.

“My dear Hart, I believe you’ve already made yourself extremely well-introduced to my dear Lady Imelia Kohburn. I can hardly blame her, wanting to seek you out so desperately. Why, even I was almost seduced by all that gallantry and charming charm, why I— “

“I hate you, Withins-Bei,” Imelia snapped, seeming far less hesitant now that someone was insulting her.

The lordling sighed and rolled his eyes. “Not even a thank you? A Withins-Bei cast aside despite his service, as always. Well, don’t let me keep you. I’ll just eavesdrop somewhere I’m more wanted, thank you very much. Good day, Lord Hart.” He swaggered off, whistling to himself as he did, leaving Proximo and Imelia alone.

Imelia bit her lip, looking down. “You must think I’m a terrible fool, my lord. I’m sorry I didn’t just come out myself, but I… I didn’t really know how to go about it.”

Proximo dismissed her concern immediately. “It’s nothing to me, my lady. Though,” he joked lightly, “you may want a better choice of confidante next time. Withins-Bei does not seem like one that keeps trust consistently.”

She smiled bashfully. “No, I suppose not. Sorry again, my lord, but he was the only one that I knew you had spoken to before. I thought of asking one of your Bronies if they knew where to find you, but they always seemed so busy.”

“While Withins-Bei never does, I imagine,” Proximo added wryly. “It is a pleasure to see you again, my lady,” he said sincerely. He had actually been thinking of checking in to make sure she was well in the days after they met, but he hadn’t been sure that she would have any interest in seeing much of anyone—he probably wouldn’t have, were he the one being hounded and mocked by all his former neighbors and friends. “Are you…”

“I’m well. And you can just call me Imelia.” She bit her lip again, then quickly added, as a hasty afterthought, “Sometimes people call me Imi.” She was dressed in a fine gown, though an old one, and had her hair draw up into a fashionable bun, her bangs still hung down her forehead. It occurred to Proximo that she had gone to lengths in order to make herself look nice for meeting him.

“Very well, Imelia,” he said, thinking the alternative name a little too casual for now. “But if that’s the way it goes, I must ask that you call me Proximo—that ‘my lord-ing’ can hardly be one-sided, if we’re going to be fair.”

She smiled. “OK, Proximo.” Imelia said nothing for a moment, then said slowly, “I wanted to thank you.”

“There’s no need, Imelia,” he replied sympathetically, “Any one of my friends would have done the same, and the thanks you’ve given have already been—"

“No, I mean I want to thank you properly," she said with a step towards him. They were close enough that they could have locked hands and began dancing again, if they had wanted to. “I want to help. With all this in the Dreamweave—the Martes and the Mods, I want to help you. As thanks.” She looked at him, expectantly.

Proximo wasn’t sure what to say. Since the first time they had met at the ball, Proximo’s efforts had all been focused on keeping Imelia out of all the political nonsense happening around him, not hoping she would jump in. Even when Theosyrius had suggested making use of her, Proximo had refused, thinking she’d want no part in all of it. And yet, here she was, making the offer regardless. “You… you do not need to do that, my lady. It wouldn’t be right for me to—"

“Imelia,” she insisted. “I know I don’t have to, Proximo. But I want to.”

“If you help us,” he said gently, “the Martes and their lickspittles will learn of it. They’ll use it as an excuse against you. It isn’t your fight.” I don’t want innocent people caught up in this, Proximo thought.

“They already hate me,” Imelia said with a weak smile, “what else can they do?” She looked down at the floor, not looking at Proximo. “You already know why they do it, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Proximo confessed. He would not have known, had Withins-Bei not told him, but apparently an unexpected pregnancy with an unknown sire was enough to garner the attention of people with a truly sick sense of humor. Imelia did not show any outward sign of her condition, but he knew how heavy it was weighing on her.

She smiled appreciatively. “You know why they hate me, and you knew it that night when we met. But you helped me. I… I don’t know anything about your friends, or your fandom. I don’t know if they’re all like what people say they are. You helped me, Proximo, and you were the only one that ever did. I can’t just let that pass by without trying to repay you—you know that, don’t you?” The look she gave to him was hopeful and pleading, and had something else in it as well, something that made Proximo feel very unsure. He could feel her eyes on him intently. They were a deep, dark green, more beautiful than any of Imelia's other features. Proximo had never really noticed that until that moment.

He gave in quickly. “If that’s truly how you feel, then I am no man to stop you Imelia,” he said to her delight. “But what kind of help do you mean?”

“I have a friend in the city watch,” she explained, “There is information about them, and the guards that Sir Harald had with him, before he was murdered. The watch won’t help you, but I can get you this contact—what he and I can tell you might just mean something.”

Proximo nodded. “Sounds like a lead to me. Where can we talk about this?” he asked, still preferring to speak of such things in as much privacy as possible. They were too far for the guards in the hall to hear them, but it never hurt to be prepared.

“The information I have is in my home, down in the city. We can go there now, if you like.”

He considered it. “I’ll need to check in with some of my friends in the Palace first, but certainly. Would you be willing to join me, for a moment?”

She smiled and nodded, and they walked together towards the western wing, so Proximo might find his fellows. As they did so, his mind turned to this new partnership he’d struck. They had been in the Dreamweave some three days now, and had little to show for it in terms of progress. Proximo wasn’t sure if this lead Imelia claimed to have would prove a turning point, but at the very least he had made a friend. He only hoped that it would be enough for her, in the end.

* * * * * *

“When his neighbors first saw John the Traveller returning from his sojourn in the mountains, they were shocked, as they had thought after three weeks in the wilds that he must have perished. It was true, though, that the boy that had left was gone, and the man who came back to his house was far different: his brown hair had gone white, his grey eyes seeming aged and webwise as though from many years. He had always seemed distant and strange to his fellows, but now when he spoke it was with the voice of one much older than sixteen, which was his age in truth.

“When he was first recognized by the men at the walls, John was let inside and asked to see his sister Abigail. When she asked where he had been, fearful for his safety after the long weeks gone, he told her that, during his contemplation in the high hills, he had been visited by Truth itself. She listened as he recounted the tale.

“As he had knelt beneath an oak tree nestled in the rock of Mount Pale, John gazed at the stars overhead. He pondered on why nature moved in the way it did, why men acted how they would, and moreover in what way they are meant to act. He thought of the corsairs that ruled his homeland: was their way, in which the strong rule however they please and the weak suffer what they must, truly the correct state of affairs? He thought not, but it was the only way he knew—something within him told him it was wrong altogether for the minions of pirates and thieves to steal and kill the innocent as they pleased.

“And as he sat in the dark, John the Traveller began to hear music.

“It came from no source, and no matter where he moved or turned it would grow no softer nor louder, nor could he find any direction it sounded from. Voices and songs swirled around him, the most beautiful that he had ever heard, and he found himself letting go of the ground beneath him, lifted by a rising pillar beyond sight into the above.

“John looked down, and saw his resting place, and his home, and all the island that he had lived on in his life. He saw many lands beyond as well, ones he had never imagined could be, with surging rivers that fed strange seas, and mountains that scraped the heavens, and terrible shadows at the rim of the world. They were burning, these foreign lands, as was his own home, he saw beneath him—burning endlessly from the fires of conflict. And above him, John saw the celestial heavens.

“It was the Music of the Spheres that John heard, as they plied and moved across the sky and space in perfect balance, out of divine order. The code of the Web was calling to him, showing him that everything in every place, and all that moved and dwelt in the world, was aligned by the same principles, and the same laws, within the same Creation. There was a truth in the world, ingrained down to the tiniest particle, that could not be changed, altered, or mistaken by any man alive, nor would it ever cease to be true for all people, in all places. It was the Fact of All Fact.

“But the music grew cacophonous, and John was confused—why was this beauty interrupted? And then he realized what had happened in the Web, and what had to be set right.

“‘But how?’ he asked the heavens.

“Suddenly, the dissonance vanished, and only a single strain of sound remained. But it grew, louder and fuller, filling every inch of the world that John saw, and finally he understood what it was that spoke and sang to him. It was the Order of All Things, the Law Above Creation, the Light of Life, the Truth That There Is Truth, the Mind of Reason, the One, which made and pervaded everything and guides our lives. It was the Logos-Most-High, and through its music, John gained enlightenment.

“John wept when he recounted this, and told his sister that he had been called to set the Web to right. The music of all things had grown chaotic due to the folly of man—the mindfulness and brilliance that made our race unique and favored above all others had been corrupted, and turned into rapine and vice and evil. John had been given the knowledge of how man was meant to live in accordance with the order of the Web, and in his sister’s witness swore his oath:

“‘I, John, shall not rest in this life or any other, until the commands given to me by the Logos are set and followed and held as true in every corner of the Web. None alive will send me away from this path, and no power of the world or strength of arms will I allow to defeat me. The truth of this cause is greater than human, and it will not die. This I swear, by the Order of All Things.’”

— Excerpt from “The Book of Histories,” in the Books of Black and White.

Chapter XX: A Deceptive Cadence

* * * * * *

“The Loyal Wing of the Citadel of the Six is always buzzing with life: novices and veterans alike walk and sprint and talk, training with weapons to prepare for when their friends call upon them or simply passing the time in the way they know best. The liveliest of them all might just be the woman I sit with now: one of short stature, with burning grey eyes and a welcoming smile that rarely fades. Lady Madelin Artemelia Wright has served as the Warden of her branch for years now, but still treats her duty with the same enthusiasm as in her earliest days of service. Seated in what passes for her office, she is every bit as fond of asking questions as she is of answering them. I will also add that I have not had to make use of removing profanities until this interview was conducted.”

Lady Wright:

“Back from the very beginning, eh? Well, I’ll do what I can, but I gotta warn you now—it goes a ways down the line if you want the whole story. How the Hell are you anyways?”

Lorelove:

“I’m well, my lady. Thank you again for agreeing to help with this.”

Lady Wright:

“Well [expletive redacted], you can’t expect me to just hang around and lounge when I hear my favorite purple smartypants is writing up a book, can you? That’s right, I said favorite, but don’t you go tellin’ Mars! Ha!”

Lorelove:

“Without a doubt, my lady. If you—"

Lady Wright:

“Er, sorry for interruptin’, but have you got anything happening later today? Other book-stuff, I mean. I don’t need to be gabbing off my gums if you have places to be, hear?”

Lorelove:

“I’ve got all day, Lady Wright. Don’t hold back.”

Lady Wright:

“I can cut the chatter if you need me to, is what I’m meanin’. Just say the say if I’m wastin’ daylight, God knows no one around here ever does.”

Lorelove:

“Don’t worry, I’ll need every word.”

Lady Wright:

“Alright, you asked for it, don’t say I didn’t warn you. Ha! Now [she slams a hand on the table], where do I start? Home, I guess. That was ancient history, really, but like I said, the story goes a ways back down the timeline, understand?”

“I was born out by Mead’s Creek, in the Redcup of the Land of Faces. Nice place, lot of trees, lot of cute little deer and such. I was the baby of the family—youngest, with a literal handful of older brothers. [She is silent for a moment, thinking about what she said] By literal handful, I meant five. Like fingers, get it? Never mind, forget that, point is it was my five brothers and my mom and dad, and a whole mess of other relations all in Clan Wright. I wasn’t like Mars when I grew up: I was never alone, never lackin’ people to talk to or look up to. And trust me, when you’re the youngest of the younglings, you’ve got a lot to look up to, see? You have brothers, Lorelove?”

Lorelove:

“A younger one, my lady.”

Lady Wright:

“Boy, that must’ve been a handful sometimes. I never had to worry about that, at least, but with a lot of people in the family that are a lot smarter or a lot stronger, or a lot prettier, or… well, alright, let’s just say it, a lot taller than you, some sorts might start to feel a little cramped. A bit claustrophobic is what I mean. Don’t get me wrong, I love my family, but you need your space, right? That’s what I thought anyways, so once I was eighteen I signed on with a merchant ship and started off across the Web, to find… well, something, I guess. I wasn’t very clear, all things considered. You probably think that’s pretty silly, you being all sorted out I mean.”

Lorelove:

“No, no, I understand—”

Lady Wright:

“Yeah, I mean, I get it. Don’t go off just because you could, right? I was pretty stupid when I was a kid, but hey, if it got me here it couldn’t have been all bad decision-wise. Ha!

Anyhow, it was the Fine Vintage I served on first, the ship, I mean, and I’m guessin’ you can guess what we were shipping. Well, after that it was Redsum Dawn out of a southern port, then Cold Mountain, then the Kraken—urgh, can’t believe I had to remember that [expletive redacted] nightmare—then the Blast from the Past, don’t ask about the name you don’t even want to [expletive redacted] know, and then after that one was… ah, well the last one was the Brighter By Night.

I saw a lot of places, in the years I spent out there. Halfway around the Web, if you’d believe it. I got to see north and south and Central, craggy mountains in one place and long deserts in another. I got as close to the Deep Web as I’d ever like to, and a few other neat places besides. I don’t mean to say that I’ve been there—just in case any Mods come askin’—but I’d say that if you were ever in Kio-Kyo, up past the Great Firewall, maybe smuggling, then you should try the river crab. The stars are pretty strange, up there.

“It was weird, how the water would always be different, wherever I’d go—I never thought about that before I went out, you know? I saw blue water, green water, water that would freeze you in a half a heartbeat or the kind you could lie down in all day, fall asleep in if you wanted to. Calm in one place, but in the right stops? Dark, black, like its filled with ash, and stormy and rocky like you would never believe. That’s what the Chan was like, out in the Bay of Masks.

“That last ship I told you about? The Brighter? She was a sinker. She’d been out on the Saying Sea almost twenty years, but it was twenty too many, because she couldn’t take the Bay. We were rescued, but I was washed up and washed out, and I didn’t feel like heading on another ship for a while. Didn’t see the point, so I made my way in the Chan instead. Those Channic know how to keep you busy, I’ll say that much. Won’t claim it was my proudest year, but it was something.

Lorelove:

“And that’s where you were for the First Rise?”

Lady Wright:

“You got it, kid. I was in Comchan then. I’d found some work, but it was oddjob nothingness, not something you have a heart for. Most of my time I was bottled up in some sink or in the slap-pits for money on the side. If you’ve got a talent, right? Well, it didn’t last long.

“There was some talk, around Comchan. Some new weirdos, same as every week. But not the same, you see. Now, some people found these guys funny. A few of ‘em thought they had all the right ideas, and you’ll find a lot of those folks here in this Wing, if you ask around. And a lot of others thought that they were a little too [expletive redacted] much for one island. Now, I don’t wanna blame the last ones but… actually, no, scratch that, I do wanna blame ‘em, but yeah I get it, it was weird. Didn’t stop me getting curious, though.

“You know, I see now why I couldn’t seem to stop anywhere, not at home and not when I was out sailin’. Even the Chan was just temporary, and you know why? ‘Cause I didn’t have a leg to stand on. I didn’t sink like the Brighter, but I was just floating, and that was pointless, really. Take my advice, kid: find what you want to do early, or might end up in tough straits, and you might lose yourself on the way. But you know what? I guess I found something after all, in Comchan that autumn.

“Every word of it was everything, to me. I’d never had anything like it: I was drunk on the Six, and they filled me like nothing else. Can you remember when you first really listened? I mean, really, no jokes, no eye-rolling, no ‘just so I can laugh later,’ but really listened to them? I hope everyone in the fandom remembers that moment. Six save me, it’s still in me even now, and I’ll never shake it, I swear. I don’t want to, either.

“I met a lot of people I liked, a lot I’d die for… but I started meeting the ones that might kill me, too. That’s the problem with new things: there’s always a pushback. Well, when the Channic push, they push hard, and a lot of my new friends were getting shoved over, if you understand me. I didn’t know it then, but I was a Loyal Friend before we even called ourselves that, and when it came to a brawl… well, I had my talents, remember?

“There weren’t many of us, not at first, but we had something better than numbers. ‘The fire of friendship lives in our hearts,’ right? Well… heh, I guess maybe some dead men think I might have taken that ‘fire’ part a shade too literally.”

— Part 1 of the interview of Lady Madelin Wright, the Warden of Loyalty, as recorded by Lorelove for use in her book, The Brony War.

* * * * * *

They were four hours in, and still getting nowhere. The inquiries demanded that they ask around the city watch and other staff in the Palace of Aureliano, but unsurprisingly most were either tight-lipped or said little they did not already know. This guard hardly seemed more promising, so far.

“Did you ever observe Sir Harald Corey or his squire leave the Palace unattended?” Theosyrius asked wearily, using the same question that they had tried on several guards before. “Without any protection and without consulting anyone?”

The man of the city watch, a man named Catus, scratched his thick beard, then shrugged. “No, can’t say I did. Only ever saw him around here, talking or shouting, depending on the day.”

“Talking about what?” Coin Counter questioned, not liking their chances of anything new coming up. Three days, and still no one can attest to witnessing Sir Harald that night, or going to Nightside any night before, he thought. Standing alongside Theosyrius in the eastern wing of the Palace, Coin wondered if any of their colleagues were having better luck with the other residents.

“Complaining, most times,” the guard Catus sniffed. “That Sir Harald hated everything. If it wasn’t the food, it was the beds, and if it wasn’t m’Lord and Lady Martes, it was you horse-lovers. The sir couldn’t stand them, is what I’m saying.”

“He felt insulted?” Theosyrius pressed.

“Yeah, all day every day,” he replied, rolling his eyes. “You should have heard this knight. Bull-headed, stubborn as a stump. Everything was an insult, or a threat, or something stupid like that. There was always something, you know?”

“Was there any merit to his complaints?”

Catus shrugged again. “Well, I didn’t like him. Hell, no one did, far as I could tell. Aureliano thought he was dragging his feet, so did the lady, and M’Lord Arcadio said he was as useless as he was pig-headed. The only person Harald seemed to like was his squire—I could tell he was always soft on him. Your two buddies didn’t like him either, though, ‘specially the one with the blue hair, Debrio or Daviano or…”

“Dabrius,” Theosyrius corrected.

“Yeah, that one. Sir Harald was always brushing him off, whenever he asked for stuff. Like, lifting the ban and such, or an apology for the Brony that went and killed himself down on the docks. Then they’d bicker for a while, then they go off, and then it’d start all over again the next day.”

Same old, same old, Coin thought, recalling the other guards all saying the same. From what he had gathered, this Sir Harald had been very resistant to working with either side when he had come to the Dreamweave. The Bronies were demanding that the ban be lifted and reparations be considered for the Brony who had burned himself alive, but the Martes wouldn’t budge, and neither would Harald, no matter how sweetly or firmly he was asked. “Was there any time in particular, any conversations, that stood out to you or might be relevant?” Coin asked.

“They all went about the same way,” the guard remarked, scratching his beard again. “Any talks, I mean. Some were longer than others, but there was a pattern, you know? First,” he said with a wave of his hand, “one of them would make a demand, then the other one would, then Harald would say ‘I can’t make a final decision yet’ or something. Then one of you horse-lovers would talk ‘bout some law or another, or M’Lord Arcadio’d talk about how Dabrius was a criminal, and then it’d go downhill from there.”

The criminal accusations again, Coin thought. It had been the third or fourth time someone had accused Dabrius of being involved with some underworld connections in the city. It was probably pointless mudslinging, but he was curious how such a tale had been started. “Why did Lord Arcadio say that?”

“Dunno. Not my job to question the commander, so I didn’t. M’Lord Arcadio doesn’t like your kind, begging your pardon,” the man said nonchalantly.

“You don’t seem to share his opinion,” Theosyrius noted, seeming interested.

Catus narrowed his eyes. “Don’t mistake me. Talking to you gets me out of guard duty, and beyond that it isn’t my business. I just do what the Martes tell me to do, when they tell it. The watch follows Lord Arcadio, so don’t go thinking I’ll do you a favor.”

Theosyrius took the pass gracefully, but what the guard said got Coin thinking. “Lord Arcadio and Sir Harald didn’t get along, then?”

The guard tilted his head at the question. “No,” he replied, “they didn’t care for each other.”

“How so?”

He stiffened. “Lot of insults. Name-calling. They didn’t care for each other, that’s all I said.”

Coin could sense there was more to this than the man was saying. “That’s what you said,” he replied lightly, “but not all that you mean. Lord Arcadio thought he was useless? Too useless to side with the Martes in upholding the ban?” When Catus remained firm, Coin pressed the point. “You agreed to speak with us because we have Lord Halforth’s word behind us. ‘Hereby given leave to inquire,’ remember? You aren’t doing us a favor—just what the Lord Moderator demands.”

Catus was silent, looking at Coin. Then, he looked around him carefully, scanning the hall in case anyone was listening or approaching. “Yeah,” he said eventually, “yeah it’s like you said. Lord Arcadio hated him, but I still think that Sir Harald would’ve ruled against you types in the end. There were times it was close, though. Lord Arcadio was always saying how Harald was a, ah, well a stupid son of a bitch, and the sir hated us right back. There was one time… honestly, I thought it was going to be a fight. Lord Aureliano had to pull the commander away, it got so bad, but that was months ago. Now listen, if you’re trying to say—”

He stopped suddenly at the sound of footsteps approaching—several footsteps, walking in tandem, right towards them. “Deepening Hell,” he swore, looking away frantically, “I can’t be here, you all stay away—”

“Catus!” called a familiar and unwanted voice. “I see you’re entertaining company.”

Arcadio Martes, flanked by half a dozen of his scarlet-clad guardsmen, appeared in the hall, with his brother Aureliano trailing behind closely. Both the similarity and the difference between the two brothers was immediately striking: there was an instant resemblance, particularly in their eyes and faces, but Arcadio was sharp, lean, and strong where his elder brother, the ruler of the city, was soft and pouchy. At Aureliano’s arm was his wife, Pilara, looking at the Bronies with a disdainful curiosity.

“M’Lord,” Catus said nervously, looking at the ground as he bowed his head.

“What’s the meaning of this?” Aureliano demanded immediately, pointing a ringed finger at the Bronies in his sight, lifting the cuff of his fine robes. “Are you trying to succor my guards away from me?”

Pilara put her hand on her husband’s shoulder, bracing herself close to him. “Trying to find traitors for their cause, no doubt,” she said in a low voice, her lips only an inch from Aureliano’s ear. “Are we to stand for this, my love?”

“Certainly not,” Aureliano replied, countenance darkening. “If you think you can tempt away the protectors of my wife and this city, you are sorely mistaken, criminals.”

Catus was shaking his head frantically at the approaching Arcadio, but Theosyrius stepped forward reluctantly. “My lords, my lady, please. There is nothing of the sort happening here, we were simply—"

“Asking him the ordinary routine, like you did with my other guards?” Arcadio asked, thin lips turning into an unfriendly smile. “Well, I hope Catus was cooperative. Were you?” Arcadio asked, putting a red-gloved hand almost lovingly on the side of Catus’ face. “If I’d known you were so willing to whore yourself, I might have found better work for you. What do you say, Catus? Eager to prostitute yourself again?” Arcadio’s other hand was cradled around one of the knives at his belt.

Catus paled, stammering quietly at the question. One of the other guards came forward, an ordinary-looking sort… aside from what he carried in his hands.

Carried in front, with a finger perilously close to the trigger, Coin was shocked to see that the city watchman was clutching an Authority repeater, one of the finest weapons in the Known Web, and that several others in Arcadio’s party had the same. Whereas an ordinary variety of crossbow would require extensive time to reload, the one’s made in Central for the use of the Moderators operated by an ingenious mechanism that allowed them to be fed ammunition via the lever on the weapon’s bottom, letting it be fired extremely quickly. They were unparalleled in deadliness in the right hands, but prohibitively expensive—Coin found it amazing that a lowly city watch would have access to such equipment.

That same crossbow was being gestured at the Coin and Theosyrius. “What should be done with these two, m’lord?” the guard asked to his commander. “Punish ‘em?”

“Well, we can’t let Catus have all the attention, can we?” Arcadio laughed harshly. He rounded on the Bronies swiftly. “What say you, beanpole?” he asked mockingly to Theosyrius, poking him in the chest with a finger. “Oh, go on, mewl something in your defense.”

Theosyrius pursed his lips. “My lord, we are simply gaining evidence for our investigation. We have a signed note from Lord Halforth,” he said, fetching the message from his coat pocket, “that says that we may do so in order to—"

“Oh well, would you look at that!” Arcadio said with feigned amazement. “I suppose it really can talk. Now that is an extraordinary piece of paper, isn’t it? Don’t you think so, Catus?”

The terrified Catus still did not respond, but one of the other troops his Arcadio’s party gave a very unpleasant smile. “Pretty neat, m’lord.”

“Well, I think so. But what am I saying? This imbecile was blathering about something,” Arcadio said with a gesture to a red-faced Theosyrius, “and now I’m interrupting. Go on and tell me more, you annoying thing, this is fascinating."

Theosyrius kept out the permit, holding it out like a shield in front of him. “Lord Halforth specifically gave us permission to—" Arcadio reached out a hand “— to gather evidence to support our innocence and—” the hand extended out slightly furthered, towards the paper “— and if you are insistent on verifying that I am certain we can—” Arcadio’s fingers were almost touching the paper, a smile growing on his face while Theosyrius uncomfortably tried to move away “— I, ah, I’m certain that we can be cooperative and…”

Arcadio snatched the permit away, drew out his knife and slashed it apart in front of a shocked Theosyrius. The tatters of it fell in front of the Bronies’ feet, and Arcadio shrugged. “Oops,” he said innocently, “sorry about that, but it just broke so easily. Anything else?” The knife was still in his hand. It was a huge blade, thick with a metal band that covered his knuckles and glittered yellow. One could tell even from a distance that it was dangerously, obsessively sharp, and that it was threateningly close to a very nervous Theosyrius. “Oh, won’t you speak? How rude.”

Aureliano was looking at the knife in his sibling’s hand, and seemed uncomfortable. “Brother,” he said hesitantly, “perhaps you could… I’m not certain that it is necessary. Come now, put that away.”

Arcadio snorted. “Don’t let them ride over you, brother. The lord of our father’s city should be stronger than that.” Before Aureliano could respond, Arcadio took a step towards the Bronies, knife still in hand. “You and your ‘friends.’ You talk so much about them, but where are they now?” The blade drew very close to Theosyrius, inches from his neck. Coin’s hand went to his belt slowly, reaching for his weapon. “Where are your friends, hm?”

“Right here.”

They all looked to the side, and saw approaching another group of Bronies: four Honest Friends were flanking them, and in the center was Caleb, a heavy-set member of the Generous Friends that Theosyrius had called ‘The White Whale,’ and Jayson Joyfelt, clad in a long, pink coat. Both of the diplomats looked as serious and furious as Coin had ever seen them. “What is the meaning of this?” Caleb huffed as the Bronies approached their besieged compatriots.

The knife in Arcadio’s hand lowered, but remained out as he smiled disingenuously at the newcomers. “My word, I didn’t realize lard-filled tubs could talk. I was questioning why this thing was interrogating one of my guards, if you must know.”

"Questioning?” Jayson asked in disbelief. “You have a knife to his throat. Are you mad?”

“This is utterly unacceptable,” Caleb said, stepping up to Theosyrius and drawing him away from Arcadio. "Utterly unacceptable, I say. I suggest you leave immediately, sir.”

“Or what?” Arcadio asked, bemused. “I don’t intend to take orders from lumbering balls of suet,” he said with a wave of his hand to Caleb, “or men that dress up like pink crayons,” he gestured to Jayson. “You think anyone is frightened of you?”

Lord Aureliano was looking between the Bronies and his brother uneasily. “Arcadio, perhaps we had best— “

“There isn’t a man alive that I fear,” Arcadio continued, a yellow flash in his eyes. “But none of you are men, are you? Try me, if you’re so certain of yourselves.”

One of the Honest Friends drew forward: Kriseroff, dark and tall and with cold eyes looking intensely at Arcadio. “Do not take another step,” he said with an unsettling calm, “or it ends badly.” His large hand was tightened around an axe. “This one is Komaga," he remarked, patting the weapon, “and she can be thirsty. Don’t tempt Kriseroff.”

Arcadio’s mouth curled into an unpleasant smile. “I can’t believe someone that bends over for horses is trying to threaten me. Me. You can’t even imagine how I’d like to hurt you.” The large knife in his hand drew closer, and he reached for the second one on his belt.

“Brother,” Aureliano interrupted, placing a hand on Arcadio’s shoulder. “Enough with this now.” He seemed anxious with how his sibling had acted, and equally so with the threat of the Bronies close by. “They’ve learned their lesson, I’m certain.”

Coin thought for a moment that he would not obey, but after a second’s hesitation, Arcadio slid the knife back into its sheath. “Fine,” he said ruefully. “Only for you, brother. This isn’t over, though: I’m sure I’ll see all of you later.”

“Not over indeed,” Caleb said with narrow eyes. “This incident will not go forgotten, my lord. Not forgotten at all. You are being weighed even now.”

“He is one to speak of ‘weight,’ isn’t he?” Pilara Martes remarked with a soft laugh. She had been looking on the entire scene with the same look of amusement, never seeming surprised or startled. “They come to your city after killing our friends, and then threaten your reign and your brother. It cannot stand, my love.”

Aureliano thought about that for a moment, his expression growing firmer. “No,” he replied, “no it will not.” He gestured to his entourage. “We are leaving. Let them drum up their falsehoods on their own.”

Arcadio threw one more scathing look at the Bronies, then did a mock-bow and followed behind his sibling. He grabbed Catus on his way out, shoving him along with the rest—Catus did not meet the Bronies eyes as he was led away. Coin finally let out a frightened breath once they had left.

“Six save us,” Jayson said to Theosyrius and Coin, “what was all that about, then?”

“We were only asking that guard some questions,” Theosyrius replied, still quaking. “He’s utterly mad, I tell you. A few more inches with that knife and…” He shuddered to think of it.

Coin nodded. “Thank you for getting us out of that. Too close, really.”

“It is nothing to speak of friend, truly nothing,” Caleb replied, patting his brow with a handkerchief. “I’ve little skill in arms, and I am no warrior of the Honest Friends, but I stand firm all the same when I must. Not that I’ve much choice in being, er, ‘hard to move,’ let’s say, eh?” He gave a reassuring smile to Coin.

“We got worried after we saw the fop brigade passing your way,” Jayson explained, “I’m glad to know you’re both still in one piece.”

“Kriseroff is sorry he was not by your side from the start, Sir Coin-friend,” Kriseroff said apologetically. “We had thought the house of Martes might be safe from dangers—a poor judgement, as we did not account for dangers within the House of Martes, you see.” His great brow furrowed, creasing the red apple tattooed under his eye. “The Arcadio carries a hunger in him. He is a void that is not filled, and he lashes out from starvation. Very dangerous.”

Theosyrius was still breathing deeply, so Coin straightened himself out to answer. “I have to believe that you had a better time collecting testimony than we did.”

“Well, there were no psychopaths pointing sharp things at our necks, but aside from that there was little to commend,” Jayson said sardonically. “It’s a good thing that we managed to persuade some of the courtiers and staff to help us, because otherwise I doubt we’d be able to find leads on anything. Lady Violet was wise to have us seek them out, but aside from them we’ve had little useful information. Most of it is the same few things over and over.”

“Specifically speaking,” Caleb explained, “that Dabrius and Greenglade did not get along with Sir Harald, and that no one saw either of them or the victims on the night of the murder. Most of them would complain about Sir Harald’s character, as well.”

“Yes, we heard much of the same,” Theosyrius said, having mostly recovered. “Most we spoke with seemed to think that the late Sir Harald was a less inspiring diplomat than might be hoped. Apparently, there was bad blood between him and Arcadio, as well.”

Jayson and Caleb exchanged an interested look. “You think perhaps…”

“I’ve nothing to prove it with. It tells us that our friends weren’t the only ones unhappy with the knight, though, and that means they weren’t the only ones with a motive. Someone killed Harald Corey and his squire: it’s just a matter of finding whom. Not that it will be easy, seeing that most everyone seems to have disliked the man.”

Coin had given that point some thought as well. If determining a motive was the first step to determining guilt, it was worth noting that Sir Harald seemed particularly unpopular in the Dreamweave. There was a gulf of difference between disliking a man and stabbing him to death in the streets, however, and so far there was little that set any of those malcontents apart in terms of truly wanting the knight dead. Unfortunately, with the information they had, Dabrius and Greenglade seemed to have just as much if not more of a reason to want Sir Harald gone as anyone else, though Coin still did not believe them to be guilty.

“This investigation is going to stall if we don’t have some way to corroborate our side of the story,” said Jayson. “We have people who can testify to seeing Dabrius and Greenglade leaving, but none that can place them somewhere other than the crime scene. Once we’re allowed to finally see Dabrius we’ll be able to properly consult him, but even then we’ll need more than his word alone. There must be someone in this city that knows something, and I don’t care where they’re hiding.”

“On that point, we all agree,” Caleb nodded, bobbing his head into one of his necks. “Ah, but it seems we have some more prestigious company now. Look alive, my friends.”

Coin shifted to see who was coming now, hoping that it wasn’t more Dreamweavers, and was pleasantly surprised to see the Assistant Warden, Proximo Hart, instead. He wore a white jacket over a violet vest, with a light blue tie fastened under his collar, and at his arm was a young woman that Coin did not recognize. He guessed that she was younger than either him or Hart, eighteen or twenty, perhaps. She stepped lightly and anxiously beside the accompanying servant of the Generous Friends. Her black hair was cut short, aside from her bangs, and she dressed relatively simply for what was presumably a Palace courtier of some variety. The woman was petite, pretty while not being exceptionally beautiful, and seemed ill at ease around strangers.

“My friends,” Proximo Hart said, narrow eyes lighting up upon seeing them, “you are all precisely who I was looking for. I trust your work is proceeding well?”

“Would that it were better,” Caleb admitted. He turned his attention to the girl. “But before we speak of business, it seems you have us at a loss, dear Proximo. Quite a loss, I daresay. I am afraid that I’ve never been introduced to your lovely companion,” he said with as deep a bow as his large body could manage to the woman.

“Imelia Kohburn,” the lady replied with a bow of her own, blushing slightly.

“It is a capital pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lady Kohburn, a capital pleasure indeed,” replied Caleb, being the soul of courtesy to the lady. “I myself am called Caleb Mathet, servant of the Most Generous Friend. My brother under that station is Theosyrius Kang, while my laughing friend is Jayson Joyfelt, a singer of praises and deeds when he chooses to do so. And my honest friends are Sir Coin Counter, Kriseroff Hathi, Applewood, Apple Orange, and Brandon Dempsay.”

All of the people he named gave their own greetings, while Imelia Kohburn replied in kind, seeming slightly overwhelmed at all the new people. “At any rate,” Jayson said after introductions were over, “I’m guessing you came here for a reason, Proximo. If you’d like a status report, I’m afraid that our findings haven’t amounted to much more yet. Although we did just have an unsavory encounter with the Martes a moment ago, which the lady will be very keen to hear about.”

“And I as well,” Hart replied. “But I actually came to discuss something with Sir Coin, if you can spare me a moment, sir.”

“Ah, of course,” Coin replied, surprised that this concerned him specifically.

“Excellent. I swear it won’t take much of your time, sir.” He turned to his lady companion. “Imelia, could you excuse me for just one moment?”

She nodded, drawing herself into conversation with Caleb as Hart led Coin away. Jayson followed the two of them, though he seemed less interested in business. “I see you have a new lady-friend, Proximo,” he said with a grin, nudging Hart in the ribs with his elbow. “ ‘Love is in bloom, a beautiful bride, a handsome groom,’ eh?”

Proximo gave a wan smile. “Secure that noise, Jayson. She’s volunteered to aid our cause, nothing else.”

“Is that what you’re calling it now?” the pink-garbed man teased amiably. “I’m only joking—Laughing Friend, remember?” He clapped a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Take care, though: you’re liable to make our Warden of Generosity jealous, and I don’t even want to think about how dangerous that might be.”

Proximo Hart smiled at the comment, but Coin could tell that the subject made him uncomfortable—he seemed very eager for the conversation to drift away from his ‘lady-friend’ as soon as possible. They proceeded into a side-room, where Hart leaned up against a wall to face Coin. He ran a hand through his thick, black hair, and then spoke.

“I hope, Sir Coin, that my seeking you did not cause any undue alarm,” Proximo said sympathetically. “But Lady Violet—and myself—believe that there is an opportunity to advance our investigation that only you are equipped to handle. Would you be prepared to help us?”

“I… well I’ll do what I can,” Coin replied carefully, wondering what this ‘opportunity’ was, exactly. “I am yours to command, my lord.”

Hart nodded in reply. “As you know,” he explained, “we are not the only ones seeking to find the truth here. Lord Halforth and his staff are working restlessly to discover who killed their fellow Mod, and Lady Violet believes that having one of our men working more closely with them—as a liason, you see—will aid our progress in more ways than one. That man should be you.”

“Me?” Coin said, surprised.

“You have no problem working with Mods, enough experience in investigations that Halforth cannot object to you out of hand, and you’ve already had some time working with the Peacekeepers. You are the clear choice, sir: no one else would be accepted, given the Lord Moderator’s strict standards.”

It made perfect sense, though Coin still felt uncertain about the whole affair. “What am I to do, then?”

“Officially, you are to act as the Warden’s representative with the Peacekeepers, as they collect evidence. The Lord Moderator understands that the streets are unwelcoming to us, so he is allowing this as a way of providing a degree of protection by working closely with the Mods—no man would be foolish enough to assault you while you’re with them. And, since Halforth is preoccupied with clearing out the scum of the city, he see’s this as a way to keep us informed as to the proceedings. Since he is legally required to provide us with disclosure as to details his Peacekeepers' findings, this is a useful way for him to do so. Work with them closely, and aid them where you can.”

“And unofficially?” Coin asked, picking up on his meaning.

“We have been experiencing a slight… issue, with our appointed judges,” Proximo admitted, abashed. “We need two of them to side with us, in order to find our friends innocent. But we’ve come to fear that swaying Sir Alwin Cameron may be impossible, under present circumstances. Sir Borlund has the man under his thumb, and Cameron is being kept away from us and from the evidence at all costs. So long as Borlund controls him, we have no hope of success at all, and we have no means of separating the two so that we can convince him of our case with him being bullied into submission.”

Proximo looked at Coin, as though testing his understanding. “By placing you into the Mod’s midst, you give us a unique opportunity, sir. You can access Sir Alwin in a more direct way than we can hope for, and get around everything that keeps him in thrall. Drive a split between him and Barr, and we have a chance, at last.”

Coin thought about the plan. On the surface, at least, it was sound: there was simply possible no way to succeed if Cameron could not be convinced, seeing that there was no way Sir Borlund would side with the Bronies. But it opened up its own host of problems. “But how am I meant to do that?” asked Coin Counter, unsure. “I worked with the PKs, yes, but I’ve never met this Sir Alwin. Why would he listen to me?”

“You carry the prestige of a long-serving knight, for a start. As a junior officer, Sir Alwin may listen to you on rank alone, joined with the Collective though you are. But,” he admitted, “there is truthfully no guarantee that he will listen to you, sir. I wish I could offer you such a certainty, but I cannot. Do whatever you can to enter into the Mods’ trusts, and do whatever you can to sway our judges to our side. Perhaps it will not be enough, in the end… but I do know that you’ve the best chance of anyone in our charge.”

Looking down to the floor, Coin carefully considered the idea. Seeing his doubt, Hart smiled reassuringly, and put a hand on his shoulder. “I’ll tell you this much: Lady Violet would not have chosen you if she did not have the utmost confidence in your ability. And if I didn’t as well.”

Coin Counter returned the smile, grateful for the kind words. He breathed out. “I have my duty, it seems. I’ll do it, my lord.”

Proximo Hart bowed his head. “Thank you, sir. You may just save us yet.” Before Coin and Hart departed, however, the generous assistant stopped him with a hand. “There was one other thing, however,” he said delicately. “Sir Coin, I hope you will forgive me if anything I say seems suspecting of you. That is not my intent, nor Lady Violet’s. You have already been asked about your position with us, and every answer you gave was more than satisfactory. But I feel the need to warn you nonetheless: it may be that working closely with the Authority again, with Mods not unlike those you once served, might open itself to difficult questions.” He looked at Coin with a knowing expression, as though he understood what it meant to have split loyalties.

Coin considered those words. There was every reason to be concerned, he realized: when a man spends half his life in service to something, it’s not unreasonable to guess it might have some lasting impact. It was something Coin had been approached about before, but that was before anyone was certain that he’d be working side-by-side with his former masters again. Admittedly, it unsettled him slightly: should the mission require him truly working against the Mods, misleading old loyalties for the sake of new ones, how would he…

Coin Counter shook the thought from his mind. There’s no space for doubt now, he repeated to himself. “I understand, my lord. I might not wear blue, but that doesn’t mean I can’t be a loyal friend. I gave my word.”

“I apologize for putting you in an awkward position, Sir Coin. Truly I do,” Proximo Hart said, understanding. “Should you ever require any help—or just want someone to talk to—don’t hesitate to seek me out, or any other man of the fandom on this island. We stand together, or we fall alone, as they say.” He sighed, and ran a hand through his hair again, giving it more volume. “If the others can spare you, I believe that the Moderators are in the Palace again—you can join them now, if you like.”

The others were disappointed to see Coin leave, but they understood the gravity of the duty ahead of him enough to not begrudge the loss. After some goodbyes from all of them—and a crushing hug from Kriseroff—Coin took his leave, seeking out the Peacekeepers. Hart left as well: apparently he was travelling to the Kohburn woman’s home, a fact that raised some thinly-veiled jokes at his expense from Jayson and Kris. Coin didn’t know where the Dreamweaver lady had come from, but he was glad that she seemed prepared to help, at least.

Coin made his way through, heading through to where he had been told the Mods could be found. He walked alone, though he hardly felt at risk within the heavily guarded Palace, and kept a fair pace as he turned through the winding red halls. He was wrapped up in thoughts: every step brought back a memory of sorts, or some half-remembered lesson from his academy days in Central, or recollections of squiring under Sir Samuel Harker those years ago. Coin wondered how he was meant to go forward with his new task: with so much riding on it, there was no room for him to fail or fall behind.

He was so deeply entrenched in his thoughts that he did not realize that others were rounding a corner at the same time as him. Coin slammed into the man, colliding and falling down immediately. The one he’d knocked down wasn’t the only person in the group: an angry man, finely dressed with hair dyed in red and burgundy, loomed above Coin as he sat on the ground, dazed.

“Watch where you’re going!” the man yelled impatiently. “Honestly, as though a man can’t walk around and have a conversation in this damnable house without having some half-wit clumsy fool of a guard smash into you like—" He stopped speaking, once he examined Coin further, looking up and down at his attire. “No, not a guard. Our luck, Ott.”

“Sorry, sorry, sir,” Coin stammered, lifting himself quickly, and moving over to the man who fell and extending a hand—he could only really see the back of his dark-haired head, but the one he knocked over seemed thin and was garbed in bright blue. “I really didn’t see you there,” he grasped the fallen man’s hand and pulled him up, “here let me—“

Coin had to restrain a gasp when he helped the stranger up to his feet, and saw his face.

The one who looked back at him was utterly unnatural. His skin was brown, but only partially: huge, hideous spots of milky white were stretched all across his cheeks, his eyes, his mouth and neck and hands, giving him the same complexion as one of those paint horses from the Blurr. His whole right eye was immersed in one of these patches, a circular pale island in a dark sea, and another seemed to snake up his left arm, though much of it was obscured by the hem of his sleeve. A single spot of it was resting on his left cheek, as well, underneath his eye like a teardrop. The hand that Coin had grabbed was bony, the man attached to it sickly thin. Coin tried to suppress his shock at the sight, but had trouble containing himself—this stranger was like nothing he had ever seen.

If the man noticed Coin’s gawking, however, he did not show it. Instead, he smiled faintly as he brushed himself off. “Don’t trouble yourself, sir. I’m quite alright. I hope you’ll forgive me for not paying better attention myself: Amberten here is always saying that my head is too often in the clouds, so to speak.” His blue eyes scanned up and down Coin, as though measuring him. “You are guest in the Palace, yes?”

“Ah… I— yes. I am, yes,” Coin said haltingly, still startled.

“A fascinating building, is it not?” the black-and-white man said. “I grew up here, in the Dreamweave, under the shadow of this manse. I’ve always loved its history, myself. Did you know that when he—Aureliano the First that is, those many, many years ago—told others of his plan to build it, they said he would only succeed when tigers flew?” He laughed. “A comfortable impossibility, you see. The first lord of the Dreamweave built it anyways, and took a winged tiger as his family symbol to spite them. Wonderful history.”

“Watch where you’re going next time,” the large and well-dressed man with the dyed hair said to Coin, head darting around to make sure no one was coming. He seemed oddly nervous, having stopped, and eager to move on quickly. “Come now, Ott, let’s be off.”

“Now now, Amberten, there is no call to be hasty.” The strange-looking man smiled. “This man is a guest. I think some introductions are well in order, are they not?” He bowed his patchy head low to Coin. “My companion’s name is Lord Byrios Amberten, to start. My name is Heylen Ott, guest of Martes—I have the honor of being Grandmance of the Dreamweave, serving the Guild eternal.”

Coin Counter went pale, as much as he tried to avoid showing his panic. Darting his eyes down to Ott’s wrist, Coin saw it: a twisted black tattoo, strange geometric shapes that spun and settled into an almost arrow-like array pointed down towards his hand. There were other markings around it—curling, twisting tendrils of fire that surrounded the official image—but there was no mistaking it: a registration tattoo, one that was required by Authority law to be printed on the arms of any man with the cursed blood. A cybramancer! Coin thought, frightened that he had just touched the hand of a thing that could deal out death in a heartbeat with the dark powers.

“I’m certain you have a name of your own, no?”

Coin snapped back to attention. “Coin,” he replied quickly, “Coin Counter, of the Honest Friends.”

The cybramancer, Heylen Ott, closed his eyes and nodded. “A Brony of the Collective. An interesting coincidence—we were just discussing your fandom a moment ago, weren’t we Amberton?”

“Yes,” the lord replied, sounding vaguely angry at the question, “now let’s go, Ott.”

“I don’t mean to keep you any longer, Mister Coin,” Heylen Ott continued, ignoring his companion, “but my friend and I were of two different minds on something, and now I wonder whether you might help us resolve it.”

“Let’s not waste his time, come on,” Amberten insisted, gripping Ott’s shoulder.

“In a moment, please.” The cybramancer put his white hand over the wrist on which his tattoo was printed, gripping it down at his side, as though out of habit. “You say you are of the Honest Friends?”

Coin nodded, not liking where this was going. He glanced down at Ott’s hands, worried that at any moment he might pull out one of their ritual knives to slice across his own palms, powering some spell with his cursed blood.

“Then I pose you a quandary, honest friend.” He smiled gently, blue eyes looking deeply at Coin. “If one swears an oath, the honest course is to maintain that promise, yes? And if one knows a certain truth, it is rightly said to be honest when one reveals that truth, correct?”

“I… I suppose so. Yes, that is right,” Coin said, confused.

“Quite so. But here is where my friend and I were disagreeing: if one has sworn an oath of secrecy, but one also knows that to say the truth will be beneficial, which is the more honest path? Do we have an obligation to always say what is true, even if there are circumstances that compel us not to? Or would it be dishonest to forsake the oath, even if it were to tell the truth?”

Coin opened his mouth to answer, then shut it again. This is some manner of game, he thought quickly, and who knows what a wrong answer means. He glanced down again at the man’s wrist, wary of what might come. “Well,” Coin said carefully, “given those two choices, I would say that neither is ideal. Both ways require some dishonesty. The question is just which of two bad options is best.”

Heylen Ott nodded, smiling. “And your answer?”

Coin thought, then chose. “I would think that telling the truth is best, if it were truly right to do, as you said.”

“Even if others disagree?” Heylen asked, shooting a glance to Amberten, who seemed more ready to leave than ever.

“As long as they weren’t correct, yes,” Coin answered.

The cybramancer laughed gently. “We’re of the same opinion, Mister Coin. Are you one of the investigators, then? I would wager you have the mind for it.”

“I am, yes.”

“We’re leaving, Ott,” Amberten demanded impatiently, head darting around again.

“In a moment,” Heylen said firmly.

“Not in a moment,” he replied angrily, “now."

Amberten wrenched Ott away quickly enough that the cybramancer bumped into Coin’s side again, and walked quickly down the hall with the Grandmance. Heylen Ott still found the time to say goodbye. “Sorry that I have to run, but good day to you, Mister Coin! Hopefully we shall see one another again soon, and best of luck!”

And like that, they were both gone, moved on into the Palace.

Coin took a moment before continuing, still ill at ease. Six save me, he thought, what in life’s light was that about? Coin had been told that the diplomatic team was trying to make headway in swaying some of the Dreamweave nobles to their side, and had been gathering information as well. He wondered what they had learned about this Heylen Ott. Talk of honesty and dishonesty, and angering his friend while doing so. That’s something to look into, if I ever saw it.

During his years training to become a Moderator, Coin had learned about the cybramancers, and they were on his mind as he continued his way forward. True, he had not studied them as much as one planning on policing the Guild would have to, but it was a necessary subject for any man of Central, who still remembered bitterly the dangers of the curse. The cybrahakar were an old and dangerous foe of the Authority, not least because of their close affinity for what they called ‘the other arts’—vile and ruinous powers, in truth, that sapped a man of his strength and sanity, degrading them down to early death if they were lucky, and madness if they were not.

He remembered that his mentor, Sir Samuel, had once told him that cybramancers were prone to deformity: a sign of their condition, of them being rotted away from the inside out. Ott’s own appearance was no doubt due to just that. Their sick and perilous nature was something drilled into Coin constantly during his academy years, and that training made him shudder to contemplate being so close to one of them again. Learning the truth about Lord Feylen Mars was enough, he thought, remembering that time in the Citadel of the Six, now I have another one interested in me, though for what reason only God knows.

He was still thinking of the implications when he found himself in the space allotted to the Moderators in the Palace. The way Hart had worded it, he wasn’t sure if the Mods would have all returned yet, seeing that they were taking care of some official business in shutting down illegal circles in the city, but he was pleasantly surprised to hear familiar voices carried down from the hall.

“...it is not a matter of no motive being present,” came a formal woman’s voice, “but rather that said motive is flimsy at best. There were others in the court with just as many if not more grievances.”

“Yeah, but none of those other ones were chattin’ ‘bout takin’ him out the night before,” said a man. “There’s your difference.”

“There’s a lot of talk about that conspiracy in the city,” said another woman, distant and different from the first. “One of the Bronies was accused of being part of it. Considering the testimony, that might be true.”

Coin approached the room that the voices came from, and heard the formal voice speak again. “Well, we had best hear that testimony prior to any judgments here, though Sir Depravity certainly seemed—“

She stopped mid-sentence, hearing something, then turned around to notice Coin about to knock on the open door. “Sir Coin?” said Cellia Ravenry, sounding pleased. “It is good to see you again, sir. Are you by any chance here on your warden’s orders?”

“I am, m’am.”

“Huh, so you’re the one they sent to us?” asked the man in the room. If Coin remembered correctly, then the auburn-haired Peacekeeper that was sitting at a table in a large, but very bare room, was named Perseverance Cartwright. He sat beside the other PK that Coin remembered, the very pale, monotone woman named Abigail Cawtler. “Well, welcome to the team, bud. Assumin’ his honor approves yah.”

“He seems clean. Lord Halforth approves of that,” said Abigail absently, staring blankly at Coin. “Why was he sent?”

“Sir Coin is the liaison that the Brony Collective has sent for Lord Halforth’s convenience,” Cellia explained. “He shall be on hand to deliver our findings to his superiors personally, and do the same for theirs’. It should be a convenience, seeing how preoccupied his honor has been since we arrived.” She smiled cordially and extended a black-gloved hand. “Allow me to welcome you, Sir Coin: I am certain that you will be a great help to us.”

Coin took the hand and shook it. “Er, likewise, m’am.”

Perseverance chuckled. “Aw, yah don’t have to go and call us all sirs and m’ams and such. She’s just ‘Cellia,’ I’m just ‘Percy,’ and she’s just ‘Abigail.’ ”

“You can call me ‘m’am,’” said Abigail, still emotionless. Coin found it very hard to tell if she was making a joke or not.

“So,” Coin said after a moment’s pause, “where do I start?”

“We’ve got a witness comin’ in, soon as Lord Halforth and the sir get back,” Percy chimed in. “‘Suppose that’ll be interestin’ enough.”

“A witness?” Coin said in surprise. “A witness to the…”

“He didn’t spy on the killing,” Abigail said, “but he knows more than anyone so far.”

It took only a moment for them to arrive. Footsteps: some light, some heavy were echoing through, along with an excited pattering sound. Entering the room, the Lord Moderator almost seemed to glide past, arms behind his back, followed closely by Sir Depravity Blair and another man, a scruffy sort that Coin did not recognize. Bounding beside the knight, panting blissfully, was Sir Depravity’s shaggy black dog, Roger.

As soon as Lord Halforth arrived, all three of the Peacekeepers stood up at attention, followed almost as quickly by Coin. “Your honor,” said Cellia, standing straight with chin high, “the Brony representative has arrived to us.”

Lord Halforth spared a glance to Coin, then looked back to the PKs. “As you were, all of you.”

Percy and Abigail returned to their seats, while Coin remained standing. Cellia did the same, albeit without much of the stiffness of before, particularly after Roger the dog came running up to her excitedly, tail wagging frantically back and forth. She tried to maintain her stoic stance, but broke quickly after the dog started nipping playfully at her hand. “Roger!” she laughed, scratching the dog’s head with one hand and chest with the other as she knelt down to him. “Little rascal, are you causing more trouble, then?” Roger whined loudly and started to lick at her face, making her laugh all the more.

“Miss Ravenry,” Lord Halforth interjected, shooting her a quick glance, “your decorum.”

She stopped doting on the dog, looking embarrassed. “Sorry, your honor,” she said, standing back up again. Roger turned away, disappointed, but she gave him one last pat on the head for good measure.

“Roger, come here you,” Sir Depravity said sourly, snapping his fingers. The dog rushed over, tail wagging again, and started leaning up against the knights legs as he stood, threatening to push him over. “God Almighty, you are a pain,” he said to the dog, scratching the creature’s ear.

“So,” Lord Halforth said mildly, “you are the one your warden has sent to us.” He did not look at Coin, but instead retrieved a metal cylinder set down on the table, and lightly turned the top of it.

“I am, your honor,” Coin Counter replied. “My name is Coin Counter, of the Honest Friends.”

Lord Halforth continued to undo the cap of the cylinder, slowly removing it. “Miss Ravenry mentioned your name. You were a knight, correct? Of the Order of the Fair Trade?”

“Ah, yes. Yes, your honor,” he said, nervous as to how the Moderator would receive this news.

“Interesting,” Lord Halforth mused, fetching a small cup from the table. He poured some hot, black liquid into the receptacle, screwed the lid back onto the cylinder, and set it down. “You have some experience with inquisitorial matters, then? And with the expectations of Authority operators?”

“Yes, your honor.”

He took a sip of whatever it was that he had poured into the cup—Coin was fairly certain it wasn’t tea or coffee, but couldn’t really be sure. “For how many years did you serve?”

“Ah, well,” Coin said, “I was a full knight for five years, and squired two years before that under Sir Samuel Harker, in the Order I mean, but before that I was also in the academy since I was thirteen, so in—"

“I will accept you on conditional grounds, sir,” Lord Halforth said, cutting him off. “First, shorten your responses. That question could have been answered with two words, four if you prefer to be polite. The warden of your branch is appropriately succinct, so follow his example.”

Ignoring Coin’s abashed look, the lord continued. “Furthermore, I will remind you that you are here purely as a point of convenience, due to unexpected demands of our time. Do not mistake your position as one of privilege, and never presume to speak with my voice. Finally, my subordinate Miss Ravenry has offered to take responsibility for the choice of including you to this extent. As such, any disappointment on your part will reflect on her.” He looked at Coin with a grave seriousness, cold grey eyes drilling into him. “Do not disappoint.”

“Y— yes, your honor.”

“Is this entirely necessary?” Sir Depravity asked, looking displeased. “My team has enough to worry about as it is, and forcing us to play babysitter for some horse-lover traitor won’t improve things.”

“If it should become burdensome, I will suspend the practice immediately,” Lord Halforth said with a shrug, taking another sip. “As it stands, I would prefer to make the attempt.”

Sir Depravity crossed his arms. “It’s a waste of time. At any rate, he might try to sabotage us,” he continued, still talking as though Coin were not right in front of him. Cellia gave Coin an apologetic look, but truthfully he had grown fairly used to people insulting him at this point: stay in the Dreamweave long enough, and all fell to background noise.

Coin was mostly focused on the man that had accompanied Lord Halforth and Sir Depravity, the one that was standing awkwardly in the corner while this official discussion continued. He was unkempt in appearance, with a scraggly beard and long, messy hair, seeming unhappy to be around Mods. Coin assumed that this man was the witness that Percy mentioned. Witness to what, though?

“Then you had best keep a close eye on him, sir. I am certain that Miss Ravenry and the rest of our subordinates will. Correct?”

Cellia replied with a salute and an immediate “Yes, your honor,” while Percy was content to give a more nonchalant “Yessir.” Abigail replied, “I’m already watching” in a calm voice.

Sir Depravity looked as though he were keen to argue further, but chose not to. The dog at his legs, however, suddenly decided that it was bored being where it was, and instead barreled over to see Coin, eager to meet a potential new friend. Roger started to sidle back and forth in front of Coin, then tried to force his head between the man’s legs while Coin tried desperately to dissuade him.

“Roger seems to approve, at least,” Lord Halforth remarked, shooting a sideways look to the dog.

“He approves of everyone, the stupid fool of a mutt,” Sir Depravity noted morosely. "Roger, would you knock it off? Have some damn dignity.”

Roger cheerfully ignored him, proceeding to rub his ear up and down on Coin’s leg while panting loudly.

“Your honor,” Coin said while trying to ignore the animal, “I was told that there was a witness that I might, er, see. Is this…”

“I’m him, yeah,” said the civilian. “I was the one that saw him, the night it happened, y’know.”

Lord Halforth motioned to a chair, indicating it to the witness. The man took a seat; Coin did the same, hoping that Roger might give it up if he sat down. It didn’t work, and instead the dog simply rested his chin on Coin’s leg while wagging his tail.

“Mister Cartwright?” said Lord Halforth. “Take note of all this. We can prepare a formal transcript once we have finished.”

“Got it, yer honor,” Percy replied, whipping out a notepad and pencil.

Setting down the cup in his hand, Lord Halforth made his way to the head of the table and seated himself. “Please state your name for the record.”

“Adrios,” said the witness, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “M’lord.”

“You are aware, Adrios, that whatever you state in this record can and will be cross-referenced with other evidence, to ensure its veracity?” Lord Halforth asked intently.

The witness Adrios blinked in confusion. “Uh…”

“His honor is telling you not to lie,” Sir Depravity explained impatiently.

“Oh, righto.”

“ ‘Righto,’ indeed,” Lord Halforth replied. “Lying under oath is a grave offense. Pray you do not commit it. So,” the Moderator continued, raising a hand, “do you swear on your life and soul to tell the whole and entire truth, by the Logos?”

Adrios nodded nervously. Lord Halforth then said, “Make a note that the subject showed compliance, Mister Cartwright.” Grey eyes focusing intensely on the witness, he said, “What is your trade, sir?”

“Gardner, m’lord,” Adrios replied. “I do work ‘round the Palace.”

“What did you observe on the night of Sir Harald’s murder?”

Adrios looked around at everyone in the room, eyes glancing back and forth before he answered. “I have a shift at the Palace most every day, tendin’ to the plants and such. Most times when I’m done I go to a bar on t’other side of town. Out by Nightside.”

“The name of the bar?” asked Sir Depravity.

“Er, the Greenfield, m’lord. I was there the night of the… the murder.”

Percy was scratching down notes, while the Lord Moderator continued to study the witness. “Continue,” Lord Halforth said.

The witness swallowed. “I was sittin’ in the bar, but I stepped out for a while. It was about one in t’morning, and I know ‘cause I checked m’watch. I was just breathin’ and scannin’ around out in the street. That’s when I saw him comin’ out of an alley. He was all wrapped up in a cloak, but I saw his face and I know who it was. He was headin’ towards Nightside.”

“Sir Harald?” Coin blurted out. He hadn’t meant to speak out of turn, but someone finally being able to testify witnessing the knight and what he was doing spurred him on despite himself.

“No,” Adrios replied. “Dabrius Joh. The horse-lover.”

Coin’s heart sank just hearing it. “Are you certain?” he heard Lord Halforth ask.

“Yes m’lord, completely. Saw him all the time, workin’ at the Palace. He and the other passed by almost every day or so. Dark hair, blue dyed, beard, wore white and purple most times. It was definitely him, m’lord.”

“And he was going towards that slum, Nightside?” Sir Depravity asked, smile forming on his face. “The same place where Sir Harald and his squire would be murdered not an hour later,” he noted with a triumphant tone.

“Yeah, that’s right,” Adrios replied. “I saw him go straight into it. He was tryin’ not to be noticed, but I saw him.”

Lord Halforth shot a slow glance to Sir Depravity, who still looked as though he’d won first prize in some tourney. “Was this the first occasion that you had seen Mister Joh venture to Nightside?” he asked.

The witness shook his head. “No, no I’d seen him there before. Told you, m’lord, I always went to the same bar. Well, I’d see him pass by the same way, and go to the same place. Into Nightside, m’lord. Least five times, before that night.”

There was a pause in the questioning, while all the Moderators exchanged knowing glances—some suspicion had just been proven true in their mind, Coin knew. “Did you ever report this behavior?” Lord Halforth asked pointedly.

“Er, no m’lord,” Adrios answered, wringing his hands. “Didn’t really know why he was there. Wasn’t my place, really.”

“People thinking that it is not their business to intervene is the source of great misery among us,” Lord Halforth replied.

“Why is it that you didn’t come forward with this sooner?” Coin asked.

Adrios rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. “I was a bit afraid to say it, to say the truth. Didn’t like the idea of bein’ stabbed, myself.”

“By whom?” asked Coin, finding it hard to believe that Dabrius and Greenglade would be found so fearsome from their cells.

“Who indeed,” Lord Halforth stated. He looked carefully at Adrios. “You have heard the allegations that this Brony ambassador was involved with a criminal conspiracy, likely based in the city slums?”

Adrios nodded. “Aye m’lord. They say…” he hesitated, and spoke quietly, “well, I’ve heard them say it’s the Changelings.”

Coin blinked, unsure that he had heard that correctly. “The what?”

“The Martes family claims that there is a Brony group trying to overthrow the Dreamweave government from within,” Cellia explained. “A group comprised largely of nobles, merchants, and courtiers sworn to the Collective secretly. One that calls themselves the ‘Changeling Society.’”

Coin didn’t hide his disbelief. “If there are masses of people eager to help my friends and I, placed at every level of the city, then no one told me. Most people just try to attack us,” he remarked. He realized immediately that he had spoken out of turn. “Ah, with due respect, your honor.”

“I’d take this more seriously if I were you, horse-lover,” Sir Depravity said with narrowed eyes. “Your friend, this Dabrius Joh, is said to have been in close contact with this cabal. A criminal gang, hiding in the slums, whose only goal is to advance your fandom’s interests, along with a dissatisfied ambassador who had publicly threatened Sir Harald just hours before his murder. The same Sir Harald that showed every sign of ruling against that same fandom, and that same ambassador?” Sir Depravity snorted contemptuously. “That seems a compelling theory to me.”

Coin thought about that. Even he had to admit that, of any possible suspects, Dabrius seemed the most implicated thus far. He had a motive, had outright declared a willingness to commit the act (even if it was an idle slip and nothing more), and if this claim of a ‘Changeling Scoiety’ was true, he had the means of carrying it out as well—a large backing of moneyed interests, guided directly by the Brony Collective. That’s a big ‘if,’ though, Coin thought. “If you don’t mind my asking,” Coin said to the witness, “you saw no one else with Dabrius?”

“No sir, not a one. Alone, he was.”

“The other Brony ambassador, Greenglade, was not with him? Nor any other individual you know of?”

“He was alone, I said.”

Coin leaned back in his chair. “Sir Harald and his squire were murdered by a group of at least three. For someone with the backing of a large criminal conspiracy, Dabrius seems very alone in this account.” He looked to Sir Depravity. “Is there any evidence that this group exists, or is it just the Martes saying so, sir? You cannot say that they speak without bias.”

“We’ll find whether it’s real or not soon enough,” Sir Depravity replied, a hint of anger entering his tone. “But let me ask you: you’ve had investigators combing every inch of Nightside, and chatting up every bar or dive in the slums, but have you found a single place that claims that they saw Dabrius Joh turn up for a night on the town? Not a one. So if he wasn’t out for that, then why was he there the night a man he hated happened to be killed, in the same place no less? How do you reconcile that?”

“I…” Coin started to say, wanting to choose his words carefully. Can’t afford to offend now, he thought, not with what might be at stake. “I do not know. What Dabrius was doing there, I mean. But I do know,” he continued, “that it would a great deal easier to find out if we were able to speak with him, in a cell or not. We still haven’t received that permission.”

“I have seen to it that such an audience is given,” Lord Halforth replied. “In due time. We are interested in that information as well, but Aureliano has insisted on delaying. No doubt that imbecile brother of his is behind it. He has promised an interview soon, but my patience is beginning to wear thin. Rest assured, though,” he said evenly, “you will have your chance to speak with him.”

The witness, Adrios, shifted awkwardly in his seat. “Er, beggin’ your pardon m’lord, but am I free to go or—"

“No,” the Lord Moderator answered sharply. “You will remain and aid us in preparing an official affidavit of your testimony. Plants are not known to move a great deal, so I am certain that your own ones will keep for a few hours.” As Adrios sank in his seat, Lord Halforth turned to Coin. “Sir, if you would like to remain for the process of recording and transcribing said affidavit, you are welcome to do so. I would understand, however, if you would prefer to deliver this news to your wardens immediately.”

“That would be best, I think, your honor,” Coin replied. They’ll wish to know of this as soon as possible, he thought.

“Very well. A copy of the report will be prepared and provided to you.” The Lord Moderator stood up, adjusted his hat, and folded his arms behind him. “I hope that those notes are satisfactory, Mister Cartwright: we will make fair use of them. As to you, Brony, I say good day.”

Coin bid them farewell, and hurried back to his friends, ruing more and more how far apart the Martes had set the Moderators and the Bronies in the Palace.

The news was poor, and wouldn’t be welcome to much of anyone within the fandom. Greenglade says that they stay at the Moonlight all night, but then Dabrius vanishes into thin air, and reappears in Nightside within an hour of the murders, he pondered as he headed back to the Brony rooms. Now one of their friends looked like a liar at the very least, while the other was stalking around the future crime scene after having threatened the victim. It doesn’t paint a healthy picture for their innocence, does it? Coin admitted. Particularly not when they’re accused of helping some criminal underground.

Coin had heard much of Dabrius and Greenglade’s supposed criminal connections in the past few days, but this was the first time he’d heard a name given to it: this so-called ‘Changeling Society.’ As a Moderator, Coin had been taught to think little of conspiracy theories. They were vague, lacking in credible evidence, and rather conveniently shifted to fit practically any possible prejudice the man who suspected one had. The Martes had every reason to invent some imagined Brony threat in their mind, seeing how little they seemed to admire the fandom.

Coin stuck his hands in his pockets, considering another point while he passed under a well-lit hallway of uncurtained windows. Why was Dabrius in Nightside so often then? Sir Depravity was right: if he was just there for some seedy bar or den or pseudo-red-zone, then someone would have seen. Maybe they just haven’t spoken out yet, but the investigative team had been testing everything. And more importantly, why did he abandon Greenglade at the Moonlight just to go there that night? What were you doing, Dabrius Joh, and why— “

Coin stopped, standing in the hallway with the light at his back. His hand, the one in his side pocket, had felt something—paper. And more importantly, it was paper that he hadn’t put there.

From the pocket, he pulled out a crumpled, folded sheet of parchment, that looked as though it were hastily balled up to be shoved away. Coin was positive that he hadn’t put it in his uniform, nor had he ever seen it before. Looking around, Coin saw no one in the room with him. He unfolded the sheet, opening it to his eyes.

Most of the page was unmarked, and unadorned. But in the center was a simple illustration—a green heart. And above and below it were words printed in flowing ink.

“Look for me—from C.S.”

* * * * * *

“To accept the Moderacy is to be freed from oneself, to achieve liberty from the worldly desires and petty appetites that achieve nothing and inevitably fade. To accept the Moderacy is to devote oneself only to the objective and eternal, the universal and the infinite. To accept the Moderacy is to know there is no good but good.”

— Recitation in “The Books of Black and White.”

Chapter XXI: A Sorceress Girl

* * * * * *

Sir Kennan:

“I am assuming that all of you did the reading last night, concerning Our Founder, John the Traveller, his revelation on Mount Pale, and his subsequent pledge to spread that newfound truth. I hope that some of you will be able to actually stir yourselves today, then, and contribute to the class discussion. So that we don’t a repeat of the last lesson, hmm?

“Now, seeing that we are legal scholars, it should be fairly obvious just how relevant this portion of your reading was. It was the incipient point of law as we know, specifically the notion of universe applications of the law. Our Founder received a vision of a truth higher than any single person—one that no one could modify or change or appeal in any way. He had this knowledge in his soul now—imprinted on him. Branded on him. He told his sister Abigail as much once he finally descended from the high hills and returned home. So, armed with this understanding, what did he do next?”

[several hands raise in the room]

“I hope that we will see more hands than that in the future. Perhaps some of you need some mental stimulation to wake you up, hmm? [he points to a raised hand] Yes, you?”

Student:

“He started preaching, sir.”

Sir Kennan:

“Lecturing would be the more accurate term, but yes, he realized that this knowledge had to be shared. This was in a time, however, that written words had little meaning to the people of Central, outside of the bearded priests, and thus dictating his message would have to be his method. So, he took to the streets, and spoke these words to whomever would listen. These early speeches are not only great pieces of oratory, but help us in understand the nascent roots of our Authority’s structure and teachings.

“According to our sources, these orations were very specific in their scope—focused on very particular topics. There were four that your text mentioned in detail. Would someone like to share what the first of these truths was?”

[the same few hands as the first time are again raised]

“No one else can say? Did you do the reading, or did you not? I see many students and few hands. Are you too shy to answer, or do you not know the answer? Now engage in the discussion, all of you!”

[many hands are raised]

“You, [he points to one of the only people without their hand raised] what was the first topic on which Our Founder lectured?”

Student:
“Uhh… it’s uh, he talks about how, uh… “

Sir Kennan:

“No. Read the assignment next time. [he selects some that had their hand raised]

Student:

“The first subject was that morality is not subjective, sir.”

Sir Kennan:

“Yes, that it is a universal concept. Moral relativism is a lie that selfish people tell themselves to excuse their actions, and that cowardly people tell themselves to avoid conflict. Our Founder told the people held in thrall that when they are being abused and robbed, there is a wrong being committed against them—that isn’t ‘opinion’ or whatever other ridiculous word you want, it’s a fact.”

“What was the second truth?”[points to a student] Yes, Miss Wilcove?”

Student:

“That the ruler should follow that morality, sir?”

Sir Kennan:

“A bit out of order, but yes. Can you recall the exact phrase he used to describe that? A very important one.”

Student:

“Uh… oh! ‘To punish evil and to ensure good.’”

Sir Kennan:

“Yes, exactly: ‘To punish evil and to ensure good.’ Our Founder argued that, since this objective morality exists, it is the obligation of the sovereign to see it is carried out to full effect — when they fail to do this, they are failing in their duty and rendering themselves useless.

“The third truth?"[points to a student]

Student:

“That it is right to pursue those that violate what is right?”

Sir Kennan:

“Not those exact words, but that is correct in a sense. Our Founder is stating that if there is a law, it is possible to break that law, and there must be some who are willing to enforce that law and lay judgement on those that don’t—on those that hurt and enslave others. You see how that’s relevant to us.”

“And the final one? [He points to a student] Miss Ravenry?”

Student:

“That life is suffering.”

Sir Kennan:

“Precisely. John stated that our lives are, by nature, imperfect, and that struggle and pain are parts of life that can never be removed. We are forced to accept that there are always variables that cannot be accounted for, and things may always become worse. However, no circumstance excuses deviating from the law—it might become understandable to do something wrong, but it never becomes right to do it.”

“All of these things were focuses of his lectures in Central. It is important to note exactly what life was like in Central, for all the people that would have heard this. The idea of rulers being bound by an unchanging moral code would have been an alien one: the only people that had ever ruled the island, for as long as anyone could remember, were the corsairs—pirates and looters. They only respected strength and cunning, and they only cared about themselves: they killed, raped, and robbed without a second thought because no one could stop them, and because they simply wanted to. Their Pirate King was simply the worst of all of them, not a person that others expected to rule wisely and well. Murder, violence, slavery—all were common, on the very ground beneath our feet.

“The common people were fearful, miserable, and abused. The only other group in Central outside of the various corsair crews were the bearded priests, who had dwindled down to almost nothing. They were scholars, and men of great mindfulness that wanted to understand the world. For a time, they had been left alone, but the corsairs were interested in blood and gold, not ink, and the priests soon found themselves targets. By John’s time, there were few left.

“But one of them is a name that all of you know: the one that established my own order, Zephemiah the Scholar. He was young, and eager to know more about the world, but was discouraged by what he already knew of it. He was certain that there was an intrinsic higher truth to the world, as did many of his brothers, but there was a theory to it that he could not formulate. He grew depressed, even turned to earthly vices to distract himself… but now there was someone on the streets that seemed to be claiming direct knowledge of exactly what he had long suspected.

“Zephemiah listened carefully to this man who claimed to have seen the Code of the World, and so did many others. People were curious: Our Founder said things that had never considered before, and his powers of oration could not be understated. There were others listening though—could anyone tell me who?”

Student:

“The Pirate King.”

Sir Kennan:

“Yes indeed. There were those that heard John’s words and agreed with them, but there were also many who did not. Some of these objectors ridiculed him and his claims, but others felt he was a threat. The corsairs and their friends, especially—people declaring that those who claim to rule based on strength are illegitimate and must be punished are rarely viewed lightly by tyrants and criminals. Their attempts to stop them started small—beating or humiliating him—but when that failed to dissuade him, they decided to take another step, and simply kill him before he gained more followers.

“Of course, that didn’t happen. Care to say why?”

Student:

“Well, Zephemiah came to him in the night and warned him, and helped him escape.”

Sir Kennan:

“Yes, the bearded priests had contacts within the Pirate King’s palace, and knew that an assassination was being planned. They took it upon themselves to help John flee. Our Founder refused at first, but they told him that he was not the only one at risk. If John was dead, there would be no one to protect his younger sister Abigail, and the corsairs knew that he had a sibling. They would take special note of her, and an event was coming that might mean a horrible fate being visited on his beloved sister. That event was?”

Student:

“The Maiden’s Feast.”

Sir Kennan:

“Perhaps the most foul of all the corsair’s crimes. An abduction of young women all across Central, tossed to the Pirate King and his cronies like traded cattle. Abigail normally would have been too young to get their attention… but they planned to make an exception for John’s blood. Zephemiah promised that the priests would keep him in touch, and protect his followers however they could. John reluctantly agreed, and was smuggled aboard a departing ship alongside his sister and a handful of loyal supporters. When the Pirate King’s cutthroats broke open John’s door the next morning, they found his home empty. By morning, Our Founder was sailing north.”

— The above is a transcript of a lecture given by Sir Kennan Doyle of the Order of the Enlightened Mind, as part of his course on legal theory and divinity. Sir Kennan’s words appear in bold, those of his students are in normal text, while editor’s notes are enclosed in brackets. This transcript was written by Sir Solomon Parker, as part of the Knight Enlighteners’ teaching census initiative.

* * * * * *

They tried to keep a low profile, travelling to the not-so-far home. After all, the streets had not been altogether welcoming thus far, a painful fact that made the two guards a necessary precaution. Proximo had been worried that another howling rabble might try to assault them the moment they passed the square, but thankfully the area was less peopled than it had been a few hours prior—evidently it was a slow time of the day for the place, though no doubt it would fill up again in the later evening.

It was not dusk yet, but one could tell that the sun was just beginning to consider setting for the day—the sky was growing less blue and more amber by the moment, and the Princess was falling rapidly down to the horizon. People were preparing to light the colored lanterns that were strung up between homes and above streets, the ones that would illuminate the darkling pavements with colors of yellow and red on one wynd and orange and purple on another. It would be a pretty sight, no doubt, but Proximo hoped they would return to the Palace before they could see it: he had little desire to walk the city at night, and no doubt the city would be unpleased to find him there either.

At least we’re protected, he thought as he glanced to the protectors to either side of him. On his right was the cheerful mute, Crispin Peck, who was glancing all around inquisitively at the looming buildings and dark alleys, as though eager to explore every one of them. Proximo couldn’t help but notice that the brawny man was almost abnormally curious: they had found Crispin wandering around aimlessly in the Palace before they recruited him to guard them, turning over sofas and staring with wide-eyed fascination at paintings or pattern wallpaper. Proximo might have said that Crispin reminded him somewhat of a very earnest child, but that would have sounded more rude than it was intended to be. To his left was another one of the Honest Friends, a scruffy, brown-haired man apparently named Applewood, who had been ‘loaned’ to Proximo by Caleb when the diplomat had learned of his need for guards.

And in the front, leading the way to a place that only she knew the address of, was Imelia Kohburn. After an overwhelming moment of meeting Proximo’s friends, she had volunteered to lead him to her home in the city, where apparently some interesting information lay for the Brony cause. And so, after explaining his intention to join her to his friends, and then after explaining it further in response to several raised eyebrows and jokes, they had departed with guards in tow. Tracing their way past the main square, the party found themselves in a street flanked by high buildings, walls that almost seemed vaulted by the way they sagged into one another overhead. There were no shops in this place—a residential area.

They stopped at one of those residences before long. It was a tired old place: though Hart was no architect, he wagered that this area had been built quite early on in the Dreamweave’s history, and that this very building had been there as well. It was three stories high, made of red brickwork, drawn and shuttered at its windows. It stood, crammed between two other, practically identical homes to either side, with a yellow door whose paint had long cracked stuck uninvitingly in the middle. Imelia drew up to the entrance, pulling out a key.

“There’s a bit of a climb up,” she apologized as she fumbled with the lock. It gave a satisfying click. “We live on the top floor.”

“We?” asked Applewood, scratching his mud-colored beard absently.

“Gran-Gran and I,” she replied. Her face then took on a red color and said quickly, “My grandmother and I, is what I mean.”

She popped open the door and they stepped inside the entrance-way. A rather narrow hallway ended with a sharp, steep staircase stretching up high to the top of the complex. Imelia picked up the bottom of her dress and started to climb, using her other hand to grip the banister.

“I thought you courtiers lived at th’Palace, yeah?” Applewood remarked as he looked around.

“The servants do,” Imelia explained while they ascended up, “well, them and some of the boarders too. Most of the old families live in the city, though.”

They reached the top in due time, the stairs leveling and the banister curling into a balcony, in the middle of which was a shut door. Unlocking the way with her key, Imelia opened the door a little, then gingerly stepped halfway through. “Could you excuse me one moment?” she asked Proximo sheepishly. When he nodded in reply, she vanished inside.

“So,” Applewood the guard asked gruffly, “should me n’Crispin stay out here then? Imagine you’d like some privacy.”

“Pardon?” Proximo asked, unsure of his tone.

“Oh, ain’t this an… er, ‘recreational’ visit?”

“No,” Proximo replied in the firmest manner he could.

“Gotcha,” Applewood coughed, embarrassed. “Er, sorry. I, uh…”

“I would thank you if you never suggested that again, friend.”

“Can do.”

Crispin Peck was looking between them with blank confusion written over his face, clearly not understanding what they were talking about. It would thankfully never be explained to him, however, as Imelia opened the door again. “OK, you can come in now, if you like.”

“I think I’ll keep watch out here,” Applewood said. “Otherwise I might trip up and put my foot in my mouth.”

Imelia gave him a confused look, but didn’t question it, as the rest stepped inside. Proximo followed Imelia, and his honest friend Crispin followed him.

The narrow entrance hallway soon opened into a living room. Imelia had mentioned a grandmother she took care of, and that there was such a person living here was immediately apparent. Near everything was antique or antiquated: floral patterns on wallpaper and sofa cushions, bland colors splashed here and there, old porcelain stacked carefully to collect dust in a long-shut cabinet. Tacky paintings hung the wall next to yellowed newspaper trimmings from decades ago, over bookshelves filled with dusty paperbacks and topped by mothy cloths. To call it small would be unjust to proportions, but it was not large either—it settled in an uncomfortable mediocrity. Four rooms branched out from this central one, and a hallway that no doubt led to a few more.

“I have it all here,” Imelia said as she walked about nervously, “the information, I mean. I wrote it all down, so I can bring it out, if you like. Try to be quiet, though, it wouldn’t be good to wake—”

“Imi?” said a fragile voice from deeper within the home. “Imi, is that you back already?”

“Yes, Gran-Gr— grandmother,” Imelia replied, going red in the face. “It’s just me.”

“Is there someone with you, Imi dear?” A shuffling sound could be heard coming closer, from down the hallway.

“Just some friends, grandmother. You don’t have to get up.”

“Friends? Oh, you should have told me, Imi,” cooed the old, reedy voice coming towards them. “We never have company, I would have tidied up more.”

“It’s no trouble, grandmother, please,” Imelia cried, cringing a bit in the face. “Please, you can stay in bed, really.”

“Nonsense, dear, nonsense!” she called back cheerfully, quite close now. “I’d love to meet your friends, sweetling. Let’s get a look at them now, hmm?”

A very old, very hunched woman stepped into view. Her grey hair was wild, tangled, and unkempt, her face seeming little more than lines upon lines upon wrinkles piled atop one another. Her eyes were so lost within the sloping folds that one could barely even tell they were there, although her wide mouth was easier to see, perked up into a distant smile. She hobbled in a manner of one who should be using a cane, but instead made her way towards them with a hand on the wall for support, coming closer at the pace of a particularly aged turtle. Like her hair, the old woman’s clothing was quite undignified: a messy, baby-blue nightgown that she had thrown a deeper blue jacket over, as if to try and make herself more presentable. Her friendly, if somewhat absent, smile broadened when she squinted at them.

“Oh hullo dearests!” she exclaimed brightly. “I’m Imi’s grandmother. We’ve never met before, have we? I forget sometimes, but I’m sure Imi told you all about me.”

“I’ve never had the delight of your acquaintance, Lady Kohburn,” Proximo said with a courteous bow, “but it is a pleasure to meet any relation of Imelia.”

“Oh, so polite! And very well-dressed in that white suit, isn’t he?” Old Lady Kohburn said, smiling toothlessly. Proximo tactfully did not mention the fact that he was not actually wearing a white suit, while the elderly woman turned to her granddaughter. “Oh, have you finally found someone, dearie? I’m so glad—he’s very handsome.” Imelia gave an uncomfortable smile to the comment, but the old woman continued regardless. “Oh, he’s much better than that Regiano boy you had over last week, I didn’t like him at all, Imi.”

“OK, Gran-Gran, I’ll keep that in mind,” Imelia said hastily, avoiding the look that Proximo was now sending her. “They only need to pop in for a moment, so don’t worry, there’s no need to—”

“And who is this one, then?” Lady Kohburn said to Crispin, squinting at the bulky man only a foot away as though he were as far as the horizon. “He’s very orange, isn’t he?”

“Ah, this is my honest friend, Crispin Peck, my lady,” Proximo explained. “I would let him do his own introductions, but I’m afraid that he is quite—”

Suddenly, Crispin dropped down to one knee in front of the ancient woman, bowing his head solemnly and placing one clenched fist on the floor. His other gloved hand began to perform strange motions across his chest, using three fingers to trace the outline of the Honest Eye printed on his uniform, and then jab at the ‘pupil’ twice with his thumb. Proximo and Imelia looked on this strange and unexpected ritual in silent confusion, while Lady Kohburn seemed delighted.

“How gentlemanly!” she exclaimed. “I’d thought men never did such things nowadays. It was different when Lord Aureliano still ruled the isles, Imi. Have I told you about him?”

“Yes, grandmother, you have.”

While they spoke, Proximo noticed something in the air. A strange, sickly sweet, unpleasant smell wafting into the room, drifting in from the hallway Lady Kohburn came from. Imelia noticed it as well, judging by how her nose wrinkled.

Lady Kohburn must have seen the look on her face. “Oh, I’m sorry about the smell dear. I wet the bed earlier—had to cover up the smell you see,” she smiled absently, not seeming cognizant to what she said. “Don’t make a fuss over it now, I’ll make some tea.”

“No, Gran-Gran, you don’t—”

Lady Kohburn didn’t acknowledge her, and instead starting hobbling towards the kitchen. Imelia sighed and touched Proximo’s arm. “Let’s go to the other room, OK?” she asked pleadingly.

Proximo turned to Crispin, who had stood up from his strange vigil. “Could you perchance stay here? I’ll only be a moment.”

The mute saluted and took a seat on the couch, sinking into the soft cushions while Proximo and Imelia went into a adjourning room.

It was a bedroom, and probably Imelia’s from Proximo’s guess. It was more modernly adorned than the rest of the house, but still a bit outdated in terms of fashion. A nicely-made bed stood nestled in the corner, flanked by two nightside tables. At the other end of the room was a writing desk, covered in papers, and a wardrobe closed shut. It was a very clean room, one that had the impression of someone having cleaned it only moments ago—Proximo began to wonder if that was why Imelia had disappeared into the house without them for a moment.

As soon as they were inside, Imelia shut the door firmly. She half-leaned, half-collapsed into it, sighing softly with her eyes shut. “I’m sorry about Gran-Gr— grandmother,” she said. “She isn’t well.”

“There’s nothing to apologize for,” Proximo replied sincerely. Though it was probably not the most proper thing to do, his curiosity overcame him. “That, er, that ‘boy’ she mentioned, Regiano?” He glanced involuntarily at her stomach. “Is he…”

“My father,” she replied wearily. When she saw Proximo alarmed expression, she quickly added, “She has trouble remembering people—she gets my mother and I mixed up. Grandmother didn’t approve of my father when they first met, and that’s what she remembers.”

“She can’t tell you apart?” Proximo asked, concerned.

“Not all the time. She’s usually better. Some days are… worse than others, and she forgets more later in the afternoon.” Imelia closed her eyes again, and rested her head against the door behind her, sinking a little more. “She can’t live by herself in her condition. I’ve been taking care of her—there’s nowhere else in the city that she can go.” Imelia sounded almost embarrassed to admit what she was doing, embarrassed and the smallest trace of something else—resentful.

“That isn’t something you should be ashamed of,” Proximo consoled her.

Imelia bit her lip. “I know. Sometimes I just… I can’t…” She shook her head, and shook the thoughts away with it. “That’s not why you’re here. Sorry for wasting time, I’ve got what you need right in this desk,” she said, walking across the room briskly, despite the worried look that Proximo was giving her. She sat herself down, pulling out drawers and then pulling out papers within them, putting them up on the top.

“I have to imagine that you’ve been trying to get the city watch to talk, ever since you arrived,” she said while straightening her pile of parchment. “For information on what happened? One would also guess that they haven’t been helpful.”

“Not very,” Proximo admitted. “Most of them refuse to answer at all, and those that do act like we’re pulling teeth. A handful have been cooperative, but they still have little to say.”

“Well,” Imelia replied, “this contact that I’ve told you about—a friend—is one of the guards. He tells me that silence is no coincidence: they’ve all been either bribed or threatened to refuse cooperation with you. I doubt you need me to say who accomplished that.”

The name came to Proximo immediately. “Arcadio.”

“Arcadio,” Imelia said, practically spitting the word. “Proximo, he was always awful, but ever since he got back from his time abroad and took over the city guards, he’s been a thousand times worse, or at least that’s what the older people tell me. Most of the watch love him: he let’s them do whatever they want in the city, and he pays well besides. The rest he bullies into line however he can. Neither will ever help you openly, not even with the Lord Moderator’s word, not as long as Arcadio can snatch them away at any time. It doesn’t help that most of the guards hate your fandom to begin with.”

Proximo frowned. Exactly as we suspected, he thought, not pleased that their suspicion was confirmed after all. “But this guard—this friend of yours—he doesn’t feel the same as his fellows?”

“Not exactly,” she said hesitantly. “His family and mine are old friends, and he’s helping me because I asked him to. Helping me, not you. He doesn’t really know that I’m passing this information on.”

“You never told him why you were after it?” Proximo asked, a little surprised at the deception.

“My friend is a bit… simple. I never lied to him,” she explained, as though sensing Proximo’s thoughts. “He never even asked why I wanted to know. I don’t think the question ever came to mind.”

“I suppose then,” Proximo ventured, “that your friend would not be terribly interested in testifying this information? In an official setting, before the Lord Moderator?”

Imelia looked away. “I’m sorry, Proximo, but there’s no way. Not with his commander at his back.”

Balefire, Proximo rued, so much for bringing Arcadio to justice. Perhaps he could change this guard’s mind in time, but that was a plan for another day. At least we’ll have the information, even if we can’t bring it to Halforth. “Very well,” he said, “what else can he tell us?”

“It isn’t just the guards that are being warned. Many nobles in the court and servants of the Martes have been told to stay away—if you want their help, you had best go with money in hand.”

Already ahead of you there, Proximo noted. At the moment, there was no reason to divulge such an arrangement, though. “Fair enough,” he said instead, “but I get the feeling that you brought me here for more than just warnings.”

“I suppose that you don’t need me to tell you that you Bronies are being followed everywhere?”

Proximo laughed. “They aren’t very good at hiding it. The uniforms make it quite a bit easier, as well.”

She smiled and nodded. Going through her papers, she at last pulled out a single sheet. On it was a map of the city, with small red dots printed on several parts of it. “Do you recognize any of these places?” she asked, pointing to the dots.

Proximo squinted at the various marks. He did not claim to know the city perfectly, but in truth he did know some of them: they were places that the Bronies themselves had noted for importance during their sweep of the city. Many of the red dots were in Nightside, others scattered about different districts like the docks. “Yes,” he said, “at least a few. That one there is the murder site, I believe, and that one is a bar we were looking into. What does it mean?”

“My friend tells me that the city watch are being ordered to comb the city: go to an area as ordered, turn it upside down, then leave. Lord Aureliano and his brother have been working them non-stop, asking them to search in these places over and over. These dots are some of the places they’ve looked, according to my friend.”

“Hardly surprising,” Hart remarked. “If they’re relevant to the crime, they would want to be thorough, wouldn’t they? We’ve practically done the same.”

“Except that they’re not relevant to the crime—not all of them. Not even most of them.” She pointed to several spots. “This one is just an alley—only one way in or out. Another one here is a store in Nightside that was closed five years ago and boarded up—no tenants, no residents. There’s also apartment buildings, taverns, courtyards… none of which have anything to do with what happened to Sir Harald or your friends. The watch—or at least my friend—haven’t a clue why either. It seems completely arbitrary.”

Proximo looked over the map again. “Surely there must be some reason. Elsewise why would they search at all? Unless Arcadio is just a fool hoping to make them look busy.”

“I don’t think so. I think,” she said with a sparkle in her green eyes, “that they’re looking for something. Or maybe someone, I’m still not sure.” She looked up at him carefully. “Proximo, have you ever heard of the Changeling Society?”

That name again. The term had come up several times during Proximo’s search for willing informants: there was never a great deal of explaining, but this ‘Society’ had been thrown in his face more than once while they tried to convince Dreamweavers to help them. “Some conspiracy of pro-Brony criminals trying to tear down House Martes, yes? I can tell you, as a Brony, that if such a thing exists we know nothing about it.”

“Well, I think that the Martes are more sure than you are. This Society is what the watch is being sent to find, and they haven’t been succeeding—Aureliano wants them rooted out.”

Proximo considered that. “Why now of all times, though? Surely they’ve more important things on their mind than some hypothetical conspiracy. One that probably doesn’t exist, mind you.”

“There might be more important things,” Imelia said, “but only if one considers Sir Harald’s murder and this Changeling Society to be unconnected. Aureliano doesn’t: his wife and his brother have him convinced that the killing was done by your fandom, and that finding this Society is the key to proving his suspicions correct.”

“He thinks to pin the crime on our friends by alleging some tie to criminals?”

“It might be easier than you think,” Imelia said carefully. “Proximo, I don’t know if you’ve already been told, but many were suspicious of your friends long before Sir Harald was killed. The one with the blue hair especially.”

“Dabrius?”

She nodded. “My friend tells me that the watch was made to investigate him—to follow him and report what he did. Apparently it was much harder than they imagined, because he would just disappear: some nights he would vanish into the city, and not be seen again for hours. Other times he was receiving messengers from unknown parties, or else making himself scarce whenever the guards were meant to be watching him. And most of the time that he was seen outside the Palace,” she said seriously, “he was spotted in or around Nightside.”

What were you up to, Dabrius? It might have just been some illicit interest Proximo wasn’t aware of that Dabrius wanted satisfied in the slums, one that made him careful to avoid detection. But with the Martes accusing him of murder and involvement with some criminal gang, his lurking around the most dangerous part of the city did not look good. “Can your friend tell us anything about his condition?” Proximo asked. “Dabrius, I mean. We’ve been trying to speak with him, but Arcadio has blocked us at every turn, saying that he’s ‘dangerous’ or some nonsense to keep us away. Seeing how Greenglade was treated, it has… it has made me worried.”

“The only thing he knows is that Dabrius is still alive,” she said apologetically. “He knew a lot more about Greenglade, but you’ve already met with him. I’m sorry, you probably wanted more than that, but with Arcadio…” Imelia looked away for a moment, then back to Proximo. “Well, it wouldn’t be the first time that prisoners have died unexpectedly.”

Proximo clenched a fist. “Alright,” he said, “so the Martes are spending precious time and resources looking for this fantasy, this Changeling Society? All the better: the more time they waste chasing something that doesn’t exist, the more room we have to focus on what matters.”

Imelia bit her lip. “Proximo,” she said slowly, “I know it isn’t what you want to hear, but I think they actually might exist.” Seeing his skeptical look, she rummaged through the papers to find something. “It was a month ago,” she said as she searched, “Just after I learned that I was…” she sighed, “well, you know. Once the court found out, Pilara and all the others wouldn’t leave me alone. They thought it was funny,” Imelia bitterly recounted, “I went to a dinner party at the Palace, but when I found my chair, the my name on it had been crossed out, and they’d printed ‘whore’ there instead. They all laughed.”

She paused for a moment, and wiped her eyes on her sleeve. “I went back home, but when I got there, I found this.”

She handed him a small slip of paper, one that showed signs of being folded previously. Printed on it were a few lines of flowing text, which read: We can help. Midnight out, Moonlight Inn, at the docks. C.S. In the middle of the page was a small printed image—a green heart.

“I found it attached to my door—I don’t know who put it there or how they got into the building, but it was right there, as soon as I returned. I asked my grandmother about it, and she hadn’t seen anyone either.”

“The Moonlight Inn?” Proximo read off, surprised. “I know the place. My friends, Dabrius and Greenglade, went there more than once. They were there the night of the murder as well, at least for a time.” He flipped the card over in his hands, looking for any other possible clues—finding none, he looked back up to Imelia. “What happened when you went there?”

"I— I didn’t go,” Imelia said, eyes at the desk. “I thought about it, but… I still hoped then that my old friends might just take me back. I’d heard such horrible things about the Society, and if I joined some traitors, I thought they would hate me forever.” She gave a short laugh, one lacking any humor in it. “I suppose that shows how foolish I was. I tried going back to the same place later once, but no one ever came. I haven’t had any notes like that since.”

“I could have been another trick,” Proximo pointed out, “a way for Arcadio to guess out enemies by tricking them into thinking they were invited to join.”

“I thought about that,” she admitted, “but I don’t think so. Call it intuition, I suppose, but it seemed genuine to me.”

Proximo did not share her certainty, but he had to admit that it was an intriguing lead. “Let’s say,” he mused while running his fingers through his thick black hair, “that this Changeling Society exists. And that they have some connection to the Moonlight. That means that the very place in the city where my accused friends happened to be last seen before the murder, is also a meeting place for a supposed pro-Brony faction in the Dreamweave court.” He looked back down to the note, reading over it again, as though it would change the words printed on. “I cannot speak for you, Imelia, but that seems like an astonishing coincidence.”

Imelia did not answer right away, but after a moment she reluctantly asked, “Proximo, are you certain that you know nothing about this Society?”

“I give you my word: I had never even heard the name prior to coming to the Dreamweave,” he answered truthfully.

“But do you suppose any of the other Bronies do?” she ventured, seeming uncomfortable asking. “If the Society exists, people say that it’s backed by your fandom. That they get money and support from them. You’re sure that isn’t true?”

“It isn’t,” he immediately replied. “Believe me, Imelia, if such a thing were being done, I would have known about it. If such an operation existed with the Warden’s consent, I would have been the first Lady Violet told. I put my full trust in her.”

She looked at him, large, dark eyes gauging what he said. “You and her are close, then?”

“She’s my closest friend,” he answered.

She seemed to think about that, then nodded. “I believe you, then. Not that it would change my mind about helping you either way.”

“And I must thank you for that,” Proximo said with a gracious bow of his head. “You’re taking a great risk to do us a great service, Imelia. I promise you that the Collective will not forget it—and neither will I.”

She gave him a folder filled messily with other papers—apparently more information to be looked over—and then the two of them departed from the room. Opening the door to the living room, they found Lady Kohburn hunched down on the sofa, chatting to an enthralled looking Crispin, who was listening to whatever it was she said with eager intensity, teacup in hand.

“I think we’re finished for now, Crispin,” Proximo said to the disappointed looking friend. “I certainly hope that my friend was able to provide some good conversation, my Lady Kohburn, mute though he is.”

The old woman smiled absently. “Mute? Why this young man has been talking the whole time!”

Proximo gave Crispin a look, to which the tongueless man only replied with a shrug. Before he said anything further, however, Lady Kohburn stood up. “Oh, but must you be leaving now? I’ll certainly miss the company, Regiano.”

“Proximo, grandmother,” Imelia corrected her.

“Oh? Oh, sorry dear, I forget. Proximo, much better. I never liked that Regiano boy you had over, Imi.”

“I know, Gran-Gran,” her granddaughter sadly replied.

As they left the apartment, Proximo turned back to see Imelia in the doorway. “Thank you again,” he said to her. “Will I see you soon?”

“I’ll try not to make myself scarce,” she said with a tentative smile. “I’ll keep trying to find out more from my friend, and if anything comes up I’ll go right to you. You can come to me anytime, as well. For help, I mean. If you want to.”

She was blushing, so Proximo gave a reassuring smile and bowed his head. “I’m honored to accept the help. Goodnight, Imelia.”

“Goodnight, Proximo.”

When all was done, the three Bronies made their way back to the Palace. Thankfully, it hadn’t truly turned to night just yet—the Princess was still making her way steadily and quickly down, but there was time enough to return back to safety before dark. They ascended the staircase to the Palace with minutes to spare, and Proximo turned himself to thinking while he did so.

First the Martes, then the Mods, now this ‘Changeling Society,’ he thought while taking a step, then another. Truthfully, he still did not believe in this talk of strange insurrectionist groups, at least not ones that the Collective knew anything about, but what Imelia had told him made him consider otherwise. A part of him hoped that such rumors were untrue simply because how much one more variable would complicate things. Factions upon factions, built up against other factions. The Six only know what other people have a stake in all this. Perhaps Imelia’s suspicion was incorrect, in the end. Either way, she had found them a useful resource: someone in the city watch that was on their side. In a certain sense. A bit.

A good chance for more information, at least. Proximo wondered who the person was: someone with at least some contact with Dabrius, judging by his information concerning the prisoners.

He was interrupted from his thoughts by Applewood, who had spoken for the first time since they embarked back to the Palace. “So,” he started, “do the Wardens have any plans for the Celebration?”

“The what?” Proximo asked, snapping out of his contemplating.

“The Summer Sun Celebration. Didja forget it’s a day from now?”

He had, actually, though he wasn’t proud to admit it. He remembered speaking of it with Lord Jestin Jen and Lady Lillian Semmer, prior to his leaving for the Dreamweave, but since then he had been so focused on the task at hand that he’d completely forgot about the Brony holiday. “Sorry Applewood, but I think with everything happening…”

He waved the concern away. “Ah, forget about it. I figured you higher-ups had more important stuff happening anyways. Dustario’s been trying to find a way to go out and get drunk, though, if you’re interested.”

Proximo laughed, just as they reached the door. “Seeing that there’s a ban on all Bronykind in the city, I’d like to see him try.” They pushed their way in, opening up to the entrance hall. “Still, I shall have to keep an ear open for that—if just to see him try to pay his way into some bar. I imagine you need to check in with Caleb now?”

“Yeah, prolly should. Make sure he’s not caught in any doors or somethin’. Well, see you around, Proximo.”

“The same to you, Applewood.”

The orange guard departed, off to find his original charge, while Proximo and Crispin walked silently towards the other side of the Palace, where Lady Violet would no doubt be waiting. He had a lot to report on, that was for sure. I’m not sure whether to lead with the secret conspiracy possibly involved in the city, or that we have a new friend willing to help. Choices, choices…

As they moved through, however, Proximo heard something strange. An odd, almost strangled noise came down one of the hallways as they passed. He might not have stopped, thinking it to simply be a trick of the ear or a result of the creaking building around them, except that he saw two of the Honest Friends come from the same hallway. None of the city watch were around: Proximo guessed that the Bronies standing down there were deliberating keeping the guards away. Curious, the assistant turned down the hall to see what was happening.

He did not get too far before one of the Honest Friends approached. It was Strongshield, the tall, bulky woman from the Honest Eyes, the same one with the irritable look and worshipful attitude towards the Warden. “Need something?” she asked, blocking his path.

“Nothing urgent,” Proximo replied, trying to sound friendly. “Is there something happening here?”

Strongshield narrowed her eyes at Proximo, and shot a glance to Crispin as well. “Nothing you need to be concerned with. Move on.”

Crispin, himself an Honest Eye, seemed to pick up on some hint, and started tugging lightly at Proximo’s arm to leave. He shook off the attempt. “If this is some official business, I can assure you that—”

“Not. Your. Concern,” Strongshield repeated, each word an impatient jab. “Take a hint and leave.”

The other guard in the hallway, yet another Honest Eye, approached—Red Autumn, the same stocky, scarred man that had escorted Proximo and Lady Violet in Shine. “What’s this about?” he asked gruffly. He spared a glance to Proximo. “You? None of your business here, friend.”

Proximo heard another noise, again from down the hallway, in a room to the side. He looked back to the Honest Eyes, now more suspicious. “What is going on here? Who’s down there?” he demanded.

“Told you,” Red Autumn said, “none of your business. Just push off and—”

A muffled cry came from the room down the hall. Proximo’s eyes widened, and immediately pushed forward, determined to reach it. Strongshield reached out to stop him. “Hey! Not another—”

“I am the Assistant Warden of Generosity, and Lady Violet Brushshape’s right hand,” Proximo said rounding on her. “On what authority do you command me? Step aside, or I promise you that she’ll hear of this.”

Red growled. “Nice try, but we serve—”

Proximo bolted down the hallway, past rushing past them as they shouted for him. They didn’t catch up until he had already reached the room, and by then it was too late.

He heard the voices first, much more clearly now. One of them was gasping, stumbling over words and struggling to speak. “—cannot, cannot you…” There came a sharp breath and a choked sound. “L— Lord Halforth will…”

“Bring Halforth,” came another voice, sharp, coarse, and angry. “Admit lie. Then, release friends. Now.”

“Y— you’ll kill me!”

“If you do not comply. Release them, weak thing.”

“I can’t!”

“You will.”

When Proximo turned the corner into the room, he saw them at once. Pressed against the wall, lifted off the ground by the neck, legs kicking uselessly under him, was Sir Alwin Cameron, clawing desperately and uselessly to release the vice-like grip around his neck. And looming over him, strangling him with a single, huge hand, was the hulking, brutish form of the Warden of Honesty, looking without emotion or pity at the man he was threatening with death.

“My lord!” Proximo shouted furiously.

The Warden of Honesty only broke his concentration for a moment, snapping his head to the side to look straight at noise. Proximo stood as firm as he could—the honest eye was upon him.

* * * * * *

“Even the greatest people have their flaws. And when put under pressure or the right circumstances, those flaws can become cracks. They can break you.”

— Excerpt from “Fallout: Equestria,” by Kkat

Chapter XXII: Yellow Eyes

* * * * * *

Fingers reaching, yearning, sought

to seize men's feelings, wants, and thoughts.

Turning, burning, branding, bending,

distrust and rage, the Beast is sending.

The terror lives, and breeds to end

the love for neighbors, brothers, friends.

The masks they wore, he said with grace,

protect them with a falser face;

to hold the angry hate away,

and hide themselves from the Beast in the Bay.

“To hide yourself is the coward's way,

confront this beast!” I proudly say.

“Defeat this Beast Beneath the Bay,

you could be free from masks today!”

His glistening eyes stared for a spell,

“But you,” he said, “wear masks as well.

Confront the Beast? What could we do?

When you can't kill the Beast in you?”

— “The Land of Masks,” Stanzas V-VIII

* * * * * *

Golden Hammer Problem: Authority antipattern; when one assumes that their favored solution is universally applicable

* * * * * *

Staring out the window at the Dreamweave night, Lady Violet Brushshape’s face was lit up by moonlight, her expression firm, grave, and—underneath a neutral exterior—angry. If someone did not know her well, they likely wouldn’t be able to tell that, so well did she hide her displeasure behind decorum and grace. Proximo Hart knew her too closely to not have it figured out from the moment she learned of what happened.

If someone were very, very lacking in good sense, they might mistake her patience and lack of outward fury as the attitude of one that was uncaring, or overly calm, or easily pushed aside; that she was too formal, too humored, too polite to pose a threat. They couldn’t be more wrong, and knowing that was what made her assistant uneasy to see her in such a state. This will not be a pleasant conversation, he realized immediately.

“You know,” she said in an frigidly level tone, not looking away from the Mare Who Waits that hung in the sky outside, “there are some people that ask me why I never respond in kind to people that insult me. People like the Martes, for example, or Borlund Barr, whenever they call me ‘whore’ or some other rude word. I will admit, the temptation is certainly there. But do you know why I do not take up arms of mine own?” She did not wait for a response before she immediately continued. “Because I have heard it all before: every sordid accusation, every seething insult, every form of harassment in the Web, and it no longer surprises me. That is part of my job, I suppose, and my lot in life. I expect little from those who call themselves enemies, and thus I am rarely disappointed.”

“But I expect a great deal from my friends,” Violet calmly said. “They have never let me down, never really. They raise me up higher than I ever stood alone, make me stronger together than apart, brace my weaknesses and inspire my strengths. My friends make me who I am, and being at odds with a single one of them reduces me. I hope you understand, then, how painful it is for me to be so let down. To hear about something like this.” She cupped her face in one hand, long nails massaging her temples. “Honesty,” she continued, “what were you thinking?”

The Warden of Honesty stood, still and silent, in front of the door, visibly uncomfortable. He did not seem sure if he should speak. “We—"

“What were you thinking?” Lady Violet shouted angrily, rounding on the table behind her and slamming both open hands on it. Proximo jumped back at the noise, edging away in his chair, but she did not stop or notice. “Do you have even the slightest idea of the consequences for what you tried to do? Of what you were doing? Do you have the faintest clue at all?”

“The knight lied,” the Warden of Honesty replied, frowning. “Hurt friends. You said we needed his support to release them.”

“Oh, and this was the best way to get it?” Lady Brushshape demanded.

“Already tried asking nicely,” the Warden said. “Did not work. Man compelled by fear to rule against us. Threat would have moved him.”

“That is utter foolishness.”

“Would have worked,” the giant replied, sounding defensive. “Were we not interrupted.”

“I walked in and saw Sir Alwin, one of our judges who holds the fate of our friends in his hand, lifted against a wall and being strangled within an inch of his life,” Proximo cut in, angry himself. “What exactly did you expect would happen? That he would brush himself off, go down to the dungeon and let Dabrius and Greenglade walk free? Six save us, we’re lucky that it didn’t go any farther.”

“If Proximo hadn’t come, Sir Alwin might have been killed," the lady said. “Do you not understand that?” She wrenched out a chair, sat herself down, and rubbed her eyes wearily. “How could you do this?”

“Not difficult. He was alone, followed when asked. Poor training in combat, if any, thus—”

“That is not what I meant!” Lady Violet shouted. “Of all the brutish things… yes, what exactly were you expecting to happen once you were finished, hm? What was your goal here, again?”

“That friends be freed. No longer harmed,” the Warden said, sounding surprised that it needed explaining.

“Oh? And what would you have done if Sir Alwin did not follow your polite request?”

“We would have killed him,” he said matter-of-factly.

“Six save us, Honesty!” she gasped in horror. “Have you any idea what you’re saying?”

The ugly face of the Warden contorted in confusion, not seeming to understand. “You are upset,” he said. “Why?”

“Why? Why? Honesty,” she said in disbelief, “I am upset because you are admitting that you would murder a man in cold blood! One of our judges, no less, while on a diplomatic mission! Which is, if you recall, the exact thing our fandom is accused of doing! What do you think is going to happen when Sir Alwin tells the others what happened? They’ll see it as proof of our guilt!”

“Their thoughts irrelevant.”

“Wh— they’re completely relevant!” Lady Violet said, utter incredulity coming over her. “What they think is what decides if our friends come home, which is why we’re here to begin with. That is the exact definition of relevant!”

“Should not care what they think,” Honesty grunted. “They hurt our friends. Oppose the Collective. Insult it. Threaten it. Enemies, all. Why concerned for them?”

“It doesn’t matter what I think of them, Honesty, nor what they think of me. It is wrong to threaten and bully people, and it is wrong to think that dealing out death will solve our problems. Wrong, morally and logically and in every other way.”

“Only right is our friends,” the Warden said stiffly, “only wrong is harming them. Anyone that does, enemy.”

“You think that we are the only people in the world that deserve to be treated well?” Proximo asked gravely, already knowing the answer.

“Yes,” the Warden replied. “Others oppose us. Oppose truth. Must be fought.”

“Do you see what I told you, my lady?” Proximo asked, exasperated. “What kind of person says things like this?”

“Not a person,” Honesty insisted. “This one is a device for removing threats. Our purpose. Our existence. Nothing else.” His golden eye looked down harshly at Proximo. “They imprison us. Torture us. Starve us. Lie to each other and us to ensure it continues. Insist on pain, without care. Not threats?”

“You’re picking out a small number and applying their crimes to a vast majority,” Lady Violet answered. “Yes, some of them do hate us, but that does not excuse your actions.”

“Not some,” the Warden responded curtly. “They attack us on false charges. Assault us in streets. Ban us. War against us. This one fought them since beginning. Outsiders lack virtue. Truth. Magic. Only understand force.”

“That is not true,” Violet said.

“Their lying, hatred, deceit, cruelty disproves your assertion. Have seen this since the Chan.”

“And I have seen a thousand more people in a hundred more places, Honesty,” the lady steadfastly replied. “And not just in war either, as you have. There are as many good people outside the fandom as in it, and if you were able to see the world in any terms aside from threats and potential threats you might understand that. This is not the Chan, and we are not at war.”

“Brutalized Greenglade, Dabrius Joh for weeks. Refused to stop. Every moment wasted another they are hurt. Another you are threatened. This one cannot abide.”

“This is the time for diplomacy. You cannot expect everything to happen all at once.”

“If method fails, alternative required,” he said. “Diplomacy failed. Has failed for weeks. New method necessary.”

“Idiocy is what it was,” Proximo remarked bitterly. “Is killing people the only thing you understand?”

“This one killed many in Chan,” he admitted neutrally, not seeming at all emotional about it. “Many since. It is necessary. Otherwise, friends killed instead.”

“Is that how you rationalize trying to murder an unarmed man?” Proximo demanded.

“Would not have had to kill him. But we do whatever necessary to protect others. Someone endangers them, we remove danger.”

“And those ‘others’ do not include Sir Alwin?”

The Warden frowned. “He endangered Greenglade and Dabrius. Lied to preserve their torture. Would not halt when asked by you,” he said to Violet. “Only our method left.”

“What method?” the lady asked. “This is a mission of peace, Honesty: violence is never an option.” She rubbed her temples. “I believe in the goodness of the Six and fandom every bit as much as you, but that has to be tempered by etiquette and respect.”

The Warden’s brow furrowed. “Not using all means to advance cause implies that there is higher thing than it. That friends are less good than something else. We cannot think this. Is doubt. Dishonest. A lie.”

“Honesty, there is something higher than our cause, and that is the ideals of the Six themselves. Do you really suppose that they would approve of what you tried to do?”

He seemed ready to respond all at once, but stopped for a brief moment. It was probably the only singular moment of hesitation that Proximo had ever seen from the brutish man, his single eye wavering just slightly. He looked at Lady Violet in confusion, but then stiffened. “They would not want friends hurt either. They oppose all evil. They are honest.”

“Honest, yes. But with common sense and compassion as well,” she insisted, staring him down. “Six save us, you have to be able to compromise!”

His mouth tightened. “Cannot.”

“Why?” Proximo asked, frustrated to no end with the insanity of it all. “Why not? Are you incapable of seeing reason at all, or just willfully ignoring it?” He stood up from his seat, facing the man opposite. “Why can’t you just set it aside and act like a damned human being?”

The Warden stared at Proximo, and for a moment did not answer. “Because this one was a damned human being. Now we are honesty. Chained this instrument to that principle. Cannot violate it—would destroy our only use. Would betray the reason we were created. Would betray the Six. Our friends. We cannot. Not ever.”

“Enough. Enough, I have heard enough,” Lady Violet said wearily. She cupped her face in her hands, seeming very tired. “With this… this folly, you have endangered the success of everything we are trying to accomplish here. And you have committed a great wrong.”

The look the Warden gave her was complete incomprehension, as though she were speaking another language entirely. “We… we do not understand,” he said slowly. “Do you not want friends freed?”

“Of course I do!” she shouted, slamming her hands down on the table. “I want them freed more than anything, but I will not stoop to such lows to do it.” She stood up suddenly, striding up right to the Warden of Honesty and glaring right at him. “What you have done is not our way, Honesty. It is never our way.You say you don’t understand? Then let me be clear. You have sworn to serve and honor and protect your friends? And to trust me, no matter what? Well I am telling you now that what you did was wrong. Can you reconcile that, or can you not?”

As freakishly tall and strong as the Warden of Honesty was, the Warden of Generosity seemed almost a match for him, in her fierceness. The one-eyed man did not have an answer. “You are telling the truth,” he finally said, much shaken.

Lady Violet narrowed her eyes. “Did you need to use that Sight of yours’ on me to tell?”

“No,” the Warden replied forcefully, but quietly. “We would never use it on you. You would never lie to us.”

She continued to stare him down, then closed her eyes and sighed heavily. “Honesty…” she began, her voice full of sadness.

Before she could say more, though, the Warden of Honesty suddenly stumbled back, catching himself just enough to keep his feet. He looked bleary and confused, as though some great mental weight was descending on him. “Don’t understand,” he slurred out as he tried to regain himself.

Lady Violet took a step towards him, concern crossing her face. “My friend?”

“Friend,” he repeated softly, before he collapsed.

His huge hand reached down to catch himself before he fell. His voice sounded oddly different, as though its rough and gravelly quality were being lifted off. Suddenly, both of his hands shot up to his head, clutching it tightly, as his face twisted in pain.

Gone were his ordinary stoicism and harshness: his features seemed were going through a wild litany of expressions, confusion then anger, sadness, rage, dumbfoundedness. Proximo had never seen the Warden act in such a way: it was like every feeling he refused to have was erupting up at once, breaching through a single moment of doubt to come flooding out—like he was fighting himself.

The Warden of Honesty twitched and roiled in silent pain, his armored hands digging into his head. He clenched himself tighter and cringed. Blood was dripping off his fingers as they dug into his flesh.

Violet looked at his in horror. “Honesty! Six save us, I— “

“Six save us,” her friend responded. His eye opened, and all at once he seemed to be himself again: his large hands went back down to his side, his voice returned to the way it usually was, his face turning to the same emotionless mask it always was, unmoved by the bloody marks now cut into his head. He closed his golden eye again, and inclined his head down, while Violet stared at him wide-eyed and afraid. “Must reconcile,” the Warden of Honesty said, sounding distant, far-removed. “Only one option.”

He drew out the sword at his belt.

Proximo instantly threw himself forward, determined to put himself between the madman and his lady… but as he did, the Warden of Honesty did not step forward to attack her. Instead, he fell down to his knee, the long and ugly blade shimmering in his hand in front of him.

Then he turned the point of the sword to his own neck.

“Stop!” Violet cried, holding his arm back with all her strength. “What are you doing?!”

The Warden did not open his eye, nor look up. “We do not understand,” he said calmly. “Our friends are always right. You are always right, and this one less than an insect compared to you. If you say we are wrong, we are wrong. But this one should have known what was right and wrong for friends. If it did not, then it failed.” Despite all of Lady Violet’s efforts, the razor-sharp edge was still directly touching the Warden’s neck. “We will kill it. Only way to correct mistake.”

"No,” Lady Violet shouted immediately. “Six save us, put that down! I forbid it, Honesty—do you hear me? I order you to stop!”

The Warden of Honesty complied without hesitation, taking the blade away from his neck. The look that he gave to Violet, however, was one of utter astonishment. “We disappointed you,” he said, baffled. “This one failed. Why do you still want this thing to live?”

Lady Violet looked down at the kneeling man with equal parts fear, anger, unease, and compassion. Going towards him slowly, hesitating just for a moment, she placed her hand on his massive shoulder. “Whatever mistakes you’ve made… it doesn’t change you being my friend,” she sighed. “How could you think I’d want you dead, Honesty?”

“We...we failed,” he answered, still not understanding. “Contradicted purpose. Utility exhausted. This instrument must be broken, to have failed you.”

Lady Violet shook her head. “You will not speak of doing that ever again, not as long as I live. Understand? Six save us, you need to start thinking of yourself as a person, Honesty, not some… some tool to be used!”

“That is all we are,” he replied softly.

She turned away. “My point exactly.” She traced her way back to her seat, almost collapsing into it. “I don’t know what we’re going to do,” she admitted fearfully. “Sir Alwin will certainly tell his superiors what happened. Then they’ll come for you, my honest friend. What can be done?”

Violet seemed to sink just considering their options. Proximo did not speak, nor the Warden, his head bowed and his sword still gripped in his hands, the point resting on the ground. Silence filled the room. “Perhaps…” she began to say.

They were interrupted by a knock on the door. Violet shot to attention, frowning. “I said for you to wait down the hall, and that we were not to be disturbed.”

“Apologies, Lady-Warden,” came a woman’s muffled voice from the other side. “I do not mean to break conversation, but there are people here to be speaking with you.”

Proximo could see her heart fall. “The Moderators?” she asked gravely. The Warden of Honesty stood, and put away his weapon.

“No,” the woman replied.

“Then who—oh, come inside Jorama—who is it? Who would want us at this hour?”

One of the Honest Friends stepped gingerly inside, a dark skinned woman with a black braid of hair, one that Proximo recalled seeing earlier in the day. She tugged nervously at a gold scarf around her neck. “Is… is all well? We would not have come, but—" Her eyes widened upon seeing the Warden. “Lord-Warden!” she cried, staring at the cuts on his head. “Are you injured?”

“Fine,” he simply said. “Who comes?”

“Is it the Martes?” Violet asked. “One of ours? I swear if this is Withins-Bei again, I’ll—"

“No, Lady-Warden,” Jorama answered warily. She told them quietly who had arrived, uneasy as she said it.

The three of them looked between one another, with expressions ranging from confused to suspicious. “Send them in,” Lady Violet said at last, after some thought. “But Jorama?”

“Yes, Lady-Warden?”

“Stay nearby. I’ll call, if we need your help.”

Jorama stood in the doorway for a moment, not wishing to leave. Then, she nodded and stepped out. Some voices could be heard vaguely from the half-open entrance, voices that grew closer while shadows curled around the door. The pale yellow light of the Mare Who Waits streamed in from the window, casting a sickly saffron block of color on the opposite wall.

The door creaked, as a gloved hand pushed it open hastily, and in strode a strange figure. From head to toe, he was covered in dark, bound clothing, a baggy and ill-fitting shirt covered by a heavy vest. A black armband was tightly wrapped on one of his sleeves, and a winding patched cloth was draped from his left shoulder to the right side of his belt, colored dirty yellow. A hood covered his head, brown and shabby.

His face, however, was covered by a mask.

The visitor looked between the assembled Bronies, one to another. He paid particular notice to the Warden of Honesty, tilting his head at the giant, while the Warden returned the stare intensely. At last, after a long period of silence, the masked man half-bowed. “Good evening,” he said, a strange accent filling his words, one that Proximo could not recognize. The mask, however, he knew immediately.

The wooden face was a thing of considerable craftsmanship, with sections of brown and white wood cunningly fitted together without any noticeable seam or crack. The impression of it was smooth and rounded, aside from the bottom-most portion, where it sharply cut off in two jagged points, forming a gap from which the man’s mouth and chin could be seen. It was the only exposed patch of skin on his body: a very pale, very thin mouth, surrounded by unseemly, dirty stubble of brown hair on all sides. A film was over the eyes of the mask, a special kind of fabric that was easy to see through on one side but far more difficult on the other, meaning that they simply appeared to be black spaces to Proximo. Leading to both of these voids were bone white spirals and ivory dots, like dark whirlpools that made twirled rings of sea-foam.

The same anonymite from the ball, the assistant realized at once. The same one we noticed there, and who noticed us in turn. Hart rarely forgot a face, even when it was not really a face at all.

“Good evening to you as well,” Lady Brushshape said politely. “I’m afraid we have not been introduced.” She bowed, but kept her eyes on the Channic. “My name is Lady Violet Brushshape, Warden of Generosity, servant of the Brony Collective. To what do we owe this pleasure?” she asked, gauging his intentions.

“Business,” the anonymite replied, a smile appearing on what little of his face went uncovered, “the best kind.” It was an odd smile: not so much friendly as humored, like there was some joke he was aware of that no one else knew. “I have two others outside. I would like those in here as well.”

Lady Violet raised an eyebrow. “I hope that this isn’t some manner of trick.”

The anonymite chuckled. “The Chan is fond of them, true. But this is not one, you’ll find. I simply want to talk, Brony.”

Lady Violet looked to the Warden of Honesty, then gestured for the Channic to let his brethren in. The Warden moved closer to her and Proximo and further from the door, and two others came inside. The two muscled past one another as they pushed their way through the door.

The first was shorter than the others, and covered by a long mud-colored cloak that concealed most of their body—Proximo could not even seen their arms underneath, and only barely saw ragged clothes of dark purple and green behind a thin gap in the middle of it. Their mask resembled some terrified face: the whole thing was pale, but two huge white circles almost the size of grapefruits stood one on each side of the mask—the ‘eyes,’ with tiny black ‘pupils’ in the middle that likely served as the actual opticals. Three darks lines descended down from each of the eyes, like streaming tears, and the bottom of it was contorted to look like a screaming mouth. The small person wearing the unsettling image moved their way in first, head darting around rapidly as though to scan and see everything in the modest room.

The last Channic was bulky, broad in the shoulders, and possessing a huge chest that was tightly covered by a very dark red and black vest. Their giant, meaty hands were covered by gloves, while their mask was one of some snarling grotesque. It was made to resemble a ferocious animal of sorts: large, sharp tusks and teeth protruded from its roaring mouth, ragged strands of what looked like hair hung down the sides, and its pupils were thin slits like a tiger’s. They brought up the rear of the party, and crossed their log-like arms as they looked at the Bronies before them.

Without asking for permission, the lead anonymite strode up, pulled out a chair, and sat himself down. The one with the fearful mask did the same, after a moment of examining the seat carefully, while the animal-faced one stood stubbornly.

“I’m sorry to say,” Lady Violet said as they seated themselves, “that you have us at a disadvantage. We have not been acquainted, after all. I cannot say that I know your names.”

“You won’t, either,” snapped fear-mask. It was hard to tell, but Proximo was fairly sure that the scratchy, high-pitched voice of the one with the screaming face was a woman’s. The accent was entirely different from the other one’s, as well—rougher, and with less strange melody, more akin to something one would hear in a gutter. “Know our names? She is foolish, no?”

“My name is my own,” the leader said, ignoring his companion. “There are none alive worthy of it, either. However,” he said with a smile, “if you must call I and these something, this one,” he said with a gesture to the one sitting beside him, the probable woman, “can be called Syll.”

“A mask-name,” ‘Syll’ cut in. “Her real name is too great for you to understand.”

“Ignore her rambling,” said the leader anonymite. “This creature,” he gestured to the larger one, who still stood silently, “is called Boar. He is unimaginative in naming.”

‘Boar’ did not respond, simply staring down at Lady Violet, ugly mask looking uglier by the moment.

“And you?” Violet asked.

“Vaath,” the anonymite answered.

“Well, Mister Vaath, what can I— “

“Just Vaath,” he replied curtly. “There are no misters or lords or ladies in the Chan, horse-lover.”

“If we’re to insist upon names,” Lady Violet replied, “I shall call you by what you prefer if you use something other than that title for me.”

Vaath’s lips curled into a smirk. “Maybe you should have a thicker skin. In the Chan, your kind wears that name with pride. Their masks have bright eyes and bright colors, or else snouts and horns.”

She shrugged. “Thick skin I have, by my own biased reckoning. I’ve simply heard the insult a great deal recently—I’d enjoy a change of pace, Vaath.”

The anonymite laughed. “Very well, Brony."

“Changing yourself to demands of some horse-whore?” Syll said dourly, as though no one could hear her. “Ack, you stoop low, Vaath. Sir Vaath, perhaps? Will you gown in white?” She tilted her masked and veiled head at her companion.

“Quiet, fool,” Vaath answered harshly. “This flower is more fortunate than you, at least: no horse would be whore enough for Syll, hmm?”

Proximo could have sworn that Syll made a noise akin to hissing under her mask, but she said no more.

“Not that I don’t feel comfortable with all this,” Lady Violet said patiently, ignoring the insults, “but it seems to me that you three are a long way from home.” She leaned back calmly and steepled her fingers. “What would three anonymites of the Chan be doing in the Dreamweave of all places?”

“She inquires of me?” Syll croaked, her chest seeming to puff out a little under the cloak. “Be amazed then. Over many miles Syll came, across oceans and seas, past even the furthest reaches of your imagina—"

“I came by ship,” Vaath interrupted, seeming to delight in watching Syll seethe after doing so, “and these two followed. I and these sailed from Freewheel in Twicechan, some weeks ago. There are many ships in Twicechan these strange days.”

“I had heard as much,” Lady Brushshape said, intrigued. “They say Channic from the main isles are fleeing en masse. Political refugees fill the docks, or so I’ve been told.”

“They told well.” While Proximo could not see Vaath’s whole expression, his mouth tightened and scowled. “I and they are not Twicechannic by birth. Syll is from Vidchan, Boar from Greatchan, birthed in some Baysmouth gutter not worth knowing. I hail from Paulton, in Polchan, the greatest and most free land in all the Web, until now. Those as enlightened as myself—those few who could ever be—were forced to leave, to resist the Oppressed, and their puppet Moderators, and their puppet Mootking, may his false name be cursed by the Beast.”

In the back, stirring for the first time, the hulking Boar lifted his mask just slightly, and spat on the ground once he heard the word ‘Mootking.’ As Proximo wrinkled his nose at the disgusting gesture, Syll spoke up again. “Bah!” she growled. “You waste time, Vaath. These things know nothing of the ways of real people. They leave their faces out for others to see, as though others are worthy, the children. They will not understand my struggles.”

“There are horse-lovers among the Channic,” Vaath pointed out, again speaking as though there were no one else in the room that could hear them. “And this one,” he said with a gesture to the Warden of Honesty, “this one knows the Chan, I know. You are the Brony Warden of All Honesty, yes?”

“We are,” the Warden grunted, sounding uncomfortable.

In the back, Boar growled. Syll made a noise between a scoff and a screech as well, locking the giant, wide eyes of her mask on the Warden. “We? We?" she repeated like the word was somehow poisonous. “You hear the evil on the thing’s lips! Blackness, damnable slave of all speaks many not one, by his own choice he kills himself. Vaath is fool of fools and stupidity born human if he thinks this thing will comprehe—”

Vaath punched Syll across the ‘face,’ catching her off guard and knocking her out of her chair. Violet and Proximo stood up in surprise while the Warden moved his hand to his weapon, but Vaath moved no further, remaining in his chair in a state of mild disinterest as Syll picked herself back up, furious.

“I will kill you dead for that!” she hissed hatefully.

Vaath did not spare her a glance, and instead reached into his vest, and pulled out what looked like an empty hilt… but when he moved his thumb over it slightly, a long blade sprang out, ugly, twisted, honed and deadly sharp. He waved the knife lazily in front of her. “You will try,” he yawned, sounding bored.

Syll grumbled angrily, but returned to her seat without another word. Vaath smirked and returned his attention to the conversation, only to catch the unease that Proximo wore upon seeing the knife, and the threatening glare of the Warden of Honesty. He chuckled, and waved the knife a little more.

“A Channic retractable,” he explained nonchalantly, “among the fine creations of the free people. Now it appears to be what it is: a sharp blade made sharp to perfection. But a mere motion renders it thus." He slid his thumb over the same spot on the hilt, and the blade collapsed inside, hiding it. “And now it appears to be harmless again. Easily concealed… from your guards, for example.” Vaath smiled smugly. “These two had their weapons confiscated, but this had to be found first. But you know this weapon, don’t you?” Vaath said to the Warden of Honesty, tilting his head and grinning.

“Yes,” replied the Warden, watching carefully as Vaath put the retractable away.

“We heard much of the orange terror that led the horse-lovers in Comchan. I imagine you’ve seen many of your kind killed with blades like this, no?” Vaath said with a smirk.

The Warden glared ominously. “We killed many of your kind that tried.”

Vaath laughed out loud, showing off a mouthful of crooked teeth. “He has a Channic humor, I’ll say as much. And what of you, flower?” Vaath said to Violet. “Do you know the Chan?”

“I saw much of Sixchan-in-the-Sea, during the First Rise,” she said casually. “After the war, I did return once, to see our team compete in the Channic Games.”

“Ah, quite the spectacle. You enjoyed your time among real people?”

“It was certainly bracing, I will give it that much,” she said with a faint smile.

“Well, be happy with your life. After all, you saw real life, even for a moment—a land of free men, free to say and do what they wished, ruled by none. How men are meant to live. You will be sad to know that such a place is under such threat, even now.” He leaned forward gravely. “I am not the only one driven from his home, of late. Many thousands have left the Chan, my birthplace and birthright, after the war went sour. You know of which battle I speak.”

“The Great Gamer War,” she answered immediately. Proximo recalled the newspaper they had read in Shine: ‘the recent expulsion and removal of Channic combatants from their home isles only served to heighten hostilities and stoke anger… political refugees, having fled to Twicechan, claim the Mootking to have been compromised by Moderator and Oppressed interests.’ He remembered the headline of the piece, ‘HOSTILITIES RESUME’ printed indelibly on the page.

“Quite so,” Vaath continued. “And how great it was. The Polchannic such as myself had long hated the fisted power of the Oppressed, but it was not until the war began that it was realized how far they went. The Moderators were bought and paid for, with coin or flesh, as were the gamer leaders. All across the Web, the shackles came off when the corruption came to light. You know of these Oppressed, you Bronies—you fought with them recently, I think.”

“My friend Madelin Wright led an expedition against them, yes. A fire-feud in the Blurr—perfectly legal. It was tit-for-tat, seeing their hostility towards us.”

“You understand their evil, then.”

“I hold very few people to be wholly evil,” Violet answered diplomatically.

“A foolish mistake. They curse everything they touch, enslaving others to their political schemes and killing those that resist, and all with a sanctimonious face.” His mouth twisted just announcing the words. “A hateful foe, with much hate towards my people. And well-earned hate—the Chan is everything they cannot be.”

“Yes,” Syll interjected excitedly, the screaming face of her mask bouncing up and down as she spoke, “tell them of the enemy. Tell them of how they invade my home, and kill my Channic. Tell them of the silencing all across the Web, in Reddit and the others, and the banishings, and the deaths. All these the enemy did. Tell her of the traitor Mootking, Vaath, tell her!”

“I and many others opposed them,” Vaath continued. “But even while the free gathered in the Chan to discuss our next moves against the enslavers, the movement was betrayed. The Mootking,” he said, tightening his fist, “had turned. I wonder what it cost him, in gold and women, to do such atrocity. Now he bows to Mods while the Oppressed whisper in his ear in bed, and those dedicated to the true Channic ways are sent to exile, if they are not killed. You should have seen Vidchan burn, when knights came down upon it.”

Syll hung her head in mourning when Vaath mentioned her homeland. Boar made a sound that might have been a sigh, keeping his arms crossed.

“I’ve heard much of all this,” Lady Violet said, looking between the Channic. “The anti-Oppressed being banned all across the Saying Sea. I’ve met some who claimed them to be torturers and insurrectionists, inventing imagined threats.”

“Those people would be fools,” Vaath replied vehemently. “Blindly stupid, or else stupidly blinded. The deniers are either ignorant or in the Oppressed’s pocket, or both.”

“So I’ve heard as well,” she responded, wisely keeping her own stance officially neutral—it would not do to take sides in a conversation like this. “But what has this to do with your coming to Dreamweave? Is this just where you chose to continue, after the ban?”

Vaath shook his head. “Urgh, not a chance. If I wanted slaves to aid in the fight, I could have stayed in Twicechan, or sought refuge in Reddit, or with the Escapists, to be sure. This city is… how did you say? ‘Bracing,’ yes, but nothing compared to home. It is not worthy of me, and even now I wish I were with real people. But my business here is too important.”

“Did your leader send you?” Proximo asked, curious.

“The Channic have no leader,” Vaath snapped. “None commands anyone because of some title, even if the Mootking has forgotten that. No, I am my only leader, and I have led myself and these two here for my own reasons.”

“You do not lead Syll!” the female Channic barked.

“I do, and it is well-known,” Vaath responded casually, while she sulked. “I came here for restitution. Originally I hoped that the journey would end in Indelio, but at the last moment he left, and came here. I have come,” he said proudly, “to make demands of the Moderator, Dyren Halforth, and his ilk.”

“You wish to ask things of Lord Halforth?” Proximo asked, surprised that it was that simple. “You are petitioners?”

“I do not ‘petition’ for anything,” Vaath replied sourly. “I am demanding that the Mods end their damnations against real people.”

Lady Violet’s expression was half-understanding and half-bemused. “I am loath to say it, but if you believe that you can demand anything of Lord Halforth, you may be dreadfully mistaken.” She ignored the unhappy noises coming from Syll and instead asked, “But why come here? It seems to me that if you wanted to speak with the Mods targeting the Channic, you would have been better off speaking to the ones stationed in the Chan.”

“Many Channic have,” Syll answered. “And accomplished little with them.”

“But none of those Mods had a particular quality,” Vaath continued for her. “None of them, for example, were the most influential member a certain group,” he smiled, “which happens to be leading the charge in my homeland. Do you know the one, which drafts the plans to invade the Chan and break its people?”

Proximo then remembered a detail from some time ago: one of Halforth’s many qualifications that the Bronies had dredged up during their hunt for information. A very particular organization within the Authority, one that had been pushing for the Mod intervention in that tract of the Saying Sea. “The Channic Relations Committee,” Proximo realized, “of which Lord Halforth is a member.”

“Is the member,” Vaath corrected him. “The only one worth counting, truly. And he is their red hawk as well, forcing wars to force laws and rules and Centrellian nonsense on me. I might have just stayed in the Chan to free the Chan, but I know of things that this Halforth does not, and perhaps he will be less stupid than others and hear how dire his actions are.”

“Those things being?” Violet asked.

Vaath remained silent for a moment, pondering how to answer. “You have known the Chan, flower,” he said, “and your ugly ‘we’-guard as well. Then perhaps you noticed something while you were there. There is a feeling in that old place: a low motion, like something just at the corner of your eye, that creeps in a man’s thoughts. The Chan has a heartbeat—it is a living thing, or at least is the home of one. It is passion and drive, and burning stars that go out quickly but shine so brightly that many turn away—only the strong can stand to watch, and learn from watching. The Chan is not a place: it is alive, and it does not want to be controlled. These Mods and their invasions upon its freedom and mine are abominations upon it, and if not stopped it will react like any living thing does to a virus—purge it.”

Violet tilted her head. “I’m not sure I follow.”

“Things are stirring in the masked-lands,” Syll rasped in a low whisper. “Nameless terrors stalk in the night of the sea, in black Baysmouth and the Bay. It sleeps low, and searches high for us, watching.”

“And waiting,” Vaath said softly, “until…” He broke off, head darting around him sharply, as though looking for something. “You will not believe me. No foreigner so unenlightened would, but I have seen things. Things that cannot be, and should not, but are, and are in the Chan. The dark waters are becoming more hungry, and I can feel it looking for me more closely than ever, even while I wear the mask that my people carve to escape its sight.” He smiled, but it was a nervous smile, without any confidence behind it. “It is growing angry, and strong, and if it is not appeased then the doom will be at hand.”

“It?” asked Proximo, lost.

“The Watcher in the Waves,” Vaath whispered. “The Sleeper ‘Neath the Sea. The Dread and Dreaded, the Yellow Eye that sees all. The Beast in the Bay.”

After hearing the name, Syll bowed her head, and from out of her cloak a gloved hand appeared, which she placed over her heart. She began to sing a dissonant, strange song in a croaking rhythm, the words coming from the mask’s screaming mouth.

“The Beast has come, beneath the bay,

the bay, the bay, it’s come to stay,

the Beast will stay, beneath the bay,

the Beast in the Bay.

“It hunts our minds, or so they say,

they say, they say, it hunts our thoughts

I’ve heard them say, beneath the bay,

the Beast in the Bay.

“It waits there for a darker day, beneath the bay,

the bay, the bay, it sleeps and waits

for darker days, beneath the bay,

the Beast in the Bay.

“The masks will hide us from its gaze, or so we pray,

we pray, we pray, they hide us here

from it that preys, beneath the bay,

the Beast in the Bay.”

Violet and Proximo listened to the unpleasant tune warily and uncomfortably. The assistant passed his fingers through his hair, suddenly feeling nervous. “The Beast in the Bay,” he repeated, trying to sound nonchalant and skeptical, “your demon-god?”

Another growling sound came from Boar, while Vaath’s mouth warped into an intense scowl. “Not my god. The Beast belongs to no one. The only god that I follow is myself, fool, because I am the only one worthy of my worship.”

Lady Violet raised an eyebrow at the Channic. “That is an interesting perspective on things.”

Syll scoffed. “You hear her voice? She disapproves. No doubt she worships her horse-gods and lets them tell her what is right and wrong, the simpering slave-girl fool. Too weak to decide what is good herself!”

Lady Violet narrowed her eyes at the Channic woman, and seemed ready to argue that point, when Vaath cut in. “Foolish indeed, to worship gods, but she is foreign and incapable of doing otherwise. It is besides the point anyways—we were speaking of a greater peril. The Beast.” Vaath leaned in close, close enough that Proximo could smell him across the table—it was not a pleasant odor. “To live in the Chan is to feel it watching you,” the anonymite said, “never-ending. Only the masks keep it from finding and enslaving the Channic, but I can feel its anger. If it is roused from sleep, then there will be no room left in the Web for your horse-gods, or for Mods, or Oppressed, or free men or fools. And more importantly, there will be no world left for me.”

“That does sound unpleasant.”

“You do not believe me,” Vaath said, unsurprised. “Very well. But this is why I must speak with this Halforth, and soon. Perhaps he will be smart where you are not, flower.”

“I wish you the best of luck,” Violet said calmly. “But if that’s your aim, then who is stopping you? And why do you need to come to me?”

“ ‘Who is stopping you,’ she asks,” Syll repeated in a mocking impression of the lady, “ ‘Oh, who is stopping you, I have such clean clothes,’ she says. Bah!” Syll cried. “Syll will tell you what stops her from speaking to Halforth, it is Halforth who stops her!”

“She is tedious, but right,” Vaath said sardonically. “I tried to approach him, but I was turned away and told some lie about ‘needing appointment.’” Proximo couldn’t actually see, but judged from the twisting of the Channic’s mouth and the motion of his head that Vaath was rolling his eyes. “He should be the one making appointments to see me, the weak slave.”

“Seeing how preoccupied Lord Halforth has been, that appointment might be quite some time from now,” Proximo pointed out.

“Yes, which is why I come to you. Halforth’s slaves will not listen to me—the white-clad fools turn away or say the same line of ‘appointment this or that.’ But I understand,” Vaath said meaningfully, “that you have a closer mouth to his ear. That you Bronies have his attention, for slaying the knight? We congratulate you on that, by the way.”

Violet ignored the accusation and questioned him further. “You want us to arrange a meeting? I’m surprised you came to us, if that’s your aim. The Martes have his attention as well.”

Vaath waved his hand. “I want nothing of them. Aureliano is a slave to others and too weak for my liking, Arcadio has a yellow light to him, and Pilara is one of the Oppressed.”

“She is?” Proximo asked, not having heard this.

“Hmm-hmm! Quite so—she is from the Blurr, is she not? Did you not wonder why she dislikes you Bronies so?”

Proximo might have pointed out that being Blurrite was no guarantee of being one of the Oppressed, but had to concede that he’d considered the possibility. He had admittedly never been entirely clear on why the Oppressed despised the Brony Collective so much, but since they considered their motives and the justness of their cause self-evident, they were unlikely to enlighten Proximo any time soon.

“So you simply wish for us to put in a word with the Lord Moderator as to how urgent your mission is?” the Warden of Generosity asked, leaning back. “I had half-expected more. I suppose you will offer some manner of reward to us, then?”

Vaath smiled. “The honor of helping me save the world, of course.”

She laughed at the absurdity of it all. “Very well, then. I am fond of this world, after all—it’s where I kept all my clothes. Perhaps I will pass this along.” She rested her chin on her hand, and bent forward towards the Channic. “But let me ask you something first. We have our own reason to be in this awful city, and you already named it: our friends are accused of murder. I hate to disappoint you, but it is not true. So tell me,” she said forthright, “is there anything that you know about who murdered Sir Harald?” She gave a glance to the Warden of Honesty, who returned the look to her and then fixed his sight on Vaath.

“I did not kill him, if that is what you ask,” the Channic replied carefully. “Nor can I say who did. Another dead Mod is a triumph though,” he smiled, “and if one lies about doing it, I would congratulate them.”

Proximo spared a look to the Warden of Honesty, but the giant did not seem ready to call out whether the Channic was lying or not. Instead, he simply looked at the masked-man, brow furrowing. “Hrm,” he grunted.

At the same time, Vaath frowned. “I will say nothing more than… than…” He grabbed at the forehead of his mask, sounding dizzy. Suddenly, his head shot up, and the eyes of his mask looked directly back at the Warden of Honesty. The two locked eyes for a moment, saying nothing.

“Vaath?” said Syll, tilting her head.

At first, the anonymite did nothing. Then, that same unfriendly, very amused and knowing smile appeared on his face. “I must go now. Will you speak to the Mod?”

Violet looked at him, and remained silent. There was suspicion hidden behind her calm face, Proximo could tell, and confusion. But soon she said, “Yes. Though I’m not sure he will listen.”

Vaath nodded, and stood to leave. “Then I go. Follow, followers,” he said to the two others. Syll muttered at him, but went out as well, shoving her way past Boar. The large, barrel-chested anonymite lingered, however, not making a move for the door.

The three Bronies waited a moment for Boar to leave, but he remained unmoved, just looking at them with his arms crossed.

Proximo began to ask, “Can we— “

“Dark days are coming,” Boar said to them in a gruff, rough voice. Then, he stomped away without another word.

A silence persisted in the room for a few moments after the anonymites shuffled out.

“Well,” Proximo said after they were sure the Channic had left, “that was strange.”

“Honesty,” Lady Violet said immediately, “three anonymites with aims on the Lord Moderator turning up in the city on a whim seems an astonishing coincidence to me. Was Vaath telling the truth, or does he know more than he says?”

“We are not sure,” the Warden of Honesty admitted, frowning.

“Not sure?” Violet said, shocked. “I had thought you could…”

“Ordinarily. But something different,” the Warden said with a fresh hint of confusion in his voice. “Blocking the Sight. Not working.” He narrowed his eye. “The masks.”

“Masks?” Lady Violet said with a raised eyebrow. “Is that truly all it takes to prevent you from Seeing them?”

“No,” the Warden replied immediately. “Never interfered before, even in Chan. Strongest there, but did not affect it. Those three are different. Used some power to prevent Seeing.” He looked down at Violet meaningfully. “They came prepared to counter it.”

Lady Violet’s eyes widened as she contemplated the implications of that. “It seems to me,” she said slowly, “that we have an interesting new party here in the Dreamweave. An interesting party in which we must take more interest. Perhaps some resources should be spared to find out about these anonymites, hm?”

“I agree, my lady,” said Proximo. Anonymites with a vested hatred against Mods, turning up out of nowhere in a city where one was just murdered? Sounds like a lead worth pursuing to me, he thought. “I can have some of our fact-finders get to work immediately.”

“Do so. We’ll need to move fast, considering recent lapses,” she said with an eye on the Warden of Honesty.

“You are angry,” the Warden of Honesty said, monotone and emotionless.

“Yes,” Lady Violet said without sparing him a glance. “Your actions might have cost us everything here. I suggest you think about that.”

The golden-eyed giant said nothing, keeping his gaze on the floor. “Should this one leave?” he asked after a moment.

Lady Violet rubbed her head, then sighed. “No. If they come for you… you should not be alone. Stay here with me.”

Proximo looked at her, agape. “My lady, can I have a word with you? Outside, perhaps?”

Just outside the room, the assistant looked to his lady with concern. “My lady, I have no intention of leaving you alone with that lunatic.”

Lady Violet smiled wanly at his concern. It was a tired smile, weighed down by all that had happened, but a grateful one. “I understand your reluctance, Proxi, but it isn’t necessary. Honesty would never hurt me.”

“Sir Alwin might disagree,” Proximo said gravely. “My lady, he’s a violent madman that was willing to threaten and murder to get what he wanted.”

“To get what he thought I wanted,” Violet corrected him.

“Why are you defending him?” Proximo asked incredulously. “If anything, we should be turning him over to the Moderators. At least then they might accept our apology.”

“I am not turning anyone over to anyone,” Violet replied firmly. “I am not defending what he did, Proximo, and you should realize that. It was inexcusable, without a doubt. But he will not hurt me though, or any of his friends, for that matter. I don’t need to fear him… it’s everyone else that I worry for. Including himself.” She sighed when she saw that Proximo still did not agree. “Go and rouse some of our friends, and have them start investigating. Someone in this court must have some clue about who these anonymites are.”

“And what will you do, my lady?”

She turned back to the door, and half-opened it. “Wait for the Mods,” she said sadly, “and do what I can.”

* * * * * *

In terms of sheer perversion and depravity, the Deep Web can never be matched. But if there ever was a Hell of anarchy and discord within the Known Internet, you would find it in the Chan. The islands are death and darkness, laden with madness and cruelty. And it is infectious as well. Of the team I assembled to write this report, two began to rant and scream after we arrived about “lamp-lights” and “yellow blackness” like madmen. The next day they had disappeared, no doubt vanishing into the island to join the savages.

The people of the Chan are falseness made flesh, utterly devoid of honor and reason, content only to stew in their chaos and lawlessness. The mere act of showing one’s true face or giving their birthname is seen as weakness among the anonymites, with the natives wearing twisted masks that conceal their identities and show any number of grotesque images. Half of the isles are ablaze at night with the fires from their constant conflicts, and the other half is crumbling into the black waters of the bay. And the bay...

I have served the Authority for many years, and seen many strange things. I do not consider myself a superstitious man. But there is something very wrong with the waters around the Chan. The locals speak of “The Beast in the Bay” with hushed tones, as though it can hear them night and day, and our group has found repeated messages painted around the islands, all referring to “something in the sea” or the “watcher in the waves”. The Chan is a place of hatred, but it is also one of fear: fear of the law, fear of the governing, fear of one another, and fear of this Beast most of all, and the most horrible thing is that I’m beginning to understand why. Whenever I look into the inky waters of the bay, I can’t help but feel uneasy, as though something horrifying in the depths is looking back. One of the men who deserted swore that he saw something while we were in the ship that carried us to the Chan, but none of us could get him to say more.

I have come to the Chan and sent the reports that my superior requested; I have done my duty, so now I am leaving this place with my remaining team as fast as possible. I only hope that none of the stain of this pit follows me when I return.

Signed under the Shield of Law,

Sir Ira Ahzred, of the Order of the Enlightened Mind.

— A note attached to an Authority census report conducted by the Knight Enlighteners in the Chan. This was the first mission that Lord Ira Ahzred—also called ‘Ira the Apostate’ or simply ‘The Mad Mod’—would conduct in the Chan, though not at all the last. This is also held as the first of the “Channic Letters,” some of which would find their way into his most infamous grimoire: The Darksea Compendium.

Chapter XXIII: Sight Unseen

* * * * * *

“Crouching at the shore of the Bay of Masks is black Baysmouth. Within it, on the only high hill, a strange and shattered building stands, looming over the spiraling streets and plainly seen by the pale, covered faces of every man in the city. In a settlement where homes and markets and streets are in a constant flux, changing hands and names as swiftly as their inhabitants grow bored or are burned out, this vast and solitary palace is one of the few comfortable constants, but nevertheless it appears an alien impossibility to foreigners.

“The Slouch-hall was never built, not truly, but rather grew, expanding and contracting over countless generations on the whims of the man who presided within, for it is inside these shaded vaults and towers that the Mootkings of the Chan have lived and ruled and ofttimes died wearing the Baymaster’s Mask, as their forebears did, until their final moments.

“It is a massed maze of adjoining rooms and corridors, with the endless improvements and renovations added or destroyed over the ages amounting to a structure that more resembles a hundred different buildings smashed together than one entire. Sloped and sagging gambrel roofs hang and collide into parapets, held up by walls of a hundred different materials: oak and teague, granite and marble and oily stones dredged from the ocean, or glass and concrete walls looming bare and high beside ancient, crumbling bricks that seem ready to collapse at any moment. Rooms and windows jut out at odd places and angles, while a half-dozen towers sink and sway in the soft earth below, making them appear tilted next to their newer counterparts, which stand straight as a Channic knife. Rusted metal spikes twist like thorns from one wall, while another is topped by hideous, crumbling gargoyles. Yet another has gems of amethyst, beryl, opal and chrysolite set haphazardly in the stained alabaster and rotting wood.

“One receives the impression from its silhouette of something that was never planned or mapped by its builders, but simply erupted slowly or suddenly and now, after being tortured into a thousand different shapes, is perpetually loosening from its bonds and falling in on itself.

“The interior is something between a labyrinth and an Etsian puzzlebox: it is said that a man could live within its walls for a lifetime and never see every room. Dark and narrow staircases rise and descend in on one another, with some sharply changing in direction or leading up to nothing at all—either bare walls or open sky, without a railing or barrier to protect one from falling out. Hallways might stretch on endlessly without linking anything, or might be filled from wall to wall with doors. The doors pose similar problems: many might open to new rooms, but others might have been blocked by new walls or connected to areas that were blasted or crumbled away years ago, making them open to empty air a hundred feet up or to a long fall downward. Some sections of the Slouch-hall are simply impossible to reach and have long been forgotten about, only for builders generations later to find their way inside after demolishing an ancient wall…”

— “The Chan, the Beast, and Their People,” by Allek Yellowtail

* * * * * *

Unfolding the note, Coin Counter passed it across the table, allowing Lady Violet Brushshape to pluck it out with her delicate fingers. She blinked, rubbed her eyes, then looked at it again. “Look for me — from C.S.” she read off the card, “along with a green heart.” She cast her tired eyes to the nervous knight of the Honest Friends sitting across from her. “This was on your person, you say?”

“Yes, my lady,” Coin replied quickly. “But I didn’t put it there, I swear. It isn’t mine and I’d never seen it before—someone placed it on me.”

“Someone,” she repeated, a bit woozy-sounding as she did so. Coin had meant to approach her about the note the night prior, but by the time he had shown the note to his fellow investigators and resolved to do so, some drama had ensued that required the Warden’s attention for the whole night. Jorama, the dark Sajlic guard that had been standing watch outside her room, had told him that it was best to save it until morning, and judging by the shouting Coin had briefly heard it seemed like a good plan in his books. He still had no idea what it had all been about, and thought better than to ask, but whatever it was it had apparently kept Lady Violet from sleeping—she had seemed ready to collapse when she had opened the door to see him earlier.

Lady Violet passed the note over to the Warden of Honesty, who had been standing silently by her side since Coin began telling her what had happened. Coin Counter had been surprised to see that the Warden of Honesty had also been there in the lady’s room when he had arrived earlier, but hadn’t questioned it out of fear of accidentally suggesting something truly appalling. Seeing that the giant wasn’t tired in the slightest, Coin guessed that the Warden had just arrived earlier than him. “What do you make of that?” Lady Brushshape asked seriously.

The Warden of Honesty stared at the little piece of paper as though he were trying to set it on fire with his gaze. “Uncertain,” he replied. “Secretive method of contact. Invitation? Or hint.” He frowned. “Why not say so openly? Hrm.”

“If it’s this… what was it?”

“Er, they called it the ‘Changeling Society,’ my lady,” Coin answered, afraid that it sounded silly.

“Well, if it’s this Changeling Society, then its members would be concerned about being snuffed out, I’m certain,” she continued. “Nobles and merchants and well-to-dos supporting the Brony Collective would be prime targets for the Martes and their goons.” She eyed Coin, thin eyes lined with bags regarding him carefully. “Did you have contact with any other people of interest that day, or was it just whom you mentioned?”

Coin tried to recall anyone else, and came up with nothing. “It was really just the guards, the three Martes, and the Moderators. Oh, and the cybramancer Heylen Ott I spoke of, and his friend Byrios Amberten.” He supposed that there was the witness he had spoken to as well, but they had never been close enough for the note to pass between them, no matter how secretly.

Lady Violet considered that. “Keeping what you told us in mind,” she said, “which do you imagine was most likely to give this message to you?”

Coin had his answer ready, after a night of mulling it over. “It must have been the cybramancer, my lady. No one else would make sense—the Martes certainly wouldn’t be part of this Society, nor the Moderators. I suppose it could have been one of the guards, but Heylen Ott had the best opportunity to give it to me, after we bumped into one another. I can’t be certain, but that’s my best guess.”

“I would agree,” Lady Violet said with a partially exhausted smile. “We shall have to investigate this ‘Heylen Ott’ closely… but subtly. This so-called Changeling Society as well—if they have some knowledge of what happened that night, we cannot risk scaring them off.”

Coin nodded in agreement, and glanced down at the paper now lying on the table. When he was in the Knight Regulators, standard procedure might have been to compare the handwriting with other available samples, in order to find a match. No such resources were available to the Bronies however, making guesswork a necessity, as uncomfortable as that might be. The penmanship in the note did not jump out at Coin as familiar, at any rate.

One thing that did seem familiar, however, was the illustration—the green heart. It was only a subtle nagging in his mind, but he could have sworn that he’d seen such a symbol previously, and recently as well. Where and when it was that he had noticed it before, Coin could not be sure, but he had been racking his brains trying to recall these past hours.

A knock came at the door, and Proximo Hart walked in briskly, carrying a tray over. A teapot and some cups were balanced on the article, which he then set down in front of Lady Violet. “Tea, my lady?” he asked.

“Oh, Six save us, yes,” she said with exhausted enthusiasm. She took a long sip the moment that Hart finished pouring the drink, and seemed to perk up immediately. “A good brew. I owe you my life once again, Mister Hart.”

“You might not need it so badly if you would only sleep,” Hart replied in a mild scold. “It is hardly healthy, my lady. Were you up all night waiting for…”

“Yes,” Lady Brushshape said quickly, before he could continue, “but not a soul came. I cannot make heads or tails of it.”

“Perhaps they were waiting until morning, my lady?” Proximo said with concern, and a glance to the Warden of Honesty. For whatever reason, the giant seemed oddly ill-at-ease with whatever it was the two were discussing, opting to keep his eye on the floor.

“I don’t know why they would wait, but that is the only thing of which I can think. Without a doubt they might have had me at quite the disadvantage, seeing my lack of rest. Thankfully,” he said with a coy look, “I have my faithful assistant here to rescue me. Very sweet.” She took a sip and lit up a bit more. “Mm, not unlike this tea—just the way I like it.”

“You’re always too flattering when you’re tired out of your mind, my lady,” Proximo responded dryly. “But it was my pleasure.”

Coin considered asking just who exactly Lady Violet had been expecting so intently, but thought better than to pry. “My lady,” he asked instead, “what should I do? If this Society is trying to get in contact with me, how should I go forward with it?”

Lady Violet closed her eyes and took another sip of tea. “First,” she said firmly, “I must ask that you not burden anyone else with this information yet. Not until we better understand it ourselves, and particularly not to anyone outside the fandom. It wouldn’t do to have the Moderators suddenly convinced of there being some vast conspiracy at play when we’ve barely a notion of it ourselves. Understood?”

“Yes, my lady.”

“I’ll set people on observing the Grandmance more carefully, and see what can be found. I do wonder, though,” she mused, “whether this note is meant to tell us all we need.”

“How so, my lady?” Hart asked.

“ ‘Look for us’ is the only message that it gives,” she replied, pulling a purple bang from her eyes, “and the only one they believed Sir Coin would require. If they’re aim was to remain unnoticed by us, they wouldn’t have contacted him at all. Clearly, whoever gave this to Sir Coin wants to be found, and believes this to be enough to make it happen.”

“Seems a bit cryptic for that, doesn’t it?” Proximo pointed out. “If they wanted to arrange a meeting, why not just say when and where?”

“Fear of being intercepted, perhaps?” Lady Violet guessed. “Or they’re not entirely sure whether they can trust the recipient yet. Whatever the reason, this is still a clue, and a big one as well—provided one can piece together to where it points.”

Despite Coin having been the one to find the note, he still could not help but be skeptical. “I, ah, I was worried about one thing, my lady. What if this is a trap? A way for the Martes to bait us, I mean. Or someone else, for that matter, making things up to fool us? We have no proof that this Society really sent this.”

Lady Violet gave a knowing smile. “On the contrary,” she said with a glance to Proximo Hart, “we just might. There just so happens to be one that received a message not unlike yours’—a woman by the name of Lady Imelia Kohburn. Tell him, Mister Hart.”

Proximo nodded, and proceeded to recount a story concerning Lady Kohburn, the same shy girl that Coin had been introduced to just a day prior. “...and when she returned,” the assistant continued, “she found a note attached to her door. One written in the same style, addressed from the same C.S.”

“Did she hear anything else?” Coin asked, surprised at the news.

“No, she chose not to follow up on their offer of meeting—too much potential trouble. But she stakes her life on it being the Changeling Society.”

“Proximo trusts her word,” Lady Violet said, “and I personally doubt that she would lie.”

“We could check,” the Warden of Honesty offered bluntly.

Hart looked at the Warden with an angry expression. “You’ll stay away from her,” Proximo said with a surprising bitterness. “I thinked you’ve ‘helped’ enough as it is.”

The Warden stiffened. “We did not—"

“Enough,” Lady Violet cut in. “Stop it, both of you. Honesty, you will remain here in the Palace until further notice, and you will not leave my sight. Understood?” She shot him a harsh look of her own, one that Coin had never seen her give before.

Something isn’t right here, he thought as he looked between the three.

Coin thought that the Warden might argue the point, and for a moment it seemed he would. Instead, though, he bowed his head. “We obey,” the giant replied simply, looking to the floor again.

“At any rate,” the lady continued, “this might just give us more to work from, if we’re to find these people.”

Coin was still unsure. “If someone else was contacted by them months before we were even here, that might go to show it being genuine,” he admitted. “Neither note tells who we’re meant to look for, if we want to find them.” Coin Counter agreed that there was likely some hint in the note, provided it was real, but it was just out of his reach. The odd, latent familiarity of the symbol on the message made him wonder, though. I’m certain I’ve seen that heart before, Coin puzzled, was it on some art? A piece of clothing? A sign? It was only barely evading him, whatever place it was.

“Perhaps,” Proximo suggested, “it is less of a ‘who,’ and more of a ‘where.’” He pulled out another folded paper and handed it to Coin. “Imelia allowed me to take it, for now. Look at that.”

Coin did just that, and immediately saw the same green heart emblazoned in the center of the page. The text around it was precisely the same handwriting as in his note, or at least close enough that Coin’s eyes couldn’t see a difference. And indeed, there was the same ‘C.S.’ printed in the letter’s closing. But what Coin fixed on the most was a single phrase: ‘Midnight out, Moonlight Inn, at the docks.’

In a moment, it rushed back to Coin where he had seen that symbol before.

“Six save me!” he exclaimed in surprise, the memory flooding back suddenly. “I need to get down to the docks right away,” Coin said as he flung himself towards the door, forgetting his courtesy in the excitement. “I think I—"

He swung the door open, only knock himself directly into a person standing closely on the other side, sending both he and them tumbling to the ground in a crash. Picking himself off the floor and cursing his clumsiness, Coin saw that beside him was a very surprised, slightly dazed-looking Cellia Ravenry, sitting on the floor in her white uniform and bit wide-eyed.

“Light of life, Cellia, I’m so sorry!” Coin said immediately as he came over to help her. “I really need to… oh, here let me…”

Cellia shook her head at the apologies as he helped her up. “Oh, please, please, it’s really all right, Sir Coin,” she said with a bit of embarrassment as she tried to straighten herself out. “I was just about to knock on the door you see and, ah…” She coughed into her hand, seeming flustered. “Well, serves me right for standing so close to the door, I suppose. Er, are you well, then?”

“Fine, just fine,” Coin stammered, “are you sure you’re…”

She waved a hand. “None worse for wear, really. I suppose I need to work on my center-of-gravity exercises more, though, so I’m not being knocked over this way and that. I cannot do all my work lying on my back,” she remarked while brushing off her clothes. She stopped for a moment and thought about what she had just said. “Ah, anyway,” she continued while suddenly becoming very focused on a nonexistent piece of dirt on her shirt, “I’m, er, I am here on official business, along with Sir Alwin.”

“Sir Alwin?” Coin asked, looking over her shoulder.

Coin had been so distracted by making a fool of himself that he hadn’t noticed the lanky, anxious knight standing a short ways behind her, wringing his hands together and mainly looking lost. His eyes were darting around the hall, at one moment settling on Coin, then at another moment on the open door, wringing his hands all the while. “Sir, ah, Sir Coin?” he stuttered. “We haven’t met, I think. Well, perhaps we’ve heard of… no, it doesn’t matter.” He tried to straighten himself out, alleviating his ordinary stooped shoulders.” I… I have needs to speak with your War—"

Lady Violet appeared in the doorway in a flash, whatever exhaustion from earlier having vanished in a moment. “Sir Alwin?” she said quickly, before scanning around the room. She seemed puzzled when she did, as though she were expecting someone or something else—no one but Cellia and Sir Alwin had come. “I had hoped to see you, sir. Perhaps we might speak in private?” The look she gave him was equal parts contrite and pleading.

The knight opened his mouth as though to spoke, closed it, then opened it again, then shut it tight, turned, and fled, his face flustered. He sped off down the hall at an alarming pace, leaving a bewildered Lady Violet behind.

“Sir?” called a confused Cellia. “Are you—"

She got no reply—he was already gone. Proximo Hart had appeared out of the room as well, and exchanged a look of disbelief with his lady.

“Miss Ravenry,” Lady Violet said carefully, “did Sir Alwin make any mention of why he wanted to speak with me?”

“None, my lady,” she answered, clearly lost.

“None at all? Not to Lord Halforth or anyone else?”

“Nothing of which I would know, Lady Violet. Sir Alwin merely said that it was important to speak with you, or at least that is what he told Sir Borlund and I.”

“Sir Borlund?” Hart repeated, vaguely alarmed.

“Yes, he…” Cellia bit her lip, not appearing sure if she should continue. “Well, it would not be my place to presume on what would be best practice, but Sir Borlund did not seem to want Sir Alwin to speak with you.”

“And yet he came,” Lady Violet mused. There was uncertainty in her expression, doubt but relief as well, as though this were something she had not planned upon, though what 'this’ was Coin could only guess.

Cellia cleared her throat. “Regardless,” she said, “I had some business of my own to address. I was going to proceed down into the city in order to reexamine some relevant locations. Since Sir Coin is in my charge,” she continued with formal stiffness, “I had thought he would join me.”

“Oh!” Coin replied in surprise. It was a tempting offer, but he remembered that he had urgent business of his own. “I’m afraid I need to go to the docks, Cellia, but if you’re willing—"

“Wonderful!” she said with no undue enthusiasm. “I had hoped to revisit a tavern in that area anyway, to create a better diagram of the scene. I had forgotten to bring my ruler when I drew up the last one, so a more accurate copy is in order. We can proceed there, examine the scene, and you can embark on whatever concern you have, sir.”

“The invitation is accepted, Miss Ravenry,” Lady Violet responded, before Coin could. “But would you mind if I have a word with Sir Coin before you depart? I had hoped to mention it before he ran off.”

Cellia gave a nod, and walked aside to wait for them to finish. Lady Violet took Coin by the arm and pulled him back into the room. Proximo Hart accompanied her, a look of shock on his face. “My lady,” he whispered, “if she truly does not know, then…”

“...Then Sir Alwin told no one of what happened,” Lady Violet finished, “though why I cannot say. But we can discuss that later.” She turned her attention to Coin instead. “Remember what I said, Sir Coin,” she said in a lull voice, “this talk of Changelings is not to reach anyone else. Especially not the Mods—do not let her or any other know a word of it.”

“What if she asks?” said Coin.

“Lie.”

“My lady,” he replied, feeling uncomfortable at the prospect, “is that honest?”

“No,” she admitted, “but it is necessary. Do not disappoint us now, Sir Coin—our friends depend on it.”

Coin walked down the hallway, Cellia leading in the front, and thought carefully about what he was just told. It was the Peacekeeper that interrupted his ruminating. “So, Sir Coin,” Ravenry said as they proceeded to the front of the Palace, “have you ever been involved in a case quite like this? Having been a knight, I mean.”

A murdered Moderator, two framed men, three unsympathetic judges, Coin thought, not to mention a madman in the front and a conspiracy at our backs. “I cannot say that I have.”

“It is all very interesting, is it not?” she said cheerfully. She immediately backtracked her words after. "Just because I've never encountered such an assignment, I mean to say," she added hastily. "I hope that we can serve justice soon enough, but... well, it's a puzzle, is what I mean."

"I know," Coin reassured her. "How about you? I'm sure you've been a Peacekeeper long enough to have seen interesting work."

She smiled at the memory of it. "I suppose so. Lord Halforth's service is rarely dull, after all. But I admit that I have never been involved with something quite like this. It is not so often that the Devien Isles are involved in dark crimes, you understand, and there are few things so hateful as slaying a Knight of the Holy Orders." As Coin descended down a staircase with her, he saw her eyes widen slightly in excitement. "Have you ever investigated a case of murder against one of our order before?"

"Err, no," Coin admitted. Being in the Knight Regulators meant that most of one's time was spent calculating and auditing finances, the greatest danger being straining one's eyes on time-worn ledgers—murder was far away from that. He saw her deflate a little when she heard, however, so he thought for a moment about something to add, so as not to disappoint. "I, ah, I did once look into a case where I had to arrest a Moderator, though."

She was so eager to hear some tale of knightly prestige that he had no real choice to continue. "This was about two years ago," he explained while she listened intently, "while I was working in the Financial Records Repository in Central for the term."

"What was that like?" Celia interrupted, fascinated.

Coin considered that, trying to think of the most arresting qualities of work in Central. There were buildings so large and tall in Central that it was said clouds formed inside them, and such a mass of people that some claimed that there were more people in that one city than the whole of the Eastern Internet. Yet the only thing that Coin was truly familiar with were the lines of accounting books that he had immersed himself in for those short months. “I loved it,” he replied truthfully.

With Cellia giving him leave to go on, Coin continued. “Anyways, I was investigating expenditure reports from one of the local Peacekeeper teams when I noticed an irregularity. Too much funding and not enough spending. They had tried to cover it up with dummy accounts and necessary expense lines, but I dug further and found out that the knight in charge had been pocketing the funds for himself.”

Cellia frowned and nodded. “An apostate. You took the necessary actions, then?”

“He was banned from his position and expelled from the Authority. You should never be afraid to search more closely, even into simple things—there is no telling what you could find,” Coin said casually.

He glanced over at Cellia and saw that she had been scribbling down what he said on a pad of paper.

Coin couldn’t help but look at it quizzically. “Are you…?”

She looked up, slightly sheepish. “If I’m to be a knight,” she explained, “it is best that I record such lessons. For future reference.”

Coin felt an odd mix of being flattered and uncomfortable. “You truly do want to be a knight,” he said, impressed with her dedication.

“What else is there?” she asked with a proud smile.

Ambitious, Coin thought, and very determined. People like Cellia tended to rise high in the Authority. Am I looking at a future Lord Moderator?

He still felt the need to interject. “So why do you want to be one?”

“It is not about wanting. The Ravenrys have been Moderators for generations,” she said matter-of-factly. “What would I be if I turned away from our tradition?” She straightened out her back and folded her hands behind her as she walked, in a manner very reminiscent of Lord Halforth. “To serve the Authority is to serve family and community and the Code of the Web. Living for my own sake would be shameful. Profligate, even. It is my duty.” She looked forward contemplatively as they walked. “The Logos is Greater,” she said solemnly.

“The Logos is Greater,” Coin echoed reflexively. He knew the quotation immediately. A Focusing Phrase, he remembered. Whilst in training, he had repeated such lines dozens, hundreds, thousands of times—they were meant to snap a mind to attention, a constant reminder of one’s life, direction, and purpose. His reply to it came as naturally as breathing, without thought.

Cellia looked at him. “It truly is, Sir Coin.”

They made their way through to the main entrance of the Palace, and down the stairs to the square. It was strange to see the difference between when Coin walked through the city with his Brony friends and when he did so with a Moderator Peacekeeper: there was no jeering, nor threatening. When Cellia moved forward, and the people caught sight of the uniform she wore, they would part in front of her like water before a prow.

Did people act this way when I was a knight? Coin wondered as they went on their way. He felt as though he would have remembered that, but perhaps it was just as natural and unremarkable to him then as it seemed to be for Cellia now.

They made it to the docks in good time, walking along the grimy harbor. Before long, Coin once again stood in front of a familiar place—The Moonlight Inn.

As Cellia pushed open the front door, he saw that little had changed inside. Coin was thankful to see that there were not too many drunkards slumped around the place so early in the day, though a few were still clinging to their seats after their prior evening of imbibing. Several looked warily at Cellia as she passed by. She and Coin went to the counter at the front and waited for the bartender to return.

The owner noticed Cellia soon enough. “Can I h—"

He stopped when he saw Coin, eyes flaring up in recognition. "You again. No way, get out of here.”

Cellia frowned. “Is there a problem, sir?”

“Horse-lovers aren’t allowed here,” the owner replied, folding his arms and glaring at the Brony in front of him.

“Oh, we are not here for drinks,” Cellia explained. “Official business.”

“He can wait outside, then.”

“He,” Cellia said with authoritative firmness, “by which I mean Sir Coin Counter, is acting within the power of the Moderator Authority.” She pulled out her badge and flashed it open to the bartender. “And not only that, he is working with me. I must insist.”

The owner’s droopy eyes looked down at the badge, then up to Coin. He twisted his mouth. “Fine. But be done with it quickly, whatever you’re trying to find.”

“Thank you. We appreciate the help,” Cellia said courteously with a bow. The owner rolled his eyes and turned away.

Reached into her coat pocket, Cellia pulled out a piece of metal the size of a card deck. Grabbing on side of it, she gave a mechanically precise twist back with her arm, causing the thing to unfold out into a straight, paper thin line. “Well,” she said with the ruler in her hand, “we had best get to work. I know that these rooms will not measure themselves, after all. You had something to reexamine yourself, correct?”

“Yes,” Coin replied, his eyes already shooting to the door that led to the alley outside.

“We’d best hop to it, then. I shall begin upstairs—see you in a moment!” She marched up to the second floor, looking blissful with her measuring stick at her side while she went.

Coin took a moment, then craned his neck to see if she had gone upstairs. When he saw she had left, he shot off towards the alleyway behind the Moonlight. He went immediately to the farthest wall and started to examine it, eyes pouring over every brick, every detail. He found it right away, exactly where he had remembered it.

At the corner of the wall, just barely in view, was a small green heart.

I was right! Coin thought triumphantly. But that was only part of the puzzle. This proves the Society was here, he mused, and it confirms that message the girl received. But how does it fit with Dabrius? The ambassador had disappeared from this bar the night of the murder, seemingly into thin air. Now Coin knew that it was a place with which the Changeling Society was somehow connected. There must be a link. He considered going back in, so that he could question the bartender, but he was struck with a certain inspiration first.

Running his hand over the wall, he felt the corners of the brickwork. The green-painted heart was resting on one stone it particular—Coin worked his fingers around it, moving them across the seams. It was weak—poorly set it place. He dug his hands in more, and then gave just the slightest tug.

The brick fell out, revealing a hollow behind it. Incredulous, Coin looked at the brick he pulled out, then to the hole.

Coin glanced at his hand, and flexed the fingers. Well, nothing ventured…

He stuck his hand into the hollow space, and was surprised to find his whole arm able to vanish inside. Feeling around, Coin’s hand touched nothing… until his fingers brushed past something. It was an alcove — a grip, built into the other side of the wall. Coin pulled upon it, while pushing his weight against the wall.

The wall moved.

Coin almost cried out in excitement, but he managed to contain himself and glance behind him instead. The door to the bar was closed, and there was no one looking out from a window on the other floors. Cellia was no doubt still inside, fiddling with a ruler.

Coin turned his attention back to the wall. He pushed and pulled and shifted his weight, and more and more he felt the bricks giving way. A tiny portion of the wall, at the very corner, was turning open like a door, the bricks on the bottom scraping the dirt floor. Eventually, it was enough ajar that Coin could crawl inside.

He did so carefully. Light streamed into the narrow passage from the door Coin had just opened, but he could not risk leaving it ajar for long—someone might notice. It was pitch black inside besides that though, so Coin pulled out a small pocket lighter and flicked at it, holding it out into the darkness.

A tiny flame sputtered to life, but to Coin’s surprise another light suddenly appeared. Along the now visible walls, a thin line of pale green stone snaked down across the room, glowing distinctly.

On a whim, Coin put out the flame. The green line disappeared.

The stone must catch the light somehow, Coin decided, trying to ignite the lighter another time. When it did so, he looked carefully at the now visible green marker. The sliver of verdant crystal roped around the top of the wall in front of them, and then shot off to the side. Squinting his eyes into the dark, Coin could very faintly see the slightest hint of the same stone much farther down—it was a trail.

This isn’t just a secret room, Coin realized. It’s a tunnel.

Dabrius disappearing out of nowhere. Re-appearing halfway across the city the same night. A secret society able to operate and move without anyone knowing. A great many mysteries suddenly started to make sense, though how in the Web such a system as these tunnels could have been made, Coin could not say.

Curiosity began to gnaw at him. He glanced back out again to the Moonlight. Still no one watching. Yet.

How much time do I have before they start looking? An hour? Half-hour? Minutes? He looked out at the outside, then back to the darkness of this mysterious tunnel. To the light again, then into the tunnel.

Coin shut the door just slightly, hoping that it would not be open enough to arouse suspicion at a glance. Nothing ventured, indeed.

Holding out the lighter in front of him, Coin made his way down. The path was cramped: the walls closed on either side of him tightly, and the ceiling was low enough that he had to duck his head down as he tread through. He quietly gave thanks that he wasn’t afraid of close spaces, and pressed on.

The green line of light guided him as he went. It was straight at first, straight on for what felt like a long time in the dark, but then it turned sharply once, then again. He lost track of time—Coin felt as though only a few minutes had passed, but how could he know? Eventually, the green line broke off.

Coin stepped forward gingerly into what he thought was the end of the tunnel. Waving his little light around, he saw brief flashes of things around him—objects half obscured by shadows, more tiny pricks of green in the blackness, the faintest outlines of a door. His eyes rested on something as soon as the flame did. On the wall was a copper cage, hanging on a hook. A lantern.

Coin looked into the lamp, and saw it filled with oil. Carefully, he lit the thing, and allowed light to fill up the space around him.

It was a room. Small by most standards, but practically spacious compared with what he’d just passed through. A table stood in the center, flanked by chairs. Shelves lined one wall, and small barrels were stacked up against another. All around him, green paths now bright from the lamplight, were five other tunnels, branching out in every direction.

Coin gaped at the complex. How far does this go? he wondered, stupefied. Approaching each of the tunnels, he realized that he had no idea where to start, or where to go. Through one of them, he caught the smell of something foul, and a sound of water that suggested it led to a sewer. He made a mental note to definitely leave that one for later.

Turning back to the room itself, Coin began to look around. He looked at the table and chairs first. Everything in the room was covered with a layer of dust… except one spot. On the wooden tabletop, he noticed a spot where something had been resting not so long ago — there was little dust left on it. Someone has been here recently.

Coin crouched down in front of one of the small barrels against the wall, and put his ear to it while shaking it just slightly. Nothing. He opened it to be sure, and found it empty. He tried a few others, and saw they were the same. On the outsides of the barrels, however, he noticed something distinct—lines in the dust covering. Fingers pressed and scraped against the lids, he thought analytically as he examined it, his knightly training coming back all at once. Fumbling to get them open swiftly. Whatever was inside, they wanted it gone in a hurry. He looked down a stack of barrels in front of him. But they didn’t want to move these.

Realizing that he had limited time, Coin started to head back the way he came. Then he stopped, a thought suddenly coming to him.

The only entrance I know of is at the Moonlight. We need to bring a team down here to check all of this, but how will we be able to get a whole group past the owner and down here without being seen or noticed? Coin ran through possible solutions in his head—he couldn’t think of any, aside from breaking and entering. That certainly wasn’t an option.

I need to find another way in and out, Coin resolved. He would have to work quickly.

He scanned over each of the possible paths. Aside from the way he’d come and sewage-smelling one he’d rather avoid, there were four choices. Not having a better way of deciding, and being a man that lacked creativity, Coin chose the closest one and pressed on as quickly as he could.

His pace was as fast as was possible, given the cramped quarters, and as he moved by the viridescent light, Coin began to wonder. How in the Web could such a place be built here? Surely someone would have noticed, if this Changeling Society had made it recently. The more likely answer was that this was something much older than the secret order—built long enough ago that it was forgotten, and then re-purposed. Coin smiled, despite himself. ‘Caves beneath Canterlot…”

They can move without being seen, meet without risk of discovery, Coin thought, impressed at the ingenuity. It’s no wonder that no one saw Dabrius moving from the docks to Nightside—he was beneath them the whole time.

Dabrius…

The only logical conclusion Coin could come to now was that Dabrius Joh was in close contact with the Changeling Society. How else could he have known of this place? The ambassador had been seen entering Nightside the night of Sir Harald’s murder, and now it was clear how he managed to appear there. There really is a conspiracy between the Society and Dabrius, Coin was forced to admit. But there was no way it could have involved the murder. Coin would not start believing that.

He peered ahead in the tunnel—black and green intermingled in front of him, and no end was in sight. He bit his lip, unsure if he should continue in this direction or turn back to try another. A sound he heard answered that question immediately.

A soft, dampened buzz was coming from somewhere ahead. Murmuring, the tapping of feet. Coin’s eyes widened as he moved closer, panicking only slightly. Changelings? He hadn’t expected to actually see anyone in the tunnels, nor did have even the semblance of a plan for such a thing happening.

He saw, though, that his fears were unwarranted. The sound wasn’t coming from someone in the tunnel—it was coming from above. As he cautiously pushed forward, he found a room that branched out from the main path—bare, save for a green heart illuminating it slightly on the wall. And a ladder.

The noises were coming from the city over Coin’s head. He was not certain how, but the chamber was built in such a way that one could hear more distinctly the things outside. Perhaps a way to monitor others? Coin mused as he looked up the ladder. Or to make sure an entrance is secure before opening it?

Coin climbed upward. The sounds of the city grew more distinct as he grew closer, some noises more clear than others. The ladder did not go up far, and before long Coin stood before another green heart on the wall. He went to work right away, feeling along the surface, probing it for the regular irregularity. Coin’s hand caught on the grip soon enough, and carefully—while keeping an ear to the sounds outside—he nudged the hidden doorway open.

He kept it open only just enough to peer out. As best as Coin could tell, the door opened into an alleyway, shadowed and secluded. He saw the faintest hints of people moving on the connected street, but there were few of them, and they were not paying the darkened spot Coin crouched in any mind. Knowing that he need more information to be able to find this spot again, Coin edged the door open just slightly, then a little more when he saw no one outside, until he was fully out in the alley.

Keeping himself hidden, Coin tentatively stepped out to get a better bearing of where he was.He only gave a furtive glance out into the street, to try and conceal himself, but thankfully he did not need to look for long—he glimpsed a street sign before long. ‘Saffrongem Street’ was the name, apparently.

Coin was taking note of the look of the nearby buildings, committing them to memory, when he heard someone approaching.

Voices and footsteps, coming from behind him. Panicking, Coin twisted around—there was no one there yet, but the noises were growing closer. He rushed back to the hidden doorway, still ajar, and began to slip inside. The voices were so close that Coin was sure they were almost upon him. He shut the door immediately, and leaned against the wall, afraid to breath.

The footsteps stopped for a moment. Coin could just hear a voice through the wall, just barely.

“...hear something?”

“No, should I have?” said another, muffled but familiar. “Don’t dodge my questions, fool. You need my help.”

“But of course, my lor—”

“We both want them gone,” the first continued, talking over his companion. “But you don’t have the means to do it. Slinking in the shadows won’t solve the problem. The guards are mine. I’ll make good use of them.”

“We are grateful for the help, beyond reckoning. Your city will only be the first step, my lord, but what can be done without you?”

The first man laughed. “Nothing, as always. Meanwhile, the search continues.”

“Still no progress?”

“What’s that meant to mean?” Coin could hear the voice flare up in anger.

“Forgive me, my lord,” the other man said calmly. “I did not mean to cast any doubt on you. Clearly it is your subordinates at fault.”

“Hmm. Yes, that’s right. The idiots are combing this city, every possible place, but there’s still no sign of the Society. I’ll have them found, and when I do…”

“Perhaps,” the other man ventured cautiously, “it would be best to let them be, for now. How much longer can you delay things at the Palace? There is no need—"

"No," shouted the first. “I will find them, and you’ll know your place. They’re here, I know it.” At that moment, Coin felt a thump at the wall behind him, jolting him out of his place. “I don’t care about your doubts, they exist, and they can’t hide forever.”

“And the enemy?”

“Don’t concern yourself. I have a warm welcome in mind for the lot of them.”

“May I ask—”

“No, you may not. What did I say about your place? Remember who you are.”

“As my lord commands…” Coin heard the voices grow more distant—they were walking away. “Our partnership will change the… freedom… soon be lord… Sir Harald’s death.”

“...all worth it, in the end… horse-lovers dead… masks… speak to Barr about…”

The two voices trailed off completely, and Coin heard no more.

Curiosity had gotten the best of him again, but now he was running severely short on time. He sped back the way he came as quickly as he could manage, down the corridor, past the central room, back up the path he’d come from. He came as close as he could to running, moving past black and green into darkness, with only the stones and the tiny speck of his lighter to guide him. Once he thought himself lost, until he reached the door at last, out of breath. He wrenched it open, and found himself back at the Moonlight once again, the sun higher in the sky than it was when he left.

It was not a second too soon, nor could he have been a second closer to being too late. Coin had his hand upon the handle of the bar’s door when it was wrenched open in front of him, causing him to stagger backward.

Cellia looked out at him apologetically from the doorway. “Oh! My apologies again, Sir Coin! I just finished, but I didn’t find you upstairs. Are you—"

“I’m fine,” Coin said with a wave of his hand, trying not to pant in front of her. Explaining why he was out of breath would be difficult, to say the least. “And finished, as well.”

“Ah, good to hear, sir. I am proud to say,” Cellia remarked proudly, “that my measurements are far better now than they were before — now the whole scene is truly mapped out.”

Coin was still trying to figure out why anyone would need a diagram of the bar when Cellia ventured a question of her own. “So,” she said, “what did you find?”

He opened his mouth, instinctively ready to give the truthful account of everything, when he stopped himself. “Ah,” he stammered instead.

It was only proper for an Honest Friend to hate a lie, and natural for him to tell the truth to his fellow Moderators. They aren’t your fellow Moderators anymore, a voice in Coin’s head corrected him. He recalled what Lady Violet had said: ‘this talk of Changelings is not to reach anyone else… especially Moderators.’ What had he found?

Coin swallowed, and went against every instinct he had. “Nothing that I wasn’t expecting,” he said quickly. “More or less.”

It was almost the truth. Almost.

Coin Counter was an Honest Friend, and an appalling liar, but thankfully Cellia had no reason to believe he was deceiving her. “Well, at least we have verified what we initially thought. Lord Halforth has always stressed the importance of being certain.” She turned herself slightly, to leave. “At any rate, we had best be going, if there is nothing else. There are other places of interest to investigate.”

They both walked out, crossing past the counter. Cellia bowed to the owner as they departed. “Thank you for your patience,” she said to him.

The bartender just rolled his eyes and went back to work. They left without another word.

They walked on through the docks, seeing them every bit as run-down as before. A listless crowd wandered around Cellia and him, aimless. One person did stand out, however.

Leaning against a pole outside of some trade house, Coin glimpsed a man in mismatched clothing, with spiky hair dyed a light blue—an Animan. A familiar Animan as well: the same one that had accosted Coin and Donnet and the others a few days prior, all in the same docks. The Animan was surrounded by the same gaggle of troublemakers, if Coin’s memory served, and he seemed to notice that Coin was there as well.

The two locked eyes as Coin walked by. The man stared at him hatefully. Coin did his best to ignore him.

“So,” Cellia said as they went back through the Winged Gate, “our next locale will be a little further across town. Not so far, but hopefully what we find will help.”

Coin merely nodded, not feeling up to talking right now. The lie was still sitting like a rock in his stomach. He had been telling himself that it was all for the greater good and for the fandom, but somehow it still felt wrong. In the Authority, he had been trained to suppress individual feelings for the sake of the common good of all, but now he wondered if the Honest Friend would approve of his actions. Or is this just because I’m lying to a Moderator? Coin thought, conflicted. The Logos is Greater, he mused, but is it greater than Her?

* * * * * *

“I am not my true self. I am weakness from dependence on the world. My true self is virtue through the Logos and the Way. Leave the world, and find virtue. It is only through self-death that I may find my death-self, and it is only in my death-self that good can be done.”

— Recitation from The Books of Black and White, as said by the Moderators

Chapter XXIV: The Longest Day

* * * * * *

“There’s no way he’d be foolish enough to move now, is there?”

“Don’t underestimate our ‘friend.’ Madness and cruelty go far, in this place.”

“If he makes an attempt, what shall we do?”

“What can we do? We cannot act openly, not now or ever. We stick to the plan.”

“We haven’t had a plan since Sir Har—”

“Stick to the plan. That’s all.”

* * * * * *

By the time his inquiries were done, the day had long passed by, and Coin was exhausted. Cellia Ravenry might well have been the most fastidious person he had ever met, and having worked and lived in the Authority that was saying a lot—they had visited a dozen sites, and investigated, measured, recorded, and took note of each in almost ludicrous detail for the sake of professional clarity. Somehow, none of it had tired Cellia in the slightest, but by the time he finally returned to the Palace, it took every ounce of effort left to try and report to Lady Violet.

He arrived to find that she was absent—busy with some other matter, those present said, and likely not to return for some time. At their advice, Coin informed his nearby superiors of what he found and forced himself back to the barracks to sleep. Collapsing into his small cot, he passed out immediately.

Coin was awakened rudely after too little sleep.

“—wake up?” he heard a voice say distinctly, breaking through a tired haze.

He tried to focus on who was there, blinking to clear the sleep from his eyes. Coin had been dreaming about… something with bugs stuck within walls, walls closing in on them, but the details escaped him as he awoke. Shifting around, he saw he was face to face with the Warden of Generosity.

Scrambling up, Coin did his best to bow. “My lady!” he exclaimed as he tried to compose himself. “I—“

“At ease, my friend,” Lady Violet said apologetically. She was not alone—Proximo Hart was with her, as was Dustario. The Warden of Honesty loomed behind them awkwardly. “I must beg your pardon, sir. We truly did not mean to wake you—”

“This one did,” the Warden of Honesty pointed out.

“—but we had to see you as soon as we could,” Lady Violet finished. “I’ve heard of a most fascinating development you’ve made. I should like to hear every detail.” She glanced up and down at Coin in his disheveled state. “After you’ve had a moment to compose yourself, of course,” Violet said with a coy smile.

Coin was certainly grateful for that. After briefly getting himself in order, he and the others found a room, where he began the story. Every moment, every detail—nothing left out, from the heart on the wall, to the door, the tunnels, the voices. All the while, Lady Violet mused over what he said, and the Warden of Honesty considered him carefully.

“That’s all of it, my lady,” Coin said as he finished. He looked between the four of them, waiting for the reaction.

Proximo was gaping throughout all of it. “Extraordinary.”

“That was what I thought as well, when I heard it yesterday,” Dustario replied with a nod.

Lady Violet considered him carefully. “Honesty?”

“All true,” the Warden said in kind, not having reacted at all to what Coin had said.

“These Changelings are no fiction after all, then,” said Proximo. “It confirms everything we’ve heard from Imelia, and everything about Dabrius. They were working together.” He turned to Lady Violet, concerned. “How did we not hear of this earlier? Why did we not know?”

“It seems,” Lady Violet responded, “that Dabrius has been very selective in the reports he sent back. These ‘Changelings’ have been most secretive, to catch some so off-guard.” She brushed a bang of purple hair out of her eyes, and thought. “Though not so secretive that they will not reach out to Sir Coin.”

“I still don’t understand that,” Dustario confessed. “Why give us a bare hint of who they are now, and not earlier? And why not just outright tell us who they were, and where to find them?”

Lady Violet closed her eyes and contemplated the problem. “Perhaps,” she ventured, “these Changelings are not all on the same page, so to speak.”

“Discord among them,” Proximo nodded. “It might be that there is great disagreement over what they should or should not tell us—these hints might be the work of only a few, or just one, and not at all in line with what the rest would like.”

“Or maybe they just have a strange sense of humor,” Dustario joked.

“Maybe,” Violet said with a smile, before turning her attention back to Coin. “This conversation you overheard,” she remarked, “what do you make of it?”

Coin thought carefully. “To be honest, my lady… I’m not sure. Of what exactly they were talking about, I mean.”

“Let me ask you frankly.” Lady Violet leaned forward. “Do you think that one of them might have been Arcadio Martes?”

Coin nodded. “Almost certainly, my lady. Err, well I suppose it was difficult to tell exactly by voice alone, through the wall and everything, but given what he said…”

“And the other?” Proximo asked.

“I… I don’t really know,” Coin confessed. He raked his mind, trying to recall any and all details about the other person that had been talking. “They sounded like they had a foreign accent, but I admit that I can’t be sure of much.”

“Hmm,” Lady Violet mused. She looked to Dustario expectedly. “We shall need to organize a team to investigate these passages immediately—a discreet team.”

“I already have a few people in mind, my lady,” Dustario replied.

“I would very much like to see this place myself, in time. Make sure that it’s secure—I think it would be worth having a first-hand look, and the sooner the better.”

“Shall be done,” the Warden of Honesty said.

“You will remain at the Palace, Honesty,” Lady Violet said pointedly, “and not out of my sight.”

Proximo seemed as just as pleased with that as the Warden appeared unhappy. Coin got the feeling again that there was something between the three that he was not aware of, but he knew better than to ask about it.

“At any rate,” Lady Violet went on, “your efforts might have just given us the breakthrough we were looking for, Sir Coin. My sincerest thanks for the good work,” she said 1with a smile and a bow of the head. We made the right choice in bringing you with us.” She rose from her chair, Proximo and the Warden of Honesty following behind her as they left. Before she disappeared out the door, however, the lady turned back. “Oh, and have a happy Summer Sun Celebration. I only wish we were having some manner of, well, celebration for it.”

“I think I have that covered, my lady,” Dustario pointed out.

“What was that?” Lady Violet said jokingly, holding a hand to her ear. “I’m sorry, I could not quite hear that. I’m certain that you weren’t referring to that ‘unofficial’ celebration that I have certainly ‘not’ approved of, should anyone ask, were you?”

Dustario grinned. “I would never dream of it, ma’am.”

Violet winked and trailed out, leaving Dustario to clap his hand on Coin’s back. “You hear that, Sir Coin? We’ll be toasting to your success tonight!”

Coin was only slightly lost. He had to admit that he’d completely forgotten that one of the largest Brony holidays landed squarely on this occasion. The height of summer, the longest day, and the veneration of the Princess. Coin had never participated in a Sun Celebration, but he’d seen a few from a distance in the years before his conversion. They were momentous affairs, elaborate and extremely lively thanks to the Laughing Friends—a little too lively for Coin’s taste.

“Do you have some plan for tonight, then?” Coin asked his fellow.

Dustario tapped the side of his nose with a finger. “Let’s just say that if a certain someone had a certain reservation made for a certain group at a tavern in the city, you wouldn’t find yourself out of place with them.”

“In the city?” Coin asked, surprised. “Is that safe?”

“We’re not wearing our uniforms or anything. The Dreamweavers don’t know what we look like or who we are, so it’s not as though they’ll know where to find us. Also, the servants at the Palace won’t give us food and drink for a party,” He grinned at Coin. “C’mon friend, it only comes once a year—why not celebrate with us?”

“I don’t know…”

“Wait a minute,” Dustario interrupted, having realized something suddenly. “This is your first Summer Sun Celebration isn’t it?”

“Well yes, but I—”

“Then you’ve got to come with us. We’re not exactly having a parade, but a few drinks with friends is exactly what you deserve. You’ll never have another first Celebration, after all. What do you say?”

“I…” Coin was caught between not really having the stomach for parties, and not having the heart to say no. He sighed. “Alright, I’ll join in.”

“Now that’s the summer spirit! We might as well cheer for the season, even if we’re between Seasons, eh?” He clasped Coin on the shoulder again amiably. “We’re all leaving a bit before sundown—the lady insisted we not be out in the city too late. Maybe not the most intense outing for the Summer Sun, but at least we get something. We’ll collect you sometime before then.”

Coin spent much of the day doing little. The lady wanted as few people knowing about the Changelings as possible, and thus there was little cause for him to be interviewed or prodded during the hours after, nor was there any pressing duties to which he had to attend.

Having few other ideas, he spent a fair portion of time in his cot, staring up and daydreaming. For whatever reason, symbols started to appear to him as contemplated the ceiling. Diamonds and apples, tigers and green hearts, dancing around each other. White shields and black hammers shared an orbit with a six-pointed star, trading places with one another in the center of his vision, again and again without end, as though—

Coin shook his head. He’d fallen asleep again, it seemed. He leaned up and rubbed the fatigue from his eyes, before he heard some people coming.

“Ah, there he is,” one of them said as he approached. “Ready to leave, sir?”

Coin turned, and saw it was Jayson Joyfelt, but he almost didn’t recognize the man at first. Gone were the eye-blindingly pink robes that the Laughing Friends ordinarily wore—instead, Jayson was dressed in a comparatively drab outfit.

The other three with him were dressed the same—Theosyrius in stylish grey, Daria Faust in a plain, dark scarlet sweater, and, surprisingly enough, Red Autumn. Coin wouldn’t have expected to see him interested in a night in the town, and indeed he looked absurdly uncomfortable out of his normal uniform. His plainclothes didn’t appear to fit him well, nor did Red seem pleased to wear them.

“Er, yes,” Coin stammered. “Is Dustario with you?”

“The lady was of the opinion that going down into the city as one giant group might attract attention,” Theosyrius remarked, “so we’ve been split up for the approach. Fewer eggs in more baskets, you see.”

“Will we be safe?” Coin asked hesitantly. “After the last time…”

“Don’t worry, friend—the Dreamweavers will have no way of telling who we are with the uniforms off. Besides, you’ll have Red Autumn and I to keep you safe.” Theosyrius gave a smug look and rested his hand on a pearl sword-hilt half-concealed by his coat.

“You’ll have to change, though,” said Daria. “Out of your own uniform, I mean.”

Coin looked down at his orange-gold clothes, and realized she was right. After having a moment to himself to swap out his garb, they went off, Jayson leading in the front and the rest following behind. Red Autumn kept to the rear, seeming dejected.

Daria sidled over to him as they walked. “Red, are you sure you’re alright?”

“Fine,” Red Autumn grunted in reply, folding his arms. He’d covered up his scarred hands with gloves, Coin saw—no doubt a way to keep the tell-tale marks from giving them away. It was odd to see them put out of sight.

“You don’t look fine,” Daria said sympathetically. She put a hand on his arm. “You know you don’t have to come, if you don’t want to.”

Red grimaced. “‘Wanting’ isn’t the Warden’s way. The Honest Eyes are here to protect our friends, not to want things.”

Daria nodded. “If you have any trouble…”

“I’m fine,” Red replied bluntly.

Coin listened to the exchange, but did not read into too it greatly. Red Autumn was an Honest Eye of particular fervor, a devotion that showed itself in how he tried to act and even look like the Warden of Honesty in everything, right down to his bald head and surly attitude. It was hardly surprising that he would think little of parties.

The group proceeded to the entrance of the Palace in earnest, save for Red’s sulking, passing by courtiers on the way. A few of them looked askance at the Bronies, but most did not seem to notice them there—apparently changing clothes did indeed make quite the difference to people that did not know them well.

On the other hand, however, as they walked out the main doors and out into the streets, they passed under the eyes of several Palace guards, who watched them carefully. Coin caught the stare of one of them—contemptuous, bitter, and very clearly cognizant of who these disguised people were. Glancing over his shoulder, Coin saw why—another guard had been following the Bronies through the halls.

Uncomfortable, Coin nodded his head at the guard they were passing by. The watchman gave a slight smirk, before slipping away. Coin pressed on with the others, and tried not to think about it.

The difference between walking through the streets now and doing so before was stark, to say the least. There was no jeering at the ordinary group that Coin was now a part of, no thrown bottles and certainly no mobs—people went about their business and paid him and the rest no more mind than anyone else.

Coin did not enjoy being out of his colors—to wear the orange and gold meant that he was a devotee of the Honest Friend, a brother in a larger cause, whereas now he was just an ordinary man with a strange name. Even so, however, the experience gave him a certain clarity. A change of clothes was barely a change at all, the flimsiest disguise imaginable, and yet it seemed more than enough to fool the Dreamweavers. Is that all they base their hate on? Coin wondered as he scanned the disinterested masses. Appearance alone? Do they attack us for who we are, or who they think we are based on how we look? It made one wonder if that was what hate really was, beneath it all.

Jayson was looking around at the calm as well, and shook his head. “The masks they wore, he said with grace,” muttered Jayson under his breath, “protect them with a falser face; to hold the angry hate away, and hide themselves from the Beast in the Bay.”

It was not a long walk to their destination: a tavern huddled between two other buildings, as unremarkable and secluded as any place might be in this sparse-settled city. As they approached, Coin saw that a familiar face was leaning against the entrance, waiting for them. Dressed all in black, with his spectacles changed to a dark tint, was Donnet of the Generous Friends, smiling at them.

“Evenin’, chums,” Donnet said cheerily as they approached. “Good seein’ you kids, and not a sight too sore, neither. Almost look respectable in those threads, J.”

Jayson smiled. “Same to you, Donnie. I trust you got here without issue?”

“None to say for,” he replied with a shrug. “Guessin’ them dee-dubs liked me a lot more lackin’ the white, as y’see. Never been much o’ a fashion-hop, but I ‘pose the gown ain’t sour.”

“Good to hear,” Theosyrius remarked. “Are the others inside, then?”

“Affirm, m’friends. Right on in the room I got, follow me now.”

Donnet led them inside the tavern, which proved to be a decent but unremarkable establishment in the interior as well. The ugly desperation of the Moonlight was not to be found here, though Coin still saw a few unsavory-looking sorts gathered on barstools. Donnet ignored them and strode over to the counter, waiting politely for the barkeep. “Got a few more,” he said, flicking his glasses’ lenses and turning them crimson. “Reservation under ‘Steele.’”

The bartender looked over the Bronies, and gave a nod of his head. Donnet led this party of six through the bar down a nearby hallway, in the side of which was a set of doors that the muffled sounds of talk and laughter were coming from.

As Donnet opened the doors, Coin saw that the celebration was already in swing. Around a dozen Bronies were seated or standing in the room, crowded around a large wooden table on chairs or benches, while food and drink lay sprawled out on top of it. He saw Kriseroff holding a tankard, saying something loudly to Strongshield, while Donnet took a seat beside a woman Coin did not recognize. Everyone in the room seemed tuned to the rhythm of the event, in their own way.

Dustario noticed them right away. “Ah!” he exclaimed. “Here at last, I see? Well sit then—the drinks and food are a treat tonight.”

They all found places for themselves—Red sought refuge with his fellow Honest Eyes, while Coin decided to try and find a more subdued part of the table. He chose a spot next to a man he did not know—lanky, brown-haired, and quietly listening to the conversations around him. The man extended a hand as Coin sat down.

“Good evening, brother,” he said courteously. “I don’t think we’ve met before—my name is Caymen Diallep, of the Magic Friends.” He reached inside the dusky clothes he was wearing and pulled out a golden necklace, hanging on which was a six-pointed star.

“Coin Counter of the Honest,” he replied, taking the hand.

“Ah, ‘tis an honor, my friend. The Most Honest Friend is fortunate, truly, to have as stout servants as our guard here in the foreign lands”

“Would that they were not so necessary,” a thin, tanned woman from across the table remarked, a slender smile creeping across her face. Coin did not know her name, but vaguely recalled her being one of the Generous Friends. “These Dreamweaver brutes have not rolled out the proverbial welcoming mat.”

“ ‘Tis unfortunate, Hadrena,” Caymen replied. “We will need to work hard, if we are to find friendship in this city.”

The woman called Hadrena scoffed. “Small chance of that. Friends are short, when among fools.”

Caymen tilted his head at her. “Season of Keys, eighth Episode. Though within an unfriendly city, a generous spirit perseveres, and triumphs.”

The smile on Hadrena’s face turned less cutting, and more genuine. She sighed. “Very well, Caymen, I’ll try to play nice. Only for you, though—don’t tell Dustario.”

Caymen winked. “I would never dream of it, my friend.”

Coin was suddenly startled by a slap to his back from Kriseroff. “Coin-friend!” he bellowed, shaking Coin around with a giant hand on his shoulder. “You are looking down, you know? Celebrate! The Summer Sun Princess is above.” He put down a tankard of something alcoholic in front of Coin, before meandering off to rejoin Jayson and company at the front of the table.

Coin looked at the drink, uncertain and uncomfortable. He reached out to the handle of the tankard, but couldn’t bring himself to actually partake in the stuff. A decade and more had gone by where doing such a thing was looked upon as a sign of profligacy, back when Coin was trained as an agent of the Authority. Breaking with that was more difficult than he had perhaps hoped.

One of the people next to him, a short, blond woman, looked to him sympathetically. “I usually just bring it up to my mouth, and then put it back down. No need to actually drink, really.”

Coin nodded, feeling embarrassed. “Thanks,” he said. “You are…”

“Rosesoul, of the Kind Friends,” she replied, bowing her head. “You are Sir Coin, are you not? The knight?”

“Former knight,” Coin answered. The response felt surprisingly hollow, as he sat uncomfortably in the room.

Rosesoul smiled. “I can sympathize. It must be strange, being here now, compared with everything you knew.”

Coin glanced around. People were smiling and laughing and talking, all very loudly. The smell of alcohol was in the air, and he couldn’t tell who was drunk and who wasn’t, at least not yet. It was stuffy and cramped, and he felt penned in, but everyone else seemed happy. He felt a tightening in his stomach—not gut instinct. A crafted response, from training. It told him that it was wrong.

Coin looked down at the drink, dejected. He didn’t know what to do, being there. Among friends, he felt very alone.

“I don’t really understand it,” Coin admitted, trying to keep the discomfort out of his voice.

“The Celebration?” Rosesoul asked.

“The celebrating.” Coin had been trying to just ignore it, but the din kept breaking through every time. “Noise and shouting. You learn to be wary of it, in the Authority.”

“Revelry is usually thought to belay a lack of discipline, among the Moderators.” Rosesoul considered that, and closed her eyes. “By imbibing, one makes oneself less of who they are—a rational self,” she said calmly, almost mechanically. “Tethering one’s time to worldly indulgence causes purpose to be directed increasingly inward, replacing the first concern that we must have with others.”

Coin looked back at her. The words she had said had the air of something rehearsed. Recited frequently, many times before. Engrained and conditioned.

“You… sound very familiar with the ideas,” Coin said, taken slightly aback. “Were you…”

“As I said,” Rosesoul confessed, “I sympathize. Though,” she continued, “I’d say that similar situations aren’t necessarily identical ones, as far as backgrounds go. Just so you know.” She raised up a glass to her lips, but did not drink from it before she placed it back down.

“The Kind Friend,” Rosesoul said to Coin, “is no stranger to discomfort. There is no shame in hesitancy. Maybe the Authority is right after all, as far as this goes,” she gestured to the room. “You aren’t the only one that feels… apart, when things like this come around.”

Coin followed her hand, and saw that she was motioning towards Red Autumn, looking sick and miserable at the other side of the room. He was next to Strongshield, but was trying his best to not be noticed, sinking in his seat and mostly just looking around with an expression between irritation and confusion.

“So why does he come,” Coin asked, “if he hates it so much?”

“Because he’s an honest friend,” Rosesoul replied simply, “sworn to protect others. He might seem angry, but even when he disagrees, he defends his friends. He didn’t have to be here, but he came anyways, for their sake, just in case. Even on the remotest chance they might need him. There’s something admirable in being able to look past differences, and sacrifice what one wants for the benefit of others.”

Coin looked back to Red, who still seemed ill at ease as he looked at the drinks passed around in the room. Coin suddenly got the feeling that perhaps he’d been too quick to judge the squat, scowling Honest Eye earlier, when he’d dismissed Red’s sulking out of hand. It was scarcely different to what Coin was doing now.

He resolved to stop moping and try to involve himself in the conversation, if nothing else—Coin might not have been the same in many ways as the others, but separating himself would never do for a Brony of the Collective. He caught the tail-end of something that the others were discussing.

“...but it isn’t canon, Prim. You already know that much,” said Dustario.

“That’s still up for debate, as I understand it,” replied Prim Enproper, the gloomy man of the Generous, sitting a few chairs away.

Theosyrius snorted. “Hardly. You can derive their morals, analyze their meanings, and sing their songs, but all signs we have state that Co-Works are cut off from the canon. The Magic Friends have ruled as such.”

“Prim has a point,” said Jayson as he strummed a note on his mandolin. “Both are gleaned from the World Beyond the Web, not the World Within. They are not fandom works, after all—the creator-source has hands in them.”

“Not the same creator-source, as you know,” Dustario replied with a raised eyebrow. “The Lady’s Vision did not have those Co-Works within it.”

“Nor should it have,” grunted Strongshield, sulking in the corner with Red. “Those things drift too distant from the Works to have any meaning to us.”

“That’s too far,” chimed in Caymen. “The message of the One Magic is much intact in both. That meaning is true to us all.”

Theosyrius dismissed that idea with a wave of his hand. “That scarcely matters when the Co-Works are willing to consider such freakish lapses. That much is disastrous.”

“I’m well-acquainted with disasters,” said Prim morosely, “but I’m not sure what in the Co-Works would warrant a word like that.”

“Need I say it?” asked Theosyrius. Prim looked at him expectedly, and so Theo sighed. “A… bright guard? A violet Friend in a purple dress, blushing?”

A chorus of groans went up around the room when they picked up on his meaning.

Prim merely shrugged. “That never bothered me so much, and nearly everything bothers me.”

The same chorus of indignation rose again after Prim’s confession, as well as a few joking boos and table-pounds from Kriseroff and Jayson Joyfelt from across the room.

Dustario just chuckled and rolled his eyes. “I’m appalled, Prim,” he said facetiously. “If you’d told me a week ago that I’d be breaking bread with some corndog-eating Brad-lover, I’d have fallen on my own sword, honestly.”

“People tend to feel that way around me,” replied Prim, barely repressing a smile.

Strongshield was looking at Prim as if he had just confessed to being a fleshtrapper from the Deep Web. “I hope that was a joke,” she said with a disgusted scowl. “The Six have the One Magic—that is all they need. They are strong enough to not need some… partner.”

“Not everything is a matter of strength,” pointed out Caymen Diallep. “Our canon suggests the same idea Prim raises. The Generous Friend, for example, is noted for engaging in the pursuit of love beyond friendship—this is well-known.”

“If you asked Proximo Hart, he’d say that romantic love was just a different evolution of friendship,” hinted Dustario meaningfully, suggesting at something that Coin clearly wasn’t let in on.

Jayson winked at that, and started to sing a soft lay in response to whatever idea was being put forward:

“Love’s a thought that turns you both to dust—swirls you ‘round impossible futures

Lovers in a tree kiss as I write my treatise

On the meaning of a slow dance for romance.”

Caymen nodded in approval. “The Singer of the Fandom’s words, true as always. That one is… RD/RA, if I’m not mistaken?”

“The older version,” confirmed Jayson. “Romantic love is the most intrinsic, says one of my other brothers.”

“Distraction is all it is,” huffed Strongshield.

“Agreed,” said Red, clearly growing more uneasy by the moment.

Jayson rolled his eyes playfully. “I think you two need to find some people to turn those frowns upside down.”

“We have the only people we need,” Red grunted plainly.

“It’s not always a matter of need,” Dustario said with an apple-eating grin crossing his handsome face. “Speaking of which, I’ve been meaning to ask you something, Coin. Er, if you don’t mind, that is.”

Coin looked over and saw that eyes were on him. He figured that now would be a good time to pretend to drink—he raised the tankard to his lips while Rosesoul looked on with approval.

“That field examiner in the Mod squad—Abigail Cawtler?” Dustario continued with the slightest slur in his speech. “Do you think she’s single?”

Coin gagged at the thought, but accidentally swallowed some of the ale while he was doing it, leaving him to sputter and cough.

Donnet’s eyebrow was in danger of entering orbit if it rose any higher, and Theosyrius looked as though he were going to vomit. “The creepy murder-corpse woman?” he said in utter disbelief. “Six save us, Dustario, you’ve gone too far this time.”

Dustario winked. “I seem to remember you saying that last time.”

“Well now you have actually gone beyond the pale. A few miles beyond.” Theosyrius replied.

“I think we can safely say that the pale is in a completely different continent at this point, if not a different world altogether,” said Prim with a morose tone obviously faked to keep him from laughing.

“Six save us,” said Donnet with a roll of his eyes, “can’t ya like any nice, normal-sort girls, Dusty?”

“You say ‘normal,’” Dustario retorted with that same apple-eating smile, “and I say ‘boring.’ She’s unique, and that’s what matters most to me.”

Coin heard a distinct “Aww” from Rosesoul, though for what reason he could not say.

Looking back to Coin, Dustario said “What do you think, friend? Do I have a chance?”

The conversation was conjuring perhaps the most disturbing mental image Coin had ever imagined, and thus left him unable to form an answer. Prim stepped in for him. “I’m not sure you’re her type, Dusty,” he said. “You still have a pulse, first of all.”

Dustario rolled his eyes. “Ha ha. And what about you, Prim? Do you have your eyes on anyone?”

“Oh, I don’t believe in that,” Prim replied simply.

Donnet tilted his head. “In what?”

“Relationships.”

Dustario blinked. “You’re celibate?”

“No, I mean I don’t believe in them,” Prim said in a depressed, matter-of-fact way. “Personally, I don’t think they exist.”

Jayson laughed with all the others. “Should I ask why?” he struggled to say.

“I,” began Prim with a pseudo-scholarly affectation, “am a strict materialist. I believe only in what I can see and measure and grasp. Due to my utter lack of physical evidence for relationships existing, I can only conclude that they do not. The same goes for women—none of them have ever appeared to me, therefore they are not real.”

Rosesoul, Hadrena, and Daria Faust—three of the very-existent women in the room—exchanged an amused look, while Strongshield just appeared deeply annoyed.

Caymen Diallep laughed out loud. “You picked the wrong branch, Prim. With such flawless logic as that, you might have joined the Magic Friends.”

Prim shrugged. “I’ve always gone the extra mile to put myself where I am least useful. It’s my policy.”

“I think it’s sweet,” said Rosesoul to Dustario. “Liking someone for how they’re different, that is. We should always embrace the ones that seem unusual.”

“I think that ‘embracing’ is precisely what we’re concerned about,” Hadrena chimed in, clearly enjoying the chance to poke fun at Dustario.

Rosesoul chuckled at that, but continued. “Good people love good souls, not appearances. ‘Each one of us has something special, that makes us different, that makes us rare,’ and appreciating that is powerful.”

Dustario seemed happy to have the support. “I feel the same way. You seem awfully familiar with it though, Rosesoul. Is there someone you have your eye on as well?” he asked, tapping his finger on the side of his nose.

Rosesoul considered the question. “I find the Warden interesting.”

“Lady Violet? You’ll have to step over a lot of competitors, friend.”

“No, the Warden of Honesty,” she explained plainly, before lifting a glass to her lips.

It was Theosyrius’ turn to gag now, while most others were gaping in various shades of disbelief. Kriseroff had been halfway into taking a drink, but after hearing Rosesoul he elected to stop, look plaintively at the tankard, and set it down, apparently deciding that this was proof that he had had enough.

“You ain’t serious,” Donnet said.

“I am.”

All Jayson could do was mouth the word ‘Why?’ silently.

Rosesoul shrugged, smiling coyly. “It’s like Dusty said—he’s unique. And very tall.”

Coin, in his hubris, had truly believed that the thought of Dustario’s fantasy was the most disturbing thing he could have conceived. He realized then that it was merely the first step to a never-ending nightmare. It was sobering to think that he could have lived his entire life, happily, without ever having heard this conversation.

Hadrena apparently concurred. “I have been to both the Chan and the Blurr, and that is still by far the most revolting thing I have ever heard. Meaning no offense.”

Rosesoul waved a hand. “None taken.”

“I don’t think…” Daria started diplomatically, still trying to catch up with the revelation, “well, I mean I don’t think that the Warden is the… romantic type.”

“His grumpiness is well-known,” added Caymen.

“Everyone has a kindly side,” said Rosesoul with a small smile. “He just hides it beneath an angry face.”

“The Warden hides nothing!” said Red Autumn in horror.

“This is vile,” Strongshield agreed. “To be so crude… blasphemy!”

Kriseroff laughed. “Strongshield is just angry that now there is competition for the Great Honest One!”

“I am not—”

This apparently was too much for Red Autumn, as he stood up red-faced and stalked away from the table in a rush. “I need air,” he muttered, stumbling as he rose.

Dustario stopped laughing, and glanced around with a concerned look. Daria shared the expression, and went after Red.

Coin was about to return to trying to keep himself together through all of the talk… but had a thought. He couldn’t shake from his mind the thought that Rosesoul suggested—that perhaps Red’s discomfort and his own were not so different. Coin mulled over the thought, then stood up to go and speak with the Honest Eye that had darted out.

Red was just outside, in the small, connecting hallway, looking miserable, with Daria at his side. He had ripped the gloves from his hands, and was contemplating the hideous scars that had been carved into them, the ones shaped like six-pointed stars. “...have to be here,” Coin heard him finish.

“But you don’t!” insisted Daria. “You don’t have to torture yourself like this!”

“I haven’t had a drop since… since I met the Warden. Since I took the Eye,” Red said, close to a whisper. “The Great Honest One showed me a path away from that, but every time I see it…” He clenched one of his wounded hands.

“Red,” Daria said softly, putting a hand on his arm, “I know you want to protect us, but if you really think that you might have a relapse, you can’t do this to yourself. You have to tell everyone—”

“I’m not going to burden them with my problems—” Red stopped when he noticed Coin standing there. “Coin,” he said, his eyes narrowing. “How much of that did you—”

Red stopped midsentence, a confused look on his face.

He peered over his shoulder down the hallway. The faint sounds of the other Bronies was coming through the door behind them. Red ignored them, and faced the way to the tavern’s general area. “Hold on…” he muttered.

“Red?” said Daria, confused.

Coin was lost as well… until he noticed something as well.

He could hear the noises of his friends behind him, talking and laughing. But the end of the hallway, where the rest of the people should be, was completely silent. Curious, Coin followed behind Red.

When he caught up to him, Coin saw that the bar was totally empty. Not a soul who had been there earlier remained—every customer, every worker, had vanished. The curtains had been drawn, and the lights extinguished. Dark silence was all that remained.

Coin and Red exchanged a worried look, then went to investigate. Moving forward silently, the two moved up to a window, and carefully peered out through a crack in the curtains. There were people outside.

People carrying torches. And weapons.

Uh-oh, Coin thought, surveying the scene.

“Oh shit,” Red murmured, his eyes wide.

“What is it?” Daria asked from the doorway, not having seen.

“Get back!” Red said under his breath, grabbing Daria by the hand and rushing to warn the others. Thinking quickly, Coin grabbed a table and pushed it against the door, and turned to follow, panic running through his mind.

Coin saw that there was a crowd of Bronies streaming out of their reserved room, confused but now alert, following Red. Dustario was straightening out his clothes. “Now what is—”

A bash came at the door, and the sound of shouts. Dustario’s eyes widened. “Everybody out,” he commanded, “there’s another way out through the side, to the alleyways, if we can—”

The door burst open, and the room turned to chaos.

The armed mob crashed in, shouting and screaming, some waving torches, other clubs and daggers and swords. Coin heard a cry from behind him, and was pushed aside as the Bronies rushed forward to meet the enemy.

Kriseroff was the first to jump into the fray, bellowing as he picked up a charging attacker and threw him across the room. Three others ran towards Daria as she screamed, but not before Strongshield and Red could block the path, while Donnet began brawling with two others armed with clubs.

Who’s attacking us!? Coin thought wildly as he tried to catch himself in the melee. In plainclothes, he could barely tell the Bronies from the people they were fighting, but he knew he had to step forward to aid his friends. Seeing Caymen Diallep standing stock-still beside him, Coin moved in front of him, thinking that the scholar would surely need protection.

He was surprised when Caymen bolted past him, tackled the first person he saw, and began beating down on the enemy ferociously. “The Friends!” he cried out as he broke a man’s nose with his clenched fist

It was pandemonium—Coin’s eyes darted back and forth as he tried to make sense of what was happening. More than a dozen attackers were trying to force their way in, cursing and shouting as the Bronies held them back. The front! Coin realized, knowing that he had to move quickly to prevent any more from breaking through and attacking the others. There were gaps already showing in their defenses!

One of the attackers moved past Donnet while he was busy fighting others, and ran forward to lash out at Rosesoul and Hadrena. Coin rushed to block him, crashing his shoulder into the man and sending both of them into the bar counter. Coin struck the side of the man’s face, but the tables were swiftly turned when he felt hands throttling his neck. Gasping for breath, Coin reached around for something, anything on the bar, before finding a handle. He smashed the tankard over the head of the one strangling him, sending them both reeling. Coin tried to regain his balance, until someone tackled him over.

The breath was knocked out of him when Coin hit the floor, followed swiftly by a punch to his face. Coin looked up to see a man on top of him, pinning him to the ground. Just behind him, he saw Dustario grappling with someone of his own, but above he noticed the ugly knife in the hand of the person atop him.

Coin gasped, and moved his head just enough to dodge the blade, letting it wedge itself in the wooden floor. The wielder cursed and raised an elbow to strike Coin again.

In an instant, the man forcing Coin down keeled over, screaming, with his hands covering between his legs. Coin looked up to see Jayson kicking him over, before grabbing Coin. “Get up!” he cried, before bashing the man across the skull with a nearby candlestick.

Coin’s head was ringing, but he picked himself back up and tried to collect himself. But there was no time at all to stop—he noticed immediately that Caymen had been knocked over, and that a man with a sword was coming forward towards him.

Glancing around desperately, Coin grabbed a nearby bottle and threw it as hard he could at the swordsman. It missed by at least a foot. Cursing himself, Coin tried to run and cover the Magic Friend, despite not having a sword of his own, only for another thrown bottle to catch the swordsman on the head and send him staggering back. Caymen managed to scramble up, retreating and joining Hadrena, as she and Rosesoul prepared to throw more things.

Another man with a sword reared forward, honing in on Coin and shouting. Panicking, Coin grabbed a chair, for all the good it would do him. Out of nowhere, Donnet sprang from behind the encroaching man, grabbed his arm before he could react, and delivered a blow so hard that Coin could hear the cracking of bones even over the man’s screams, the sword dropping to the ground.

Just over Donnet, Coin saw that Dustario was still brawling with one of the enemies, and seemed to have the upper hand… until the person he was grappling with, some man with blue hair, smashed a glass tankard over his head.

Taking the razor sharp, shattered end of the glass, the man began scraping it across Dustario’s face as he screamed.

“Dustario!” Coin cried as he lept forward. Closing the distance, chair in hand, Coin swung as hard as he could manage. The chair broke into pieces, but it was enough to knock over the one cutting up Dustario, sending the man to the floor. Amid the chaos, Coin got a look at who it was.

Blue hair, spiked and pointed. Dark clothes to cover himself, but Coin realized that he knew that man’s face. The Animan from the docks, Coin saw, shocked. But why was he here?

There was no time to wonder—Coin turned back to Dustario immediately. His friend was completely unconscious—if he didn’t have a concussion from that blow to his head, it would be a miracle. That wasn’t even close to worst of it, though: the side of Dustario’s face was so lacerated and bloody that Coin couldn’t even recognize it anymore. Coin tried to wake him up, before he heard a call from the others.

The Bronies who had weapons had managed to push back the mob, the Honest Eyes most of all: Kriseroff was shouting a war-song as he slashed a sword-wielding man with his axe, while Strongshield and Red pushed back the others as best as they could. Facing actual warriors with deadly weapons, the crowd seemed to have lost some of their nerve, and were keeping a distance—whoever they were, they were not skilled fighters, nor soldiers. Caving in a man’s chest with his hammer, Red cleared the door enough to slam it shut, though it was not a moment before several others outside began bashing on it to open again.

“We need to get out of here!” Red barked, while Kriseroff and Jayson pushed a table over to block the door, and fit candlesticks between the handles.

“Agreed,” said Prim, thoroughly out of breath and completely disheveled.

A brick came flying in through the window, nearly hitting Daria as she leapt out of the way. “The back entrance!” Donnet yelled, running over. “It’s our only shot—get movin’ now!”

Without time, Coin grabbed Dustario and lifted him over his shoulders, wishing that he had spent more time lifting weights and less lifting pens as he tried to carry his friend out.

Rosesoul gasped when she saw Dustario’s state. “Six save us!” she cried. “He needs medical attention, as soon as we can!”

“Is anyone else hurt?” Coin asked as they rushed out of the general room and towards the other exit.

By the looks of things, most everyone was—Donnet’s face looked like a bloodied pulp, and Caymen’s was no better, Red was bleeding from his shoulder, Strongshield from her side, Kriseroff from all over, not that he seemed to care. “Someone hit me over the head,” said Jayson, “but I’ll be fine.” The only one that looked unscathed was Theosyrius—he was trembling, but otherwise unmarked. It didn’t seem as though he had even drawn his sword.

On the one hand, the Bronies were in bad shape, but Coin knew that it was a miracle that they weren’t harmed more than they were.

“Who the Hell are these people!?” asked Hadrena furiously as they turned a corner.

“How did they find us!?” shouted Daria, still looking panicked. There were shouts from behind us, the sound of pounding against wood.

Donnet threw himself into a sealed door, breaking their way outside. There was a wall blocking the alley off from the main street, but Coin could see a little from over it. Fires burning, shouts, screams, windows smashed. A riot, he realized. a massive riot this time. Coin heard a crashing sound from behind them, within the bar. They’re breaking through!

“Move move move move!” said Donnet said to them, pushing everyone out of the tavern as fast as he could. On Coin’s shoulder, he felt Dustario twitch slightly. Blood was dripping down from his face, staining Coin’s clothes.

Kriseroff and Strongshield had grabbed a nearby dumpster and pushed it against the door behind them, blocking the way again. “We must go!” Kriseroff said. “Before we are trapped on two sides!”

Jayson swore, and started scouting ahead, with the sword of one of the rioters in his hands. “Over here!” he cried, signalling his friends over.

Coin went over as swift as he could, desperately out of breath but determined to move on as fast as he was able. Dustario’s life might depend on him not stopping. The alley ahead was wide enough that they could move through—the Honest Eyes took up the front while the rest followed behind. Coin stepped over cans and garbage and bricks as he struggled to keep up.

They were almost halfway to the end when a shout came from a connecting side-alley. “There they are! Right here!” someone yelled. Coin saw a single man standing off to the edge, sword drawn, swinging it at the Bronies.

Strongshield silenced him with a strike from her axe, but it was too late—shouts were coming closer. “Dammit all!” Donnet cried, “Go go go!”

The Bronies sprinted down, eager to not be trapped by however many were coming. Reaching the end of the alley, they found themselves in an open street. The place was utterly wrecked—broken glass filled the streets, doors had been broken in, a few windows showed smoke coming out. The riot, clearly, had been snaking through the city.

“The Palace,” Caymen sputtered between a broken lip, “we must reach the Palace.”

“Follow me, then,” said Donnet, “this way! Stick together, ‘n hug the walls, don’t go out in the open!”

They all trailed behind, aware of the sounds coming from behind them — the mob was closing in. Coin’s chest heaved, his muscles ached—he didn’t know how much longer he could keep this up, not with Dustario on his back. Please be alright, Coin prayed, please, please…

“They’re here!” came a shout from behind them.

“Move!” Jayson cried, as they turned a corner.

Coin looked up to the high hill at the head of the city. The Palace of Aureliano had never seemed such a welcome sight, and yet it had never looked further away. They’d have to cross half the city if they wanted even a chance of reaching it, and the streets were overrun.

The Bronies dashed around the corner, only to stop in their tracks. At the end of the lane, another crowd was coming towards them—dozens of torches, dozens of people, and they had just spotted their prey. The Bronies were caught like roaches in a trap: Coin’s eyes widened and scanned desperately for another way to go.

A wide side-street was the only option. “Inside!” signalled Red, as the mobs on both sides began to close. Coin hurried over as best he could.

Before he got inside the alley, he felt a faint whoosh next to his ear, and a crack on the wall next to him. He knew the sound immediately, but did not think it could have been possible… only for three more bolts to fire around him, only barely missing.

“Crossbows!” Hadrena shouted. “They have crossbows!”

It made no sense at all—where in the Web could a random mob have found such things? And yet the Bronies only barely managed to make it into cover within the alley before another round of bolts shot through. As soon as the mob rounded the corner, the Bronies would have no chance—these attackers did not seem to be very good shots, but a clear line of sight with no cover would doom them for sure.

“We can’t keep going straight!” Coin insisted, barely able to breath at all. “Find a corner, an alley, anything!” Their only chance was to stay out of open spaces—tight quarters would make a ranged weapon next to useless.

“This way, now!” Prim yelled as he ran down a crooked path

Twists and turns, corner by corner, only barely ahead—the Bronies were playing cat and mouse, and their luck was running out by the moment, Coin knew. Just a little further, just a little more, he thought, though he knew it wasn’t true.

They came to a crossroads of sorts in the alleys, and took the branch that most directly pointed towards the Palace. “I saw them down the other path!” said Daria, out of breath as well. “They’ll block our way ahead!”

“They can just try!” shouted Red Autumn in fury. “Honest Eyes! To the front!”

The three ran forward, sprinting ahead of their friends to clear the path… and just in time, as the figures of six rioters appeared in their way at the end.

“For the Warden!” the Honest Eyes screamed as they crashed into the enemies, slashing wildly at their foes. The rioters tried their best to block, but it was no use at all — axe and sword and hammer fell on them, caving in skulls and ripping them apart in a mad fury. One of them carried a crossbow, and tried, desperately, to fire it off—a blow from Strongshield proved the futility of that. The weapon was knocked clean from his hands, and clattered on the ground beside him.

Coin gasped when he saw it. He knew the make of that crossbow exactly — the build of the stock, the honed string, the cartridge on the bottom, the loading-lever. There was no mistaking it.

An Authority repeater! Coin realized, his mind racing. How could they have—

There was no time to consider it further. Stepping over the corpses of the rioters that had been foolish enough to stand before an Honest Eye, Coin saw that the living compatriots of the dead had turned tail and fled, routing immediately before the charge: the path forward was clear. The street they had ended up on was sloping path up, up towards the central square.

“Six and One!” cried Caymen. “Keep going!”

Coin needed no reminder, but his body was close to collapsing: legs shaking, heart pounding, barely able to stay standing under the weight. Dustario’s breathing was more broken than ever—no one could say how hard that blow had been. Coin had to stay up, for his sake.

There were people on the street, running around, panicked—not rioters, just civilians. They seemed as confused as the Bronies, but not nearly as bloody. Several were running away from the square—Coin wondered what it was they were fleeing from, but immediately hoped he would not find out.

“Just a little more, just—”

Coin felt a slam into his shoulder when the crossbow bolt hit him.

Gasping, he only barely fell into a trash-laden corner, collapsing in a heap with Dustario fallen from his back. Shaking, he reached a hand to touch the bolt—a bad idea. He screamed out in pain.

Everything was becoming a blur. Coin could see some of his friends, still fighting. Red shouting… Rosesoul falling over… someone was walking towards him. Not a Brony.

Between the pain and exhaustion, black edges were appearing in Coin’s vision, but he still saw who was coming for him. A man with light blue hair. A familiar face. He carried a sword.

“Y— you…” Coin struggled to say. Behind the man, behind the alley, Coin saw that there were armed people running away, running away from where the Bronies stood. Why were they running? Stay awake! Stay awake, damn you!

“Guess I have better friends than you,” said the Animan with a cruel smile. He raised the sword in his hand. Coin closed his eyes, unwillingly.

He heard a distinct whoosh, followed by a scream of pain. Opening his eyes, Coin saw the Animan stumbling. Two more crossbow bolts shot out at him, one landing again in his back. The other burst out of his open mouth, metal point sticking from his tongue. The Animan slumped over, dead.

What? Coin struggled to think, confused. The black edges in his vision were filling in quickly; he could barely see who the person was holding the crossbow, the one rushing towards him and Dustario. But he could hear the cries behind them.

“The Logos is Greater!” they shouted. “Halforth! Halforth!”

Someone was kneeling before Coin, shaking him. A woman’s voice. “Sir Coin? Sir Coin!? Can you…”

All Coin could do was black out, blood running from his wounds.

Chapter XXV: The Rescue

* * * * * *

She does not trust us anymore. We must assess possible options.

Trust. Never trusted you. No one did.

Her reaction was unfortunate, but we can redouble our efforts and correct this.

We failed. She said so. We failed completely.

It was an error. Momentary.

Error. Delusion. . . you deluded yourself. They hate you. You never should have cared.

Do not listen to that one. We acted in an antipattern, but we can ameliorate it with the proper steps.

Pattern. All you do is one pattern. If one part fails, all failed. You were always wrong, to try and help them.

What we did was wrong, and we can’t change it now. It was a mistake, to send us. We can’t do this. We don’t know how.

We know more than that. We know things they do not. We can support them where they will fail alone.

We should have trusted her. We didn’t know what we were doing.

Doing. Done. . . you will never escape what you have done.

We can choose to act only in self-pity, or we can choose to simply act. Self is, and has always been, the enemy. The instrument will fail if we forget that. We must bind ourselves to our duty again. No doubts.

We can’t keep the doubts away. They slip through.

Then try harder. We must try harder, for her. For all of them.

* * * * * *

“What was that?” Lady Violet gave a coy, knowing look and raised a hand to her ear. “I’m sorry, I could not quite hear that. I’m certain that you weren’t referring to that ‘unofficial’ celebration that I have certainly ‘not’ approved of, should anyone ask, were you?”

Dustario gave a barely restrained smile. “I would never dream of it, ma’am.”

Violet gave a wink to that, and filed out, with Proximo following closely at her side. He heard Dustario say something behind him to Sir Coin, but Proximo did not listen, still trying to contemplate all that the knight had said to them.

“I can scarcely believe it, my lady,” Proximo said as they departed from their interview.

“And yet it’s true,” Violet remarked. “Our first priority will be learning more about these passages—this one we’ve found and any others there might be.”

“And Dabrius?”

“Oh, I haven’t forgotten.” Violet clenched a fist. “There’s no way that Arcadio can delay us much longer. That vicious idiot has kept us in the dark for too long—I intend to learn what our friend knows, and soon.”

Proximo couldn’t help but relish the idea of putting Martes in their place, unkind as it might have been. Another thought came to mind, however. “If it was truly Arcadio that Coin heard…”

“...then there is something else afoot here,” Violet finished. “Arcadio clearly has a larger stake in this than we realized. I had my suspicions, judging from how dedicated he’s been to keeping us away from any evidence, but now I’m more certain than ever.”

“My lady,” Proximo said, speaking his mind plainly, “do you believe that Arcadio might had played a part in Sir Harald’s murder?”

Lady Violet gave him a look. “A dangerous theory. But not one to go uninvestigated.”

The Warden of Honesty, who had followed closely behind Violet silently, stirred. “Send us to question him. We will find truth.”

“Haven’t you done enough damage as it is?” Proximo asked bitterly. He still remembered Sir Alwin, not to mention all the other times that the Warden had acted outrageously and threatened their position.

The Warden gave Violet a pleading look. “We can help.”

Proximo’s temper flared. “You already know the kind of ‘help’ he means, my lady. Bullying and threatening, and killing if that doesn’t work. Is that meant to save our friends?” He pointed a finger at the Warden. “By all rights, we should have already sent him back to the Citadel, where he can’t—"

“Stop," Violet interjected, visibly frustrated. “Enough about this. I won’t have fighting amongst us, not now of all times. We have more important things to worry about.”

Proximo glared at the Warden, who kept his eye locked to the floor as they walked. He certainly hoped that Violet didn’t expect him to apologize to the Warden.

“We need to investigate this tunnel-system that Sir Coin unearthed,” Violet continued. “I’ll go myself, so as to better understand what we’re dealing with—this is too delicate to leave for a report. I shall need a team to accompany me.”

“I will go gladly, my lady,” said Proximo immediately.

“We will accompany,” the Warden said simultaneously.

Proximo narrowed his eyes. “Perhaps he should stay here.”

The Warden responded firmly. “We cannot let you go out unprotected. City is dangerous. We were ordered to defend you. Cannot let friend be hurt. Our purpose.”

“And what if we’re stopped by guards, hmm? Or Moderators? What if they get in our way?” Proximo put a hand on Violet’s shoulder. “This is just another chance for him to make our job that much harder, or to ruin everything we’re working towards. Just order him to stay.”

Violet frowned at him. “I’d thank you if you did not speak of him as though he’s not standing next to us.”

“It is fine,” the Warden responded quickly. “This one has performed… poorly,” he admitted. “No fault but its own. But we are meant to protect you. You say, ‘do not leave your sight?’ We will not. We will defend you.”

“If you’re worried about what he’ll do if he stays, just order him into a corner somewhere,” Proximo said bitterly. “If he’s as obedient as he claims, he’ll stay there.” His expression was pleading. Trust me, please, Proximo thought. Right now, their success rested on the Warden being kept as far away from important things as possible. “We can have another six guards with us, and go in disguise. There’s no need for him. The risk is too great.”

The Warden of Honesty simply looked at her. “Violet,” he said softly, “please. This is a bad idea.”

Lady Violet looked between the two of them, contemplating what they said. She breathed deep, and spoke in a leveled, authoritative way. “Honesty,” she said carefully, “I believe that it would be best if we searched out this tunnel incognito—so that the Dreamweavers and the guards cannot trace us. I am sorry to say so, but you would give us away. I would like you to remain here, at the Palace.”

Proximo expected the Warden to argue with her, or try to force himself on the mission. Instead, he just looked at her, then nodded his head. There was a slight twitch in his emotionless face—so small that one would never notice it with anyone else. “We obey,” he said quietly.

“I know,” said Violet sadly.

There were silent all the way back to their rooms.

When they arrived, the Warden broke off, while Violet went to work finding the right people to accompany them to the tunnels. Dustario had taken a small group out for his impromptu Summer Sun Celebration, but there were still close to fifty trained warriors on hand, and Violet did not want to leave this another moment—every second was one more that the city watch might stumble across the Changelings.

As he watched the Warden of Honesty sulk away, Proximo turned to Violet. “It’s the right choice, my lady.”

She nodded, but did not answer.

Proximo did not press the point, but felt vindicated nonetheless. She’ll see, he thought certainly, it’ll be far better this way. There was too much at stake for someone as uncouth as the Warden of Honesty to be involved. Proximo did not intend for Dabrius and Greenglade to die here.

In time, they had their team—six Honest Friends, all trustworthy, all discreet, all fierce in any fight. They were dressed in plainclothes, so as to avoid attracting attention, and kept their weapons out of sight. Jorama, the dark Sajlic woman, took the front, the only concession to her ordinary uniform being a gold bandana that she never seemed to take off—she tucked it under her shirt, just to be safe.

Alongside them were Applewood, who had protected Proximo earlier, as well as one named Appleblossom and another named Apple Orange, oddly enough (the Honest Friends were not well-known for creativity in naming). In addition, Dalwin Faust joined them, staying taciturn and subdued even when he was told of their exciting assignment.

Finally, there was Crispin Peck, whom Proximo trusted more than anyone else to be silent about what they found. He bounced along in the back, cheery as ever.

Violet had dressed herself in a long, red coat with a dark hat on the top that hid much of her hair, so as to cover her whilst she was sleuthing. With Proximo disguised as well, it seemed to be doing an admirable job—none of the Dreamweavers, whether in the Palace or on the streets, recognized them. Aside from one incident, where the guards in the Palace appeared to notice who they were, of course.

They were headed for a place named ‘Saffrongem Street,’ the one where Coin had found the alternative entrance—something that Proximo was infinitely grateful for. Had Coin not done so, it would have been immeasurably harder to investigate what he had found.

Examining the city as they moved through it, Applewood whistled. “Pretty friendly, now that we don’t look like ourselves, ain’t they?” He asked Lady Violet in a quiet, perhaps too-casual way.

Violet gave a small smile as they passed through the passive crowd. “It’s almost pleasant, when everyone isn’t trying to throw things at us. Strange how that works.”

“Few men know what they hate,” said Dalwin in a distant voice.

Apple Orange barked a laugh. “Har! Know or not know, what does it matter? They’d gladly dash our brains out on the cobbles if they could, the savages,” he said with a broad smile through his black beard. Proximo thought he seemed surprisingly upbeat, considering what he was talking about. “C’mon AB, am I right?”

Appleblossom, the pretty guard with the appropriate orange bow in her tied-back hair, just nodded. “Yep,” she said plainly.

“I’ll say!” Apple Orange replied. “Well, that’s why we’re here after all. Don’t worry, m’lady, we won’t let them kill you.” He grinned amiably at the lady.

“I’m glad for the assurance,” Violet replied, sounding distracted. She was looking at a street sign. ‘Saffrongem,’ it said, albeit obscured somewhat by graffiti. “We’re here,” she said.

They got to work finding the entrance, and eventually came across the alley Coin had described. Printed upon a wall was the green heart, precisely where he had placed it.

Jorama was scanning the street outside, checking if anyone was watching. “They seem to not pay us mind, Lady-Warden,” she said. “For now, we appear safe.”

“Didn’t Sir Coin say there was guards sniffin’ ‘round ‘ere?” Applewood asked, casting a glance around, just in case.

“I don’t see any on the street.” Apple Orange strained to look all the way down the lane. “Nope, not a soul in uniform. You see any, AB?”

“Nope,” replied Appleblossom, observing the other side.

“I think we’re safe, then,” Apple Orange said. “Crack ‘er open!”

Crispin elected to do the honors, pulling out the brick with the heart printed upon it, and pulling at the inside of the wall. Proximo watched in amazement as the stones moved on a hinge, opening the door to the inside.

“I can stand watch out here, if it please m’lady,” said Apple Orange cheerfully. “You can all investigate inside, and I’ll be nonchalant while I wait. Best not to leave the rest out here, in case they get killed or raped or something.”

Lady Violet raised an eyebrow to Appleblossom, as though asking if this kind of attitude was normal for Apple Orange. She just shrugged. “Sure,” said Appleblossom.

“We’ll need to map out at least part of this tunnel, to understand what exactly we’re dealing with,” said Lady Violet. “I would rather not chance trying to use any exits other than this one, seeing that we don’t know where they lead yet. But if there’s trouble out here…”

“I’ll find you. Just stay safe down there, alright? Probably lots of rats and bugs and things. Diseases, y’know?” Apple Orange smiled again. Proximo couldn’t tell if he was deliberately saying uncomfortable things as a joke, or if he just didn’t realize it.

Violet raised the eyebrow again. “I’ll keep it in mind, friend.”

The rest of them descended into the underground, gaping at the sophistication of it as they went. The place was pitch black at first, but Applewood lit up a lantern that Violet had instructed him to bring, and suddenly the tunnel they were in lit up with yellow light and green, reflected stone. A line of that green traced its way all the way down the passage, disappearing behind corners but reappearing again.

“Dalwin,” Lady Violet commanded, “start composing your map. We’ll proceed on to the central area, and then branch out from there.”

“Aye, my lady,” replied Dalwin, picking out a notebook and a pencil, and starting to scribble upon it.

They went through at an even pace, not wanting to linger too long, but also conscious of potential trouble—though Coin had assured them that the tunnels were deserted, they took no chances. Applewood, Jorama, and Appleblossom took the lead, while Dalwin followed behind with his notebook, occasionally asking softly for the lantern to be lifted up to aid his drawing. Violet and Proximo followed him, while Crispin took the rear.

“Lady-Warden,” Jorama turned to say, “the way appears.”

Proximo craned his neck forward and saw that they had indeed arrived at the central room. They lit some of the lanterns on the walls, and studied the six branching paths that sprang out from their position, all leading different ways. Plenty of choices, Proximo saw, wondering where they would start.

“How does our map look thus far, Dalwin?” Violet asked.

Dalwin presented his work, showing an accurate (as best as Proximo could tell) graphing off this strange system they found themselves in. Crispin elected to also show a rather good drawing he had made of Lady Violet’s hat, for some reason. He had written the word ‘Wow!’ next to it.

“Very nice,” Violet said with a laugh, causing both men to look bashful. “But enough congratulations—we’ve got a job here.” She frowned, and scanned her eyes over the various ways ahead. “We’ll have to check them all, as best as we can. How about this—we shall tackle them as smaller groups, so as to take less time. Proximo and I can pair up with some of you as well.”

Applewood frowned, and scratched his chin. “Might be safer iffin’ yah both stayed here. Just in case. It’d be better if we all knew where yah two were.”

“Agreed, Lady-Warden,” nodded Jorama. “The Coin-knight said this place was empty, but we would see you safe here rather than wandering.”

Lady Violet sighed, and gave small smile. “I’m truly not that dainty, you know. Well, mostly, at least. If you insist, Proximo and I can hold down the proverbial fort. I’m sure we can find ways to amuse ourselves.” Just at that moment, she sniffed at the air and wrinkled her nose. Proximo caught it as well—something down one of the passages smelled remarkably like sewage. Probably because it was. “Yuck,” she gagged. “I don’t suppose we have a volunteer for that one, do we?”

“Applewood,” answered Appleblossom immediately.

He groaned. “Dammit, do I always gotta be the guy who goes and gets t’investigate all the nasty places?”

“Yep,” Appleblossom said with a small smile, before sticking her tongue out playfully.

They were organized into smaller teams, each taking a different passage. The way they were spread out in the tunnels, they would stay within earshot if they needed to return quickly, but with Apple Orange covering the way behind them and the tunnels entirely devoid of other life, they did not expect any difficulties. Lady Violet and Proximo remained back at the central room.

It didn’t take long for Violet to pull out a book and settle it down on the dusty table in front of them. It was a leather-bound tome, not too old but frayed somewhat.

“What’s that?” Proximo asked, eyeing the book as Violet opened it.

“A gift,” she replied. “You remember how I told you that Jestin gave me a book of history before we left?” She tapped the cover. “This would be it.”

She pointed to a note written on the inner-cover. It was written in a neat, but flowing hand, etched in distinctive pink ink. ‘Hey Violet!,’ it read. ‘Hope you like this—it might just help you guys out there in the Dreamweave. Or maybe not—you can’t really tell with these things. Anyways, I can’t wait to see you again! Love, Jestin.’ Below it was a another note. ‘P.S. Be sure to read the marked pages—I honestly don’t know if they’ll be useful at all, but it might just be relevant. Or not!’ Below that was yet another note. ‘P.P.S. Hi Proximo! Try not to worry so much!’

Proximo smiled at the message, but turned his attention to the other postscript. “Marked pages?”

“Ah, I see you’ve already picked up on that little clue,” Violet said coyly. She flipped through a number of pages, settling on a chapter entitled ‘The Dreamweave.’ “It isn’t a long section—this city doesn’t have as much history as others, and what they have is barely worth telling. But take a look at this.”

Her finger highlighted a few lines, ones that she read aloud. “ ‘...during its earliest periods of construction, Aureliano the First had the city layered with various levels of building, starting with various maintenance shafts dug in order to create the sewage systems. Oftentimes, these tunnels would be closed over by homes and other facilities, abandoned below ground and walled off. The plans to these catacombs were, sadly, lost in the unfortunate fire that burned much of the Palace’s records library during Aureliano the First’s early reign, but it is now believed that the actual tunnels were collapsed long ago, and are now unusable.’ “

“Sound familiar?” Violet asked with an triumphant smile.

Proximo returned the expression. “So that’s where these came from—relics from the years this whole place was built.” He looked around the mostly intact room. “Clearly they aren’t as ‘unusable’ as people thought.”

“The Changelings have been making good use of that misconceptions, apparently,” Violet continued. “Even if anyone around here still remembered that these existed, they would not think that they remain nowadays, much less that they could be used. I don’t know how the Changeling Society located these entrances, but what we see down here—the secret doors, the lights, these quaint furnishings—must have been added by them later on, to cover their tracks. Or perhaps by other furtive people before them—who knows?”

Proximo thought about that. “Do you think that there might be more tunnels like this?”

“I wouldn’t doubt it. We’ll have to see how far this one goes, but we might have to expand our search and try to find more places like this. If Dabrius was meeting with this Changeling Society…”

“...then they might be able to testify to him not killing Sir Harald,” Proximo realized. “They could set him and Greenglade free.”

“Indeed. Hopefully Dabrius can shed more light on this, when we speak to him.”

Proximo nodded, knowing the wisdom of her words. There was something else on his mind, however, something that he knew was bothering her. “My lady?”

“Yes, Proximo?” she answered, flipping through the book.

“Permission to speak freely?” he asked. Here goes nothing...

She laughed. “Bit a silly thing to ask between us at this point, don’t you think, Proxi? But go on.”

“If you’re upset about the Warden of Honesty, you… you can tell me about it,” he said hesitantly. “The others haven’t noticed, but I can see it on your face.”

Violet was silent at first, then sighed. “I know, Proxi. I never could hide anything from you, could I?” She looked down, her expression troubled. “I don’t like being caught between my friends like this, that’s all.”

Proximo frowned. “You don’t need to be caught between anyone. We both know that he’s in the wrong.”

“I know what he did was wrong,” Violet clarified. “I know that he knows that as well, now. I just don’t know what to do with him.”

Proximo looked at her sympathetically. “You could just send him away.”

She closed her eyes. “I can’t.”

“Why not?” he asked in disbelief.

“Because Mars asked me to trust him, and I trust Mars. And because, despite everything, Honesty is my friend as well. It would crush him, to think he failed me.”

Proximo scoffed. “The Warden doesn’t care about what anyone thinks, my lady.”

“You only say that because you don’t know him as well as I do, Proximo. You don’t know what he bottles up.” She looked very forlorn, talking about the Warden. “He doesn’t think of himself as a person, you know. He doesn’t think he deserves to be one, and so he forces all of that humanity down where no one can see it. But there is someone in there that cares, and cares very, very much—maybe too much. You heard what he said that night? That he thought of himself as an insect compared to me? That he’d rather kill himself than fail? He said that I’d never lie to him.” She breathed deeply. “How could I hate someone that thinks that way?”

Proximo crossed his arms. “He’s a danger, my lady. You know that. We don’t need him.”

She eyed him. “You sound very certain of that.”

“What’s to be uncertain about?” Proximo asked firmly. “When have we ever needed to bully people to solve a crisis, all the times we’ve worked together? When has some crazed killer’s help been the key to resolving anything we do? It never has before, not on any mission we’ve done together, and he only makes things worse. Why should we need him when we can speak for our friends on our own?”

“Because speaking doesn’t always fix it, Proximo,” Violet replied, equal parts sad and firm. “Let me ask you: do you think pleasant words would have been enough to beat the Channic and the Moderators during the First Rise? To capture Baysmouth and hold Comchan? It wasn’t, nor would it have been. I should know—I was there.”

She pressed her eyes closed, thinking carefully. “Sometimes… sometimes there are days that you cannot end diplomatically. And Six save you if on that day diplomacy is all you have. Our fandom can’t survive on words alone, no more than it could with only swords, which is precisely why we don’t have six Violet Brushshapes as the Wardens. You need both: the one that builds up and the one that breaks down. Open hands and clenched fists. The Generous and the Honest and all the rest.”

“You’ve never needed violence.”

Violet pushed aside a fold of her coat. “Are you so sure?” she asked, revealing something at her belt. The knife that Madelin Wright had given her, white with a purple gem.

“We aren’t at war, my lady,” Proximo answered carefully. “And we won’t be, if you and I succeed. We aren’t in the Chan. His talents aren’t meant for this place.” He put his hand on hers, gently. “Can you at least think about it? About sending him back?”

Violet looked at him, considering it. She let out a tired breath. “I’ll think about it.”

They spoke no more about it. The rest of their time was all business: checking with their friends, compiling a map. Jorama stated that her passage led to nowhere—a dead end. The others proved more fruitful: Appleblossom’s led to somewhere populated, but she wasn’t able to check what was on the other side, due to people talking about nothing important on the other side—she guessed it was a shop. Applewood came back slightly smelly and reporting that the passage had led to a false wall that opened into the sewer—someone searching down there would never have found it. Others led to streets, or alleys. One led somewhere once, but was now blocked by something too heavy to shift. Dalwin’s map began to be filled out.

After some time, they had checked most everything, and saw the lines and twists of the labyrinth take shape on the paper. A central hub with six spindly legs, some long and some truncated, branching off in different directions like insectoid appendages. They’d jotted down some cryptic marks to denote where each entrance opened to, ensuring that if the map was lost or stolen there would be no way to be certain where any intruders (aside from the Bronies, of course) could find their way in.

“This,” Violet said proudly, “should be most helpful. Good work, all of you.”

Their well-wishing was cut short by the sound of someone running towards them.

The guards turned and drew out their arms instantly, but it proved unneeded—the man who appeared before them was Apple Orange. “We’ve got a problem,” he said urgently.

“What is it?” Proximo asked, concerned.

“There’s something happening out in the city. A riot, I think,” Apple Orange said with a small smile. “I just heard some noises at first, but rough sounds aren’t out of the ordinary around here. The screams definitely clued me in, though.”

Proximo’s eyes widened. “Oh no,” he muttered. “Dustario and the others…”

Crispin gasped, and the rest looked between one another anxiously.

“We do not yet know what this rioting is about,” Jorama said, trying to keep the worry out of her voice. “We must focus on the now.”

“How far is this riot from us?” Applewood asked. “Could yah tell?”

Apple Orange shrugged. “I didn’t see anyone, so I don’t think they’re too close.”

Lady Violet remained calm, and weighed their options. “Were any of the other exits closer to the Palace?”

“Nope,” said Appleblossom.

"We cannot just stay here, can we?" Proximo asked. Going out into the streets at such a time was hardly an inviting idea.

Dalwin did not seem convinced. "If some kind of crisis is afoot, someone is going to notice if we are gone from the Palace. They will send people out to find us, and they might find this place too."

Violet considered that. “We are not far from the high hill. If we stay out of sight, then we should attract no attention—no one knows who we are, after all. We must move quickly, though.”

They did just that, filling out swiftly and leaving the tunnels behind them. Apple Orange and Jorama did a check of the exit and the street before beckoning the others to follow.

Emerging out onto Saffrongem Street, Proximo could hear shouts and see flames. Off in the distance, buildings were burning, painting red over the skyline. Smoke rose in plumes above them. Screams echoed around them.

Unnerved, Proximo glanced around them. Saffrongem Street was deserted. Anyone who had been out on it before had evidently fled. He breathed a sigh of relief as they went forward.

“The moment we get back to the Palace, we must check for Dustario and the others. Hopefully they were already out before this started, but if not we must draft a party to enter the city and find t—"

“There they are!”

Proximo spun around, searching for the voice. He found it almost immediately: a few rough-looking sorts, walking towards them. They did not look friendly.

Even worse, they were armed.

The Honest Friends unsheathed their weapons, preparing to fight, but suddenly more people streamed in from all around—two from an alley, another six from the next street, more and more and all of them holding swords and spears and torches.

The Bronies were surrounded: twelve men, encircling them on every side. The Honest Friends backed up into one another, forming a protective ring around Lady Violet and Proximo. They were outnumbered two-to-one, with no way out.

Proximo breathed deep. “Stay behind me, my lady,” he whispered, trying to keep the fear out of his voice.

“You’re unarmed, Proximo. At least I have a knife,” Violet pointed out. She was completely calm—she would not let her composure slip now, when others needed her.

“I’m the assistant, you’re the Warden. I’m expendable.”

“Not to me, you aren’t.”

“Well, well!” cried one of the people surrounding them. “Took us awhile t’find ya’. You straight disappeared for a minute there, but I know we’re glad t’see ya’ agin.”

Several people in the crowd laughed. Proximo looked over them, trying to gauge who exactly was confronting them. They wore no distinctive clothes—by any rights they seemed like ordinary rabble. But two of them were carrying weapons that caught his shocked eyes immediately.

Authority repeaters. Lever-loaded crossbows pointed right at them. Even if the Bronies ran or tried to fight, a single one of those would end such an attempt quickly.

“Really,” said one of the ones carrying a repeater, “we should jes’ kill ya’ now. Be easy, too. But let’s try this—" he aimed the crossbow directly at Lady Violet. “If you vanished like that, I figure y’must have found a little hidey-hole. And Arcadio’s been searching for jes’ such a thing. So tell us where the Changelings are, right now.”

Lady Violet did not balk or shy away. “If we told you,” she said plainly, “you would kill us anyways.”

“Smart one, ain’t she?” one of the others said with a sickening grin. “I like smart ones.”

The apparent leader kept his crossbow locked on the Bronies. The rest of them started to move towards the trapped friends, weapons in hand, looking murderous. Proximo was running through possible plans in his head, ways to escape. None seemed possible.

“Last chance,” said the one with the crossbow.

“I respectfully refuse,” answered Violet.

He sighed. “Fair enough, then. Here’s how we’ll do this—I’m gonna start killin’ ya’ in order, with your little pretty boy—” he said, pointing to Proximo "—dyin’ last. Y’feel like talkin’ anytime, fancy-pants,” he said to Proximo directly, “you jes’ yell out where the Changelings are. Oh, and jes’ so y’know, yer really, really not gonna like what we do when we get t’ yer lady there.” He smiled a truly ugly smile.

Proximo was burning with anger, but there was nothing he could do. Lady Violet silently unsheathed the knife she kept on her, white blade shining softly. She was whispering something Proximo couldn’t hear. He looked around him at the others. Appleblossom and Applewood had their swords out, watching silently. Jorama guarded with her mace, pulling her gold bandana over her mouth, saying a prayer. Crispin and Dalwin prepared themselves, looking intensely at their foes. Apple Orange was smiling a sardonic, cutting grin as he weighed the odds.

The man with the crossbow stepped forward—the rest of his men did the same, moving forward carefully, knowing that there was no reason to fight in close-combat when the crossbows could rip the Bronies apart. “Now, where t’start?” the leader said, aiming at the friends.

Just behind the man, Proximo caught the faintest movement.

“I know, I’ll start w—"

The man did not get another word in, before his head exploded.

The side of a warhammer crashed into the crossbowman’s skull with such ferocity that it was reduced to a smeared pulp, the body flying to the side. Where the man had once stood, a nightmare came, a giant with a single eye burning with more fury than Proximo had ever seen before.

The Warden of Honesty had come.

The men closest to him never had a chance. Before they could even raise their weapons he smashed his hammer across one of their jaws, ripping it clean off, before driving it into the chest of another. He rushed forward in a blink, drawing his ugly sword with his other hand in an instant and ripping it through the neck of another attacker.

Four men dead. The Warden turned to face the rest.

The other one with a crossbow, wide-eyed with fear, fired off a hasty shot—the Warden dodged to the side effortlessly, charging forward. The Warden moved like lightning—Proximo had never seen a man so large act so quickly. The rest of the attackers were trying to form up and fight, but he broke through immediately, easily swiping through a sword parry and lodging his blade in the man’s skull.

The crossbowman prepared to fire again, but at that moment Crispin charged into him, catching him off-guard before he could fire at the Honest Eyes’ master a second time.

Rather than waste a moment retrieving the sword, the Warden moved fluidly past the dead man before he even hit the ground, bringing down his warhammer and crushing the head of another. One daring fool tried to swing at him with a sword, but the Warden simply grabbed the blade with his armored hand, snatched it away, and threw it at a person behind him, hitting them across the face with the hilt and sending them reeling back.

Six men dead.

The assassins had the Warden surrounded. It did them no good. He moved like a machine, his body jerking back and forth, dodging, striking, parrying, moving. He seemed to know where to go, where to turn, where an attack came from, all half a moment before his attackers, and tore through them like tissue paper. Another swing from his hammer was enough to kill one and knock another away, crashing to the side like a limp doll.

One of the others managed to hit a blow with a sword, but it glanced harmlessly off the Warden’s thick armor. The Warden simply punched the man with a huge, metal fist right to his throat, flattening it sickeningly and leaving the man to grasp to his windpipe and suffocate to death. Before the choking man fell over, the Warden’s hand shot down and grabbed a dagger the man had kept at his belt. Another one of them, panicking, tried to shove a spear into the Warden’s face—it only scraped the side. Before the first drop of blood fell, the Warden drove the dagger straight into the spearman’s throat with enough force that the Warden’s whole hand was soaked in red.

One man with better sense was running away. The Warden pulled the dagger out and casually threw it at him, almost as an afterthought. It struck the fleeing man on the back of the head, dropping him instantly.

Ten men dead.

Crispin had been brawling with the crossbowman and managed to slit his throat, but the rest of the Honest Friends were still staying by Violet and Proximo’s side.

The only assassin left was the one the Warden had tossed aside, trying desperately to crawl away with a broken arm. The Warden strode up to him, expression now blank. The last man turned and pulled out a dagger, as though it would help him. He began to scream something. “I—!”

The Warden brought down a steel boot on the man’s head, smashing it like a melon with a horrible, wet sound. Then, he ground his foot into the dirt twice for good measure.

Bodies were everywhere. Broken weapons on the ground. In distance, there were faint shouts.

Proximo looked at the scene agape. All twelve assassins were dead, in near as many seconds.

He doubled over and vomited.

At some point during the confusion, Lady Violet had stumbled over and fallen. As soon as he finished with the last man, the Warden of Honesty looked over to see her there, threw down his weapons, and calmly walked over.

The Honest Friends were going down to one knee, bowing in amazement. The Warden saw they were unharmed and walked past, striding to Lady Violet.

He was absolutely soaked in blood, red splattered all over his golden figure. The wound on his head was dripping down, covering his eyepatch. Lady Violet stared at her gore-covered friend wide-eyed.

The Warden stood over her and extended a hand. “Hurt?” he asked, voice full of worry.

In stunned silence, Violet shook her head. After a moment’s hesitation, she took the hand and stood up.

Proximo heard the sound of shouts, and feet rushing towards them. He turned, expecting a fight, only to notice that all of the people arriving were wearing orange-and-gold uniforms. Around two-dozen more members of the honor guard. Leading them in the front was an Honest Eye with short blonde hair, armed and armored. “My lord?” he said frantically as he entered the street. “Are you—" He froze and looked over the field of corpses. “Six save us,” he said in shock.

The Warden was wiping blood off of his sword, smearing it on his gold-orange cape instead. “We must return to Palace immediately,” he ordered, emotionless again. “Will be safe there. Way forward was clear when we came, but will accompany you.”

Violet seemed to need a minute to catch up with everything that had happened. “Yes,” she said at last, “yes, you’re right. Before anything else, we need to get off the streets.”

The Warden turned to the Honest Eye that had brought the troops. “Take dozen men. Search for other friends. Escort them back if found. Kill anyone that hurts them. We will join after return to Palace,” he said coarsely.

The Honest Friends bowed, a dozen branching off to find Dustario and the others. Proximo hoped that they were alright—he knew that those ones could take care of themselves, but if these assassins had known where to find them…

The Warden turned to all of them, unfazed by anything that had happened. “Follow,” he ordered simply.

Everyone did so immediately, picking up their pace to join the Warden as soon as they could. Violet was by his side, the giant deliberately slowing his pace so she could keep up with him. Glancing down at his feet, Proximo saw that the Warden of Honesty was leaving bloody footprints, his boot still covered in the brains of the head he had crushed beneath a metal heel.

Proximo’s body apparently felt it was time to vomit again.

After a moment’s recovery, he raced back to Lady Violet, catching up beside her. She still looked a bit ill, but nevertheless immediately turned her attention to her assistant. “Are you well?” she asked right away.

Proximo found it amazing that, even now, she was still more concerned with others than herself. “Me? What about you, my lady? Are you—"

She waved a hand. “I’m fine, really. Though if my honest friend had not arrived…” She swallowed sharply, and looked up at her fellow Warden. “How ever did you find us?” she asked him.

The Warden glanced his eye down. “Knew location of entrance. Was watching from Palace. When riot started, we alerted others and left immediately.” He grimaced, and looked at her. “We were ordered to remain at Palace. This one apologizes for disobeying command.”

“No!” Violet said quickly, half-frantic. “No, Honesty, don’t… don’t. You…” She was at a loss for words. A first, surely. “Thank you, my friend. I owe you my life.” She put a hand on his arm, careful to avoid the bloodstains.

The Warden looked down at her. He had the oddest expression on his face. It might have been a smile. It vanished quickly, and he simply nodded. “Hrm,” he grunted.

They arrived at the Palace without further issue—if any rioters had noticed them, they had thought twice of attacking. The dozen and half armed soldiers led by a blood-drenched giant probably did that. Climbing the steps of the Palace of Aureliano, the Warden threw open the double doors and strode inside the building proper.

Proximo entered to find a number of Moderators and nobles assembled, all in the main hall. Lord Halforth was standing in full black battle attire, speaking coldly to Arcadio Martes, both their subordinates around them.

“I am interested to know how you justify this disgraceful behavior,” the Lord Moderator said with an icy chill to his voice.

Arcadio’s smirk turned to a scowl. “I’m not in the business of taking lectures.”

“That explains your ignorance. A shame. You might have learned something about the proper conduct of an executor of laws, which is what a commander of guards is meant to be. Perhaps you might have also learned the need to defend people placed under your protection.”

Aureliano Martes, standing beside his brother, took offense to that. “Wh— you cannot mean to blame this riot on my brother or I, can you?”

“I can,” Lord Halforth said plainly. “As a matter of fact, I just did.”

“How can you say it was our fault that a bunch of rabble decided to start burning down my city?” Aureliano asked petulantly.

“Because it is, as you say, your city. The fact that this was not prevented, or that my subordinates had to respond to it instead of your guards for so long is absolutely absurd.”

Percy Cartwright stirred from behind the Lord Moderator. “ ‘Scuse me, your honor? Looks like the Bronies have— whoa!” He was staring wide-eyed at the Warden of Honesty while the giant dripped blood onto the carpets.

Aureliano paled considerably when he looked at them, while Lord Halforth gave one glance at the Warden of Honesty and cocked his eyebrow slightly. “It would seem,” he said mildly, “that you encountered some difficulty, my lord.”

“Twelve men attempting murder of friends. We killed them all,” the Warden replied, equally neutral.

“Holy shit,” Percy said, amazed.

“Mister Cartwright, your composure,” Lord Halforth scolded. “I am glad to see that you are not harmed, Lady Violet. I was about to march into the city to retrieve you, the moment these blithering idiots sent in their guards to quell this upset alongside mine own staff.”

Arcadio was glaring at Lady Violet and the rest, a look that was somewhere between disappointment, loathing, and smug satisfaction, complete with odious, insincere smile. Violet matched it with a cold look of her own. It was a stare that said, ‘we know it was you.’

Out of nowhere, someone else barged into the conversation, looking like a mess as usual as he swaggered over. “Well well!” cried Withins-Bei. “My dear friends, my colleagues, my relations. You’re alive! Praise the Logos-On-High and whatever horse-thing you worship!” He gave an off-kilter bow to the lot of them. “I was beside myself when I heard the news. I would have gone in after you, truly, but I really did not want to, so I stayed here instead. And thank heavens I did, or might have missed the truly exciting news—so might have you, friend,” he said while wagging a finger at Proximo.

Withins-Bei sidled up to Lord Halforth, striking casual conversation. “So, do I have you to thank for saving this lot, chappie? Or was it…” He glanced over at the Warden of Honesty, and smiled. “My my, red truly is his color, isn’t it?”

“Mister Cartwright,” said the Lord Moderator, not sparing Withins-Bei a glance, “please remove this annoying thing from my presence.”

“ ‘Ey, annoyin’ thing!” said Percy. “Get removin’.” He gave him a shove out of the way.

“We must return to the city,” said the Warden, not giving thought to the interruption. “Other friends still there.”

“That will not be necessary,” the Lord Moderator said immediately. “They have already been returned to the Palace. They were in some difficulty themselves, as it happens, but my staff and I were able to recover them.”

The Warden had just slaughtered eleven men not a half-hour ago, and yet only now did he seem at all surprised. “Rescued them?” he asked skeptically. He gave a look as though he suspected trickery. “Why would outsider rescue friends?”

“The same reason you did. Duty.” The Lord Moderator turned to the side, to see another one of his subordinates approach. “Ah, and here is Miss Ravenry. I am certain she can answer any questions about the condition of your friends.”

“Their condition?” Violet asked, cautious.

“I regret to say,” Lord Halforth replied, “that we did not make it in time to leave them unscathed. Some were seriously injured in the scuffle.” He frowned, as though perturbed by the suboptimal result. “They are being quartered in the barracks, should you wish to see them. Your medical agents have already begun treatments, with which Miss Cawtler has lent her aid.”

“We came as soon as we heard,” Cellia Ravenry explained. “I only wish we had come sooner. They will recover in time, as I understand it, but some of the injuries were severe.”

The Warden of Honesty narrowed his eye. “Outsiders do not help friends,” he said, as though trying to convince himself of that.

“A simple ‘thank you’ will suffice,” Lord Halforth said, his face expressionless. “You may direct it to my staff in the future.”

“Proximo,” said Lady Violet with concern, “we must go and see to our friends.”

“Agreed,” he replied. He only hoped that Dustario and the rest were not too harmed. Being in danger himself was one thing, but his friends put in harm’s way made his stomach knot up.

“Then I bid you farewell for now, Bronies,” said the Lord Moderator. “I have a city to cleanse.” He tipped his hat and marched out, his staffers following behind.

Aureliano Martes looked as though he might have said something, then stopped himself. He turned away instead without a word. Behind him, Arcadio followed… but not before giving a mock-bow to the Warden of Honesty. Violet’s eyes locked on him with cold fury not unlike that of her honest friend.

Before they left to check on the others, however, Withins-Bei staggered back in. “Mods,” he muttered, "so unappreciative. I hope all of you are more agreeable.”

“We have important matters to attend to, Withins-Bei,” Violet said frankly.

“Oh, I know. But you don’t know—not yet. Because I happen to be the one that knows about this particularly important business that you haven’t heard yet,” he said unctuously.

Violet sighed. “What is it?” she asked with only mild impatience.

He turned to Proximo and grinned. “It’s for you, Hart," he said with a sly tone Proximo did not like.

Proximo frowned. “Now what are you talking a—"

“That couldn’t be dear Proxi speaking, could it?”

Proximo froze. A woman’s voice. A very familiar woman’s voice. Oh no, he pleaded, no no no no, please, no.

She was sitting in a side room, in a shadow but still very visible. Gowned in green and white, with emerald dye running through her bangs, exactly as she was all that time ago—not a hair out of place. Her dark eyes studied Proximo when he came into view.

“Two years, Proxi,” she said coyly, glancing at his shirt and pants. “I leave you out of my sight for two years, and you manage to get vomit all over your nice clothes.”

“What are you doing here?” Proximo asked angrily.

“Not even a kind hello for the weary traveller. Honestly, I’m hurt,” she said with mock-offended expression.

Violet looked at the woman in front of her, then to Proximo. Then back to the woman. “I’m afraid you have me at a loss, Miss…”

“Hart. Gallia Hart.” She looked up and down Lady Violet, then smiled at her brother. “Well, Proximo, now I know why you left home. Bravo.”

* * * * * *

“Dear Princess Celestia,

“It’s a tad bit easier to be proud when you come in first than it is when you finish further back. But there’s no reason to hide when you didn’t do as well as you hoped. You can’t run away from your problems. Better to run to your friends and your family.”

— Season of Expansion, Fourteenth Episode

Chapter XXVI: Dreamchaser Stargazer

* * * * * *

All the townsfolk, they are fast asleep

chasing memories or just counting sheep

but I don't need it. I don't think so. I'm not crazy. I don't think so

Though she'll never get to dream

who needs all that forgetting

there's a tapestry of stars

look how thankless they are

These eyes these eyes

so heavy heavy heavy

make time make time

I'm ready ready ready

All the townsfolk, they say rise and shine

chasing daylight or just killing time

Is it secret? I don't think so. Am I selfish? I don't think so.

— “40 Winks,” by Griffinilla and SoGreatandPowerful

* * * * * *

He saw the forms shining in the shadows. Ideals in the darkness.

A red-haired woman was kneeling in a cave, in pitch blackness. He could barely see her at all, but from her hand he saw a spark. He blinked, and when he opened his eyes she was gone, but deep inside that pit the spark remained, growing and growing until it nearly blinded him. He struggled to continue looking at it, as the darkness was banished away.

It begins here, he thought. It was difficult to keep his thoughts in place while he was in the middle of a vision, but he had to try nonetheless. Spiritually, if not chronologically, everything I know began here. The Lady is the incipient point. The spark.

Then, he was somewhere else.

He knew this place. Cold stone, cold walls. Grey, so much grey. He was in a hard bed, alone, struggling to live. No, no not this again, he thought, trying to move—it was like was chained down. He was trapped in his home again, confined to a sick-bed.

Straining against invisible bindings, he broke free. The moment he did, the world around him changed in a blink. He was in a frozen wasteland, surrounded by a blizzard. The cold was crushing him, the wind scratching at his face. He looked behind him and saw it—the dismal, snow-capped towers, the ring walls. The tomb-city, his home. He knew that beneath his feet, the bones of the dead were used to ward the living from harm, keeping his brothers and sisters safe. He had stumbled outside that protection.

He clutched himself, lightly-dressed and ill-equipped for the cold. He was going to freeze, and soon, but he had known that when he came there. I came here to die, he remembered sadly. He hadn’t known back then what was needed to conquer despair. He recalled words that he had not yet written—‘It is a terrible thing for a man to be alone.’

A figure approached him out of the blizzard, one wrapped in long, fur-lined robes that whipped in the wind. “On your own, you’ll die,” his teacher said.

I know, he wanted to reply, but the words caught in his throat, frozen to death.

Suddenly, the snow around him melted away, the blizzard ended, the man disappeared, and the tomb-city was a memory. Everything had changed, changed into something he had never even dared to imagine before.

There was green all around him. A field, but one different from anything he’d seen before. More clear, more… real. He looked in the distance and saw blue mountains, with an ivory city suspended on the side. And there, just out of reach, he saw them. The friends he had always lacked, but had never known he missed until that moment. His eyes burned with tears, and he reached out, desperate to stay with them, but it all vanished before he could.

He was on a ship, wispy brown hair tossing in the wind as he stood at the prow. The stars above him were connected with lines of light, and those lines pointed towards a black island that was coming swiftly into view. The spark, that same brightness he had glimpsed in the Lady’s hand, was there, just a bare pinprick in the distance.

Suddenly, in the dark, far away, there was a voice. Or many voices, all speaking at once. “The Star shows it,” it said, powerful and distant, “the Star shows you what is Six and One. Can you see it?”

The visions he saw were no longer of his own past alone—he was thankful for that. It was the others he wished to know of, and it was them he saw. A slender girl hearing voices in the wind, tasting colors in the air. A young lady, teary-eyed as she hugged her family and said goodbye. A woman clinging to wreckage, swirled in an ocean storm, while others drowned around her. A man with blue eyes in a white-and-black uniform. A man kneeling, staring, weeping as a building in front of him burned, flames and screams coming out.

They were all coming together. Six colors, then a thousand colors, then ten thousand, all together, all swirling around an impossible future. Six towers, reaching up towards a twilight sky. He saw again that pinprick of light, glowing ever brighter at the center in a flash.

A different kind of spark, he recalled. Virtues brought together, bound in friendship. Together, not apart.

The scene shifted beneath him. The world became a noble court, cast in glaring sunlight. Before a dais of black figures stood a beautiful lady with violet hair, and a man, tall and troubled, with a golden eye. There was a whisper in the vision. The Dreamweave, it said.

This was precisely what he had hoped for, and now images were cropping up wildly, running past as he tried to study them.

Three figures. One in blue, one in gold, one in white. All in red. The facts sprang to his mind without warning, and so he tried to peer closer, to learn who these three were. He managed to see the gold one—a giant, wading in blood, protecting Lady Violet from enemies. Honesty, he knew, just as it faded away.

“The first rule of fighting: win…” he heard a familiar voice say.

More visions. A fleet of ships with blue sails, charging towards a distant, red horizon. A nightmare surrounding a city. Cyan and crimson shadows circling one another, waiting for weakness.

Three men. Garbed in black-and-white, thinking in black-and-white. One carried the disappointment of his father, one the scorn of his son, the last a hatred for all. The last one is the greatest danger, he realized.

“What a man wants does not matter…” a bitter voice said.

He saw a man lying down, a dog futilely licking at his hand as his life faded away. A woman with a crossbow, fighting desperately beside strangers. A hammer pointed at an innocent, condemning him to die.

Three strangers. Yellow, sick. All of them marked to die. The last one raged and cursed and lashed out, but his black heart would never save him. Hatred cannot save anyone.

“One every day, every day until you surrender…” someone said, voice mocking and cruel.

Men in cloaks hid in secret under the earth, helping to save their friends. A changeling, turning into a man, one warped and twisted and stamped with a tattoo. A figure writhing and screaming, consumed by fire from his hands, from his wrists, from his mouth.

Three faces. One had a tear on his cheek, weeping for his regrets, knowing the consequences. Another had a manic grin, but it was hollow—he was hollow. The last one had three faces all of his own, straining against one another, biting and tearing away for control.

“Make me an instrument…” a man said, sorrowful. He knew that voice.

An old scholar, bent over from age, trying to find the key to save him from death. A man who wanted to die, just to cure the evil he’d done. A monstrous blasphemy, never to die, waiting to be unleashed on the world again.

Three masks. Rage and fear and vengeance were their names, no matter how they tried to hide them. Forced from their homes, forced from their hopes. Across the sea, and out of time.

“Dark days are coming…” one of them murmured.

The vision was starting to come apart — he strained to hold it together just a little longer. He needed this information. They did.

He was standing on black water, floating weightlessly above the surface of the crashing waves. The island in front of him stood broken over the sea, shattered under the moon, as the Mare Who Waited wept oily tears. The four stars will aid in its escape, She warned.

“In what’s escape?” he asked.

Suddenly, he plunged through the water, sinking, drowning. He drifted down and down and down, but in the blackness there was a light. Nothing like the spark. It was sallow and sickly, ancient and vile. Its eyes were staring right at him. A voice echoed in his mind, impossibly old, every word toxic with loathing.

“Know… you cannot hope to know.”

The voice was an assault on him—it was poisonous, tearing his mind apart. He tried to maintain a grip, just a little longer. I need to see it…

The last of the images were flashing wildly, out of place. A bronze key, opening the way in the dark. A kneeling man, praying for redemption, with a silver knife in his hand. A single slash, and a golden eye was all that remained...

He strained, struggled to remain in place for only a few seconds more. He was in pitch, oppressive darkness. Then he saw it.

The fourth mask. Written upon it were secrets, terrible ones, lies that could be believed or condemned, and its name was death. From its head sprang horns, one a crooked antler and the other like a twisting spiral. It grinned hideously with bared teeth and empty eyes, looking right at him. I know that mask, he thought, alarmed.

“It’s a shame,” the horrible thing said in a cold, sad voice. “I would have preferred that you lived…”

He raised his hands to defend himself… but saw there was no need. The spark had returned, exploding in color and lighting up the dark. “Do you see?” it asked. Before its light, the smiling mask crumbled away, powerless. Within the star, he could see that green place, his friends. He reached out, tears in his eyes, just trying to…

Feylen Mars opened his eyes, awoken. He blinked in confusion, trying to get a bearing on where he was. Am I still…?

No, the dream was over now. He was back in his office, sitting at his desk, surrounded by papers. A single candle burned in front of him, his hand hovering over it closely enough for the flame to lick his palm. Mars pulled the hand back, rubbing the burned spot gently—though truthfully, he was long used to that small pain. The room was dim, and the hour very, very late—the rest of the Magic Wing was asleep, no doubt.

Mars did not waste a moment: grabbing a pen and a paper swiftly, he began frantically jotting down everything he had seen, leaving nothing out. Far more than last time, he thought proudly. And more detailed as well. His friends needed to hear of it immediately—he was not certain how much of it was related to the mission in the Dreamweave, as it was always hard to separate such things, but anything might be useful.

What he had glimpsed, though, had been disturbing. The voice in the dark… the fourth mask… He shuddered to remember it. He had an instinct as to what both might mean, but he had to research it first. He only hoped he was wrong.

Mars rubbed his eyes, exhausted. He had been born with the gift, and was trained in it, but that did not make it easy nor without cost. Mars felt drained, and stretched thin. I’m thin enough as it is, he thought with very faint amusement, looking down at his bony wrist. Jestin would tell him to eat more, he knew.

After he finished writing down everything, Mars checked over it again, then a another time, making sure that he left nothing out. All of this would have to be sent with a datagram as soon as possible, if it were to reach Violet and Honesty. He was in the middle of transcribing it when the door to his office opened.

His head shot up, to see a woman in a purple robe, with a green hood and green patches on the sleeves. A messenger. “My lord?” she asked hesitantly. “I was not sure if you were still awake, but—"

“I am, friend,” Mars said, giving a tired smile. “Have you some news for me?”

She nodded. “From the Dreamweave, my lord. There has been an incident.”

Mars’ heart stopped for a moment, but he did not let himself show it. He motioned for her to continue.

“We only just received the update. A riot broke out in the city. Several Bronies were injured, though none killed, praise the Six.”

Mars let out a breath he did not realize he had been holding. That relief was swiftly replaced by indignation. A riot, he thought bitterly, and my friends injured. He wondered what in Faust’s name the Moderators and nobles of the Dreamweave were playing at, allowing something like this to happen, after safe conduct was promised. “Have you the names of those hurt?”

“We have a more detailed report for your review, my lord.” She hesitated a moment, before continuing. “It would seem, my lord, that the Lady Violet was caught in the middle of this. She might have died, had it not been for the Warden of Honesty.”

Mars’ eyes widened. “Then is she…?”

“Unhurt, my lord,” she replied quickly, before realizing that she had spoken out of turn. “Apologies, I did not — “

“You committed no wrong,” Mars said, dismissing her concerns with a wave of his hand. Her relief at the Warden of Generosity being rescued was palpable, and he would hardly criticize her for that. “I will take the report. Now get some rest, friend.”

She bowed, departing. Alone with his thoughts, Mars could not help but feel vindicated. I was right! he thought with enormous relief. The Warden of Honesty had rescued Violet. Reading over the report in detail only confirmed his hunch. Mars had known it was a gamble, sending his honest friend to the Dreamweave, but now knew that it had been the right choice. He had sensed danger from that city, and the Warden of Honesty had worked against it. It was his talent, after all.

The attack had changed things, however. Before, the troubles had been small-scale, easily dispersed, with no injuries. Mindless rabble violence. This, on the other hand, reeked of an organized effort. That required new precautions.

I need Madelin, Mars realized, rising from his seat. The Loyal Wing was some distance away, but he did not intend to wait, not when he needed his loyal friend so urgently.

The Citadel was slumbering, that night. The Mare Who Waited still had some Bronies awake during Her night, moving quietly through the halls or hunched over desks. They would all bow in respectful greeting to Mars as he passed by, but it was hardly like one of Jestin’s parties. The Warden of Magic traced his way silently through the building, legs hurting slightly as he did so.

Mars had been expecting to walk all the way to the Loyal Wing. As it turned out, it wasn’t needed: when he passed by the council room, he happened to hear noise coming from within. Opening the door, he saw none other than Madelin Wright, his loyal friend, fiddling with the chairs idly.

“Madelin,” he said with a smile when he saw her.

She gave a start and immediately dropped what she was doing. “Balefire! You gave me a scare there, Mars. I wasn’t messin’ with the chairs or anything,” she said, lying badly.

“I see you couldn’t sleep?” Mars asked. It was hardly surprising, considering the sheer amount of energy pent up in Madelin on a daily basis.

She snorted. “Sleep’s for people who can lie down. I’ve got a million things firing off, so how the Hell am I meant to stay still? Ha!” She grinned at Mars eagerly. “I see you’ve got the wakey-bug too, pal. You know Lilly’s gonna freak if you’re not restin’, right?”

Mars sighed. “She really shouldn’t be worrying about me.”

“Eh, maybe. Course, she really hits the nail on the head most times, with the healthy-livin’ stuff I mean,” she said, speaking at lightning pace. “Remember that time I got that concussion jumpin’ off that stage into the meal wagon? Balefire, that was stupid. Anyhow, who even knew they had potions for that? Medicine’s just unbelievable, ain’t it? It’s a neat time to be alive, really. Lilly’s a real sweetheart, too. Whenever I cut people up they just die, but she can do it to patch ‘em up. You gotta envy that, y’know?”

Mars knew Madelin well enough to realize that, all too often, she jumped around topics when something was gnawing at her. Nerves, though ones that she, as a soldier and commander, had covered very well. He gave a reassuring look. “What’s on your mind, Maddy?”

She rubbed the back of her neck. “Hmm, guess I showed that one on my chest, didn’t I? Alright, fine. Well, you’re up in the middle of the night, obviously, and you’re not in the Magic Wing. Which means you must be goin’ to one of the other branches, which means that something urgent is happenin’.” She started to wave a hand around as she spoke with increasing speed. “But you didn’t call me and Jestin and Lil altogether at once, so the way I see it you’ve got a problem for only one of us. And I’ve got a whole crisis-containment mentality-thing going on. So when you walked in I got the feeling that you were up in the middle of the night to come and see me in the Loyal Wing, and if that’s the case then something’s happened that needs doin’ and such a thing requires a… a less diplomatic approach. Not medicinal, I mean.”

She took a deep breath after the lightning-fast analysis, and fixed him with a hesitant look. “Am I right?”

“You aren’t wrong,” Mars replied, putting the report down on the table. “A datagram from the Dreamweave.”

Madelin snatched it up immediately, eyes scanning through each page in seconds as she sped through. Her face was blank until the moment she finished, slammed the message down on the table, and sprang up from the chair she had sat in. “Dammit,” she muttered, turning her face away from Mars. “Dammit all. Pack of savages thinkin’ they can… I shoulda…” She grimaced, scratching her chin thoughtfully. “That thing with Honesty tagging along, protectin’ V? Remind me to never second-guess your decisions again.”

“The day you do that is the day I lose some of my best counsel,” Mars replied, earning him a bashful smile from Maddy.

“So,” she asked as she fell back into a chair, her leg bouncing up and down unceasingly, “what’s the game-plan? I’m ready, whatever you wanna do.”

“Our units in the Devien Isles must be put on alert,” Mars insisted. “This attempt on our friends’ life has all the signs of conspiracy, and we must have every precaution. Should the situation deteriorate, I want your forces to be able to respond immediately.”

“Right, ah… yeah. I’ll do that. Straight away, y’know.” She coughed. “Alright, ‘bout that, I kinda… already did. Like, a month ago.”

Mars just looked at her. “You’ve had our fleet in the Painted Sea on high alert for a month and didn’t tell me?”

“Yeah, and here’s me ownin’ up to it. Gave the order a while before V and Honesty arrived in Indelio. Scrambled our operatives and everything.”

Mars gave her a stern look. “Is there a reason you did not grace me with this information?”

She matched the look, and drummed her fingers on the tabletop. “I figured if I asked you’d say no. Better to be safe than sorry.”

“There is a reason why I would have said no,” Mars replied with no undue emphasis. “Having your troops on stand-by for an imminent fast strike before our diplomats even arrive is a signal that we have no faith in the talks even occurring.”

“Their only objective was to be ready to move in case anything happened, and only then. They were secret orders, Mars.”

“And what if the Authority intercepted the codes? Or the Chamber planted a man on the inside to leak information? Or someone spoke without thinking? It might have caused a scandal.”

“I run a tight ship,” Madelin responded, respectfully but firmly. “The only people that knew about the whole scope of it were people I know and people I trust. People I picked. There are no leaks in the Loyal Friends. Hence the name.”

“Madelin, we’ve talked about this.”

“Yeah, and you were right then, Mars,” she admitted, leaning in close. “But don’t think I’m charging in without thinkin’ again. I spent a week locked in my room with every intelligence report, history book, and court record I could find on the Dreamweave. Every detail, and the more I read the more suspicious I was. That city is serious trouble, and two of our best friends walked right in the thick of it. I wasn’t letting that go without some back-up. You can’t say I wasn’t right, seein’ that you’re ordering the same thing now.”

“After we were provoked, and thus had a legitimate reason,” Mars replied, being as clear as he could. He sighed. “You still should have at least told me earlier, Maddy. I know this is your area of expertise, but we can’t function as leaders if we’re not relying on one another. That kind of separation, not strengthening ourselves with our friends at our sides, begs for trouble.”

Madelin chewed on that thought, leg still bouncing. “Alright,” he replied with a nod, “I see the point. You’re right on that. But if we’re sharin’, I’ve got another… line of inquiry.”

Before Mars could react, Madelin snatched his hand and forced open his palm. She saw the burn mark in the middle immediately. “Yup,” she said, allowing him to pull his hand back, “thought as much. See, now it’s my turn to be worried.”

Mars looked at the hand she had grabbed. The burn on it was square in the middle, tiny, hardly even noticeable. “You have nothing to be concerned about.”

“Huh, weird,” Madelin said with a raised eyebrow. “I don’t have to worry about you summoning some bizarro magical vision-quest-thing that’s literally powered by pain? How did you figure that?”

He rubbed the burn. “The pain simply shocks the mind to attention. I use it to summon dreams on command—in my control. Entirely manageable.”

Madelin looked at him skeptically. “I wonder if that’s what Lilly thinks. How about Violet? That’s why you two kids were fighting ‘fore she left, ain’t it?”

Sometimes Mars truly wished that Madelin wasn’t as savvy as she was. “I know how this works, Madelin. Trust me, I’m in control, and our friends need every advantage.”

“What I’m hearin’,” she replied plainly, “is that you’re doin’ some clandestine such-and-such, but it’s for our friends, which makes it OK. And you aren’t sharing that with the rest of us.” Madelin gave him a pointed look. “I don’t mean to be rude, Mars, but that sounds a bit familiar.”

Mars wanted to say that the two were not comparable. Instead, after thinking about it more, he groaned. “Very well, I’ll concede that point. I’m sorry for not letting you know I was doing it again—that was wrong of me.” He sat back and massaged the burn. “Truthfully, I didn’t want you all to worry. But it’s important that it be done.”

“Mars, I…” She bit her lip, looking nervous. “OK, once in awhile, that’s fine. Yeah, the future, woohoo. But you get obsessive with that… that. You say that Lilly shouldn’t worry, but she’s right nine-out-of-ten times, and she says it’s unhealthy the way you’re diving into it.”

He tried to stand firm. “It is nothing that I cannot—"

“Listen. Listen to me, Mars,” Madelin insisted, genuine anxiousness creeping into her expression. “I don’t know much about healing or your whole… ‘gift’-thing. I’m admittin’ that much. But I do know that it’s my job to keep my friends safe, and it doesn’t take an expert to see that this is taking a toll on you. Like you seeming like you’re on death’s doorstep every time I see you.” She stood up and started pacing back and forth. “It’s wearing you down. We all see it.”

Mars thought about that, carefully. He rolled up his sleeve a little, and looked at the mark on his wrist, the one that would never leave him. Orbs and circles, pierced by jutting lines that terminated at the base of his hand. Runic geometry, traditional for his people. A registration tattoo required of all cybramancers, with a designation number printed on the side: T1-1236. He remembered how much it stung, the first day he had it. It never did afterwards.

Madelin kicked at the ground. “I did some homework, of course. A long time ago, actually. Cybramancers goin’ ill. Dying young. Losing their minds.”

Mars flexed his hand. “Insanity is not on my schedule, as it is.”

“I didn’t suspect you were given a choice, when it happened,” Maddy replied seriously.”Mars, it’s just… it worries me, alright. It worries all of us.” She crossed her arms, and looked at the floor. “I don’t think we could lose you,” she said quietly.

Mars looked at his loyal friend, feeling more guilty than he ever had. Have I been hurting them that much? he thought, sick at the idea. He had told Violet that there was nothing to worry about, that he wouldn’t get out of control. Now he was wondering if he’d gone back on his promise.

He stood, putting a hand on Madelin’s shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he said sincerely. “I was thinking too much of results, and not enough about the people I wanted them for. If I truly need to dream again, I’ll make sure all of you know. It won’t get out of hand, I promise.”

Maddy spun around and wrapped him in a hug, the short woman’s arms squeezing the air out of him. She was grinning when she let me go. “Thanks, Mars. Now don’t go tellin’ anyone I was all touchy-feely tonight. The Loyal Friends prefer their leaders badass and surly, so I’ve got a reputation to keep.”

Mars smiled. “I’ll be sure to not let it slip just how caring and sensitive you are.”

Madelin snorted. “Sure, Mars, sure. You try to get some sleep now, y’hear?”

“You too, Maddy,” Mars replied quietly as she left for the night. He looked around the dark room, silent, and sighed.

He made his way back to the Magic Wing, resolving to spend the rest of the night resting, if not sleeping. Lorelove would probably be overjoyed to know he was taking time to lie down, between everything.

Mars passed through the Magic Wing, and came across the Orrery, that great model of the heavens, sitting dormant in the center. They had not come across a sign of a new Season yet, no trace of it in the stars. We’ll see it soon, Mars thought, eager for the day to come.

On a whim, he stepped inside the device, and approached a pale silver orb. The Mare Who Waited. He laid a hand on the moon. What would you say of my dreams? he wondered. Her domain was in sleep, but he knew his were different. His always came true.

He looked up. There was a large skylight above him, showing the cloudy night sky overhead. Stars were peering through, looking at him.

‘Cybramancers goin’ ill. Dying young. Losing their minds.’ Madelin had asked him about that. He knew those fears all too well. The gift was powerful, but it was fueled by life, and it would rob a man of his strength, physical and otherwise. Forty years old, perhaps fifty. Mars had met one cybramancer who claimed to be sixty. Most young men imagined they would live forever. Mars knew that he would be lucky to see another twenty years. Abstaining from his dreams might lengthen that, but it couldn’t fix it.

Mars knew that he had been dreaming to help his friends. But he also knew that he could not let it drive a wedge between him. Everyone had their own strengths, their own weaknesses, their own frailties. Bottle them up and never share them, and they’d tear you down. You needed friends to hold you back, and make you aware of your limits. By cutting himself off, Mars had been ignoring his. He was grateful that the Collective had more than one Warden, and that those Wardens were friends. Otherwise, they’d have all fallen in some way.

His thoughts turned to two of those friends, far far away. He hoped they remembered as well. He hoped that Honesty would rely on her for when words ruled the day, and that she would trust him on the days that they failed. He hoped he could hear about that, when they returned.

Together, not apart.

* * * * * *

Galaxy gazed out the window at the shimmery stars before crawling into bed. "It must be fun to twinkle in the sky," she thought dreamily, then fell sound asleep. A little star heard her thought and twinkled at her window. "Come out and play," it whispered in a tinkling voice. Still asleep, Galaxy followed the little star up to the sky where all the stars had gathered for a midnight party with the Big Dipper. To her surprise, the Little Dipper sprinkled stardust on Galaxy, and her eyes twinkled as brightly as the stars around her! At exactly one minute before midnight, the little star led Galaxy back to her bed. "It must have been a dream!" Galaxy yawned when she awoke in the morning. When she peeked at herself in the mirror, her eyes still twinkled brightly, and she realized that her midnight adventure had been real!

— Copied from “Galaxy,” by SoGreatandPowerful

{}

* * * * * *

End of Part II

Chapter XXVII: Indelible Ink

* * * * * *

“Yeah, everyone knows it. Still,
It’s not like we’ll say it, girl.
Just who do you think we are?
It’s never

As simple
as a tree that grows tall.
That’s misunderstanding what we are.
She’ll never
return to the farm
and party away your broken heart.”

— “Indelible Ink,” by Tsyolin and SoGreatandPowerful

* * * * * *

It had been a long two years, and Proximo often wondered just how much it had changed him. Before he had died in that duel, he hadn’t lived for anything but himself—a man who would sleepwalk through life, dancing from one pleasure to the next, never caring who he hurt that was close to him. Now that he had a scar across his chest, he was a man of his own right, and one willing serve something greater. Having friends in this world other than drink and drugs and blood would surely have made him a better man, he had always hoped.

His sister, at least, had not changed at all. Gallia Hart sat in front of him, unaltered down to her dress and hair. She looked at him and Violet askance, as though only half-paying attention as she idly twirled a green bang around a long finger.

Gallia gave a sly smile. “I’ve come a long way, Proxi. I hope you’ll allow me the introduction of your… friend, is it?” She looked Lady Violet up and down as she laid the emphasis on ‘friend.’ “Assuming you haven’t forgotten all the courtesies I taught you, that is.”

Proximo tried his best to maintain his calm. “Lady Violet Brushshape, the Warden of Generosity. A servant of Faust and Thiesson and the Brony Collective. And yes, my friend as well.”

Violet bowed, offering a cordial smile to Gallia. “To meet the heir of Hartshold is no small honor, my lady,” she said with her usual poise, “and on a more personal note, it is wonderful to meet some of my assistant’s family, at last. Proximo has often spoken of you.”

Gallia gave a lethargic smile. “Oh really? Is that true, Proxi? Have you been saying sweet things about your dear sister all this time?” She rested her chin on one of her hands, looking at her brother with her eyes half-closed, as though about to fall asleep. “It’s flattering to know you’ve kept me in your good graces. I’d truly worried that we might have grown estranged, after two years. How silly of me.”

“Why are you here?” Proximo asked, tired of dancing around the issue.

She yawned. “Oh, shopping for husbands. The ordinary thing that young heiresses tend to do, when visiting other noble houses.”

“A husband?” Proximo cocked an eyebrow. “For you?”

Gallia shrugged, nonplussed. “Biology, sadly, seems to have failed me. Unless, of course, you have another method of producing more Harts that can inherit our beloved home.”

“I’m sure I could other a few delightful suggestions,” Withins-Bei added obsequiously. The swaying lordling was enjoying the reunion too much by half, Proximo thought. “I am afraid marriage is quite off the table with me, however. Apologies for breaking hearts and Harts,” he said with a smug smile, “but a lifetime with me is a punishment I wouldn’t inflict.”

“Yes, you truly are an odious little toad, Withins-Bei,” Gallia replied, mimicking his grin with a thin smile of her own. “And not one that’s likely to turn into a prince, either. You don’t know any princes, do you Proxi? I imagine you’re well-traveled now, being an assistant and all.”

“Enough of this,” Proximo cut in impatiently. Banter and japes from his sister were the last things he needed right now. His friends were lying in sick beds downstairs, he had barely survived an attempt on his life, and the lives of two other men were hanging in the balance. Smart remarks were not going to fix anything. “Why are you really here? And don’t say husband-hunting; you have another reason for showing up now of all times, and you must think I am an idiot to believe that there isn’t.”

“Guilty on both counts, I’m afraid,” Gallia replied with a prolonged sigh. “You might have at least played along, though. Are there no eligible bachelors in this Palace? Perhaps I was invited here to court Arcadio, seeing that he’s yet to take a lady wife.”

Proximo gagged at the thought of it. Violet apparently thought the same. “With due respect, Lady Hart, I would advise against it. You might be joking, but I would not wish Arcadio Martes on anyone.”

“Then you clearly haven’t known me long enough, Lady Violet,” Gallia replied with a smirk.

“If you aren’t going to get to the point,” Proximo cut in, “then I have more important things to attend to, Gallia. How did you even know I was here?”

His sister rolled her eyes slowly. “And here I had thought you were trying to reform your old, impatient self. Very well, Proxi. Your little club has their own intrigues, I’m sure, so it won’t surprise you when I say that I have sources of my own—”

“She is, of course, referring to me,” Withins-Bei interrupted, giving a smirk to Proximo.

“Thank you, Withins-Bei. This is exactly why no one will ever stoop low enough to marry you. At any rate,” Gallia continued, “I’ll have you know that the pile of walking filth that just spoke is hardly the only one who’s taken an interest here. The Chamber has been most keen to know more about this little… development, let’s say. And when I heard little whispers that suggested that a certain baby brother of mine would be here, I thought I’d pop by for a chat. I’m sure you can spare your own blood that much, can you not?” Gallia stuck out a pouty lip, and pretended to get teary-eyed.

Proximo contemplated talking his way out of it, then sighed. “My lady,” he said to Violet, “would you mind very much if I…”

“There’s no need to even ask, Proximo,” Violet replied, putting a supportive hand on his shoulder. “I need to check on our friends, but take whatever time you need. You’ll know where to find me, once you’re finished.” She gave a bow to Gallia. “It was an honor meeting you, Lady Hart—hopefully we have a better chance to meet another time.”

Gallia waited until Lady Violet had left before speaking again. “I certainly wouldn’t mind a better chance to meet either. She is quite beautiful, isn’t she, Proxi?”

Proximo ignored her, and took hold of a chair. “You wanted to talk?” He sat himself down next to her her, eager to be done with the meeting. “Talk, then.”

“Excitable as always. Very well.” She leaned back in her chair, tracing a long fingernail in a circle on the table. “You’ve been away from home a long time, Proximo. Father hopes that you will return to Hartshold, provided that I give you the invitation. Which I am, right as we speak.”

Proximo looked at her, not knowing how to respond. The words caught in his mouth. “Father wants me home?”

“Mmm-hmm. He hopes that two years away has graced you with some perspective on things. The value of family, for instance.”

He turned the thought over in his mind, picking it apart. Proximo tried to recall when he had last seen his father, and seen Hartshold. There he was, standing in the lobby, in front of the door. He had already said goodbye to Aloysia and Gallia, and was halfway out into the world, with every worldly thing he still wanted to keep by his side, just in case. Father was behind him, watching him leave. ‘I can see who you care for more,’ he had said coldly. 'Join your friends, then. And do not return. Proximo recalled those words easily—they had been echoing in his mind for two years.

And now he was wanted back.

Proximo ran a hand through his hair, trying to compose himself. “He didn’t seem so enthusiastic two years ago,” he said, trying to feign nonchalance.

“Well, you two had a bit of a row, if you remember. He wasn’t the one that left.”

“I couldn’t stay, Gallia.”

“You could, as a matter of fact. It would have been as easy as not walking out the door, and somehow I manage to do that every day.”

“And do what?” Proximo demanded. “Go back to how I was? A bloodthirsty brat? Without a care in the world for anyone but myself? Do you remember how I was?”

She sighed. “Yes. You truly were a pain.”

“We agree on that much. You and father wanted me to change, didn’t you? You wanted me to start caring again, and be useful? Now I am. This is what that looks like, me being here with my friends.” Proximo rested his head back, and stared off at the wall. “I never had friends before, Gallia.”

She looked at him absently. “Yes, well, that’s all well and good. But if you’re finished acting out against the family, you should come back with me.”

Proximo’s face twisted. “That’s what you think this is, isn’t it? All of it some childish way to spite you?”

“Clearly,” she yawned. “Father was very adamant about all this, Proxi. What will it take for me to sway you back, hmm? I’ll steal your luggage, if I must.”

Proximo stood up. “Goodbye, Gallia. I’ll see you in another two years.” He walked for the door.

He was stopped by the Warden of Honesty appearing before him, blocking his way. Proximo looked up and caught the giant’s single eye, as the Warden scanned the room silently. He was still covered in blood from the assassins he had killed, near a dozen people’s worth of gore—an arresting sight, to say the least.

Gallia raised her eyebrows at his appearance. “What in God’s name is that thing?”

The Warden of Honesty ignored her. “Other friends returned,” he said to Proximo. “Lady Violet with injured?”

“Good Lord, Proximo, do you know this creature?”

“Yes, my lord,” Proximo replied to the Warden, also ignoring his sister. “I was about to join her, as a matter of fact.”

The Warden glanced at Gallia, then to Proximo. He nodded. “Hrm,” he grunted in response, before turning away.

Proximo went to follow him, but lingered at the door. He turned his head back to Gallia. “How is Aly?” he asked.

Gallia tilted her head. “She’s well. She does miss her brother, though.”

He let out a breath. “Tell her I miss her too.”

“You can tell her yourself, Proxi.”

Proximo did not answer. He left his sister behind and walked away.

Walking along a narrow hallway on his way to join Lady Violet, Proximo found Withins-Bei leaning against a wall. “So, how did the happy reunion go?” he asked with a smile.

“Was there a reason you felt the need to do that?” Proximo asked, eyes narrowing at the lordling.

“Do what, invite your sister here?” Withins-Bei asked innocently. “Perhaps it’s my good deed for the day, being a man of singular virtue and all. Perhaps I hate seeing a family torn apart by tide and time. Perhaps, after seeing the sheer gymnastics you were going to in concealing yourself, I just couldn’t resist poking a hole in that effort. Feel free to interpret as you will, chum.”

Proximo rolled his eyes and walked along, Withins-Bei trailing behind like a lost duckling. Proximo was surprised to find that the Warden of Honesty was waiting for him, standing stock-still in the hall and looking at him expectantly. “Coming?” the Warden asked.

“I am,” Proximo answered warily. He did not terribly relish having to accompany the Warden anywhere, seeing that he had only just seen him carve through near a dozen people. “I did not think you would wait for me, my lord.”

“Not leaving people alone again today,” the Warden said, voice flat.

Proximo and the Warden walked together in silence, with Withins-Bei following closely behind. After a time, the Warden spoke again. “Your sister?” he asked, his eye staring forward.

Proximo looked up at the giant askance, unaware that the Warden even knew that he had a sister. “Yes,” he admitted. There was a long pause. “We don’t get along.”

“Hrm.”

Withins-Bei hopped alongside them. “Oh, but it was such a touching scene! Tears were in every eye, I swear. If only you were there, my lord—but I’m sure you were off murdering more people, hmm?”

“No,” the Warden replied, paying little attention to the lordling, “crowds largely dispersed from our path. Regrouped without incident.”

“Tell me,” Withins-Bei continued, “do you know that your dear friend was a relation of the Harts of Hartshold, of Lord Theostinian in fact?”

“Yes.”

“It’s strange how often we’re defined by the things we shut away, isn’t it?” Withins-Bei mused idly, adopting a pseudo-scholarly affectation to his voice. “I wonder then: what is it that you are hiding, too-tall?”

“Nothing,” the Warden replied immediately, still not looking at the diminutive lordling as they walked.

“Oh, you’re too interesting for me to believe that, my lord.” He gave an unbearably smug smile. “I’ve been unable to sleep on account of your appearance, you know. The curiosity plagues me night and day. Women are cruel creatures, but none would be so monstrous as to name a son ‘Warden of Honesty.’ What name were you born with, truly?”

“This one has no name.”

“Pish-posh. Everyone has a name. One might call it discourteous to refuse giving it, after all,” he said unctuously. “You have me such a severe disadvantage. You already know my name, do you not? I am Withins-Bei.”

“No, you are not,” the Warden said. He finally looked down at the man, golden eye locked on.

Withins-Bei stared back, confused. For the first time, he did not seem to know what to say. After a moment of hesitation, he tried to shrug it away. “Well,” he said, feigning nonchalance, “I can see I’m not wanted here. I’ll go assuage my loneliness elsewhere.” He turned about and left swiftly, not offering another word.

Proximo watched him leave, curious. “What in the Web was that all about?” he asked, before they continued walking.

“That one is a fool,” the Warden replied, paying little mind to what just happened. “Thinks names are definitions.” The Warden’s mouth was pressed flat, his brow furrowed in disapproval. “Ignorant. Does not understand friendship. Insults people, pushes them away. That way he does not need to care. That way he is never hurt. Never hurt like he was before.”

Proximo did not know what to make of those words. The two continued on their way in silence.

In truth, Proximo had no idea what to think of the Warden now, after all that he had seen. The giant was still the man who had threatened a helpless diplomat without hesitation, but had just saved his life, and those of his friends, the same way. Proximo had never been so glad to have had the Warden arrive as when they had been surrounded by a dozen assassins, but there was something about it that still unnerved him greatly. He had seen the Warden cut through those men savagely, rending them apart limb from limb, and yet the Warden himself did not seem at all affected by it. They were lives taken without a second thought, with no more emotion shown for the deed than for swatting a housefly. It made for a strange intermingling of gratitude and horror in Proximo’s heart.

After a time, they arrived at the barracks, where the injured were located. The whole room was in a whirlwind—several people in butter-yellow uniforms, others in white, circling around as they attended to those around them frantically. The beds were filled with wounded people, some patients more grievously injured than others. Several were sitting upright, wincing while their arms or legs or faces were bandaged up. Others were lying still.

One of those unconscious he recognized immediately, though only barely. Proximo gasped when he saw the man lying, insensible, in the sick bed. “Dustario?” Proximo whispered in shock.

Dustario had been wearing civilian clothes, that much was certain. Most of those on his torso had been stripped off, however, and what remained was drenched in blood. Several wounds lay open and weeping on his body, but his face was worst of all. There were cuts on the left side of his head, but it was nothing compared to what happened to the right of his face: deep, gouging scrapes all across from ear to nose. Someone had covered them as best as they could with linen wraps, but the ruin of Dustario’s once-handsome face had seeped the white bandages red and wet to the point of uselessness.

Proximo rushed over immediately, covering his mouth in horror at the sight. He remembered all the times he’d had with Dustario, his friend: the one always smiling, joking, flirting, forever the life of the party. Proximo couldn’t even imagine how Dustario would react upon waking up, and seeing what had happened.

If he ever wakes up, came an unwanted thought. Proximo shook away the doubt… but it festered all the same.

Though he was no expert in medicine, Proximo could see that the bandages on Dustario’s face were slipping off from the sheer volume of blood, and tried his best to find replacements: Kind Friends were whirling around, trying to tend to as many as possible, but it was clear that they needed more hands. Proximo padded around frantically for more linens—he would tear off a chunk of his own clothes if he had to. Turning back around, however, he saw someone else had taken over for him.

A very pale woman was removing the spent bandages from Dustario’s face with surgical precision, caring little about the blood getting on her hands. There was blood on many other parts of her as well: multiple stains seeped into her uniform. She had covered much of it with an apron, but Proximo could see the white and black of a Peacekeeper’s habit still standing out. Proximo had never met this one, but evidently she was a part of the Moderator team.

She appeared to notice Proximo standing there. “Your friend is badly injured,” she said blandly, as though it were not clear to anyone else. “Provided that the infection is countered early, a recovery is entirely possible. I promise nothing.” She reached for a new bandage, before she finished peeling off the old one.

Proximo looked at Dustario, worried. That same doubt remained in his mind, and no assurances were likely to make it fade early. He breathed deep, and immediately regretted it. The air was thick with sweat, sick, and an unpleasant copperish smell that he recognized all too well. He remembered the time he had spent in a bed much like this one: all but dead, a huge red slash across his chest, passing in and out of consciousness for days, locked on his death-bed for weeks. People did not return from such an experience unchanged.

The woman removed the bandages from Dustario’s face entirely, putting the sticky scarlet things aside. The sight was even worse than Proximo had thought, and he had to turn away from looking. The Peacekeeper woman, however, had no such qualms. She turned Dustario’s unconscious face over to his side, examining it closely and expressionlessly. “Hmm,” she mused, “wounds of such character. I remember his face. It was very complete, before,” she said as she inspected it with unblinking fascination. Gently, she replaced the linens with new ones, complete with a balm rubbed in for good measure. She tilted her head at the work. “He has a hair out of place now,” she said, sounding distant as she looked over Dustario.

Proximo was grateful for this person tending to his friends, but couldn’t help but feel somewhat uneasy about her. Her voice and manner—so flat, plain, without happiness or sadness alike—set him oddly at edge. “I’m not sure we’ve met before,” he said. “My name is Proximo Hart, Assistant Warden of Generosity. Miss…?”

“I didn’t miss,” the woman replied, still not looking at Proximo as she spoke.

Before Proximo could explain himself, he noticed that Lady Violet had appeared at his side. The Warden of Honesty was off somewhere, attending to others.

A silent look was all it took to convey how she felt about the friend laid out in front of them. Proximo could already see the grief of the day wearing heavily on Violet, in a way that she didn’t dare show to anyone else.

“When will he wake?” Lady Violet asked the Peacekeeper woman.

“Difficult to determine,” she replied, still inspecting her handiwork. “The sedative will decide it. Perhaps within the day.”

Violet took the news, nodding her head slowly. Proximo could see the same worries that he had had written on her face as well. Violet looked down at the woman, who was finishing her work on Dustario. “If I am not mistaken, you are one of Lord Halforth’s staffers. Miss Abigail Cawtler, I presume? I have heard nothing but good things about your expertise.”

The peacekeeper gave a small, almost shy smile at the praise. Lady Violet continued. “I am certain our friends are in good hands with you. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for your help.” Violet offered a bow.

Abigail tilted her head at the gesture, then returned it. “I’ll do everything I can,” she replied. Her manner in giving assurance was awkward, but Proximo thought it sincere as well. Abigail departed right after to continue with other patients.

Violet gave another lingering look at Dustario, then turned to her assistant. “Come, we should see to the others.”

The rest of the group that had been trapped in the city were in better shape than Dustario, at least, but not always by much. Hadrena and Rosesoul were largely unharmed, save for a few cuts and scrapes that did not deter the two from seeing to the injured, but nearly everyone else carried wounds of some kind. Both Jayson and Prim had cracked ribs, and Caymen had some manner of concussion that by all accounts should had made him pass out prior to reaching the Palace, countered by sheer force of will alone.

They had found Donnet lying down, nursing a black eye under his glasses. He cracked open his one good eye when he saw them approach. “ ‘Ey, m’lady,” he said with a weary smile. “Glad to be spottin’ ya again. Thought I might not, fer a sad minute there.”

“I can’t tell you how happy I am to see all of you, as well. If someone had been killed…” Violet breathed out slowly. Smoothing out her scarlet dress, she sat at Donnet’s side. “Do you know how everyone else is?”

Donnet lifted an arm and flicked at his spectacles, changing the color of one lens to pink and the other to saffron. The latter one was cracked, but he did not seem to mind. “Most-like. Lot are no worse-off than lil’ ‘ol me, but the Honest Eyes,” he said with a jut of his chin towards the other side of the room, “took a lot to get us home-side.”

Proximo looked over to see the three Honest Eyes together, each with wounds of their own. Kriseroff had at least half a dozen bandages covering various parts of him as he snored in bed, while Strongshield was seething over a cut across her head and a wound in her shoulder. Red Autumn had a bandage going up and down on his face and another long one across his side, and was either sleeping or just resting his eyes. Either way, Proximo saw Daria Faust next to him, holding Red’s hand with a worried expression. Next to the Honest Eyes, he saw Theosyrius talking in a panic to a medic, though he only appeared to have a scraped knee.

“And you, Donnet?” Lady Violet asked. “How are you faring?”

Donnet waved a hand. “All fine, m’lady. Really, I shouldn’t even be on my back. Just doin’ it to make them Kindlies feel at ease.” He chuckled, then cringed and gripped his side—Proximo suspected that he might be nursing more injuries than he claimed.

Before they spoke further, a familiar presence came thundering towards them. “Clear a path, clear a path! Six save me, would you just look at the state of this…”

Proximo saw Caleb Mathet speeding towards them at a lightning pace that he would not have thought the portly man capable off, white cape fluttering behind him as he pressed towards them. “My lady, my friends,” he said panting, “I came the very moment I was informed. Six save us all, are you alright, dear Donnet?”

Donnet shrugged. “Honestly? Ain’t been the worst scrap I’ve gotten into. Ain’t even the worst under the Summer Sun, neither.”

Several other Bronies were streaming in as well, eager to see the injured, but Caleb paid them little mind. “And you, my lady,” he said, taking her hand in his. “My heart nearly stopped when I heard that you were caught out in all this. Praise the Six you are unharmed. But what of the others?”

“There are many injuries,” Violet admitted, patting Caleb’s hand. “Some more severe than others, I am sad to say. We’re lucky to have medical staff on hand. Skylark and Mattieu have been working feverishly, by all accounts, and Rosesoul with them.”

Caleb’s face screwed up. “How in the wide, wide, Web did this even happen? A mob, they say? How did they find all of you?”

It was a question on everyone’s mind, Proximo included. “The ones that came for us knew exactly who we were ahead of time,” he said with a look to Donnet and Violet. “This was preplanned, without a doubt.”

“No contraries from me,” agreed Donnet. “There must have been at least three dozen people or more after us, and they were well-equipped besides. T’weren’t no ‘random mob’ or whate’er else the dee-dubs wanna call it.”

“True,” said a gruff voice from behind. The Warden of Honesty had reappeared, looming over them. “Group able to identify Lady Violet immediately. Possession of swords, spears. Authority repeaters.”

“Auth—” Caleb sputtered in disbelief. “This was assassination! An outrage, a perfect bloody outrage!” he said, pounding a fist into his hand as emphasis. “My lady, I am not one for idle speculation, but we all know whose fingerprints are covering every inch of this dirty scheme. How else could these fiends get their hands on such things if they were not being equipped by a source? A wealthy source, with local ties and a reason to be rid of us?”

“We must take this to the Lord Moderator immediately,” Proximo said to Violet.

Donnet snorted. “Mods don’t care ‘bout us, Proxi. ‘Sides, we’re handlin’ no proof for any accusation we might say. The Martes have deniability, and that’ll be enough.”

“Not for long, they don’t,” Lady Violet said coldly. “Gentlemen, I refuse, categorically, to leave this island without the person responsible for hurting my friends in chains. We will have proof, even if it means tearing this wretched city apart to find it. The ones guilty for this plot will be weeping once this affair is through, I promise you that much.”

Before Proximo could voice his approval, he heard a groan. Looking around, he saw a familiar figure: a round, plain face with red hair. Sir Coin Counter was lying unconscious, a hearty wrapping over his shoulder and a bruise on his temple.

“Oh no,” Proximo said. “How has Sir Coin fared?”

“You’d have t’ask one o’ the Kind Friends fer a prognosis, but he took a crossbow bolt right in t’shoulder. ‘E’s lucky we got ‘elp, else ‘e mighta been cut apart.”

“I’ll have to return to check on him once he wakes,” Lady Violet affirmed. “He has come too far and done too much for us to be left alone.”

There was the sound of commotion coming from the entrance to the room. Proximo heard the voice of Jorama, crisp and commanding over the sick-beds.

“I must be asking you to leave now, miss,” Jorama said firmly. “Off limits to outsiders.”

Another woman was arguing back. “Please, I just want to be sure of what happened. Are the—”

Proximo knew that voice immediately. “Imelia?” he called.

He went over and saw Imelia, looking frantic as Jorama tried to block her path. “At ease, friend,” Proximo said to his honest friend, “she’s with us.”

Jorama stepped aside, and allowed Imelia to rush in. She came to him immediately, and braced him in a tight hug. “Proximo!” she said, looking him over for injuries. “I came as soon as I heard. Are you OK? Oh God, I had thought maybe…”

“I’m fine, Imelia,” Proximo consoled her. “A little shaken, but none the worse for wear. But how are you? There are rioters all over the city, I heard—your grandmother and you, did they…”

She breathed a sigh of relief. “No, the Mods started clearing the streets before they could reach High-Hill. We’re both fine, but God! Half the city was burning when I last saw it, and I have no idea what’s happening at the docks—the city watch is trying to push back the crowds, but there’s no way it won’t be messy. How could this happen?”

“We have our suspicions,” said Proximo with a meaningful look.

Lady Violet appeared behind him, and went to greet Imelia. “Well, well, Proximo, you didn’t say we might have guests!” She gave a bow. “Lady Violet Brushshape, Warden of Generosity. And you must be Imelia Kohburn, the young woman I’ve heard so much about. I’m much in your debt, my lady, for the kind aid you’ve given the fandom in these times.” Violet offered an apologetic smile. “I only wish we might have met under better circumstances—as you can see, we are facing certain difficulties.”

“I’m sorry for intruding,” Imelia said hastily, “but when I heard what happened I wanted to make sure that—”

“Say no more, my lady—it requires no apology at all,” Violet reassured her. “As it stands, you are the only person thus far who has come to see us, save for those ordered to be here. I consider that an honor on our part. And let me just say,” she said with a smile, “that I simply love what you’ve done with your bangs.”

“Oh! Um, thank you,” Imelia said, blushing as she touched her hair lightly. Her eyes went wide, however, when she saw the Warden of Honesty lurking behind Violet.

Lady Violet continued with the same cheerful manner she would treat any guest—regardless of the circumstances she had been in previously. “I daresay that you and I should spend more time together, Miss Kohburn—I think we are bound to get along famously. I do wonder, though,” she continued, giving a look to Proximo, “if you might be able to help us with our current predicament. You’ve already done so much, but for Proximo and me…”

“Of course!” Imelia answered immediately. “Please, just tell me what you need.”

Violet gave a pleased smile. “Very well then. Our aim, Miss Kohburn, is proof.”

She offered an explanation of all that had happened in the streets, the people that had confronted them, and what they had said. Imelia’s eyes went wide as she listened. “Arcadio,” she spat. “It was all him, it had to have been.”

“That is our suspicion as well,” Proximo nodded.

“But only suspicion, you see,” Violet added. “Without actual evidence, we have no way of convincing the Lord Moderator.”

“You need proof?” Imelia said, chewing on the thought. “Well, I can see what I’ll find. My friend in the guards might know enough about this to help. What exactly would you want to see?”

“Any trace of an order being given by the Martes to send their goons after us. Written proof, or a guard willing to testify to it.”

Imelia mused on the idea. “That might be difficult. Arcadio is careful to plug leaks, when he can find them. I’ll see what I can do, but perhaps…” She thought it over a moment, then spoke up in inspiration. “What about financials? If the Martes were stockpiling weapons, and then those arms disappeared during the riot, that would be call for suspicion, certainly.”

Violet blinked. “Actually, that would be an excellent idea.”

“Do you have anyone that could parse through it?” asked Imelia.

She smiled. “I believe I have just the man for the task. I’ll ask that such records be turned over to us: the Moderators will have to grant us that, at least. And if you should find some leads within the guards themselves…”

“Then I will see it goes to Proximo,” replied Imelia with a nod. She turned to Proximo himself. “Perhaps we could meet again soon?” she said bashfully. “For the information, I mean.”

“Certainly,” said Proximo, “you need only seek me out.”

Imelia nodded. “I’ll get to it, then.” She offered a parting bow to Lady Violet. “It was an honor meeting you, my lady. Hopefully I can help more.”

“I have no doubt you will,” replied Violet.

Imelia departed swiftly, leaving the Bronies amongst themselves again. Violet turned to Proximo with an enigmatic look.

“Well well, Proximo, she is quite lovely,” she teased with a light push to his shoulder. “Should I be worried?”

Proximo rolled his eyes. “Jayson and the others I can understand, but you too? I don’t see why people feel the need to joke about this every time.”

Violet raised an eyebrow. “It’s only half a joke, Proximo. She’s really quite taken with you, you know. You must have realized that.”

Proximo waved a hand. “You’re imagining things,” he said.

“She is not,” grumbled the Warden of Honesty. “It is very obvious,” he said pointedly.

He looked at the expectant stares from both of the Wardens, and suddenly found it difficult to deny that he might have noticed it himself. “Oh dear,” he sighed, weighing the realization. Imi…

“Mmm-hmm. And here I truly thought I was the only woman for you, Proxi.”

“This…” Proximo said sadly. “This was not what I had intended.” The thought was pressing down on him considerably. He thought back to when he and Imelia had spoken before: he had seen it there, in only the slight expressions, or the quickest words, but he had pushed suspicions like that to the back of his mind. Denial, they called it.

“And all those late night flirtations!” Lady Violet continued to tease. “Oh, you led me astray in only the most beastly way, Mister Hart, I’d never thought you to be such a tease—”

“My lady,” Proximo said while cupping his face with a hand, trying to think clearly, “I don’t find this funny.”

Violet stopped right away, looking sheepish. “Sorry, Proximo,” she said with a hand on his arm, “I truly didn’t…”

Proximo shook his head. “It isn’t that. My lady, when I helped Imelia during the hospitality ball, I did it because it was right, not because I had expected some reward for it. And never, never, did I expect this because of it.”

Violet tried to reassure him. “If you should want to talk about this…”

“I may have to take you up on that, my lady,” Proximo said weakly. “But we have more important things to deal with now than my problems,” he added with a look around the room.

Violet looked as if she might have protested further, but instead nodded, and they proceeded back to work.

As they saw to more of the injured, Proximo found it hard to concentrate on the task at hand, his mind drifting back again and again to a very different problem.

It was flattering, but that did not make it right. Imelia had been put through experiences that Proximo would not wish on anyone, with her life turned upside down by pregnancy and her old friends long disappeared. Left alone, with an infirm grandmother to care for, and without a helpful person remaining, and nothing to comfort her besides loneliness and grief.

Until, that is, Proximo walked in. One act of kindness, at her lowest point, and without even meaning for it to happen he had swept her away, even if it was only for a moment.

It was flattering… but that did not make it true.

Imelia was lovely and kind and deserved far better than what she had, Proximo knew. But at the same time… at the same time… He shook his head. Six save me, what am I going to do? Am I meant to tear even the slightest hope away from her?

As he thought about that terrible possibility, an even worse fear came to mind. Some time ago, Theosyrius had recommended that they use what good-will Proximo had built with Imelia to use her for their cause. It was a plan Proximo had rejected, until Imelia herself had offered her help. What Proximo feared most was emotionally extorting someone, manipulating honest feelings for dishonest means. He thought he had avoided that, but now…

Am I using her? Proximo thought, horrified. Exploiting how she feels, leading her along for the sake of our cause? He had never meant it that way at all, but if she thought he felt the same way, was that why she had joined him from the start? Was she breaking with everything she knew and helping him because she believed—because he had let her believe—that it was for love?

The thought that he might have been manipulating an innocent woman, even unintentionally, made him sick to his stomach. That he might have to hurt her further by snatching that hope away scarcely made him feel better. And that wasn’t even the furthest depth of his doubts.

Using people. Feigning love and feeling and affection. Getting what I want, and then leaving broken things behind, he thought miserably. This is exactly something I would have done long ago, before the duel, before the Friends. Proximo had always hoped that he had changed, but…

Have I really changed at all?

* * * * * *

“With Madelin Wright’s army having taken up their command in black Baysmouth and the nascent Honest Friends continuing their campaign in Comchan, the threat posed by the Brony fandom was such that a united front was needed to oppose them. So it was that the effort to crush the inchoate Collective fell to two men that could not have been more different: the Mootking Rohd of the Channic, and Lord Giles Blair of the Moderator Authority. To understand how the efforts to end the First Rise could have gone as they did, it is necessary to know more about these leaders.

“Giles Blair was the scion of one of Central’s greatest and oldest families, one that had contributed their sons and daughters to the Moderator cause since the Scouring of Central. Both his mother and father had served with distinction amongst the Authority, alongside several aunts, uncles, and cousins beyond counting, and Giles was more than willing to join this legacy. Performing well in the academy, he chose to join into the Knight Arbiters, a position in which—with his gregarious and friendly ways—he excelled. He was enough of a rising star, in fact, that he was made the chair of the Channic Relations Committee, passing up his more senior competitor Dyren Halforth, a man whose hard-line stances contrasted sharply with Giles' belief in a Chan brought to heel with minimal cost of Moderator life. Giles Blair was well-known for being a devout servant and a chivalric opponent, but he possessed another quality that proved more troublesome—a desire for admiration, and an almost ceaseless ambition to advance. That drive had brought him far, making him an accomplished lord at a relatively young age… but it would also prove costly for the war he tried to fight.

“Rohd was quite different: the latest of countless men who had claimed the Baymaster’s Mask and been crowned Mootking of the Channic, a title as ancient as the masked-lands themselves. And like many of those kings, he had taken power by virtue of murdering his predecessor. Prior to this honor, however, he had carved out life as a pirate and raider, building up a small team of ships that would strike at neighboring communities. Such practices were not uncommon amongst the anonymites, and yet Rohd had gained a reputation for success that few others could match, with his attacks on the Blurr receiving particular renown after he returned from the Painted Sea with the heads of an entire cadre of the Oppressed. His cunning made him a far more dangerous opponent than his predecessor, but he was forced to walk a very thin line as Mootking. Cooperate too much with the Moderators, and his people would turn upon him, but they would easily do the same if the Bronies were allowed to win.

“One can likely see the problem with this fragile alliance from the start. Though nominally pledged together, the Authority and the Channic had entirely different goals in this conflict. The Moderators saw the Bronies as little more than a nuisance to be crushed and discarded, but more importantly as a stepping-stone that would allow them to gain a greater foothold in the Chan. The Mootking knew that the fandom that had captured Baysmouth was a threat… but so were the Moderators, who had all the men, capital, and resources that the Bronies lacked. Rohd believed that defeating the fandom would mean nothing if that victory came with Authority chains. While they worked on the surface as partners, Blair and Rohd were thus divided constantly, trying to maneuver the war not to ensure victory as swiftly as possible, but rather to ensure their own personal success after their conflict finished.

“After a tense meeting in Moot’s Point to coordinate their forces, the Authority landed their army in the northern coast of Greatchan, while sending ships to blockade Brony-controlled areas of the isles. Joining with the Channic, the combined force began their next task: the retaking of Baysmouth from the usurper Madelin Wright…”

— Excerpt from "The Brony War," by Lorelove

Chapter XXVIII: Back to Life

* * * * * *

Selections were made for the new survey to the Chan. None would volunteer, and so Lord Makepeace put the task on me, despite my objections. My first mission was one too many, and yet I find myself called back to there once again. Several others will join me, Sir Conscience Duntham for one. I only hope our time there is short…

Baysmouth is the same fetid pit I remember. I had not even stepped off the ship before an anonymite threw a bottle at my head. Is there nothing to curb these degenerates?

We have taken up lodgings in a site by the waterfront. It is a sad, sagging place, but at least the perimeter has been cleared of the locals, so we can begin work. Sir Conscience has as little desire to stay as I—this place unnerves her. I can understand the feeling. I still remember my first mission, when I glimpsed the Bay for the first time, and thought of what might dwell there. It was silly of me to fear it so—pagan superstitions should not trouble a Knight Enlightener.

While performing my duties, I passed by the shore today. The tide was far away, the sea just a thin crashing line in the distance. It was only water. I truly do not know why it struck me as odd when I was last here.

III

Walcroft is an utter fool. I keep finding him meandering around Baysmouth as though he is welcome to be there, chatting idly with Ether whenever he does. Those two are thick as thieves, and I will not have distracting familiarity force us to spend precious extra minutes here. I sent the two of them back to work with a warning, this time.

The Slouch-Hall looms over this part of the city, though it is visible from most everywhere. It makes for an unpleasant sight to see everyday. I doubt an uglier building could ever be conceived: half of that incomprehensible wreck is falling apart, and what’s left boggles the mind. If any respectful man of the Design Department in Central had proposed such a thing, he would have been clasped in a madhouse.

This city is in dire need of a madhouse, as it happens. I was doing rounds to collect the necessary data, when I chanced upon a group of people laughing and throwing something between them. When I came close, they chanted some Channic mockery at me, and threw their ‘ball’ down towards my feet. It was a dog carcass. These people are diseased.

On a whim, I went back to the shore again. There was a mist on the water, this time, a kind that reminded me of illustrations I have seen of the Deep Web. I know that cursed place is not far from here—perhaps that closeness is what gives the Chan its stain. I have heard from some that entering the Deep Web changes a man indelibly, in ways even he cannot see. That awful maelstrom marks a man, and he takes something of it with him wherever he goes. There is no rational basis behind it, of course. But if that were so, what would the Chan be marked with?

— Journal entries of Ira Ahzed, once a Knight Enlightener before becoming known as “The Mad Mod.” Written prior to his reign of terror, this diary was included in The Darksea Compendium.

* * * * * *

It was a ship at sea, that much he could tell. But the sea itself—the water, the salt wind, the limitless blue sky above—was all gone, cloaked beneath an omnipresent black fog that swirled around him. There were others with him on the deck: men hunched over, huddling in corners, some praying softly, but all of them pale with fear no matter how much they tried to hide. Even then, he could barely see them either: the mist was thick enough to obscure almost anything. Only a small light remained: a gap in the mist. One that was behind them, and fading quickly as they pressed on into the darkness.

He knew this place, and realized that in a moment of terror. The Deep Web! he thought, eyes darting in a panic as he strained to lift himself off his seat. But for some reason he could not move—paralyzed in place, unable to speak aloud, he could only look about and listen in mute horror at the place that was swallowing them all.

The ship rocked back and forth, groaning as a wave hit the side and splashed black, icy cold water upon the men on-board. The mist whipped around them around them like smoke, cutting across them with particles as thick as ash from a dry fire. All around him, on every side, he could hear the churning, whirling, crashing of water as it reached up into the sky and smashed down with force enough to break bones and drown men. He looked out at the fog, frozen in fear: just beyond the railing of the ship, he knew, there was nothing but the Deep.

He wanted to shut his eyes, just to keep it away for a moment. Beyond this ship, there was nothing but waves that stood a thousand feet high, or winds that would scourge a man’s skin right off the bone. The fog drove men mad, the whirlpools dragged them to watery graves, and the Deepmen hunted for the flesh of any that dared trespass. And there were far worse things than men that lived in that place. He thought he caught sight of something, just for a moment: some pale, misshapen thing that crawled out from the water, but it was gone before he could see what it was. The light behind them, the only one remaining, was fading quickly as they plunged in further.

Suddenly, a hideous shrieking sound filled the air, and he could not tell if it was from the ship buckling from the strain or the call of whatever thing he had just glimpsed, a call announcing prey. Beyond only a wooden railing on a faltering ship, right before him, there was a place of madness unlike any other. Beyond a railing, and only that, just a few feet away!

He tried to concentrate as best he could, to keep his breath from running ragged and taking in too much of the Deep’s heavy air, but found it a losing battle. A familiar man stood in front, shouting instructions, but they could barely be heard over the wails of the wind and God only knew what else.

The light behind them, the way they had come, was closing more and more by the moment. Only tiny glowing slivers were cast forward, minuscule linings on the oppressive fog, and even they were leaving. But as the very last vestiges of the sun died away, there was the faintest glimpse of something ahead of them. Stark and hideous in the darkness, there was a black island, with the brunt of a storm looming overhead. A wan yellow glow—not the sun, but something far different—pooled out from it, but illuminated nothing. He only just saw it before the light died completely, leaving them in pitch blackness.

It was so dark that he had thought his eyes were still shut. Then he realized that the ship was gone. It was all gone—there was simply nothing there, and he was standing in a black void. He tried to breath, but it caught in his throat, burning. Tentatively, he tried to step forward.

A hundred thousand tendrils burst from the darkness, and seized him as he tried to scream. They wrapped themselves tightly around his legs, his arms, his chest and mouth and throat, dragging him together with a hideous strength. As he sank, writhing to escape, there was a venomous sound.

Home… he heard it say. You have seen that home. Do you know what you brought? Return… you will return. The spinning yellow arms took hold all the more tightly, strangling him as they forced further and further down…

And then there was the faint sound of music.

It was light, quiet, but it rang through the dark. A hymn-song that he had heard before, faintly. It rose over him as he struggled against the arms, over shadows and spiraling around him.

Just barely, he thought he saw a figure approached him, walking slowly.

A hiss came from whatever the tendrils belonged to, as they loosened their grip. The music grew louder and louder still, a haunting, uplifting noise. Punctuating the song was the sounds of footsteps coming closer, like steel soles on cobbles.

They come for you, new one… the voice spat. Its grip was unravelling, as it slipped away. Serve… you serve him. But who does he serve? For you… he comes for you.

He tried to lift himself, but he was dangling over the edge of an endless chasm, helpless over thin air. The figure was right above him, but he could not look up to see. The music was louder than ever, clear words dancing above him, when he saw a hand reach down. A golden hand, on a golden arm. He grabbed it tightly, and let it lift him up.

“Thank you,” he was able to say at last, panting. But when he stared up to see who had saved him, what he saw made any words stop in his chest. Six save me, the eye! The Eye!

Coin Counter awoke at last, startled and confused. He was lying in a bed, in what looked like the barracks that the Honest Friends had made into living quarters. The room was quiet, save for a sound at his side.

Kneeling at his bed, arms propped on the side and hands balled in front of her face, was Skylark of the Kind Friends. Her eyes were closed, but she was singing a familiar song, in a soft but sonorous voice.

“Sister Shy, flower of all things sweet and kind,

Maybe you’re a little late,

Maybe you’re a hurricane.

Please stay awhile,

Are these feathers I see spinning with me?

A piece of the puzzle finds herself.”

“The Singer of the Fandom, ‘E48,’ ” said another voice from the side. “And now he wakes as well—it seems our prayers are not unanswered. Remind me not to doubt your bedside manner again, Skylark.”

Coin saw that the speaker was another man in the daffodil robes of the Kind Friends—Mattieu Winely, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. “It is good to see you stirring at last, Sir Coin,” Mattieu said. “You’ve been out of the world for a day, as it happens.”

Coin blinked, and tried to lean forward. “What—” A sharp pain cut into his shoulder, prompting a cry and a curse.

“Easy, sir,” Skylark said gently, rising from her knees. “Try to recollect your thoughts. You have been recovering from a serious injury, I am sorry to say. Do not move too much too quickly.”

“Crossbow bolt,” Mattieu said, miming out being hit in his shoulder, “straight shot, right to the back.”

The riot, Coin remembered. His eyes widened. “The others,” he started, “are they—”

“All safe now, more or less,” Mattieu replied. “It was a grim moment, and there were other injuries, but none killed, praise the Kind.”

Coin breathed a sigh of relief. Looking around, he saw a few other beds occupied, but the room was largely empty. “How long have I been out? A day, you said?”

“Indeed,” said Skylark. “The shock of your injury caused you to fall, though you seemed to be regaining consciousness not long after we brought you here. To remove the bolt, however, we had to use a draught of sleeping, so that you would not disturb the procedure.” Reaching to a table nearby, she retrieve a small, pointed object—the splintered head of a crossbow bolt, broken from the shaft and yet still deadly in its appearance. “Trust me, sir—you would not have wished to have been awake for its removal.”

“The potion sure did its job right, though,” said Mattieu with a chuckle. “It seems you cannot hold your drink very well, Sir Coin. I was starting to worry that you were suffering a bad reaction to it that would put you in a coma, until Skylark roused you. I normally have little patience for unorthodox methods, but then I never could deny her anything.”

Coin groaned as he tried to sit up, feeling pain in his wound and a scratch from the bandages that covered it. He was incredibly thirsty—it must have shown on his face, given that Skylark handed him a glass of water soon after. “Given that we countered infection early on,” she said, “the wound will not be serious. Do not exert yourself too much, though—it will be bad for your recovery. The dressing upon it will need to be replaced regularly.”

Glancing around the largely empty room, Coin took a drink and turned back to the two Kind Friends. “Where are the others?” he asked.

“Several are still recovering here,” Skylark replied. “Most others are at work. It might not have been long for you, Sir Coin, but we have had to move feverously since the riot. Yours’ was not the only group to be attacked—Lady Violet herself was cornered. She was unharmed, but now men are whispering of intrigue and assassination.”

Mattieu scoffed. “We do more than whisper, friend. The Martes are behind all of it, and this attempt on our lives was by Arcadio’s order, I have no doubt. Once we find proof…”

“I should be out there, helping,” Coin said, shifting himself out of place. He did not intend to lie idly while the masters of assassins walked free. “If the others are off searching, then I shou—”

Trying to move too much made that pain shoot through his back again, his face cringing up. Skylark gently but firmly laid a hand on Coin, to stop him going further. “Without meaning to be too assertive, Sir Coin, I’m afraid that I cannot allow that. The poultices you’ve been given will ease the wound before long, but running about will not help it. For now, you remain in bed.”

Coin tried to protest, only for Mattieu to speak first. “There’ll be no ifs, ands, or buts about it, sir. Believe me—you don’t want to see Skylark roused. At any rate,” he continued, “I can at least say that you’ll be kept in good company. You have some guests, as it happens.”

Coin looked between them, puzzled. “How could they have known I would be awake?”

“They didn’t. They showed up not twenty minutes ago asking after you. I was going to send them on their way, but Skylark wagered that she might wake you before I could. I’ve lost the bet, but at least you have time for visiting hours.” Mattieu signaled for someone to come closer.

To Coin’s surprise, the two people who had come to see him were not Bronies. On the right was Cellia Ravenry, his companion in the Moderator team, and on the left, looking grim and gawky in equal measures, was Sir Alwin Cameron, fidgeting nervously with his hands.

“Sir Coin!” Cellia exclaimed with relief. “It is good to see you awake, at last. I feared we might have lost you, for a moment. How are you?”

“I’m well enough,” Coin replied, a bit taken aback. He could understand Cellia taking the time to check on him, what with her being assigned to work alongside him. Sir Alwin, on the other hand, had no such reason—in all honesty, Coin had barely even spoken to the awkward man, and knew little about him. Alwin seemed lost, at any rate: his eyes darted about, settling on various people around the room and never holding for long, as he shuffled his feet silently. He did not give the impression of a happy caller. So why is he here? Coin wondered, hoping that it was not some new misfortune the Mods meant to tell him.

“I trust you have been recovering well?” asked Cellia. “It was no small wound that you received.”

Mattieu crossed his arms and regarded the Mods with suspicion. “So far, so well. Though for now he is confined to quarters, so to speak.”

“At least until he is patched up completely,” Skylark replied more amiably. She gave a bow. “I’m certain you would prefer privacy for your meeting, so we’ll take our leave for now. Lady Violet will be eager to learn of your condition, Sir Coin.”

With that, Skylark of the Kind departed with Mattieu in tow, though not before he gave a cold look to Sir Alwin. The knight seemed to flinch from it, and shifted his gaze to the floor.

“I hope,” Cellia began after the two Kind Friends had left, “that you will forgive the rest of the team for not being present. Percy and Abigail have been out in the field since the riot, whenever they were not tending to the wounded that is. His honor has been working to clean up this travesty the Martes were not fit enough to stop, and it has been hard work for so few of us. Sir Depravity has suggested putting forward an appeal for more men, but Sir Borlund is opposed. At any rate, it has been quite the mess.”

Frankly, Coin was surprised enough that any of the team had come to see him, and thus took no offence. “The streets,” he said instead, “have they been cleared?”

“To a degree. The city watch was slow to respond—far too slow—but they forced the riots down eventually.” She seemed troubled nonetheless. “That did not stop the damage, though. Much of the city was touched in some way, but half of the buildings around the Green Gate were burned, and the docks look like a warzone. We are still trying to sort through the losses, sir, but as many as three dozen might have been killed, and many more injured.”

Including me, Coin demurred. And many friends. He clenched a fist. “The culprits?”

“That search is still underway,” Cellia replied. “The places where your party was attacked have been under strict searches, and the city watch has been collecting evidence of the rioter’s identities from what was left. If any managed to escape, I swear that they will be apprehended soon.”

Coin had a theory of his own as to whom was behind it, and it was not one that the city watch would likely bring to light. No ordinary mob, he thought with a grimace. Well-armed, organized, and in full knowledge of where to find us. And now any evidence of them is in the hands of the very man who might have sent them. But he kept his suspicions to himself, for now. Wild accusations, made without consulting his superiors, would only cause trouble.

It was then that Sir Alwin spoke for the first time. “I suppose, ah, that you will recover soon enough?” he asked nervously.

“I hope.” Lounging in bed whilst his friends worked was not an experienced Coin relished.

Cellia gave a reassuring look. “I certainly look forward to it. Though I must imagine that you’ve taken injuries like this before, being a knight and all.”

Coin offered a sheepish smile. “This will be a first.”

“And a last, I hope,” added Sir Alwin. “It was… distressing, to hear of what befell your people. It’s terrible to see so many harmed, though fortunate that no more were injured. Had it been worse, some might have been… um, well. That you know.” The knight struggled for the words, tongue-tied. “What I mean to say, is that I’m happy to know that a fellow knight is well. You, I mean. Thank Heavens that Cellia was there to save you.”

“Cellia?” Coin repeated, taken aback. Did she… He tried to recall the details, and they began to swim back to him. He was cornered in the alley, the Animan lurking towards him with steel in hand. Until, that is, the assassin slumped down dead, and he had heard a woman’s voice. She was the one that saved me, he realized, she took down the Animan and rescued me and Dusty, and might have carried me back on her shoulders for all I know.

Cellia looked a bit abashed at the attention, but Coin could barely express how much gratitude he felt. “Thank you, Cellia, I… I don’t even know how to repay you.”

“A knight,” she replied with a smile, “needs no payment for their duty. Nor do I, sir.” After a moment’s silence, she coughed into her gloved hand. “At any rate, I am happy to see you well. I need to return to the field, but I’ll be sure to visit more, now that you are awake again. Sir Alwin?”

Oddly enough, Sir Alwin shook his head. “A moment, Cellia. I can find my own way, I hope.”

She bowed and departed, leaving Coin alone with Sir Alwin. Coin could not say why the knight chose to linger—they had no business with one another, so far as he knew.

Sir Alwin watched the direction of Cellia’s passing, a forlorn look on his face. “It was truly brave of her. Saving you, I mean,” he said after a time.

Coin opened his mouth to reply, but couldn’t find the words. He was still processing the full weight of it, in truth. For a moment, he had only been a hair’s breadth from death and the cold dark plunge. And after that, away to that far place where cold and darkness and death no longer had any meaning at all. Yet just one action from one person was enough to stop it. There was a certain liberty, having brushed so close to that ultimate fate, and yet a crushing debt at the same time. It was hard enough to comprehend in thought, let alone express in words.

He merely nodded.

“You must have been in danger before,” Sir Alwin said. “Sir, how… how did you manage it? Getting past fear?” The look in his eyes as he asked was almost pleading.

Coin tried to think of an answer to the strange question. He had been in danger before—no one would ever claim that the Deep Web was anything but dangerous—but he was not sure he had ever truly conquered fear. He just pushed it away, when he felt it. “I suppose I just chose to look past it, sir. There are more important things than how I feel, and I learned to move on from fear before long.”

“Before long,” Sir Alwin repeated ruefully. “How long?”

Without another word, Sir Alwin shuffled out, looking more despondent than when he came in and leaving Coin to try and make sense of the odd man. Coin had the sense that the knight was deeply troubled about something or other, but too reticent and unsure to actually speak his mind openly or ask for aid. In a way, Coin could sympathize. Sir Alwin might be knighted, he thought, but that is not a title he has held for long, clearly. Coin doubted that he had been a sworn and seasoned member of the Order for much longer than a year at most, and he knew for a fact that the Dreamweave was Alwin’s first posting. He has no clue at all what he is meant to do.

With Moderators and Bronies alike having departed, Coin found himself alone. The room was quiet, with all others in it sleeping or resting and in no place to talk. With little else to do, Coin thought to return to sleep, but after some time of trying he gave it up, the lingering memory of a half-forgotten dream on his mind. He tried to content himself by getting a better bearing of who was with him in the barracks, gazing around lazily.

It was then that Coin saw him. In a bed not far from his own, there was a man lying on his side, a blanket draped over him. At the desk beside his bed, there was a small hand-mirror. Covering the side of his face that was turned towards the ceiling was a mass of bandages, one that shielded almost his whole visage from sight, but Coin still knew who it was.

He remembered immediately. Dustario trapped in a vice-grip, the Animan that Cellia slew wielding broken glass. The jagged, serrated edge gouging into Dustario’s handsome face, and his screams as it happened. Coin had carried him on his back to safety, but those wounds…

Coin took a sharp breath. “Dustario?” he whispered softly to the quiet shape in the bed.

Dustario shifted slightly, but did not answer. He remained silent, facing off to a blank wall.

Coin looked away in shock. Light of life, he thought, the horror of it sinking in. Dustario still lived, that much Coin could be thankful for, but this? Dustario was a friend, faithful and good. He didn’t deserve this. Could I have done more?

“Welcome to the world again, Sir Coin,” a voice said from across the room.

Lady Violet had entered, stepping over to him gracefully with a look of relief upon her face. Coin tried to draw himself up to pay respect, only for another jolt of pain to hit him quickly. “At ease, my friend,” she said quickly, motioning him to remain still with a wave of her hand. “How do you feel?”

Coin thought of Dustario. “Better than I should.”

The lady seemed to pick up on his thoughts immediately. “Nonsense,” she said firmly, but not unkindly. “Every man and woman I spoke to mentioned your bravery, friend. Had it not been for you, we might not have escaped that day without the deaths of our own. You deserve commendation, and my thanks as well.”

Coin did not have a reply, so Lady Violet continued. “Let me ask you a question, Sir Coin. As it is now, the Martes and the Moderators seem content to label the attacks on our friends as mob violence and little more.” She sat down at his bedside. “Are you convinced by that?”

“No,” Coin answered immediately. He gave his reasons as clear as he could: the organized attempts, the weaponry, the suddenness with which the attackers arrived, and everything else.

Lady Violet gave a grim smile. “Then we are on the same page, sir. You were not the only one to notice such things. And aside from all that, the assassins that surrounded me mentioned Arcadio Martes by name.”

The brazenness of it infuriated Coin as much as anything. “My lady,” he said, “we must take this to the Lord Moderator immediately.”

“But with what?” she asked. “We have speculation and hearsay, little more. The rioters are either dead or scattered, and not likely to talk. The city watch, meanwhile, has been cleaning up any evidence of the attacks that might tie it to Arcadio, and we can do nothing to stop them in the meantime. And while you might have confidence in Lord Halforth hearing our case, I’m not certain I share your optimism. He has refused our attempts at helping our friends before out of a lack of proof, and there is nothing to keep him from doing so again. The Martes, I expect, think they can skirt around this little incident unscathed.”

Coin tightened a fist. “They won’t, my lady.”

She nodded. “Now that is the attitude we’re in need of, sir. Without meaning to sell myself too highly, I might just have the inkling of a scheme in mind, and you are to be a part of it.”

“Whatever you need, my lady,” Coin said.

“What I need,” she replied, “is Alwin Cameron. You must bring him to me, or me to him. Either way, so long as we can talk.”

Coin tilted his head. “But why him? And why me?”

“As it stands, Sir Alwin may well be the deciding vote in this investigation, and I believe that he can be brought over to our side. For that alone, I would need to speak with him… but there is something else as well. An apology to give.”

“Apology?”

“From a certain Warden of Honesty. I would spare you the details… but you have a right to know, I think.”

When she had finished with the grave details, Coin could only stare at her agape. “Assaulting a knight…” he repeated incredulously. “My lady, that’s—”

“No small thing. I am aware.”

“The Lord Moderator—”

“Is not aware. I would have that remain the case, as well. Sir Coin, I imagine this must stir conflicted feelings in you,” she said with sympathy.

“It is a capital offence,” Coin replied, as much as he hated to say it.

“Indeed it is. But consider this: why has Sir Alwin not brought this matter to anyone yet? My honest friend committed a great wrong, and yet the knight has not told a soul. In fact,” she continued, “he has tried to reach out to us—you recall when he was with Cellia Ravenry and came to my quarters, that day when you chanced upon the tunnels?”

Coin remembered just that. Sir Alwin had been with Cellia, travelling across the Palace to see Lady Violet, and yet had run off the moment she came out to greet him. He recalled thinking how strange it was at the time, and now it only seemed more odd. Why did he come all that way to speak with her, just after a fellow Warden had threatened him, and then retreated just before he was able to do so?

“I’ve been turning that incident over in my mind since it happened,” Lady Violet said. “Part of me still cannot understand how Sir Alwin acts: any other man would have reported my honest friend in a moment’s notice. Yet he does not. It leads me to interesting questions, sir. Such as this: if he bore ill-will against us for what happened, why would he not act on it?”

“Fear of the Warden?” Coin ventured. It seemed a logical reason: Sir Alwin seemed to possess little in the way of backbone, and the Giant of Honesty had nothing but it. One who was not intimidated by the Warden would be a fool indeed, so being wary of the man who had pinned him against a wall and threatened death was not unreasonable.

“But then why seek me out? If he was so terrified of Honesty as to keep silent, why throw himself back to us?” Lady Violet leaned back, folded her hands, and gave a deliberate look. “I have my theories, but I cannot answer these questions on my own, and I cannot be certain of our friends’ fate until I know what side he is on. I must parley with him, and soon. And if he cannot bring himself to come to me, and he refuses to let me come to him, then you must be the one to bring him.”

Coin thought about it. “But what about the Warden of Honesty?” Coin asked. It did not matter if he was Coin’s superior or not—what the Warden had done was a great wrong.

“I can assure you that my honest friend is aware of just how wrong he was, and of the potential consequences for his actions. Sir Alwin may choose not to press charges, and in that case we shall all be safe. But for now,” she said with absolute firmness, “you must not mention this to anyone. Under any circumstances, sir.”

She left the rest unspoken: not a single word of the Warden’s actions could meet the ears of the Lord Moderator, or Sir Borlund, or anyone else that might punish him for his actions. The thought of lying to a Moderator about something so heinous made his skin crawl. Is it right to keep this from them? he wondered worriedly. If Sir Alwin truly does not cast blame, that might be one thing, but what if Lady Violet is wrong? How far am I willing to do to defend something like this?

“Regardless of that,” said the lady, breaking through Coin mute protests. “I do believe that you are the man to bring Sir Alwin to the table. I thought it before, when you first joined the Mod team. Now, it has only become more urgent. I shall not lie to you: lives may very well be at stake.”

Coin mulled over that thought, and then tried to swallow his doubts. “Then I’ll do whatever I can. Though I doubt it will be much so long as I stay here,” he said, gesturing to the bed he lay in. “If you could convince the Kind Friends that I could leave, then…”

She chuckled. “I’m afraid not, Sir Coin. Doctor’s orders, and all. But,” she added with a sly look, “I may have just the thing to keep you occupied.”

The lady pulled from her bag a red leather-bound book, thick and filled with leaflets and half-loose papers. Handing it to Sir Coin, she raised an amused eyebrow. “It just so happens,” Lady Violet said, “that I have in my possession a copy of the Martes financials. Care to take a look?”

Coin gawked, with his mouth half-open. “How—”

“You may thank the Lord Moderator for that. We requested such information for our investigation, and Lord Halforth saw that it was seized and turned over before the Martes might have delayed on the matter. My hope,” she said with a finger on the book’s cover, “is that there might just be something of interest in here. Like, for example, the purchase of weapons and their subsequent disappearance, or the hiring of certain guards and their subsequent disappearance. And it also just so happens,” Lady Violet continued with a knowing look, “that I happen to have a former Knight Regulator on hand. No doubt Hans will want a chance with them as well, but… well, I daresay you might just be in your element once again, Sir Coin.”

Coin opened the book and saw them. Numbers, aligned in graphs and tables. Sweet, glorious figures, after so long. He couldn’t suppress a smile. Conspiracies, traitors, nobles, assassinations and secrets and lies upon lies—all that was another, uncomfortable world for Coin. But numbers? That was a enemy he could fight.

* * * * * *

...it so happened that John the Traveller came to rest with his sister in the lands of the Sajle, beneath the cold mountains. In this place, men were much concerned with the trade and changing of money and gold, and its kings were adorned with all manner of precious stones and sable furs. Arriving in Eh-Baj, Our Founder encountered a beggar in the streets, who prayed for alms. Though the rich displayed their wealth openly, none would spare it for this man.

“Hail, foreigner!” the beggar cried out. “My countrymen will give up nothing, but perhaps you will afford a starving man some food.”

John answered him. “I have little money, poor fellow. If I should give you money to eat, then I will not eat myself. Is it proper for me to surrender my own life for another?”

When the beggar did not answer, John continued. “The answer is yes,” he said, and thus gave all of his money away.

This was noticed by Aurheim, who was wealthy and yet lived in a barrel in the marketplace. He spoke to John. “You are a foreigner, or else I would have found you earlier. No man gives up gold easily here.”

“Most others I have seen dress in finery,” John noted. “Yet you are in black and white alone, and unadorned.”

“The man who wears wealth grows accustomed to it,” Aurheim answered. “The man accustomed to wealth seeks to increase it. The man who seeks to increase wealth will never part with it. Those who do not part with items of fortune are unwilling to risk losing them by doing good. Everyday I search the market for human beings, and all I find are animals. They do not understand that it is better to life in a barrel and do good than to live in a palace for oneself.”

“What is your name?” John asked.

“I am Aurheim,” he answered. “The people here call me Poorfellow.”

“You are the Austere,” John replied, “and your way is indeed correct.”

It was by these circumstances that Aurheim the Austere received his name.

— Excerpt from The Books of Black and White, detailing John the Traveller’s meeting with Aurheim the Austere, founder of the Knight Regulators.

Chapter XXX: Chaos Theory

* * * * * *

Amelioration Pattern: Authority term, a strategy used to reverse a poor prior decision and create a new, more effective solution.

* * * * * *

The answers were looking Coin in the face, but only now was he beginning to understand. For six days he had spent his time with dusty tomes and moth-bitten ledgers splayed open on his bed, a cloud of numbers drifting up in particles of ink to greet him. Not even a cloud, really—more a fog, a haze that could only obscure what he or any other man sought after. But now that he had chanced on a lead, Coin could practically see the light breaking through.

Needless to say, it was enormous fun.

Coin had thrown himself into the assignment given to him by the Wardens with every bit of zeal he could manage in his injured state, but it was not as though his dwelling-place had much else to occupy him with. The barracks had been quiet, save for when people woke in the morning or returned at night, or when Kriseroff began bellowing about something or other. With the tender (but forceful) care of the Kind Friends under Skylark, the other wounded Bronies were recovering admirably, and most were now back on their feet—though some found it easier to stand alone than others. For now, Coin remained, but he was never that lonely. After all, there were calculations to make.

Not only that, but he had had his own fair share of help.

Just as he had started launching himself into another line, Coin heard his fellows approaching. With more material in their hands, came Dalwin Faust, sandy-haired and saturnine as ever, and Hans, gold spectacles on his nose and an inquisitive look in his eyes. Tagging alongside them was Daria Faust, on her daily visit and stepping over cheerfully.

“Hey, Sir Coin!” Daria said in greeting. “How’re you feeling today?”

Coin peered up from the texts to give a smile of his own. Daria had been down with the wounded often enough that Coin had come to relish her visits, though he suspected that she also came down to make sure that Red Autumn behaved himself and did not try to break out of his bandages and return to the field. Again.

“Just great,” Coin said. “I think I’ve hit something.”

“Now that is the news we were hoping for!” Hans remarked. “I did tell you we would find it, Dalwin.”

Dalwin smiled wanly. “We’ll see. What have you found, then?”

Turning over the papers laid out on his knees, Coin prepared what he knew. It had been a hard search for even this much—the Martes’ finances were as impenetrable as a fortress wall, and every bit as formidable. Thankfully, Hans and Dalwin had been assigned to the case as well, and could help make short work of it. Coin had worked with Hans briefly in the past, but he had never known the bespectacled Brony had such a skill for numbers or such an eye for detail until they began their investigation. Dalwin, on the other hand, had less skill with calculations but possessed a temperament that made him talented at drawing together separate leads and making conclusions. Hans was quick and Dalwin patient, and with Coin’s knightly training it made for quite the team.

Tracing over the page with his finger, Coin found the tell-tale column and pointed it out to the others. Hans took the paper and held it close to his face, his eyes darting around from part to part, numeral to numeral, his lips moving slightly as he read each word. By the end, he frowned. “Six save us,” he sighed, “more vanishing money?”

Coin nodded. The past few days had taught them that the Martes finances were near impenetrable and nigh incoherent at times. Several times they had said that they’d never seen records so badly maintained or managed—whole expense lines were simply forgotten from one page to the next, entire purchases recorded only on forgotten scraps of paper, and large sums of money left unaccounted for. Many times, said money was recorded as being used to purchase bulk supplies of cloth or ink or food, but for prices far higher than any sane market value and with no way of knowing where the surplus had gone. In some instances, the cash had just vanished completely, with no explanation at all.

Dalwin glanced over the figures as well, but shared little excitement. “We must have seen half a dozen disappearances like this,” he remarked, “but that does not point us any closer to tracking down the arms we’re searching for. What makes this different?”

“Because,” Coin explained, “this money just reappeared.”

Opening the portfolio, Coin found the pages he needed. “Hans, you remember the mystery payment you found yesterday? The one that pointed to the Blurrite dealers? It listed a massive amount of money given, but not what the Martes received in return. You wondered if we could find another receipt that would tell the details?” Coin picked up a page and waved it. “I found just that.”

Hans grinned. “And?”

“And,” Coin continued, “they left it unsaid a second time. No mention of what was purchased.” He saw Hans’ expression deflate somewhat. “But that’s not all I found. Look here.” He pointed to the tell-tale figures. “The inventory we got from the city watch archive? It lists that they received a large influx of unlisted items on that day. Crates upon crates, but no mention of what was inside. Except suddenly,” he went on excitedly, “guards suddenly start being listed as carrying new weapons and materials, ones that seem to come from nowhere. And that date, the day that the payment is made and these items appear?” Coin looked between the three of them. “One week after Sir Harald’s murder. And there is one more thing.”

“That being?” Daria asked, her curiosity piqued.

“I asked for a datagram to be sent to the harbor authorities from Askobarr, where the Blurrite traders came from. They said there were a dozen companies that might have made that transaction, but one in particular caught my eye. The one owned by Pilara Martes’ father. Which happens to deal in arms and just received a shipment. One from Central.”

Dalwin crossed his arms plaintively. “Our repeaters. The ones the assassins carried.”

“The customs officers in Askobarr gave me a number of repeating crossbows included in the purchase made by the Martes in the city. The amount they bought is far more than the amount the city watch is listed as having. The same can be said for swords, spears, daggers, and armor pieces, all bought by the Martes and now all unlisted. These weapons must have gone somewhere—a repeater is not something you just lose. So where did they go?”

Daria sucked in a sharp breath. “Right to the assassins. Men from the city watch disguised as a mob and sent after us, I mean.”

Coin could see that Dalwin was putting pieces together in his head. “Spectral sales point to something being hidden. Vanishing weapons means suspicion. But if we were to find someone willing to testify to those same items reappearing in the hands of city watch members, not disappearing into thin air…”

“Then we have evidence,” Hans said triumphantly.

Dalwin smiled, but did not allow his enthusiasm to rise. “A skeptical judge might call it circumstantial.”

“Yes, it would certainly be a shame if we had one of those,” Hans replied sardonically. “Considering where we are now? I’ll take whatever we can get. Good work piecing it together, sir.”

“It was the work of all three of us,” Coin said, a bit abashed.

Daria was scratching her chin as she pondered on the findings. “From what I’ve heard from all you these past few days, it sure seems like whoever was trying to cover up these finances did a poor job of it. Making it not look out of the ordinary, I mean. How could they think to get away with it? It would be impossible for someone not to notice.”

Dalwin shrugged at his fellow Faust. “Everyone knows that it’s impossible for men to fly, but that will not stop some from flapping their arms and leaping from tall towers. A bold man is hard to distinguish from an arrogant one, and I doubt the authors of this ever expected someone to read too closely. A foolhardy assumption. The kind that’s bred by people used to things going their way.”

“We should bring this to Lady Violet posthaste,” Hans said.

Coin nodded, and prepared to hand over his finding. Then he had a thought which made him pause. “Do you see Skylark around?” he asked the others.

They all glanced about, and returned their eyes to Coin. “Not by the look of things,” Hans answered.

“Good,” said Coin Counter, “because I think I’m going to stretch my legs.”

He had tried getting up out of bed several times over the past few days, but had always found himself forced back down with no shortage of scolding from Skylark every time he made the attempt. Skylark cited that, despite healing well thus far, too much movement could undo the healing of his wound. But frankly, a week on his back was making Coin feel far worse than the gash in his shoulder did. He barely even felt the wound most times, unless he jerked his arm around too sharply—the healing poultices that the Kind Friends provided had proven even better than he had hoped. It was time to get to work.

As Coin swung his legs to the side to climb out of his seat, Daria looked about nervously. “You’d better hope Skylark doesn’t catch on. I mean, she’s usually nice, but she has a thing for ‘doctor’s orders,’ and you really don’t want to see her mad.”

Dalwin pointedly averted his eyes. “If I am asked: I saw nothing, I heard nothing, and I know nothing.”

Coin pushed himself off the bed, finding his balance quickly. He rotated his arm lightly—his shoulder hurt, but not nearly so much as before, and he found it well within his powers to get up and about. “C’mon, let’s go find the lady.”

Daria giggled. “Maybe think about changing first, friend.”

Looking down, Coin realized that he had forgotten about the robe he was wearing. “Right,” he said embarrassed. “Er, give me a moment, then.”

A moment later, Coin was in his orange uniform again, and they were on their way through the Palace. Hans and Dalwin walked alongside him—Daria had decided to stay behind and keep Red Autumn and the rest company. A good move, all things considered—being bedridden and out of the action had not improved the Honest Eyes’ temperaments, and they needed the socializing. For his own part, Coin felt good to be on his feet again—lounging around in bed might have been relaxing at first, but the novelty had worn off quickly, and work was more important than rest either way.

It took some time, but eventually, they found themselves at Lady Violet’s quarters, the door open just a bit. Coin could hear Lady Violet’s voice inside. “... so you see, since most people don’t act purely out of duty per se, being sure to give a ‘thank you’ when they offer aid is an excellent way to show that their efforts are appreciated.”

Hans sidled up to knock on the frame. “Pardon me, my lady?” he asked.

“Oh, come in!” The door moved open a bit, showing Lady Violet seated across from the Warden of Honesty in the small room. “Well, if it isn’t Hans and one of my dear Fausts!” the Lady said when she saw them. “And Sir Coin as well, I see. I certainly hope you have the Kind Friends’ permission to be up and about, my friend,” she said with a mischievous look.

Coin swallowed. “Ah…”

Violet winked. “Say no more, sir. I need plausible deniability, if I am asked. Pray don’t hurt yourself, though. Now,” she continued, “I have to imagine that there is an official reason for you all to pop by? I don’t flatter myself enough to think that you’ve come merely for the pleasure of my considerable company.”

Hans bowed. “New leads, my lady. And discoveries as well.”

“Ah, intriguing intrigue for the enterprising investigators, is it? Very well then, come inside and we’ll discuss it.” The lady gestured between herself and the Warden of Honesty. “You caught the two of us at a good time, really. I was just going over a few points of courtesy with my honest friend, but I think we’ve hit a good enough stopping point for the day, hm? You are making wonderful progress, Honesty.”

Coin didn’t even try to hide his amazement. She’s teaching the Warden courtesy? How could anyone manage that? Glancing over at the Warden of Honesty, Coin got the impression that the experience had been singularly difficult for the giant—the Warden looked the most miserable and uncomfortable that Coin had ever seen him, which was saying quite a lot.

“This one needs to meditate,” the Warden grunted, seeming perfectly traumatized at his new education.

“Oh, go ahead, Honesty,” Lady Violet said with a delicate wave as he departed. “I’ll keep you appraised if anything interesting comes up.” With that, the rest were ushered inside. “Well then,” Lady Violet continued, “to what exactly do I owe the pleasure?”

Coin did his best to explain what they had found while keeping the financial jargon to a respectful minimum, all while Hans occasionally added some excited interjections. Dalwin offered some succinct and sober summaries when appropriate, and the lady measured their words carefully.

By the end of it, a smirk curled across her lips. “Gentlemen,” she said, “I seem to have picked the right team after all. Bravo.” The three men looked abashed, while she continued. “It takes a certain cunning to maneuver through courtly dramas, I admit, but mathematics is often a far more deadly foe. This math in particular seems to all but confirm our precise suspicions—do you suspect they will convince our judges of the same?”

“On its own? Hard to say,” Dalwin shrugged.

Hans went on with more enthusiasm. “But if we were to have some manner of information from inside the guards themselves…”

A sly look crossed the lady’s face. “I believe that Mister Hart’s current project might be of some aid in that. There is a certain point that one reaches in matters such as this, my friends. Colloquially, one might call it the ‘opportune moment.’ I shall hold on to this discovery of yours for just that time.” She took hold of the files and put them aside.

There came a knock at the door, and Lady Violet perked up immediately. “Jorama?”

It was indeed the dark-skinned guard, looking disheveled. Her golden scarf was tossed around haphazardly, and her braid looser than usual, but her expression was practically giddy. “Lady-Warden,” Jorama said, “it is with me. The Lord Moderator, he—“

Wide-eyed, Lady Violet immediately took a piece of paper that Jorama held in her hand. A smile crossed her face as she turned to Coin and the others. “It is fortunate that you should come now of all times, friends. I have something exciting for you—something we have been waiting for far too long.”

She grinned and waved the printed letter at them. “How would you like to see Dabrius Joh?”

Dalwin breathed sharply. “Arcadio finally budged?”

“More that he was shoved aside. The Lord Moderator is well past the edge of his patience, as are we. Until now he was willing to swallow excuses and play along, but that time has passed. He happened to have given me this signature, one that will open any door. And if it will not open, I quite literally intend to break it down—we delay no longer.”

Hans was beaming. “Do the Martes know?”

“Not yet, which is why we must move now. I have a certain notion… call it a scheme if you wish. Your fortuitous recovery, Sir Coin, has just made such a scheme that much easier.”

“Me?” Coin asked, surprised. “What do I—“

“You, my friend, are to cast a revealing light upon this dark farce that Arcadio has been serving up to us, and on the blackguards in Halforth’s employ that have aided him. You have the ear of the Peacekeepers, do you not? Miss Ravenry, Miss Cawtler, and that other man, Cartwright? Retrieve them and bring them with us.” Lady Violet leaned back, a serious look upon her face. “I intend for them to see exactly what has been done to our friends in the cells.”

Coin’s eyes widened. “The guards will try to stop us, if they catch wind of it.”

“Let them try.”

“What if they don’t listen?” Coin asked. “Cellia and Percy and Abigail? Lord Halforth dismissed our claims, and Sir Depravity lied to them about it. They’ve no reason to believe us, so what if they don’t?”

“Then make them,” Violet insisted. “Convince them, cajole them, flatter them or threaten them or do whatever it takes. So far as our success is concerned, qualms have no place with us anymore. Listen to me—this is our chance. If we wait, Arcadio will have Dabrius and Greenglade moved himself to some comfortable loft just so that we seem all the more false when Halforth sends his subordinates to call on them. But if we can prove our claims, then we sever any credibility the Martes had in an instant, and we cast down Blair and Barr as well. Those charlatans cannot stand against living proof before them, it we must give it to them this instant, here and now. You must bring them to me, and I will bring them to our friends.” Lady Violet’s expression was sympathetic, but possessed with clear command. “Sir Coin, the time for doubt is long gone. Our hour is now. Make it happen.”

Coin went as quickly as his injuries allowed, praying that he could find one of the Peacekeepers in their usual side of the Palace. There was not a single moment to waste—if he took too long, it would give Arcadio the one opportunity he needed to ruin the plan. Violet was confident that the Martes would not receive word for some time, but there was no way to be completely certain. It might have already arrived. Coin picked up his pace.

By the time he arrived, Coin was panting and aching. A week on his back had done little to improve his physical fitness, and the same went for having a bolt shot through his shoulder. He gasped for breath when he knocked upon one of the doors, a shock of pain going through his shoulder, praying that someone was there to answer.

Cellia Ravenry appeared so suddenly that Coin wondered if she had just been sitting around waiting for someone to come. “Your honor,” she began immediately without seeing who it was, “I have a new report from the Cha—” She stopped suddenly when she saw that it was not, in fact, her mentor asking after her. “Oh! Apologies, Sir Coin, I was… ah, well. I did not realize that you were in condition to be up-and-about, as it were.” She coughed into her gloved hand. “Now, what can I—”

“Come with me now,” Coin wheezed. He swallowed and tried to catch his breath. “Please.”

Cellia looked at him, abashed. “Uh, pardon?”

Coin managed to recover himself well enough to speak without embarrassing himself. “My superiors,” he said haltingly, “have received immediate permission to speak with the accused, Dabrius Joh. Could you act as a liaison when we meet him?”

She regarded him with confusion. “Sir Coin, I’ve received no orders from anyone allowing that. The law affords you the right to speak with your client in confidence, without Authority agents being present. I fear I would be overstepping my bounds.”

“Lady Violet has requested you, she wants an Authority agent with us,” Coin explained.

The confusion remained on her face, until a certain understanding flashed in her eyes. “Is… is this about that prisoner-treatment complaint again?” she asked suspiciously. “Now really, that is far above my jurisdiction. His honor has already decided the matter.”

“He doesn’t know what I do. But you can show him, Cellia. Arcadio has been lying through his teeth, and so has Sir Depravity.”

“Now that is absurd,” Cellia said firmly. She straightened herself in that curious way that made her resemble Lord Halforth in manner. “Sir Depravity and Sir Alwin are both sworn knights, and loyal servants. They have nothing to gain by lying.”

“Any more than I do?” Coin asked pointedly.

She pursed her wide lips. “Lord Halforth trusts their word.”

She worships him, Coin knew. The Lord Moderator is her idol, and to her he has no flaws at all. “Lord Halforth,” said Coin as emphatically as he could, “is wrong.”

Cellia crossed her arms and looked at him skeptically. “A Peacekeeper, a knight, or a lord alike all know that they must trust their superiors. Even the High Administration knows this, by putting their faith in the Logos. Sir Depravity and Sir Alwin are anointed knights, but you accuse them of perjury and his honor absolves them of that. Lord Halforth is my better in every sense of the word, and I do not contradict him.”

It’s clear that she wants to be a knight, Coin thought glumly. She knows how to answer like one. That gave him one last thought, however. “Cellia,” Coin said carefully. “Sir Depravity and Sir Alwin both swore vows of honesty and service when they were knighted. You’re right to recognize that. But so did I. One of us is lying, them or me, and now you need to sort out which. I know that you want to join the Order more than anything, and that obedience is important… but so is finding the truth. If you truly wish to be a knight, isn’t the truth the point of it all? What use is standing aside blindly?”

Cellia was still looking firm, but there were doubts in her eyes. “I accepted a responsibility for the both of us. There might be trouble.”

Coin offered a reassuring smile. “That’s one thing that knights are always ready for.”

She bit her lip and chewed on the idea. After a time of consideration, she spoke up. “Alright. But I intend to issue a full report on the matter regardless of what I find. If you’re mistaken, his honor will know.”

Coin nodded. “Deal. Now let’s go.”

They made for a rather motley crew. Lady Violet, delighted to see Cellia accompanying them, led the way, with Coin, Dalwin, and Jorama alongside. For extra protection and discretion, the lady had rounded up Crispin Peck, who bounced along with oblivious cheer to what might be a grim meeting.

Behind them was the Warden of Honesty, who had observed Cellia with enormous suspicion when he saw the Peacekeeper appear. A considerable frown crossing the Warden’s face. “Why is Moderator here?” the giant had asked dourly.

Lady Violet nudged him as politely as she could. “Do you recall, my honest friend, that I told you about being more courteous in the future, so as to avoid repeating certain situations? This would be a time to exercise that advice.”

The Warden of Honesty stirred with tremendous discomfort. “Hello,” he struggled to say to the Peacekeeper.

Cellia bowed in return. “My lord of Honesty,” she said. “Lord Halforth has spoken well of you.”

“Truly?” Lady Violet responded, not even trying to hide her surprise. “Do you hear that, my honest friend? You are blessed with the Lord Moderator’s good feelings!”

The Warden glowered at the thought. “Hrm,” he grunted. The idea of being praised by outsiders seemed to put him ill at ease.

“Well,” Cellia said, “I suppose we can depart whenever you are ready, my lady. I am certain that I will only be needed for as long as it takes to confirm what Lord Halforth has already been to—”

“Thank you,” grunted the Warden, looking off in a different direction.

Everyone looked up at him. “Pardon?” asked Cellia.

“Friends saved during riot. Some due to outsider intervention. Moderators. Lord Halforth said thanks should be given to staff.” The Warden of Honesty was grimacing, but did not speak so harshly. “Thank you.”

The comment took Cellia by as much surprise as the rest of them. “Oh. Well, you’re, ah... quite welcome, my lord,” she said, taken aback.

“Hrm” was the only response from the Warden before he began walking, but Coin could see Lady Violet beaming proudly at her honest friend nonetheless.

They all proceeded together down to the dungeon, Coin descending the narrow stairs a second time. This time, he prayed, they would finally find the opportunity needed to set their friends free.

Dalwin seemed to have been nursing the same thoughts. “My lady, what if Greenglade and Dabrius have already been moved?” he asked quietly, casting a glance to Cellia. “Arcadio might well have done just that some time ago.”

Lady Violet grimaced. “I believe I hear your answer just downstairs.”

Coin could hear them as well—shouts from a familiar voice, and barked commands. He prepared himself for who they would find below.

Arcadio stood before the locked door, accompanied by his guards and clearly in the process of entering the cells. The doorkeeper was sitting to the side, idly reading a paper with certain disinterest, when he saw the Bronies emerge into the room. For a brief moment, the man’s eyes registered surprise as he saw Cellia in her black-and-white uniform. “Oh shit,” he uttered carelessly.

Lady Violet scoffed. “Really, is that the proper language to introduce a lady?”

Arcadio spun around to find six Bronies with a Peacekeeper in tow, his handsome face alive with anger. “What are you doing here, whore? Get out, you don’t have my leave to enter.”

“I do not desire your leave to do anything, my lord,” Lady Violet said in a measured tone. “Nor do I require it. I happen to have all the permission I need from Lord Halforth, if you would need to read his instructions. But surely you already knew that, no?”

One of the men standing next to Arcadio, a confused-looking keykeeper that Coin vaguely remembered being called Cabrio, was startled when his commander rounded on him. “Listen to me now: you are not to open this door no matter what these shit-heels demand of you, understand?”

“Uh,” Cabrio struggled to say.

Cellia frowned. “The Lord Moderator has given his express command that Lady Violet and her associates be allowed to see their client. Refusing is a punishable offense.”

“Well, there you have it.” Lady Violet gave a charming smile to the keykeeper, still standing in front of the door. “Cabrio, is it not?” she said amiably. “The Lord Moderator has given an order which we are all, sad to say, obliged to follow. Could you please open the door?”

The keykeeper Cabrio was looking between Lady Violet and Arcadio, frozen. “I—” he stammered. “I— m’lady, I— m’lord, should—”

“Back away, horse-lover,” Arcadio growled. “This is my property and you don’t have a right in the Web to claim it.”

“You refuse to let me pass by, despite the Lord Moderator’s word?” Lady Violet said, sounding only half-interested as she examined her fingernails.

“Piss on your word, horse-lover whore.”

She gave a cheerful little smile. “I was so hoping you might say that. My honest friend?” she turned to the Warden of Honesty by her side. “Do you recall that other lesson of courtesy I told you about? Holding the door for a lady?”

“Yes,” the Warden of Honesty answered simply.

Without another word and with a few huge strides, the Warden lurched forward, pushed the guards out of the way, and kicked the solid steel door down to the ground with a single kick. It crashed to the floor with an enormous clang, a dent the size of a man’s head square in the middle and its broken hinges clattering to the floor.

The previously bored-looking guard behind the desk dropped his newspaper in horror. “My door!” he cried in anguish.

Lady Violet leaned towards a stunned Coin. “I did say that I intended to break it down, did I not?”

Arcadio might have moved to attack them and block their way through, but he was outnumbered, and the Warden stood very large indeed. The two men locked eyes, hands wavering above their weapons, until Arcadio relented. “You will pay for this, horse-lover,” he spat at Lady Violet as she passed by.

“Oh, for the door?” she answered with perfect innocence. “Yes, send me the bill whenever is convenient, my lord. I promise this: it shall only be the first thing I aim to repay.” There was a polite smile on her face, but Lady Violet’s eyes could not have been colder.

Coin knew that the smart thing for Arcadio to have done would have been to clear out the dungeons after the Bronies first saw them, housing Greenglade and Dabrius elsewhere and ensuring that no one would catch on to the horrid conditions. That was not what Arcadio did. The place was every bit as revolting as the first time Coin had been through it: dark, miserable, dirty, and filled to the brim with desperate, abused people. It was a familiar sight to him, but the same could not be said for Cellia. Her mouth hung just slightly open as she looked around, examining the place with mute horror.

Lady Violet noticed her expression right away. “You are familiar, of course, with the Palace of Aureliano, are you not Miss Ravenry?” She motioned around the deplorable scene. “Welcome to the Palace of Arcadio, where our friends have been kept.”

Cellia did not answer, still quietly observing the place with wide, disbelieving eyes.

They proceeded through silently, taking what Coin thought was a deliberately slow pace on Lady Violet’s part, until they reached Greenglade’s cell at the end. The condition of the Kind Friend had not improved much since Coin had last saw him. Greenglade was still filthy, still ragged, and still curled up in the corner of his cell. But the look he gave when he saw his fellow Bronies was the most hopeful that Coin had seen him. “My lady,” Greenglade said, his blue eyes wavering.

“Hello, my friend,” Lady Violet said softly, reaching out her hand through the cell bars. Greenglade took it gratefully. “Greenglade, I have the honor of introducing Miss Cellia Ravenry, an Authority Peacemaker staffed with Lord Dyren Halforth.”

“Well met,” Cellia said uneasily. She was trying to maintain her usual courtesies, Coin could tell, but there was an incredible uncomfortableness as she stood and observed that place. Her arms were crossed, her hands gripping her sides tightly, and her back bent out of its ordinary rigid straightness—as though some great weight was pressing down on her shoulders.

Greenglade looked at Cellia agape. “Authority? Are you here to— my lady, am I free?”

Lady Violet looked pained. “Not yet, my kind friend. Soon, though, I swear it. At the moment, though,” she said with a reassuring voice, “today we are to see Dabrius.”

The prisoner’s eyes welled up in tears. “I haven’t seen him, my lady. He’s down in the dark, I know it. Get him out of there, my lady. Tell him I’m still alive.”

The lady’s hands tightened around Greenglade’s. “I will,” she promised.

Just beyond Greenglade’s cell, there was a sealed door of cold black iron. Beyond that, Coin knew, was the lower level of the prison, in which Dabrius Joh was allegedly trapped. Down in the dark, Coin thought, ill at ease at the thought. For the entire time they had been in the Dreamweave, the Bronies had known nothing about what had become of Dabrius Joh, other than that he had been confined in Arcadio’s custody the entire time. None of them knew what they would face down there.

Lady Violet did not seem deterred. “Dalwin?” she said with her eyes locked on the door. “A light, if you would be so kind.”

Dalwin nodded, and held up the lantern he had brought along with them. Using a lighter, he filled it with a flame that cast back the shadows of the dark hall.

The Warden of Honesty wrenched open the door, and so they proceeded down into the pit. It was a cramped staircase leading down, down past cold, stone halls and steps coated with a slime that Coin did not care to think about. The small party went on their way through, until they reached the bottom. The light that Dalwin carried helped keep the way clear to their eyes, but Coin still almost tripped when he found himself on the last step.

The under-dungeon was deathly quiet. A pregnant hush was hanging over the row of pitch-black cells and sealed doors, and a stillness that came from people who no longer had the will to move or speak. A tiny drop of water dripped down from ceiling to floor, and yet the sound that it made was almost deafening in the dark. The air was so musty and foul-smelling that Coin could barely stand to breathe.

Dalwin moved forward, checking cell after cell. Coin kept himself from looking at the people inside them—if Dalwin’s expressions were any indication, their condition was not something he wanted to glimpse. Faint sounds could be heard when the light passed over. One person screamed. Dalwin kept moving, his pace getting more feverous as he went. Until he stopped.

In one of the cells, a man was leaning against the wall, looking down to the floor. Coin had never met Dabrius Joh—he did not know what he might have looked like once. But the person in that cell looked almost like a battered corpse. His clothes might have been fine and white once, but now were so filthy and covered in discolored stains that it looked like he was wearing a suit of dirty rags filled with holes. One of his sleeves had been ripped off completely, exposing an arm covered by thick, black hair and criss-crossed with red marks. But his face… his face had a wild black beard that had grown out of control, but it did nothing to hide the damage. His hollow cheeks, his black eyes, his crooked nose, all of them were bruised and beaten and swollen from injuries. It gave him a twisted appearance, as he stared down at the ground.

The man clenched a fist, and sighed when the light hit him. “It is that time again?” he asked calmly. “Get on with it then, you moon-banished bastard.”

“Now is that any way to address your lady?”

Dabrius Joh’s head sprung up immediately, and jerked around to find Lady Violet next to him. For a moment, he merely stared at her, as though he did not truly believe she was there. Then, he made a coughing sound that might have been a chuckle. “My lady,” he said with a weak smile, “I’m sorry to say that negotiations have broken down a bit.”

“The prison cell would suggest that,” Lady Violet smiled back sadly. She sighed. “Dabrius, I truly apologize for not coming sooner.”

He shrugged. “I was the one that found his way down here, my lady. No fault of yours.” Before he could say more, he began to cough violently, then grimaced. “Though, I do wonder how long I’ve been down here in the dark cells. Hard to keep track.”

“Too long. Several weeks at least.”

Dabrius rested his head against the wall. “Hm.”

“I and a whole cohort of our friends have been here negotiating your release for some time,” the lady explained. “But we were stonewalled from seeing you, by a certain Arcadio Martes.”

The imprisoned diplomat sitting in the cell tightened his jaw. “Yes,” Dabrius said haltingly, “yes, we’ve met.”

Before any more could be said, Cellia stepped forward. “My lady, I think it would be best if I gave you the time to speak with the defendant in confidence, without my being here. If there is nothing else I—” She hesitated to go on, glancing again at her surroundings and at Dabrius. “My lady,” she said carefully, “I… I would offer an unqualified apology.”

Lady Violet shook her head. “It was not your fault that our friends are down here, Miss Ravenry. You are not to blame.”

“That may be,” Cellia admitted, “but there is still no excuse for this. My lady, I’m prepared to go to the Lord Moderator immediately to change his mind, and I swear that he will be shown the full truth. I cannot imagine why in the Web Sir Depravity and Sir Alwin would have lied about this, but it cannot stand. It will not, I swear.”

Lady Violet bowed. “I thank you then, Miss Ravenry. It is good to know that there are still people on this island looking for justice. I hope we will speak again soon.”

Cellia nodded, and left with a new purpose in her step. Coin knew she would keep her word… though he could only hope that Lord Halforth would listen.

After she had gone, Dabrius sighed heavily. “That Mod is not the only one that needs to offer an apology, my lady. If you’ve been here investigating on my behalf, then I’m certain you have already heard about my own part in landing myself here. There were some things I had said to… well, everyone, really. That fool Harald, may the Mare grant him rest, and the Martes as well. My damned fault.”

“We did hear,” Dalwin said softly. “Greenglade told us.”

“Greenglade,” Dabrius repeated, looking to his friends with concern. “I haven’t seen him since… is he…”

“Still alive,” Lady Violet reassured him. “I will not lie to you and say he is well, but he is no worse off than you.”

That made Dabrius chuckle bitterly. “Six save me, that bad? Balefire.” The tiny flame flickering within the lantern illuminated the cell barely enough, but still a murky gloom gripped onto the man within. Deep shadowy pools hung under around his eyes and mouth that made his face seem cavernous. Even the light hitting Dabrius Joh gave him more a sad, sickly pallor than anything approaching life. Coin could not even imagine being trapped down in that nightmare for so long, with nothing but regretful thoughts and Arcadio for company. “My own damned fault,” Dabrius repeated angrily. “Weeks and months, my lady. Weeks and months Greenglade and I were trying for justice. Justice. It never mattered to any of them, and I just—” He clenched his jaw, and groaned.

“Dabrius…”

“Anger heaped on anger, that was all it was,” he continued, his voice low. “The words just came out. I knew they were wrong halfway through saying them.” Even in the dark, Coin could see that Dabrius was trembling. “My lady, Greenglade shouldn’t be down here. If I had just kept quiet then—”

“Enough of that,” Lady Violet insisted. Reaching through the bars, she took Dabrius’ hands in hers. “What matters now is getting the two of you out of this foul place. I need you to tell me everything, Dabrius. Everything.”

He gripped her hand more tightly, and nodded.

“What happened on the night of Sir Harald’s murder?”

Dabrius turned his head to face the lady, and stared at her plaintively. He shot a look to the others and then looked back to her, as though he were expecting an answer. Whatever it was that he was interested to know, Lady Violet nodded to him to continue. He let out a breath. “I was in Nightside, my lady. Meeting with the Changelings.”

Jorama mumbled something in a foreign tongue under her breath. The rest of them exchanged a look. Well, Coin thought, that’s one theory confirmed.

“There’s a hidden passage that happens to open in the alley behind the Moonlight Inn,” Dabrius explained, “and I followed it to meet with them. I had to get Greenglade drunk and leave him at the bar. I was with them the entire night, until I came back for him.”

All eyes were on Dabrius, prompting him to continue. He looked around to them, as though reluctant to explain himself. He did so regardless. “They contacted me not long after Greenglade and I arrived. They said they wanted to open the Dreamweave to the fandom, make peace with the Collective, that they could help me in swaying the court and Sir Harald. They were sick of the ban—thought it was killing the Dreamweave, keeping it locked away from the Web and starving it. Sick of the Martes, too. So they came to me. The first time I thought it was a trap. The second… that was after weeks and months of failures, and I was desperate enough to try. I was meeting with them every so often after that, down in their tunnels.”

“Meeting for what?” Dalwin asked.

“Information. Support. Angles on how to sway the decision, if we could. They had a lot to offer, and I needed every bit of it. These are important people in the city, and they can move things if need be. Were it not for them, Sir Harald might have decided in the Martes’ favor ages ago.”

“And did you or they have anything to do with the murder of Sir Harald or his squire?” Lady Violet asked intently.

“No. Nothing at all, I swear it.”

The Warden of Honesty stirred. “He is telling the truth,” he murmured.

“I never wanted to doubt it,” Lady Violet said, “but that is a relief to hear. I confess, my friend, that some facts that were turned up set us to certain doubts. There has been talk of…” She stopped, almost chewing on the words before she said them. “Dabrius, there has been much talk about these Changelings.”

“Don’t believe what they say, my lady,” Dabrius interjected immediately. “The Martes and the rest, whenever they talk about ‘insurrectionist cells’ or ‘criminal gangs.’ The Changelings aren’t like that. They’re good men, and friends to the fandom.”

“I’ve learned to disregard what the Martes say,” she replied. “But what troubles me is what I have heard from elsewhere.” Dabrius shifted in his cell whilst Lady Violet spoke. “We received a message from the Warden of Magic not long ago, one with several interesting notions within it.” Violet sighed. “Dabrius, there has been talk of Oathbreakers.”

Coin heard a gasp behind him from Crispin, and Jorama started to mutter something again. In his cell, Dabrius merely raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Now that I can deny.”

For his own part, Coin was lost. That name, ‘Oathbreaker,’ seemed vaguely familiar to him, though. Where had he seen it before?

Curiosity got the better of him. “Er, pardon me, my lady,” Coin interrupted, “but who are we talking about?”

Dabrius looked at him askance. “Are you new around here?”

“Yes,” he admitted. “I’m Coin Counter.”

“Welcome to the fandom, then,” Dabrius said, as nonchalantly as a person locked in prison could be.

It was Dalwin who cut in with a proper answer. “Oathbreakers are fandom-traitors. Radicals repudiated by the Citadel. We say they left the fandom, though they would say the fandom left them.”

The mere mention of the word ‘Oathbreaker’ seemed to set the Warden on edge, his ugly face twisting up. “Friend-killers. Dissolute. Devil-led. They seek paradise through the way of Smiling Skull. Shall not find it. Worse than dead.”

In a flash, Coin remembered where he had heard of these Oathbreakers before. Once on a mural he had seen when he first walked under the shadow of the great Citadel—it had been a landscape of green fields and a white-gold city on the mountainside. ‘Where is Equestria?’ he remembered was written below, but beside it were other words—‘Who is the Oathbreaker?’ Then he recalled having seen it once after that.

“We found graffiti in Nightside,” Coin said in realization. “When we first went there, on a wall there were Brony posters, but someone had painted over them. The words—”

“Who is the Oathbreaker?” Lady Violet finished for him. “Dabrius, the report he had from Lord Mars suggested that there might be traitors among the Changelings.”

“No,” Dabrius shook his head. “No, I don’t believe it.”

Lady Violet considered what Dabrius said silently. It was hard for Coin to tell if she was truly as convinced as Dabrius was, but at the end she said, “Then I shall believe you, my friend. But if we are to get you out of here, I shall need to meet with these Changelings face-to-face. No more secrets. Once I do, we will finally have people that can corroborate your story, and then the accusations against you shall be moot. We are a hair’s width away from your freedom, Dabrius, I promise you that.”

They were hopeful words, but for some reason Dabrius seemed to stiffen. “You need me to tell you who they are. Where to find them.”

“Yes,” she said emphatically. “Dabrius, unless they can testify to your innocence, we have no one that can prove that you were not spending your night sticking a knife into two Moderators. The sooner we know, the sooner we can set you free.”

Dabrius appeared to turn that thought around in his mind several times. He rested his head back on the cold stone wall, and stared forward. “I’m sorry, my lady, but no.”

Lady Violet looked at him as though he had spoken gibberish. “Pardon?”

“I cannot tell you how to find the Society, my lady.”

The Warden of Honesty bristled at the insubordination. “Why?”

Dabrius swallowed. “Because,” he said, “if I tell you, then they will be exposed. My being freed would not change the ban on Bronykind here in the Dreamweave, and once they are forced to confess to being part of a pro-Collective party here, none of them will be safe. To start, Aureliano will see them thrown out of their homes. But that’s only a start. Do you suppose that when Arcadio finds them, he’ll be at all merciful? That lunatic will see their throats slit if he feels kind. If I tell you, their lives are forfeit.”

“Your own life will be forfeit without their word,” Dalwin answered quietly. “You have no alibi without them.”

Dabrius grimaced. “That might be. But Greenglade will go free, and so will all of you—they have only evidence enough for me. It’s my fault that any of you are even here. Mine alone. I cannot hurt anyone else just to correct my own mistakes.” His voice was as low and mournful as if he were attending his own funeral. In the dim, yellow light, he already looked like a corpse. “I would fight for my friends. I would happily step out of this cell to keep fighting for them, if I could. I would fight for them, my lady. But I won’t make them die for me.”

A long, heavy silence held between all of them. They knew exactly what Dabrius spoke of, and that he knew as well. He’s volunteering to die, Coin knew. He thinks that’s the only way to make this right. Six save us all.

Lady Violet had listened silently, her face not betraying her thoughts as Dabrius spoke. At the end, she stood, and looked down at him. “I will release you from here,” she promised. “Dabrius… you don’t deserve this.”

“I’m sorry, my lady,” he replied, “but I think I do.”

There was nothing else to be said. After a moment, they all turned away, Lady Violet taking care to go in front of everyone else. She took pains to keep her face turned away, but Coin caught a bare glimpse of it before following behind. It was hard to see in the lantern-light, but when she brushed a delicate hand against her cheek, Coin could tell she was wiping away tears.

They did not get far out of the dungeon before they were all stopped. In their path were Cellia, Percy, and Abigail, all in their Peacekeeper uniforms and moving quickly past them. Coin could hear some words exchanged between them and the Wardens, and some loud discussion after they glimpsed within the cells, but Coin barely registered their words.

Finding a bare patch of wall, he leaned and sank into it, despair curling up. We can’t win, he thought. They needed someone, anyone, that could speak to Dabrius not having murdered Sir Harald. Otherwise, their friend was out at the right time, in the right place, with the right motive, and with no other suspects at all. They had worked for weeks, turned up everything they could, tried every hand available, and yet it was for nothing without that. All their resources and plans were for naught if they could not find the Changelings. The stone was cold against his back, a frigid touch that made the wound in his shoulder throb. This is what we’ve come to. We’re lost.

Coin wanted to bury his head in his hands, but he noticed that there were people in front of him. He looked up to see Crispin and Dalwin standing over. Crispin had an odd, sad smile on his face filled with mute reassurances. Dalwin looked as subdued as ever, but his voice was not hopeless. “Come on, friend,” said Dalwin Faust, “we’re not done yet.” He motioned over across the room.

The Peacekeepers were coming over, with the rest of the Bronies in tow. Percy stepped forward to Coin, looking grim. “His honor’s gonna wanna talk ‘bout this,” he warned, before ushering them upstairs.

They found themselves in the Lord Moderator’s quarters before long. The Warden of Generosity sat at a bare table, with Coin alongside her—he could only assume that he was there due to being the Moderator liaison. In front of them, silent as the grave, was Lord Halforth himself. He stood facing away from them, looking out of the window at the city, his back straight and his hands folded behind him. He had not said a word since the Bronies had arrived.

Coin and the lady had been pushed into the meeting gently enough, but he was unnerved all the same. There was a tension in the air heavier than any mountain. Lady Violet was still and quiet, breathing calmly, having fully rebuilt her composure after the conversation with Dabrius. Percy Cartwright had started nervously tapping his foot at one moment—a reproachful look from his fellow Peacekeepers made him stop, but he had started rapping his fingers against his crossed arms instead, unable to keep his concern out of his expression. Abigail stared off into space, her own face unreadable. For all her usual propriety, Cellia was fidgeting in the corner, occasionally casting glances at her mentor, as though for guidance, and then looking away just as quickly. All the while, the Lord Moderator stood silent.

The unbearable wait was broken by a voice down the hall. “—no idea what it is. Perhaps they finally found the evidence, and we can put this farce behind us,” said Sir Depravity Blair, as he approached.

Coin turned and saw Sir Depravity and Sir Alwin walking through the door, the former as dour and the latter as anxious as ever. Roger was following behind his master, bouncing along blissfully. “Your honor,” Sir Depravity said with a salute. “You said you wished to speak with us? What—”

He froze when he saw Lady Violet looking at him. Sir Depravity’s eyes scanned around the room, taking in the expressions of all those there. Sir Alwin merely looked confused, but Depravity picked up right away. “What is this?” he asked.

Lord Halforth did not turn around. He did not raise his voice either, and somehow that was far, far worse. “Twelve years,” the Lord Moderator said in a tone that could freeze fire. “For twelve years we have served together. How much of that time have you filled with lies?”

Sir Alwin audibly swallowed. Depravity tensed up, and shot an accusing glance at Lady Violet. “What have you told him, hor—”

Lord Halforth did not let him finish. “She told me nothing. My other subordinates, apparently possessing more loyalty than you, have told me only one thing—the truth. A sobering thought, I imagine. When I took you into my service, I did so because I valued your candor. You never before hesitated to speak your mind.” His hands, still folded behind his back, tightened. “Do you understand me, sir? I had to be told by your direct inferiors the truth that I asked you to give. You are no longer capable of performing that simple task that I valued you for. Now I am forced to look back and wonder how much of what you ever said was true.”

Sir Depravity looked as aghast as he was offended. “Your honor, I have been your loyal servant, I would never have—”

“Oh, but you have. If you try to convince me otherwise at this point, you are either an idiot or you believe me to be one. If you stammer out another lie in my presence, I will find some legal means to have your tongue removed, I swear it. The same can be said for you, Sir Alwin.”

As if on cue, Alwin’s face turned a shade of ashamed red, but he could not bring himself to speak. Lord Halforth went on for him. “I understand that your family has deep roots in the Authority. A father, an uncle, and a brother all serving, no? And this, your first assignment. I had hoped for great things from you, sir, and yet you lied to me as well. Your kin will be disgraced on account of what you have done.”

Sir Alwin looked down at the floor, choking on words as he tried to respond. He could not bear to meet the eyes of anyone else in the room.

There was a draining silence for a long moment. Sir Depravity was trembling slightly. Even Roger seemed to sense the atmosphere, lying down on the ground, tail still. At last, Lord Halforth spoke up again. “I took the liberty of reviewing the prison, and found it at odds with the report you both rendered to me,” he said with an unnatural calm. “As it stands, you are now facing charges of perjury. Do you still wish to deny this?”

“No,” Sir Alwin forced himself to say immediately.

“Your honor, I…” Sir Depravity said haltingly. “I… I admit to the charge. But please, look at me, you… you must know that I had never lied to you before, I—”

“You lied to me now,” Lord Halforth replied. There was a rage in the Lord Moderator’s voice that was only barely controlled. “There are two men who have been tortured because you felt it fun to play me for a fool.”

“They’re guilty, they deserve to be down there!” Sir Depravity shouted back. “These horse-lovers are wretched and you know it. My cousin Giles was disgraced fighting them in the Chan, and now they think they can ride over all the Web as well. Damn them all, they deserve those cells! Are you taking their side now?” he pointed at the Bronies. “Cellia, what have you told him? Percy, Abi, you don’t really believe these ingrates, do you?”

The Peacekeepers all turned their eyes away mournfully, and did not answer. That seemed to only enrage the knight more. “Damn you all, then. Am I really the only one that can see the truth? I…” Sir Depravity looked back to the Lord Moderator desperately. “You can’t take their side in this. After everything that we’ve been through? Twelve years we have been partners, we fought beside each other, I saved your life, I— Dyren, please, just look at me, I—”

Lord Halforth still refused to spare him a glance. “Our past,” he said, “is as worthless as your future. You are no partner of mine. Now be quiet.”

Following orders at last, Sir Depravity said nothing more. He took a step back, and half-collapsed into the wall, defeated.

Coin was almost too frightened to breath, the room was so tense. From where he sat, Coin could see just a small profile of Lord Halforth’s face. Grey eyes stared out in an empty gaze out to nothing at all, his expression clenched like a cap tightened on a bottle about to explode.

However much anger the Lord Moderator might have been keeping in, he did not allow himself to show it. “Lady Violet,” he said. “I will see that your friends are removed from their current lodgings and given more appropriate ones, but there is another matter I must broach with you. According to Authority law, the false testimony offered by these two was directly and maliciously aimed to harming your cause. As such, you are a wronged party, and the decision to press charges for their behavior belongs to you and your fellows. Do you require time to make that decision?”

“No, my lord,” Lady Violet answered, nonplussed by the drama that had unfolded before her. “For Sir Alwin—” The named knight cringed, knowing what was coming. “—I would prefer that no charges be dealt.”

Save for Halforth, everyone in the room looked to her in amazement. Not least Sir Alwin: the man’s jaw hung open as he stared blankly. Coin was still trying to decipher what possible reason there could be for that mercy when the Lord Moderator spoke again. “And for the other?”

“I am afraid I must insist upon Sir Depravity facing the full measure,” she responded plainly.

Lord Halforth’s hands tightened again. “Very well. Sir Do-Not-Lead-Our-Family-Into-Depravity Blair? You shall be tried and sentenced for this crime by the Knight Prefects at the earliest convenience. Until such a moment, you are hereby stripped of any position or honor you might have once occupied as a knight, and confined to quarters until further notice. If you should attempt to interfere with this investigation further, I shall throw you in a cell torturous enough that even you would object to it.”

Sir Depravity did not answer, only nodding dumbly.

“Sir Alwin,” Lord Halforth continued. “For reasons I can only speculate upon, Lady Violet has spared your worthless hide this same fate. Since there are no charges, I technically do not have the immediate authority to remove you as a judge on this case. Not yet, at any rate. With this being the case, I do request that, outside of your official duties, you keep your carcass as far from my presence as possible until our time here is done and you are reassigned to the most miserable, Godforsaken hole that can be found in the Web. Am I clear?”

Sir Alwin offered a nod as well, eyes locked on his feet.

“Mister Cartwright and Miss Cawtler: take the prisoner into custody. The rest of you may leave.”

Silently, Percy and Abigail did as they were bid, leading a still-stunned Depravity Blair out of the room. Roger slinked behind them, ears pressed to his head. As soon as the Lord Moderator stopped talking, Sir Alwin also sped out, not looking behind as he ran away. Coin and Lady Violet stood to leave as tactfully as they could. Only Cellia lingered.

She stood behind Lord Halforth, looking at him with concern. “Your… your honor?” She lifted her hand just slightly, as though reaching out to him. “I—”

“I said get out,” the Lord Moderator snapped.

Cellia’s hand shot back, her face full of hurt. As she complied and left, Coin could not help but be worried himself. Cellia had built herself up on the basis of loyalty to her superiors. Now one of her mentors had betrayed the other, and the one that remained true was upset beyond measure and lashing out. When he made an attempt to follow her as she left alone down the hallway, Lady Violet put a hand on his shoulder.

“I understand your concern, friend. But right now, your task is with Sir Alwin.”

“Sir Alwin?” Coin asked, wondering what he had to do with all this. There was another question that came to mind, however. “My lady, why did you release him from charges? You know that he did perjure himself.”

“Because I think he can help us. And because, despite it all, I do believe that he is a good man.” Lady Violet pointed down the way where Sir Alwin had gone. “So long as he remains on this case, he is one vote that can turn the tides and exonerate our friends. If we can just sway him, we still have a chance despite everything with Dabrius. You remember what I told you about reaching out to him? Now is the time—tell him I desperately wish to speak with him, as soon as he can.”

“But what should I tell him?”

Lady Violet considered that. “Tell him that he is the only one that chooses if his family is disgraced or not. Tell him that he always has a choice, no matter how far down a path he has gone. Tell him whatever he needs to hear. And then tell him I will be happy to hear from him.” She gave him a smile. “Once you’re done, take a rest. This has been a… draining day for us all, I think.”

It took Coin some time to find exactly where Sir Alwin had gone. After questioning a few people, he found a room with voices coming from within. The walls were a pale ivory color, and the furniture within made of dark, polished wood. Sitting in one chair was Sir Alwin Cameron, so crouched over in his seat that his starchy uniform resembled a crumpled-up bit of paper. His long fingers were pressed hard against his forehead, his palms covering his eyes as he sat silently. Before him, however, Sir Borlund Barr stood pacing and fuming.

“… an outrage!” Sir Borlund shouted as he shuffled back and forth, jowls quivering as he spoke. “I never thought I would see it, but Lord Halforth has been bought out by the horse-lovers. Sir Depravity could see it, and now he’s been carted away like some criminal. How long before we’re next, Cameron? I tell you, we must do something about this before they come for us.” Sir Alwin did not answer him, his mouth twisted up and shut, but Sir Borlund did not care to stop. “We must remain together now, you see? We’re the only ones that can save us. I don’t care what—”

He halted when he noticed Coin at the door. Sir Borlund’s small eyes flared up in anger when he saw Coin’s uniform. “What, are you arresting me too? Try and take me, horse-lover: I’ll carve you a new mouth to speak your damned lies.”

Coin ignored him. “Sir Alwin?” he said into the room. “It’s Sir Coin Counter. I wondered if we could speak for a moment.”

“Cameron and I don’t care to bandy words with you, profligate,” Sir Borlund spat. “Take your threats and falsehood elsewhere, I have no time for either.”

“Sir, I… I really just need to speak with Sir Alwin.”

“He’s not speaking with anyone.”

“Well, then I would like to hear him say that,” Coin countered. “Sir Alwin, please.”

“You have no right to barge in and demand our time,” Sir Borlund shouted. “No right at all.”

Coin frowned. “I’ve been appointed liaison between the Authority team in this investigation and the Brony Collective. I do have that right, and Sir Alwin has the right to answer for himself.”

“Don’t you talk back to me you little—”

“I’ll speak with him,” Sir Alwin said quietly, stirring just slightly from his seat.

Sir Borlund spun around angrily. “What?”

“Can you give us a moment, please?” Sir Alwin said to his counterpart.

Borlund’s mouth twisted. “Obeying horse-lover orders. They will sink their hooks in you as well, Cameron.”

Sir Alwin rubbed his eyes. “I think I’ll be fine. Good day.”

Borlund’s face went red with an impotent rage, but he stormed out nonetheless, leaving Coin and Sir Alwin alone.

“Sir…” Coin began, struggling to think of what to say.

“I hope that you don’t blame Sir Borlund too much,” Sir Alwin began slowly. His hands were now gripping the arms of his chair. Coin could see that the knight’s now-uncovered eyes were puffy and red. “He holds your fandom responsible for his demotion in the Chan. He abandoned his post when men in orange-and-gold threatened to overrun the position he and his partner were assigned to. And now he’s here,” Cameron mused. “He hates you, but it was me that lied to Lord Halforth. I’m sorry.”

When he saw Sir Alwin sinking into his chair, Coin reckoned that he had never seen a more defeated looking person in his life. Any fear that Sir Alwin might have had about his future had just come true. It was his first assignment, and any chance he had of success had evaporated before he even had a chance to finish it. Dabrius Joh was not the only person who seemed dead already.

Not for the first time, Coin wished that Lady Violet had sent someone who better knew what to say.

“Sir Alwin,” Coin ventured, “Lady Violet asked me to come to you. She would like to talk.”

Sir Alwin’s face was a mask of despair. “Lord Halforth may not be able to remove me from my command right this moment, but he will go through any official channel to see that I’m replaced. Your lady will not need to worry about me soon enough.”

“She… she only said she wanted to talk.”

His mouth twitched. “I tried to talk to her before. I couldn’t bear it. How long were those men in that place because of me? How can I look anyone in the eye again?” He rubbed his eyes again. “I never wanted this, sir. Halforth was right. I’ve disgraced my family name.”

Coin had no idea how to respond to that. He is crushed completely. What can I possibly say? The fall that Sir Alwin faced was not one that was easy to climb back from. Coin could think of only one thing. “If you wish to not be like Sir Borlund—if you are willing to accept your own responsibility—then you should know that you are the one that can make it right.” Coin tried his best to sound right, no matter how much he doubted himself. “Do you recall when we last spoke? You asked me how long a knight needs to wait before he conquers fear? You wanted to know when you could do it?”

Sir Alwin nodded. Coin sighed. “That time,” he continued, “is now.”

At first, Sir Alwin said nothing, just staring off. But eventually, he spoke up. “I will meet with her. I would like to see your Warden of Honesty, too. Tell them, sir.”

Coin had to repress letting that feeling of triumph coming across his face when he rushed back through the Palace. It was premature to celebrate, he knew… but it was a hope.

Still, he knew that it was not enough. Finally bringing Cameron back into the fold was good, but having no one to back up Dabrius’ innocence was still a crushing blow. Coin could see no way around it—if they could not produce a single witness or gain the evidence to support a single alternate theory, the generous man in the cell below was doomed. And they could not find such a witness if Dabrius did not tell them, either. The Bronies had managed to find one place where the Changelings met, but no others so far, and even that brought them no closer to actually learning who they were. Even if we did know, would it help? Coin wondered ruefully. They would have to agree to testify, and their own lives would be endangered if they did. As far as the Society went, Coin had no clue at all how to proceed.

Before Coin got much further, however, he noticed something. There was a small crowd of people outside the room where Coin had met with Sir Alwin. They were courtiers and nobles, so far as Coin could tell—he did not claim to have the small familiarity with the Dreamweave upper crust that the diplomatic team had, but he could recognize fine clothes and fashionable hair. The group was milling around, talking in low tones to one another, and most were faces that Coin did not know. But there were two that he did.

One was Byrios Amberten, that unfriendly man that he had exchanged words with some time ago, the same one that seemed eager not to be seen in public speaking to a Brony. Even now, when Amberten noticed Coin in the distance, he frowned and turned away immediately.

The other, however, was Heylen Ott, that patchy-skinned cybramancer, chatting with an elderly nobleman. His luxurious blue robes did little to hide his unnatural condition, but there were other things about him that Coin knew were hidden more deeply. Coin still recalled having bumped into him: the words that the Grandmance of the Dreamweave had said. The value of truth versus lies, the importance of an oath to stay silent even when speaking out was right… and in a moment, Coin gained a new understanding of what that meant.

The Bronies had to find the Changeling Society, come Hell or high water. At this moment, Coin knew they had only one lead.

As though sensing someone there, Heylen Ott turned and met Coin’s gaze. Unlike his fellows, Ott smiled and waved politely. Coin did the same back, nervously. Seeing that, Amberten scowled, wrenched Ott around away from Coin’s view, and started pointing his finger and saying something that looked a great deal like scolding to his companion. All the while, Ott continued his strange half-smile.

Coin moved on, knowing there was another business to take care of in that moment. But at the same time, a thought had come to his mind, one that turned to a firm resolve as he strode. For the first time in a long time, Coin Counter knew precisely what to do.

* * * * * *

… so John and Abigail and Aurheim were invited to the manse of the Theel, the richest man of Am-Azon, whose palace was built of many snow-filled plazas of orange stone and fountains whose waters froze as glass in the long winter. The Theel was wealthy beyond measure: gold and silver were piled high in his hall, alongside ivory tusks and pearl-laden seats, and it was said that he spent more in a day than many men did in a lifetime.

The Theel had heard much of the wise foreigners and the Poorfellow they befriended, and so he wished to display the bounty of his home to them and welcome a new curiosity. So they went, and arrived at the Great Ivory Gate, and were brought inside.

The Theel walked with them through the manse, and showed them many things. There were drinking horns carved from a sea serpent’s fangs, the gilded ribs of a whale, a vast menagerie of animals, and draperies of many colors. Great crates of powdered dyes were stacked under the vaulted ceilings, and inks even from the far east were used to decorate the banners. Hundreds of retainers and trading captains were assembled to garner favor where they could, but the Theel could afford to pay them little mind. The treasure vault was the greatest of all: coins from many sites, diadems encrusted with amethysts and opals, ancestral urns, and cloaks of bear fur and roc feathers were piled high for all to see.

After showing this, the Theel turned and asked of his guests, “Who is the most fortunate man whom you have met in your travels?” For he expected that the answer would surely be the Theel himself.

John considered the answer carefully, speaking with Abigail and Aurheim for their views. After much deliberation, he said, “Jormet.”

The confused the Theel greatly. “Who is this Jormet? What wealth has he?”

“Jormet was a name I learned six days ago,” said John. “He was first mate on a whaling ship that was accosted by a beast. His duty was to direct his shipmates off the ship into the whaleboats so they might reach safety. This he did, but died in the process.”

The Theel was yet more confused. “You say this is the most fortunate man you have met, and yet all you say of him is that he died in an unfortunate way.”

“Perhaps,” replied Aurheim, “but he died well, and no man is fortunate until he is dead.”

The Theel would reflect on this and consider it carefully for several days. After six days, he invited John, Aurheim, and Abigail to his manse once again.

— Excerpt from The Books of Black and White

Chapter XXXI: My Past is Not Today

* * * * * *

In the dark cinema

I held you close enough to my heart

I was a meteor burning up

Catch me before I fall back to earth

Darlin’, I know you can carry two

Help me to go beyond solitude

Holding you on the wave we become

I was a meteor burning up

— “RD/RA,” by SoGreatandPowerful

* * * * * *

Proximo had been warned that Dyren Halforth was in dangerous mood, but he had sorely underestimated just how frightening that prospect would be. Since the Martes had entered the room, the Lord Moderator had not said a word. He simply stared with those flinty grey eyes, his jaw clenched while he listened to what the nobles had to say.

He had seen Lord Halforth displeased before. This was much, much worse. Before, Halforth never held back in expressing his distaste in what he saw, but now there was nothing readable in his expression at all. His face seemed completely blank, dispassionate, but there was something tangible about his rage nonetheless. It radiated off of him like the coldness one feels around a block of ice. Cool, clear loathing was visible in those grey eyes, so palpable that it made Proximo’s hair stand on end. One could practically feel the life being sucked out of the room when the Lord Moderator sat within.

All of that was directed squarely at the Martes while Aureliano tried to stammer out an explanation.

“You must understand, of course, my lord, that I was as shocked about these findings as anyone here,” Aureliano Martes said. He seemed nervous, but that was understandable considering the look that Lord Halforth was fixing him with. “I could never have guessed that men in my employ would have engaged in such behavior towards the prisoners. It was my mistake to put faith in them, but had I known, it would have been halted immediately.”

Aureliano tried to give a convincing smile to Lord Halforth. It died within a half-second.

If Aureliano seemed to grasp exactly what kind of danger he was in, his brother very clearly did not. Arcadio wore that same priggish little smile of his, hanging his arm over the back of his arm and looking as casual as could be when faced with the accusation of torture and maltreatment. “Indeed, brother,” Arcadio said. “I’ve been beside myself about the whole thing. The city watch has been dishonored by having such faithless men in their employ. I only wish I had known—I spend my time in the city you see, and leave the dungeons for others to deal with. Honestly, I blame myself for putting trust in them.”

Lord Halforth said nothing, but Cellia Ravenry, who had been standing off to the side, raised her voice. “You mean to say,” she asked with her arms crossed and a troubled look on her face, “that this unconscionable behavior was no fault of yours? Who exactly do you claim is responsible, then?”

Arcadio seemed miffed that he had to answer to a mere staffer, but produced several files. “Once I heard of these scandalous accusations, I probed the matter right away. I have here six members of the city watch who have confessed to the allegations in full, as it happens. Look at them, if you like. You will see that they all agree that they acted without orders from anyone.”

“They have all been arrested, of course,” Aureliano added, fidgeting with his hands while the Lord Moderator stare. “I, ah, I hope that with this unpleasantness out of the way, we might be able to return to the matter at hand. My lord.”

Proximo had to fight to control himself, seeing what was unfolding in front of him. Arcadio had found a handful of convenient patsies to take the fall, and now he expected to walk away from what he had done.

He could hear that same frustration in Lady Violet’s voice. “How can you possibly sit there and deny it?”

Arcadio chuckled. “Like this.” He gave a smile so self-assured that Proximo had to resist the urge to rip it right off his face.

Aureliano seemed more offended. “It is the truth, horse-lover. Not that you would be familiar with such a thing. My brother is perfectly innocent in all this.”

It was strange how sincere Aureliano sounded to Proximo. He did not claim to be the Warden of Honesty—he had no supposed power of telling truth from fiction—and yet Proximo did not get the sense that Aureliano was lying. Could he really be that blind? Proximo wondered. Could anyone? Or is he just lying to himself as well?

Arcadio continued on with a yawn. “You really have my deepest sympathies, my lady. But the blame of this is squarely on the men who have confessed, not me. What reason have we to reject their testimony, hm? Truthfully, I’m simply torn up about the whole thing. But this is just what happens when you have servants you can’t trust. I suppose,” he said with a smirk to Lord Halforth, “that my lord knows all about how that feels.”

The lie was so audacious that Proximo was almost impressed. Lord Halforth was gripping the arms of his chair hard enough that Proximo thought he might snap them off, and yet he did not blink when he stared at Arcadio Martes. Arcadio kept on smiling blandly, seemingly oblivious. Or, more likely, just past caring.

After a moment of silence, the Lord Moderator spoke again. “If you truly believe that there will be no consequences for what you have done,” Lord Halforth said, talking through clenched teeth, “then you are mistaken. Leave my sight, the both of you.”

The brothers Martes did as they were bid, though not happily. Cellia spoke up hesitantly after the two left. “Your honor, this is the height of falsehood. It cannot—”

“If I had any need of your personal annotations, Miss Ravenry, I would ask for them,” Lord Halforth snapped. He picked up the folders of testimony from it front of him and slammed them down beside him. “You wish to help, hmm? Then read through these. Confessions, they say, with every fact matching and every account squared. These men admit to committing this crime, no doubt on some wind of promise from their masters. Yet can I set them aside, just because I think I can see lies catching in their teeth? Is my ego large enough that I can hold myself above any testimony that is inconvenient to me?” Lord Halforth shot an angry, askance look to his aide. “Well, what is your solution, Miss Ravenry? Do you have one?”

Cellia stepped back, as though she had been struck, and said nothing further. Halforth wore his displeasure openly when he turned away. “I will comb every syllable of these documents to find something that will prove them false. But if I cannot find it? Then the law is clear.”

Lady Violet spoke in a measured tone. “My lord, there surely must be something—”

“If you have such a breadth of legal knowledge that you might conjure me some precedent to support ignoring this testimony, I am eager to hear of it, horse-lover,” Lord Halforth interrupted. “Otherwise, I care very little to hear your sniping. And do not speak to me as though we are on some kind of conspiratorial team together—like it or not, you and your friends are still suspects in this investigation.”

“There has only been one side of this case that has been consistently throwing off the truth,” Lady Violet retorted.

“Now you claim to be some paragons of truthfulness,” Halforth scoffed. He snatched a cup of that hot brown stuff he occasionally would occasionally partake in, examined it a moment, and took a sharp sip. “Tell me,” he said after he finished, “why is it that whenever you come to speak with me, your Warden of Honesty never accompanies you?”

Proximo thought Violet seemed disarmed by the question, but she endeavored to not show it. “He has had other business, my lord.”

“Or perhaps you are afraid of what he might say,” Halforth mused. “I admire your Lord Honesty’s candor. You do not seem to share that sentiment, seeing that you hide him away.” He looked between Proximo and Violet harshly. “What is it you fear he will say, hmm? Perhaps there is some knowledge relevant to this case that you wish not to reveal? I believe you said that there was no lying on your part.”

Proximo almost gasped. How did he know? Surely they hadn’t been obvious in keeping the incident with Sir Alwin and their knowledge of the Changelings under wraps. If Halforth actually had a proven reason to suspect them, he would have already said so. Yet the Lord Moderator seemed completely assured that he was right, drinking calmly as he eyed the two Bronies.

Violet remained focused. “I do not mean to disappoint, my lord,” she said without breaking a sweat, “but my honest friend would have little to say.”

Lord Halforth grimaced. “You choose your words carefully. But do not think of my as some spring-green novice to be deceived—I can see your fictions upon your faces. I do not intend to make the mistake of trust easily again.” He closed his eyes and breathed deep, his face only a moment away from anger. “Perhaps you worry that I shall allow Arcadio to slip away unpunished. If so, you could not be more mistaken. So far as I am concerned, the word of the Martes is now worth less than nothing, and I will not suffer another lie from them. There will be a reckoning for Arcadio and his ilk, just as there was one for the apostate in my charge, even if I have to burn down this entire city to get it. But now I see that there are too many variables at play for one man alone to combat. A new approach is now in order, one that neither you nor the Martes will be able to stand against. Mark this well: justice is coming. Perhaps you had best prepare yourselves.”

Those words worried Proximo. “If my lord should want—” he began.

“Want? Want?” Halforth laughed bitterly, but without any humor. “You cannot be so great a fool as to think that what a man wants matters at all. Do you think I want to be here, in this place, listening to you and them? To hear threats and pleadings and damnable lies every hour, every day?” Halforth half-tossed his cup to the table, letting it clatter down as he stood, his face twisted. “I am tired, horse-lover. I want to return home, and live out what days remain to me reading and contemplating, not bickering with the likes of you. I want that kind of peace. I want to shake my son’s hand and see the smile on a grandchild’s face. I want to see my wife again, alive and whole and both of us free. I want this world to be without pride or sin or evil, so my duty is done. But it is not, and it will not be. So I am here. No, what a man wants does not matter.”

Proximo could practically feel the rest of the room shrinking away when Halforth spoke in reproach. Neither he, nor Violet, nor Cellia dared say a word. At last, the Lord Moderator simply said, “You are all dismissed. I will need time to review these documents.”

They all stepped out gingerly, leaving Halforth alone. As they departed and shut the door, Lady Violet turned aside. “Miss Ravenry?” she asked. “I’m sorry to ask, but are you well?”

Cellia tried to appear confident. “I’m fine, my lady,” she said. She didn’t look fine. In fact, Proximo had never seen her quite so crestfallen. Her ordinary formalness had vanished, leaving her with a look of surprising vulnerability. Her face was downcast, her voice full of doubt.

Truthfully, Proximo had never seen Halforth be so short with one of his subordinates before. Strict, perhaps, but not curt and dismissive as he had been today, and certainly never with Miss Ravenry, his star pupil. Proximo could tell that she was not taking this shift well. She’s wondering what she’s done wrong, he realized sadly. It was not as though Halforth’s anger was any fault of hers.

Lady Violet seemed to understand immediately. “Miss Ravenry,” she said sympathetically, “I can tell that Lord Halforth has simply been under a great deal of stress of late.”

Cellia nodded numbly, but said nothing. “Apologies, my lady, but I… there’s work I should be doing. Good day.” She held her notebook very tightly to her chest as she walked away.

Violet seemed troubled as well as she and Proximo went on their way. He spoke up first, “Halforth suspects us,” Proximo said. They both obviously knew it already, but someone had to say the words out loud.

“He suspects everyone,” Violet said grimly. “If he had anything beyond suspicion, he would have cornered us with it. This is worse than I thought. He is lashing out from paranoia.”

Proximo swallowed. He dreaded to think of what a Lord Moderator enraged might be able to inflict upon them all. “Halforth claimed there would be a new approach to this case,” Proximo reminded her. “I don’t know whether that bodes well for us or not.”

“Clearly he is not willing to let the Martes go unpunished,” Violet replied. “That much at least is good news for us—Halforth shall never let this disgrace go uncorrected. But now I also worry. I should have known that this business with Sir Depravity would affect him so deeply—the two were partners for years. Now we have an enraged Moderator, and there is no telling what he might do.”

“So what are we to do?”

“There is little choice,” she replied. “I know that we are close. I have to believe that. If we can just work through this, it will not matter what Halforth thinks—we shall have the proof we need. All we need is to keep a tight lid upon this business with the Changelings until we have definite proof of Dabrius’ innocence. Then, we can finally put this awful place behind us and bring our friends home.”

Proximo nodded. The rest was left unsaid: the Warden of Honesty would be kept away. Violet would never say it aloud, but Proximo knew that she realized the importance of discretion here, something the Warden lacked. They could not risk revealing too much now, when even the Bronies still weren’t entirely sure what was happening. Good, Proximo thought. The Warden of Honesty would only make things worse.

“At any rate,” she continued, “we have other things to tackle today.” Violet looked forward, as determined as ever. “This is our big moment, I think.”

“We’re still lined up to meet with Sir Alwin?” Proximo ventured. He had to pray that nothing would go wrong.

“Yes indeed. After this day is done,” she said, “we will know if our mission here is still even possible. If Sir Alwin is not convinced, we shall have no chance of gaining the two votes we need. But with him on our side, we can turn all of this around.”

Proximo nodded. “We’ll need to approach this delicately.”

“Without a doubt. I suspect it will require every charm and cajole that you and I can conjure, my dear assistant.” She smiled. “But I know we can do it, all of us. Sir Alwin will be coming to the Brony quarters before long, so you and Honesty and I will—”

“The Warden of Honesty?” Proximo interrupted, alarmed. “You want him there?”

“Yes,” Lady Violet answered firmly. “It will be no surprise to Sir Alwin. Honesty needs to make his own accounting of what he did, and his own apology. It cannot come second-hand from me.”

“The Warden isn’t capable of apologizing, my lady.” Proximo couldn’t understand it. She wants to put Sir Alwin in a room with the Warden again? With so much at stake? The situation was far too precarious to leave such a risk up to someone like the Warden.

“He is capable of more than you realize,” she replied sternly. Violet took a silent moment before she spoke up again. “Do you remember when we spoke in the tunnels? When I told you that there was a time for diplomacy, and a time for force?” Proximo nodded, so she went on. “This is a time for words. I realize that. But Honesty knows that as well. He knew this moment was coming, so he came to me to make sure he did nothing wrong, even though it goes against his every instinct. He trusts in me… so now I am putting my trust in him. I wish you would do the same.”

Proximo fought the urge to scoff. He was grateful that the Warden of Honesty had saved their lives, but that didn’t mean giving him a blank cheque to disturb their progress. The Warden could not and would not change—nothing could be more obvious than that.

They continued to walk silently, until Violet spoke again. “He is not the only one with an important meeting today, as I understand it.”

Proximo nodded morosely. “I’ll be seeing Imelia later in the evening.”

“Will you be alright, my friend?” she asked with a genuine concern.

“Not even remotely, I think.” Proximo knew that this stalemate he had in his heart over Imelia couldn’t continue. He had to make a choice between one horrible option or the other. He just had no idea which. Six save me, how can I possibly explain myself?

He had no way of knowing for himself. Worse, he wasn’t even sure he could trust himself to do what was right, with doubts and temptations weighing down on him. Where could he turn?

The answer to his prayers came in words long written down, that Proximo recalled as though he had heard them yesterday. The Magic Friend: ‘While friendship is about giving of ourselves to friends, it’s also about accepting what our friends have to offer.’

Proximo turned to his friend. “Violet,” he confessed, “I… I’m lost. Imelia, this whole mess.” He sighed heavily. “What should I do?”

He could tell from her expression that this was a question she had no easy answer for. “You are between a Tom and hard place, Proxi. No one living could discount that. I do not have all the weights and measures in my mind to account for every part of this problem, I confess.” She kept her eyes down as she answered. “But there are things I do know. Imelia has suffered a great deal. More than what most people could take without giving up. If there is some greater justice that I could grant to her… perhaps after all this is done I could see that she finds a better opportunity than what she has here.”

Proximo agreed silently. No matter what happened, he intended to make sure that Imelia had a better life after his time in the Dreamweave was done than what she had before. Perhaps she could come back to the Citadel with us, he thought. Would she ever convert? He hadn’t felt it appropriate to broach the subject before, though perhaps she would be open.

“But for right now?” Violet continued. She looked deeply troubled. “I admit, I do not know her as well as you. It might be that I am misreading all of this. But I worry about what another heartbreak would do.” A yellow light from the windows poured in around them as she kept her pace. “Perhaps it would be better that she not know the truth.”

Proximo looked to her. “You think I should lie?”

The question seemed to sit uneasily with Violet. “I have told you before a little about my sisters at home, have I not? Well, my younger sister Varalia was always taken up in some new romantic fancy every week or so. She would be head over heels in affection and sighing lovestruck over some lordling one day, and then the next would have shifted to someone else.” Recounting the memory made Violet smile a little. “At any rate, once she continued pining for one gentleman for well over a month—a new record. So, recognizing rule one of the sibling handbook, I decided to investigate the object of her affections.” She gave a sly look to Proximo. “Turns out that young Lord Battings-Wei was having a dalliance with his valet, so obviously that was out of the question. But I wished to spare Varalia the hurt, so I told her that another handsome gentleman in the local circle had his eyes on her. So my sister got a new suitor, Lord Battings-Wei got to continue debasing himself, and all were happy and none-the-wiser. It was a lie, of course… but not a bad one.”

She bit her lip. “You know what we have had to do with Halforth. It is not… it is not a comfortable position. But don’t you think that sometimes, at least, a lie can be the best for all? If the truth would truly hurt her, and if some words from you would give her a measure of comfort she needs to survive, if only for a moment, then…”

Violet shook her head, and shook the thought away with it. “I truly don’t know, Proximo. This is something that you will need to judge for yourself, and I trust that you will know the best way better than I. But I have always thought that good actions are one thing… and good results another. Just keep it in mind.”

Proximo would, though the advice did little to quell his troubled thoughts. They continued to walk on silently, for a time. Lady Violet spoke again a bit further. “We shall need Honesty for this. Could you fetch him and tell him that our meeting begins soon?”

Proximo did as he was bid, tactfully choosing to keep his further misgivings on the Warden to himself. I suppose I just need to get used to it, he thought with resignation. He dislikes me, and I dislike him, but Lady Violet will have nothing to do with it. Proximo knew that he could put such things past him if he tried. He just hoped that the Warden could prove at least that civilized.

Alone again, Proximo turned Violet’s advice over in his mind. A lie, he mused unhappily, but one to stop some great harm. Would it truly help? If it did, would that be worth it? The moral calculus of it all set him on edge: how much pain did a lie need to prevent for it to be right? Where was the boundary, and where did it end? If I go through with this, what am I giving up?

That last question made him angry with himself. It doesn’t matter what it costs me, he resolved. How can I be a Generous Friend if I cannot sacrifice? Thinking about himself was the last thing he needed to do now. Imelia was the one that mattered… and he had to be willing to do whatever it took to help her. If a lie is all I have at my hands to do that… so be it.

The Warden’s room was guarded by several Honest Eyes, outside a door that was not far down the hall from Proximo’s own quarters. Crispin Peck gave Proximo a happy little wave when he saw the assistant approach, but that did not stop the others from blocking him. Strongshield, only recently out of the sick beds, stood in front of the door, while a blond man with a golden eye printed upon his chest held up a hand to stop Proximo from taking another step.

“Need something, friend?” the blond man asked amiably, though he did not make any move to step aside.

“Lady Violet has need of the Warden of Honesty,” Proximo explained. “May I speak with him, please?”

“The Great Honest One is meditating,” Strongshield grunted, gesturing with her head to the door. Looking behind her, Proximo saw that there was a soft glow coming from below the door. There was a faint sound coming from the other side, almost like the cracking of a fire.

Proximo frowned. “Well, this is urgent. I’m sure he can finish his business later.”

The idea that Proximo would interrupt the Warden seemed to unnerve Crispin considerably, as he shook his head frantically to dissuade Proximo from trying. Strongshield stared Proximo down. “Push him away if he tries to come through, Jon.”

“Sorry, friend,” the blond Honest Eye—Jon, apparently—said sympathetically. “The Warden’s not to be disturbed in his rituals. No exceptions.”

“You will make one for Lady Violet,” Proximo insisted, past his patience.

Strongshield jabbed at him with a sharp finger. “Now listen to me, you pompous lit—”

“Let him in,” came a voice from within the room. The strange sound from under the door vanished.

Strongshield withdrew grudging, while a sweaty Crispin waved Proximo ahead, wearing a smile that was far more nervous than he likely intended. Proximo opened the door and went inside the dark room.

It was a tiny, shadowed space inside. All of the furniture had been removed, save for a small table to the side, with barely anything on it. If there was a window, it had been shut and sealed, because the entire place was pitch black. In the center of the room, however, was the outline of a great crouching form cast in darkness, only barely illuminated around the edges from the light of six dim candles arranged in a ring before him. The Warden knelt, a warhammer across his knees, completely silent and unmoving. He did not turn or acknowledge that Proximo was there.

Proximo did not focus his sight on the Warden, however. His eyes were on the small table, and on the familiar things that rested upon it.

There was an ugly little sack thrown atop it, but the rest of the articles were laid out neatly, as though they were holy relics out in a reverent display. A golden medallion, inlaid with a amethyst star that bore six points. A white dagger, with an orange gem in the hilt. Proximo’s mind flashed back to a day weeks in the past—the day that they had all left for the Dreamweave. The gifts from Lord Mars and Lady Wright, Proximo recognized immediately. There was another thing as well: a simple piece of paper, rolled up and loosely wrapped with a pink ribbon. It was strange to see those things there. But Proximo was gaping at something else, the very last of the things upon that table.

It was right in the center. A little shrivelled thing, brown and dead. There was nothing left of it but a mere stem now, with the ragged ruins of half a petal or so still on it. All its original color had gone: it had curled and blackened and fallen apart. Yet there it still was.

‘It is not much,’ Proximo remembered Lady Lillian Semmer, the Warden of Kindness, saying so long ago. ‘But you’ll keep it with you, yes? And I’ll have something nicer when you come back.’ The Warden of Kindness had given Violet and Proximo a flower each, as a parting gift… and she had given one to the Warden of Honesty as well. When Proximo saw that shrivelled, blackened stem, he knew exactly what it was.

He kept it, Proximo thought, shocked. The Warden kept it all this time. Violet and Proximo both had discarded theirs the moment that the flowers started to wither, but the Warden of Honesty has stored it like a treasure, never letting it go. Proximo was so taken aback by the thought of Warden valuing the little thing so highly that he had no idea what to think. For no particular reason, he felt himself reach his fingers down to the dead flower, as though to see if it were actually there. His fingertips brushed against it lightly.

The door slammed shut behind him.

Proximo’s hand shot back, and he looked forward, startled and unsure whether the door had been slammed by the Honest Eyes outside, or by something else entirely.

“M— My lord?” Proximo ventured. He was not sure if the Warden even knew that he had entered.

“We are needed,” the Warden stated, still turned away. It was not phrased as a question.

“Lady Violet has requested your presence, my lord,” Proximo replied uneasily.

“Speaking with the knight,” murmured the Warden.

“Yes.” There was a long, pregnant silence between them, until Proximo could bear it no longer. “Will you come, my lord?”

“A moment,” the Warden grunted. Another moment passed. Then, silently, the Warden swept his hand over the six candles in front of him, snuffing them out in a single motion. He rose to his feet and turned. “We are finished,” he said as he went for the door.

“What were you even doing?” Proximo could not help but wonder.

“Asking for help,” the Warden replied without further explanation. “We go.”

So they did, with nothing else being said between them. The Warden dismissed the Honest Eyes standing guard and proceeded with Proximo towards the appointed place, with Proximo only barely keeping pace with the Warden’s huge strides.

They reached the room in good time, but Proximo paused before they entered. There were distinct voices coming from within—ones that he knew immediately. Lady Violet is already there, he thought, and Sir Alwin is with her. Proximo muttered a curse: he had hoped they would have more time to prepare. Now or never.

Proximo turned to face the Warden, determined to say his piece before whatever happened. “We’ve only one chance at this,” he warned in a low voice. “And we both know your own actions are what put us here to start with. Before, you made airs of never stooping to meet with outsiders, let alone apologizing to them. So what changed?” Proximo knew it was absurd for him to try and talk down to the Warden, but he needed the assurance nonetheless. “Do you understand what’s at stake? Do you even know what to do?”

The Warden looked down at him and said nothing, at first. He murmured after, “While friendship is about giving of ourselves to friends, it is also about accepting what our friends have to offer.”

“Excuse me?”

The Warden shifted his gaze forward, toward the door. “We know what to do,” he answered quietly. “Lady Madelin Wright. Knew there was uncertainty. Before departure, she told us. Tactical plan, for situation. One like this. ‘Universal rule of advice.’ ”

Proximo cocked his head. “That being?”

“ ‘Do not screw it up,’ ” he replied flatly. The Warden pushed his way inside without another word. Proximo followed behind, after a moment to determine if he had heard that correctly.

Lady Violet was seated, and looked up when she saw her friends enter. Next to her was Sir Alwin. The knight tensed when he saw the Warden of Honesty enter.

Proximo tried to not show his nervousness, and pulled up a seat across the table, next to an overly-large chair that he guessed was procured for the Warden of Honesty’s benefit. Proximo half-expected the Warden to stubbornly remained standing, but was surprised when the giant obligingly took the seat instead, sitting down silently.

Lady Violet seized the initiative. “I would be a fool if I thought that every problem could be solved simply,” she said. “But before we go any further, there is something that must be said.” She looked to the Warden. “My honest friend?”

The Warden said nothing, at first. Proximo took a breath and prepared for the worst.

He was surprised again. The Warden stirred and looked to Sir Alwin. “This one apologizes,” he said. “Actions it took were incorrect. Antithetical. Unworthy. Our friends have shown us this, and it was wrong to assail you.”

Sir Alwin seemed to chew on those words. “I am not...I am not blind or deaf to justice, my lord,” the knight said haltingly. “A moderator is not meant to forgive easily. If it were Halforth in my place, he would say the law demands reprisal. But if we’re to be sincere,” he continued, “it was me that wronged you first, when I went along with what Borlund and Blair had planned.”

“We do not make excuses for what we did,” the Warden said, seeming uncomfortable that Sir Alwin would try to defend him.

“No, and I’m not making any for you,” Sir Alwin admitted. “But I can’t excuse myself either. Perhaps…” Sir Alwin looked off, thinking carefully. “I never wanted to be a knight, you know. It was a tradition I found myself wrapped up in. If I had a choice, I wouldn’t be here now.” He gave a rueful laugh. “I might get my wish. If Halforth has his way, I’ll be stripped of my rank and carted off before long. So much for knighthood.”

Sir Alwin leaned away and rested his head on the back of his chair. “But until that happens… so long as I am a knight, whether I wanted it or not, I do not intend to disgrace that office anymore. That much I do owe to my family, and to everyone depending on the Authority here. It cannot continue.” He turned his large eyes up to the Warden of Honesty. “Perhaps it’s enough that we both say we were wrong, and move on. There’s more at stake here than either of us.”

The Warden of Honesty nodded solemnly, letting the agreement stand quietly.

Lady Violet smiled proudly at her handiwork, and at her friend. “Now then,” she said to Sir Alwin, “what happens next?”

Sir Alwin thought about that. “I still have the third vote in this case. I intend to use that vote justly—you needn’t worry about having two Sir Borlunds on the bench. But at the same time…” He gave a troubled look to Violet. “Light of life, this case is a mess. The evidence against the diplomats is circumstantial at best, and I cannot see how it would convict your man Greenglade, considering what testimony you have. But at the same time, that evidence is all the court has. We’ve all been searched high and low for weeks, and haven’t turned up a single other suspect. What’s the alternative theory? Who else could be behind it? It doesn’t help that your other man, Dabrius, has refused to offer an alibi.” Sir Alwin looked between the three Bronies seriously. “I still do not believe that Sir Harald or his squire were killed by your friend, but if you cannot find another explanation, there is only one verdict possible.”

“Leave that to us,” Lady Violet replied. “Sir, I swear to you that Dabrius Joh is not responsible for this crime, nor anyone else from this fandom. I cannot claim to know who the guilty party truly is, but I can say that if we have a little more time, we will summon the proof we need.”

“I hope you can. Sir Borlund is set to vote guilty no matter what, I’m afraid, but you might still be able to convince Halforth of your innocence. Though I’m not sure of even that,” he said unhappily. “It seems I have the blame for that as well. Ever since he learned the truth about the prisoners, Lord Halforth has been treating everyone with suspicion, even his own Peacekeepers.”

“We’ve noticed that much,” Proximo said. Truthfully, he suspected now that, with Sir Alwin brought back into the fold, Lord Halforth might now be their greatest obstacle to success. If he cannot judge this case objectively any longer, Proximo worried, is there any guarantee that he will take our side even if we have proof?

Lady Violet seemed to read his concerns. “Do you believe it likely that Lord Halforth will dismiss whatever proof we might bring?”

Sir Alwin shook his head. “I truly do not know. Lord Halforth is nothing like Borlund, but I cannot predict at all what he might do now. Betrayal from the people he thought above suspicion has affected him more deeply than I would ever have expected. You will need to be careful.”

“That I can do,” Lady Violet nodded. “I thank you for this, Sir Alwin. Not every man would be able to move past what we have all done.”

“It is truly the least I can do,” Sir Alwin said with a weak smile. “I have been a poor knight indeed, my lady.”

“You are a better one than you realize, sir,” she assured him. “Thank you.”

With that, it was done, and Sir Alwin took his leave. For all the doubts, the meeting had gone as well as Proximo could have hoped.

It was exactly that which Proximo found so confusing. He looked at the Warden of Honesty with uncertainty. “I thought,” he ventured, unable to shake his skepticism, “that you didn’t believe in apologizing to outsiders?”

The Warden rose from his seat. “Not about ‘believe.’ An instrument is used. Does not believe.” He fixed Proximo with a serious look. “What this one said was true. So this one spoke.”

Lady Violet laid a hand on the Warden’s huge arm. “You did well, Honesty.”

“Thanks to a friend,” the Warden replied. Violet smiled, but after that Honesty turned and looked at Proximo instead. “Not the only truth to say. We know what you fear. The girl. Kohburn.”

Proximo stiffened. “I did not ask f—”

“This one spoke… hastily. In last conversation. About her,” the Warden said carefully. “Situation tenuous. This one did not account for that. It apologizes for misjudging.”

Proximo, taken aback, tried to calculate exactly what the Warden was trying to accomplish. Is he truly apologizing for offending me earlier? he wondered. It was not something he thought the Warden would ever think to do, but no other explanation came to mind. Proximo answered cautiously. “Very well, my lord.”

“But we were not wrong,” the Warden continued firmly. “Friendship cannot be without truth. Lies evil. Help no one. Will only hurt more.”

Proximo considered the Warden’s words warily. “Why are you telling me this? What has it to do with you?”

“You are concerned for her. We see this. Offer help.”

“Yes, but why?” Proximo asked, exasperated. It made no sense to him at all: why should the Warden care at all? He and I cannot stand one another! Proximo reasoned. Why is he trying to make me feel better? “What do you have to gain from this? Why should you care what happens to her or me?”

The Warden of Honesty gave him a look of profound confusion. “Because you are our friend,” he said. The Warden spoke as though the answer was incredibly obvious.

And in an instant, a cloud cleared over Proximo’s mind, revealing something he had ignored all along. For all this time, Proximo had assumed that the Warden disliked him just as much as Proximo did the Warden. He had never known how far that was from the truth until that moment, while he weighed the words in surprised silence.

The Warden turned to leave, but not without a parting word. “Season of Keys, twentieth episode,” he said as he departed. “Keep it in mind.”

Proximo and Violet were left alone together. Lady Violet looked at her assistant expectantly. “So?” she merely asked.

“He never hated me,” Proximo said, a bit dazed. More than that, actually. “He never thought of me as anything but a friend.” But we’ve been arguing with one another this whole time! Proximo thought, still confused. We’ve never said a kind word to one another. Why wo—

Lady Violet seemed to read his thoughts. “All that Honesty is, all that he does,” she said softly, “he does for others. He doesn’t even think of himself as a person at all. Do you truly think he would ever care about the way he is treated, or what others say to him? The only person in the world he truly hates is himself.” Violet sounded immeasurably sad when she described her friend. “But for all that he says about not feeling anything for his own sake, I know that isn’t all true, even if he doesn’t realize it. He doesn’t just protect us because he has to—he does it because the Collective is the only family he has. Because he is a man, and a man who cares. A generous friend, as well as an honest one.”

Proximo could only nod. Part of him felt quite foolish, knowing that he had been holding onto a one-sided grudge all along. It was a great deal to process, all at once.

He asked for permission to take his leave, and went back to his own room. It was a small space on the far end of the quarters allotted to the Bronies, not too distant from the Warden of Honesty but largely removed from anyone else. It was a bit lonely, but in truth Proximo valued the silence—he had been having more sleepless nights than usual of late, and being amid noise would scarcely have helped. He felt oddly tired when he arrived in his room, drained after the events of the day. Stepping inside, Proximo laid down on his bed, resolving to rest his eyes while he considered all that had happened, and all that he had heard.

He had only a few hours before his meeting with Imelia. It was time to choose. Proximo thought carefully as he shut eyes.

‘Perhaps it would be better that she not know the truth.’ The advice from Violet, his lady, his master, his closest friend. Always caring, always compassionate. She had never led him astray before. And she thought that he should lie. ‘But don’t you think that sometimes, at least, a lie can be the best for all? If the truth would truly hurt her, and if some words from you would give her a measure of comfort she needs to survive, if only for a moment, then…’

‘It is cruel.’ Those words came from the Warden of Honesty. Hard, harsh, and uncompromising. Incapable of changing himself at all, viewing all who disagreed with contempt… or so Proximo had thought, until that day. ‘Friendship cannot be without truth. Lies evil. Help no one. Will only hurt more.’

He could hear his sister taunting him. ‘The choice,’ she said, the scorn practically oozing through, ‘is entirely your own.’

‘Your own…’

‘Your own…’

Proximo took a sharp breath, and looked around him. His room was gone—instead he stood in a dark, shapeless void. I’m dreaming, he realized right away, still lucid. Already he picked up on the familiar features of that recurring nightmare, the one often had of the duel years ago.

Around him was the featureless crowd of onlookers, little more than mist. Before him was his opponent, sharpening his blade on the whetstone. In Proximo’s hand was the familiar sword.

But there was something wrong.

Proximo knew the dream well—he could not count the number of times he had conjured it up on restless nights. And yet now there were details changed and twisted, altered in a way that even Proximo’s hazy perception could count. The man—the man who had ended his old life, the one meant to strike Proximo down—was all wrong. His face wasn’t the same, nor his clothes—his very shape and outline seemed foggy, warping subtly as he moved. And all around him, the eyes.

Yellow, hateful eyes peering out, watching the scene before them with cold regard. None of the dark figures in the crowd had faces to speak of, but all of them had the eyes. And all of them were fixed on Proximo Hart.

“Ready to die?” Proximo heard himself say. But the voice was not his own—it was a different pitch and tone, older and far more cruel. Still only half-thinking, Proximo thought for a moment that he sounded just like Arcadio.

There was a soft murmur from his opponent, a whisper that Proximo could not decipher. But in front of him, the man’s shape was changing, blurring and collapsing and forming again, until it looked like someone else entirely. A young woman in green, looking up in hope.

Imelia was staring at him, the same youthful face, the same dusty clothes, the same sad prettiness. But her lidless eyes were yellow, like all the others, locked on Proximo with an implacable hold. “Save me…” she seemed to whisper.

Proximo felt his sword arm raise, and his feet take a step towards her threateningly. No, he thought wildly, stop! But he couldn’t control his own body—it moved on its own, jerking forward like a marionette. Proximo strained himself trying to halt, but choked and found himself looming over her, the sword pointed to her throat.

“Save me…” she repeated, pleading desperately. Proximo wanted to scream for her to run, but found himself still trapped inside his own body, unable to act.

The silver blade in his hand rose higher, then slashed.

As Imelia fell, a red line being drawn across her throat, Proximo heard himself scream. But behind him, as he fell to his knees, he heard another voice.

“You never fail to disappoint, Hart,” it mocked, as the pitiless yellow eyes watched on.

Proximo sprang awake in a start, chest rising and falling fast as he struggled to breath. His head was pounding, his eyes bleary, and his heart racing as he tried to make sense of where he was. A quick look around told him that he was indeed in his quarters, which alone was enough to make him breathe easy.

His hand trembled as he clutched at the bedposts. A thousand times, he must have had that dream, but never… never like that. His mind was still clouded with a sense of disgust when he realized something more important. How long was I asleep? he thought in a panic. Had he missed the meeting with Imelia?

Going to his pocket in a flash, Proximo yanked out a watch and opened it to check the time. It was only after he pulled back the cover that he realized it was the watch Jestin Jen had given him—the one that was broken. Proximo cursed, set it aside, then went to his nightside table to find his normal watch, glimpsing the hour. He breathed a sigh of relief—still fair time before the moment with Imi. He settled himself down a bit.

Proximo tried his best to collect his scattered thoughts. His hands still shook a bit, but after a moment he calmed himself down. Going to the small wardrobe, he began picking out clothes to ease his nerves.

While he tried on a vest, his eyes went down to the bronze watch, the gift from Jestin Jen. On a whim, Proximo picked it up and ran his fingers over the winged-tiger on its lid, feeling the cold metal underneath. Opening it, he saw the hands of the tiny clock still frozen in place, broken.

He turned the watch over in his hand, but caught sight of something. There was a etching on its rim, small enough that Proximo hadn’t caught it before. A name—’Cabrio’ it read.

Proximo thought back, and suddenly remembered something Jestin had told him before he had left for the Dreamweave. ‘Ask around for someone named ‘Cabrio Temley’ while you’re there… he’s an old friend, and I’m sure he’d love to help you out.’ Proximo had completely forgotten those words after a month in the city, much to his shame.

Jestin had made a friend here, even in this place, when he visited last, Proximo mused. Proximo tried to think of Jestin, the Warden of Laughter, friend to everyone he met. Always smiling, so seemingly carefree, and yet with an odd wisdom underneath it. He clutched the watch tightly in his hand. What would you do, Jestin, were you in my place?

Proximo thought about that for a long moment. He raised his hands to his face, steepling the first three fingers on either hand before his mouth as he prayed. Generous Friend, Honest Friend, Six and One… what should I do?

Only one answer came to mind, in the words of the Warden of Honesty. ‘Season of Keys, twentieth episode.’

Proximo walked to meet with Imelia, donned in fresh clothes—a white shirt, a purple vest, and a gold chain around his neck with the symbol of three pointed diamonds at the end. It might have been token, but it eased him to have his Element close to his heart now. Following the new protocol set up by the Wardens, he covered himself in a cloak and proceeded down to a side-exit of the Palace, where a small team of guards awaited him. Surreptitiously, they all departed the manse and proceeded to High-Hill Lane, where Imelia lived. Drawing himself up to the yellow door of her building, Proximo opened the door with a spare key and proceeded up, leaving the guards in the foyer below.

Summoning his courage, Proximo knocked on Imelia’s door, and waited a moment. She only took a moment to answer, opening the door and greeting him with a smile. “Evening, Proximo!” she said as she beckoned him inside. Her hair was drawn up into a pretty bun, and she wore a fine dress that was a verdant green, matching her eyes. She had dressed up considerably to meet him.

“Come in, I’ve got some new information to show you,” Imelia said excitedly as she sat down on the couch in the living room. There were scattered papers sitting atop a small coffee table in front of her seat, and she began sifting through them to find what she was looking for.

Proximo took a seat beside her. “How have you been?” he asked as he settled down.

She smiled. “Just fine. Busy, though. There’s been a lot to do, considering all that’s been happening recently, but I’ve managed.”

Proximo nodded. “I hope we’re not putting too much on your shoulders,” he said. “Your help has been much appreciated, of course, but if you think the demand is—”

“Oh no, not at all,” Imelia assured him. “Honestly, it’s nice to have something to do—I never really had a job like this before. Aha!” she exclaimed, pulling out a few bound sheets of paper. “Here’s the ticket—take a look.”

Reading over the page, Proximo saw immediately that it was a registry of names—more than he could count, all arranged in no evident order but with a series of check marks next to the names of some. Proximo read a small paragraph at the top of the first page, then looked back to Imelia. “A list of guards at the Palace?”

“The Martes keep them for their payroll. That one there is supposed to be all of the guards currently employed in the city watch,” she explained. “Except that it isn’t right.”

She held up another sheet of paper, one with other names written on it. “My friend in the guards says that, ever since the riot, these ones haven’t been showing up for their rounds. No word of transfer, not a hint they were leaving the service—just gone. When he asked around about it, no one could say where they were.”

“Perhaps they were killed during the riot?” Proximo asked, starting to put things together.

“Not officially, at least. Arcadio reported who the casualties were after that day—these men weren’t among them. They keep being listed on the books, but they seem to have vanished off the face of the Web. And that’s not all.” She pointed to a few other names on the list. “A week or so before the riots, my friend started noticing new people hanging around the guard quarters. They were in plainclothes, but they were receiving training in weapons only guards usually had. Like crossbows.”

Proximo picked up on what she meant immediately. “Who were these men?”

“No one recognizable, though apparently a few were Animen. They claimed to be new recruits. My friend asked for their names, and they gave them, but when I cross-referenced the ones they gave with that roster there, not one of them showed up. Completely off the record. And then, after the riot… gone. He hasn’t seen them since.”

Proximo started to piece together the scenario in his mind. A small group of guards, easily explained away, are pulled aside. Then, a group of outside operators—with no official ties to the guard—start receiving training in arms. Then both of them vanish right after the riots, the same time that a team of assassins sent after our friends were killed.

There was one piece left. “Did you learn anything about the weapons?”

Imelia nodded. “The people you had looking at the finances mentioned a sudden delivery of unmarked items to the Palace, yes? Well, my friend couldn’t be certain, but he seemed convinced that they were the weapons you spoke of. It’s just as they said—right after those crates arrived, new equipment started appearing. It would be all too easy for some to land in the hands of the assassins.”

Just as we suspected, Proximo thought. But there was a problem already digging at his mind. “This could be invaluable help,” he began, “but only if the Lord Moderator can hear it for himself. Do you believe your contact is any more willing to testify now?”

Imelia looked downcast. “I’m sorry, Proximo. I just don’t see how he could, even if he was willing. He could bring it out, but there’s no guarantee that it would be enough to put Arcadio away. And even if it was, what would happen to my friend then? He’d be hounded for the rest of his life by Aureliano and Pilara at the very least.”

“But what if this is our chance?” he asked. “We may only have only opportunity to finish all this—with Dabrius, with Arcadio, all of it. But if the moment slips past, and we no longer have any shot at justice, what will we do?” He gave her a pleading look. “There’s no way we can force your contact to testify for us. But there must be something we can do to sway him, if you ask. I’m sure we can make accommodations for him, after the trial is done.”

Imelia mulled over the idea. “What kind of accommodations?”

“Passage to somewhere else in the Web, if he desired. Or a place at the Citadel, as well. We are Generous Friends, after all, and we don’t abandon those who help us.”

She considered the idea carefully. “I cannot promise anything, of course. But I’ll see what I can do.”

Their talk was interrupted by the sound of shuffling feet behind them. “Imi, dearie, do we have company again?” came the voice of an old woman.

Imelia sighed. “Yes, grandmother, it’s like I told you. Proximo is visiting again.”

Lady Kohburn, every bit as wizened as ever, hobbled into view, smiling at the two of them. “Oh, how nice! It’s wonderful to see you again, young man! Where’s the little orange gentleman who was with you?”

It a moment for Proximo to recall who she was referring to. “You mean Crispin?” he asked, remembering that the mute had accompanied him to Imelia’s house last. “I’m afraid he couldn’t join me this evening.”

“What a shame, such a little gentleman!” Lady Kohburn took a look at the piles of papers on the coffee table, and pointed a shaky finger at it all. “Now what’s all this mess, Imi? Are you scrapbooking again?”

“No, grandmother, it’s that new work I was telling you about,” Imelia explained patiently. “The one I’ve been helping Proximo with?”

“Well, it’s just all over the table, dearie! Be sure you don’t leave it out.”

“Alright, grandmother, I promise I’ll cl—”

“I know,” Lady Kohburn said with a vacant smile, “why don’t I make you both some tea, while you clean it up, Imi.”

Imelia cringed. “No, Gran-Gran, you truly don’t need t—”

“I’ll be right back!” the old woman announced, making her way to the kitchen haltingly.

Imelia breathed deep and ran her hands through her hair as Lady Kohburn shuffled away. Proximo touched her arm and said, “I’ll go help her.”

Imelia gave a thankful smile, and Proximo went to aid the lady.

The kitchen was a small space, but thankfully Lady Kohburn didn’t need much room. She was making her way around and picking up needed supplies when Proximo cleared his throat. “Pardon me, my lady,” he said, “would you care for any help?”

Lady Kohburn gave a gummy smile in return. “Oh, how kind of you! If you don’t mind, yes. It gets a little hard for me to carry everything.”

Proximo obliged and started putting everything together for the tea. While he did so, Lady Kohburn spoke up again. “So what do you do for a living, dearie? I’m not sure Imelia ever told me.”

“Assistant Warden of Generosity, my lady,” said Proximo, conscious that Imelia probably had, in fact, already told her grandmother all this. “A servant of the fandom.”

“Ooo, how exciting! Which fandom do you work with here in the city, then?”

Proximo hesitated, just as he was getting out cups. Did Imelia want her to know I was a Brony? he wondered. Proximo doubted that the little old woman would hold it against him, but considering most others he had met since coming to the Dreamweave…

Proximo pushed that doubt from his mind. This city is getting to me, he had to admit. “I have the honor of serving the Brony Collective, my lady,” he said with a bow of his head, “and the Six Friends with it.”

Lady Kohburn had a little jump of realization. “Oh, that’s right, Imi told me that! Sorry, I hope you forgive a mad old woman for forgetting. I barely remember to keep my head on, these days.” She still smiled, but seemed just a bit more absent. “So, are you new in the city, then?”

“Well, I have visited the Dreamweave before, but that…” Proximo swallowed. That was before the duel. He felt a shiver across the scar upon his chest. “Well, this is the first I’ve visited and been in such good company as yours, my lady.”

The lady gave a little cooing laugh. “Such a little flatterer! Well, you’re always welcome in my home, dearie. It’s wonderful to see Imi with friends again. I don’t know what I’d do without her.”

They worked in silence for a minute or more, until the tea was ready. Proximo took a cloth in his hand and picked the kettle up by the handle, turning to rejoin Imelia. But before he left the kitchen, a hand pressed on his chest and stopped him.

“Just a mo’, before we’re done,” said Lady Kohburn. There was a smile on her face, but one strangely more serious than before. She kept a light, but steady hand to keep Proximo in place. “A word, quickly. You know that I’m a mad old woman, don’t you?”

Proximo was about to protest, but Lady Kohburn cut him off. “Now, don’t try to lie about it, really. I know that I’m a mad old woman,” she said sadly. “Everyone’s known for some time now. It can’t be helped, I’m afraid. I meant what I said earlier: I don’t know what I’d do without my Imi. She’s the only kin and friend I’ve left, and she’s given up so much to take care of an old bat like me. I’m not… I can’t always remember everything, but don’t think that I do not know her. I can see what see thinks of you.”

Lady Kohburn poked at him with a bony finger. “You be kind, you. Whatever it is that you do, you be kind to her. She deserves that much, from mad old women and from young men alike. Just remember that, Regiano.”

Proximo regarded the words carefully, then bowed his head. “I will, I promise. And it’s Proximo, actually.”

“Oh. Sorry, dearie, I forget.”

They returned to Imelia together, and sat a while with their drinks. Save for soft thanks and a few quiet words, they drank in silence, sitting together in the antiquated apartment. Eventually, once Proximo’s tea was reduced to the remains of leaves at the bottom of the cup, he felt Imelia’s hand on his arm. “Would you like to walk back to the Palace?” she asked.

Relieved as he was for a chance to talk in private, Proximo whispered, “Will your grandmother be well if we leave her alone?”

Imelia gave him a look and pointed over to the chair Lady Kohburn was sitting in. The ancient woman was sound asleep, mouth hanging open just a bit as breathed heavily.

Proximo had to smile, despite himself. “Well then, shall we?”

They departed in good order, the guards Proximo had with him tailing the two on the short walk back to the Palace of Aureliano. They crossed the square and stepped up the stairs, side-by-side, attracting glances from the Dreamweavers but nothing more. The hour was growing late, and yellow daylight was turning subtly to a ruddy-orange glow overhead. At last, they reached the doors of the Palace, and Proximo waved the guards away—he did not care to have a shadow the whole evening, not when there were private words to say.

He and Imi had been left alone. A small gap of silence lingered, until she looked out at the city below. “Quite the view,” she said.

Proximo looked out, as she did. He had been up on those tall stairs a dozen or more times over the course of the long weeks they’d spent in the Dreamweave, and every time he saw the city stretched out before him. For some odd reason, though, it seemed more significant when she pointed it out. Down the stone steps, there was a whole city unfurled—grey streets and squares, fountains living or else dry, buildings standing still or else fallen down, docks and walls and taverns and parapets all alike, with people wandering aimlessly between them. There was something different, now. He could see the burns on the Dreamweave’s face—streets and homes burned to blackened ash, left behind by the riots. No one had bothered to try and clear them away—the crumbling smears of dark soot had been allowed to remain like spots of indelible ink.

Proximo breathed deep. “It is,” he replied. “I believe I need to sit.”

Imelia looked at him, amused. “What, here on the steps? Best be careful: they might drag you off as a vagrant.”

Proximo planted himself down. “They can just try. A criminal mastermind, I am—I’ve a list of loitering offenses long enough to make a Moderator blush. Someday, all that standing around will catch up with me. But not today, I think.” He shot her a smile as he settled down into his seat.

Imi laughed. “Such a rebel. Mind if I join you? Strength in numbers, and all.”

Proximo made a sweeping gesture to the spot next to him, and so she sat down as well.

It was at that moment that Proximo became conscious again of the weight in his pocket, and what he had placed there to aid him. Reaching in a hand, he fished out that same bronze watch that Jestin Jen had given him, the one that he had meditated on earlier. It made him remember clearly what he had promised his friend before. “Imelia, do you know of a man named ‘Cabrio Temley’?

Imelia gaped at him. “How did you know?”

Proximo blinked. “Er, I suppose that’s a ‘yes,’ then?”

“I thought I had been so careful!” she cried, not acknowledging the question. “I don’t see how you could hav—” She stopped, and looked at him sternly. “Proximo, have you had people spying on me?”

“No, no!” Proximo said quickly, taken aback. “No, Imelia, I just know the name from a frie— I would never sp— oh, here, just look.”

He handed over the watch, which she eyed suspiciously. “My friend Jestin Jen—the Warden of Laughter—gave me that. He said that he’d gotten it from a man in the Dreamweave named ‘Cabrio.’ See there, the inscription on the side.”

Imelia looked over the watch carefully, and saw the name etched into the bronze casting. “Jestin Jen the Bard Errant?” she asked, looking seriously at him.

“Yes, actually,” he answered. “You’ve heard of him?” Proximo hadn’t thought of it before, but it made sense: Jestin had travelled all across the Web before he converted, including the Dreamweave. It was only natural that someone would recall him.

Imelia sighed. “Yes. Well, only a little. It was years ago, but I remember that there was some hullabaloo with Lady Willburm over a Tropeadour named ‘Jestin.’ Cabrio has mentioned him now and then—your friend left quite the impression on him.”

“Jestin has that effect on people.” Proximo thought for a moment, and put the pieces together in his mind. “He’s your contact in the guards, isn’t he? This Cabrio fellow, I mean.”

That earned him a mildly reproachful look in response, but she answered regardless. “I suppose there’s no keeping it under wraps now. Yes, that would be him. So much for secrecy—I’m not sure how cut out I am for this politics business.”

“Imelia,” Proximo ventured, “since the metaphorical cat is already out of the bag, do you think…”

“... that you could meet him in person?” she answered for him. Leaning back, Imi considered the idea carefully. “That depends,” she eventually said. “If I say no, will you go talk to him anyways?”

Proximo figured the truthful answer was best. “I wouldn’t if you weren’t inclined to allow it, but I cannot promise that my other friends would hold back.”

“Well, then I’d prefer it was you. But I need to talk with him about it first. And if he agrees, you need to do it alone, and discreetly.” She fixed him with a serious, pleading stare. “We can’t let Arcadio get wind of it, understand?”

Proximo bowed his head. “Discretion is my task and trade, Imi. I’ll take every precaution. Assuming, that is, that he actually agrees to meet in the first place.”

“It would hardly surprise me if he did. He isn’t one of Arcadio’s goons, I swear. He would help anyone if he could.” For whatever reason, talking about made Imelia look forlorn. “He’s been a good friend to me, Proximo. One of the few I have left, and better one than I deserve.”

“Whatever do you mean by that?” Proximo asked, puzzled.

Imelia looked unhappily out at the city, seeming loath to discuss it. Proximo was about to add that she needn’t tell him, if it was too private or too difficult to speak of, but she preempted him. “I used to run in all the right circles, you know. Pilara and her friends used to keep me around, and I’d laugh along at the right jokes when they did the same. Cabrio was a family friend that I knew well when I was young, not even half the same. Too earnest for jokes, but he always meant well, and was never anything but kind to me.”

Proximo could see Imelia’s small hands ball up into fists. “Well, I got older, and I let us drift apart. Had to stay in the right circles, you see, and Cabrio wasn’t fashionable anymore. He tried reconnecting every now and then, but I didn’t show him the time of day. And so I stayed in better-bred company until…” She put a hand on her stomach. “Well, until all this. The circle closed, and I was outside of it. Suddenly, I didn’t have friends any longer.” Despite what she spoke of, she gave a small smile. “Except that Cabrio came back. It was like he’d never even noticed I had left, like I’d never cast him off. He was the only person I had who could help me, at least until you came. And after all that he’s done for me now,” she continued sadly, “I couldn’t be more ashamed of all that I did to him. Of everything, really.”

In that moment, Proximo saw far more clearly why Imelia was loath to ask anymore of Cabrio Temley than he had already given. Even more, though, he saw that, despite a distance of time and circumstance, that he and Imelia were not altogether so different. “Imelia, I’ve never had occasion to tell you before, but I was the same way. You would not have wanted to meet me, before I converted.” There was a dull worry in his heart about what might happen if he told her all of it. Would she turn away, if she knew how bad I was? It was an irrational fear, but one that stuck nonetheless—he strived to push it away. “I was Arcadio, really.”

Imelia bristled at that. “Not Arcadio, no. I don’t believe that for a moment, Proximo.”

“It’s the truth,” he confessed. “Spoiled and empty and sad, that’s all I was.” As he remembered, he felt that familiar sensation snake up the scar across his chest, like a line of cold fire from his shoulder to his gut. “I never lived for anyone, save for myself. My family would try to help me, but that only made me all the worse, the way an animal hates being chained up even when it’s for its own good. I’d spend and drink and fight, and when I returned back I would curse and fling whatever abuse I could find, so long as it would hurt. It distracted me from myself.” He clutched at the stone staircase hard, as though trying to stay steady as bad memories came writhing back up. “I remember once… there was an old woman, who blocked my way in the street. I kicked her down, and ran off while she was crying there. Six save me, Arcadio, just as I told you. I’ve tried to leave it behind, but what if it’s still lurking underneath me? Sometimes I can’t help thinking that same way again, and I wonder if I’ve really changed at all.”

Proximo sat in grim, stony silence, wondering if he had said too much. He’d never spoken this much about his fears before, save to Violet, and his little sister once. Just when he worried that Imi would turn away, though, he felt a hand on his. “So what happened?” Imelia asked softly. “It took being cast out for me to realize what I’d done. What did you need, so you could see?”

That feeling biting at the skin of his chest lingered. “A duel,” Proximo replied. “I didn’t even know his name, but he left me lying in the mud, half-dead. No, wholly-dead, in truth. I died there, all at once in the mud, and then slowly in a hospital bed for three months.” He still tried to avoid thinking of it. The grinding, half-conscious agony of his recovery was a thousand times worse than the pain of the sword-slash itself. Weeks of pain, fluttering on the boundary between life and death, life barely on a thread even after the worst danger had passed. You never fail to disappoint, Hart. “It has a way of clarifying things, going through that. I don’t know if it’s right to say that I found the Collective, or if the Collective found me, but I joined because I needed to be better. To do more. So I see something other than that dead man in the mirror.”

Imelia squeezed his hand, and smiled just a little. “There you have it, Proximo.”

“Have what?”

“The difference,” she explained. “Arcadio would never admit he was wrong, Proximo. I never knew you before, but I know you now, and I’m glad that I do. You’re nothing like the rest of them, planting themselves up there in the Palace. They wouldn’t even try to change… and you have changed.” Imelia’s words were comforting, but there was something troubled in the way she looked. A slight sorrow in the way she carried herself, sitting there on the stairs. Doubt dancing in her eyes. “You’ve done better than me, Proximo. We, the both of us, saw well enough what we’d done. You managed to turn everything around. I wonder if I’m not changing for the worse.”

Proximo regarded her words, aghast. “You can’t mean that, Imelia. You haven’t done anything that w—”

“It’s not about what I’m doing, it’s about what I feel,” Imelia said, her mouth twisting just a bit. “Every day, it’s as though…” She bit down on her lip, searching for words. “It’s like everything in my life is just taunting me, every moment. Arcadio, Aureliano, Pilara, Withins-Bei, Gran-Gran, and… and this baby. It’s like they’re ripping the ground out from under me, and laughing, until I have nothing left. And I can’t stand it, Proximo. It makes me so angry that I can’t even think, that I want to rip out my hair and pull out my teeth, that I… I just don’t know what to do.”

She pulled up her legs, and balled them closely to her chest, her eyes growing wet with tears. “I hate them, Proximo. I hate them, and I’m so ashamed of it. Gran-Gran and this baby, they didn’t do anything wrong! But all I can think about is what I’ve had to give up for them. I’m supposed to take care of them both, but I feel like they cursed me.” Imelia was shaking, quivering, clutching her legs more tightly as the words came tumbling out. “How can I be so selfish to think things like that? I don’t want to feel that way, I don’t understand it at all, but I just can’t stop it. How can I be a better person now, if I still carry something like that inside me no matter how hard I try to force it away?” Her eyes were wavering, and a choke was in her voice. “How can—”

Proximo drew her into a hug before the first of her tears fell. Imelia was gripping him closely, like a drowning woman clutching at wreckage to stay afloat, but amid all of this Proximo found the way to speak. “Imelia,” he said with all the resolute confidence of a man trying to convince a friend, “you’ve never been selfish. I’ve never seen you hold back anything you could give to help someone else. And you’re only human. Don’t judge yourself on feelings you can’t control, not when your actions speak to something else entirely.” He drew himself back and looked square in her reddened eyes. “I might be the one in purple and white, but I cannot think of a soul half so generous as you. Never forget that.”

Imelia gave the best smile she could manage, and wiped at her eyes with her sleeve. “Thank you, Proximo. For everything, I mean. I… I haven’t said it enough before, but so much has changed for me in the past few weeks, and it’s all been because of you. I don’t know where I’d been, if you hadn’t come here.”

Proximo looked out, out to the west, and saw that the sun was dipping down past the horizon. A light wind went past, hinting at the calm warmth of a summer that was only starting to retreat. The colors in the air waxed and waned and changed, as the sky began to turn to orange and gold, and the darkling clouds faded away in the light.

Something stirred in him that moment, something that he could not explain. This is the time, Proximo thought sadly. He was not sure what possessed him to think this, but he knew somehow that the hour had come for the truth.

“Imelia,” Proximo began, “there’s something I need to tell you.” He could feel the weight of her green eyes pressing down on him, as temptations often do. “I’ve been worried… I’ve been sick thinking, actually, for some time now, that I might have hurt you. That… that I could have been—”

“Proximo,” Imelia interrupted, her voice small and sad, “I know.”

Taken aback, he turned to see her face in equal parts sorrow and reassurance. “I knew from the start, I think. I knew I couldn’t keep you. That night we met… I could never help myself from seeing you that way, but that doesn’t force you to lie to keep my peace of mind. We can be honest with each other.”

His stomach twisted into a tight knot. Proximo put his head in his hand. “Imelia, I’m so sorry.”

“It isn’t your fault,” she replied simply. “You did nothing but help me, Proximo, and I know you never wanted anything in return. I know it because…” Imelia gripped his hand more tightly. “Because you told me so. Do you remember when we danced? You said you didn’t need a reason to join me then, when no one else would, and now I know you wouldn’t lie. I was the only one that kept that fantasy going. I hope you’ll forgive me for that.” She looked out forlornly at the city, keeping his hand in hers. “You know, my grandmother doesn’t always see things the way they really are. I’ve always wondered if she ever drifted into those delusions willingly. Like some waking dream she slipped on, because the real world was too much pain to bear sometimes. Perhaps that’s what I’ve been doing too, all this time with you. Maybe I’ve been a madwoman as well. I suppose it’s time to wake up.”

Proximo felt her head resting on his shoulder. “But could you blame me, Proximo, if I wanted it to last?” Imelia asked quietly. “For just a moment longer?”

It was a question that needed no answer, and the rest they left unspoken. The warm, golden light of summer rested lightly on Proximo Hart, as he breathed out old troubles and breathed in new ones, as he always had and always would.

The Dreamweave below stretched on and on, ending only at the edge of Proximo’s vision, as though the distant walls and more-distant horizon were one and the same. It was a place that could be beautiful, but those black scorch-marks remained, the burns of riot and violence and old sins lingering even long after the damage was done, like a brand. Like scars.

They stayed there, two people holding hands, above that dying city.

* * * * * *

“...we must never forget, of course, that the friends we have must be protected. They must be cherished, and aided, and supported however we can, whenever we can. But aside from preserving the friendships we already have, we possess at the same time a duty to see our horizons expand. To find new connections, and new people to share in this journey of life.

“It is too easy for us to become boxed within our own cliques—to forget all that lie beyond our in-group, and thus make everyone else an ‘other’ to be avoided. There is power in solidarity, but not in isolation: that is the path of stagnation and decay. If you know only one thing, then you will have no solution to problems that lie outside your meager experience. We must seek the new and untried, the possibility untested… and the perspective that has not yet been considered.

“I once saw a green land, bathed in color. A white city on a blue mountain. A rainbow booming over a wide expanse. A town of friends… a world of friendship. A six-pointed star. We have all seen this. Now it is our task to live up to that vision.

“Everyone, within the fandom and without, has a purpose and a place, and when they join that talent with our own in the bonds of fellowship, we are all made mighty. And if we are ever to build that green land in our own time, we must reach out and gain the trust and love of every person we can manage.

“In short, the fate of Equestria indeed does depend on us making friends.”

— “Lecture on Equestria,” by Lord Feylen Mars, Warden of Magic

Chapter XXXII: Thorax

* * * * * *

“Consider what follows:

“The Web was made by and consists of the Logos: the Law, the Code, and the Word of the World. All things are the Word. Words are inherently comprised of smaller parts and carry an intended meaning. Thus, all things in the world are comprised of smaller parts, and these parts form the Word, and this Word carries an intended meaning. If one were to change one letter in a word, it would change the word, and thus change its meaning from what was originally intended. So it is with the Word, this being the Logos.

“The Web is the Word, and words carry information. The Web itself is comprised of information, and all things are comprised of data that forms complex information. If any one point of data is changed, the Code of the World is changed. When the Code of the World is changed, it is akin to a letter being changed in a word, which then changes the word, which then changes the sentence. Thus, all meaning of the original information is changed also, and the original intended meaning is lost.

“The Logos is the Web and the maker of the Web. This creation was imparted with an intended meaning. The meaning was given to Our Founder in revelation, and it is not to be changed.

“The way of the cybramancer is to rend data and change the Code, so as to rewrite the world as the user sees fit. Consider, for the reasons above, why it is then forbidden.”

— Excerpt from the “Book of Analogues,” from The Books of Black and White

* * * * * *

After the third time, Coin was expecting to be forced away, and they did not disappoint. A short shove was all that was needed, and he found himself colliding with a nearby wall. Thankfully, he’d maneuvered well enough that only his undamaged shoulder took the brunt of the blow, but it hardly helped heal the sting of another failed attempt.

Byrios Amberten, as genteel as his dress might have been, had all the wiry strength of an athlete, and so formed an impassable barrier between Coin and where he wanted to go. “No,” he said simply.

For the third time, Coin tried to explain. “I just need to speak with him,” he said. “Please, it may be absolutely vital to t—”

“To the thing that isn’t my concern, yes. I know precisely what you’re up to, Brony, and I’ll tell you now that Ott isn’t getting involved with it. Are you an amnesiac, or do you recall what I told you the last time you tried to force your way to him?”

Coin collected himself, standing up straight and facing Amberten. “I think the words ‘piss off’ were used.”

“Hmm-mm. That little token of advice still stands.”

“Still, I must insist.”

Amberten gripped the door-handle and gave Coin a firm look. “So must I,” he said, and slammed the door behind him.

Left alone, Coin groaned and brooded on yet another failure. Ever since the meeting with Dabrius Joh, he had resolved himself to speaking with the cybramancer Heylen Ott, no matter what it took. As it happens, ‘whatever it took’ turned out to be a great deal more than he was expecting. The Grandmance of the Dreamweave was bizarrely difficult to track down, and whenever Coin managed to locate him, Ott was surrounded by other people. Even worse, those people always included Amberten, who seemed determined to keep Coin or any other Brony agent as far away as possible. For reasons on which Coin could only speculate, Byrios Amberten seemed to be serving as Ott’s constant shadow and chaperone, ensuring that Coin could barely get a glimpse of his companion, let alone a private word.

Dusting himself off, Coin sighed and started to plan his next move. Right now, the success of the Brony cause in the Dreamweave latched upon one of two things: either finding who the true killers were, or else proving that the culprit was not Dabrius Joh. The first was still out of reach, but if one could only contact the Changelings, he might have a chance to give Dabrius an alibi. And for now, Heylen Ott was the only lead on the Society that Coin had, the only person who could feasibly be connected to it and who might be willing to discuss it further.

Coin clenched a fist. There was no way around it: he had to get Ott alone, even for only a moment. It was just a matter of how.

Stuffing his hands in the pockets of his orange uniform, Coin began to meander back to the Brony’s wing as he considered the next move. There was no giving up at this point, that much was clear: with no alternative path, he could only keep trying Ott until some other option arose. He could continue to just try and push his way through, but Ott was constantly surrounded and guarded even when Coin could find where he was. He had tried cornering Ott alone in the cybramancer’s chambers at night, but found them locked, bolted, and with angry voices inside. He even considered breaking in through a window, but the room being high-up, still filled with potentially hostile people, and with no other points of entry but a narrow ledge made that seem like a very bad idea. Especially to someone who did not care for heights.

It would also hardly send the right first impression on these possible Changelings, which led to the problem in his next possible avenue: the brute-force method. Coin did not count himself as being a man of great imagination, but what he did have was a few dozen burly friends who could push their way past any gaggle of nobles, snatch Ott, and then remove him so that Coin might question the man in peace. And possibly hit Amberten across the nose in the process, Coin couldn’t help but hope. He could practically see the Honest Eyes glowing in approval of him adopting the ‘Warden’s way’ of negotiation.

It was tempting, but Coin couldn’t help but think that such a path would make many other things more difficult. Even if they found the Changelings, the Bronies couldn’t force them to testify—they would need to do it willingly. Somehow Coin doubted that they would be more inclined to do so after treating them roughly. He sighed again as he weighed whatever his remaining options were. I’d really hoped to exhaust every other route before smashing in, Coin thought wearily, but this is starting to drag thin. We’ve not a lot of time left. Frowning, Coin continued to walk as he considered the option more carefully. Perhaps there’s still some other way to get Ott alone, or at least open enough to speak with briefly. I would need help, though. I wonder who might be available t—

“Well, hullo there my orange friend! You seem positively adrift in thought! I wasn’t aware that your folk ever found themselves in such a position.”

Coin spun around to see a curious figure talking to him. He was a man not much older than Coin, slightly portly with odd, choppy hair haphazardly strewn with streaks of brown dye. His clothes were a bit torn up, and gave the impression that he had been sleeping in them recently.

“Oh,” Coin said, a little taken aback, “er, good afternoon.”

The man seemed to consider that greeting very carefully. “Odd. People keep telling me that a certain time of day is ‘good,’ but I’ve never considered temporal points capable of any moral standing. First it was ‘good morning,’ and now this. I did also get a sharp kick to the shins earlier today, which as greetings go is far less ambiguous.” He minced over Coin’s way with a slight swagger in his step, and eyed up and down at the Brony before giving a strange smile. “Unless, of course, you mean that this is an afternoon in which one intends to do good. If that be the case, I must say that I’ve never felt much inclination for such a thing. Now then,” he said with a clap of his hands, “your name is…?”

“Uh, Coin Counter?”

The stranger burst out laughing. “Devio’s hand, truly? Heavens, your name must have been atrocious if you thought changing to that was an improvement.” Coin blushed with embarrassment, but the man continued without heed. “Now, I have to ask: what kind of coin are you? Because I’ve no use for copper at all, but a piece of gold might do me a whole world of good, eh chappy? I’ve errands that need doing, you see, and a man needs Coin for all of them. What say you, then? Lend a hand to a little buddy-buddy?” The man held out his hand and rubbed his forefinger and thumb together meaningfully.

Coin blinked in confusion. “You’re… asking me to loan you money?”

He chortled. “Oh, not in so many words, dear Coin! But if you wish to loan yourself to me, I promise to spend you wisely, eh? I’m in need of a carousing partner, m’lad, and I’ve always been fond of carrying a full purse before I go out. Step lively, we’ll sing and dance and drink and howl the night away!”

“It’s three in the afternoon.”

“Details, details.”

A feeling of dread snaked up as Coin began to suspect who this person was. “You aren’t by any chance named ‘Withins-Bei,’ are you?”

He seemed positively delighted. “Well, I most certainly am! Finally, the reputation of this Withins-Bei precedes him! Usually it’s just the smell that gives it away.”

Coin had feared as much. Though they had not had the dubious pleasure of meeting until that day, Coin had heard his fair share of horror stories about the Brony’s erstwhile ally. This might be a very long afternoon. “I actually have work I need to be do—”

“Work?” Withins-Bei yawned. “Can’t say I’m familiar with the word. But what is it holding you back, pal-of-mine?”

“Heylen Ott,” Coin explained, hoping that it would force Withins-Bei to prowl elsewhere. “I was hoping to have a private word with him. So, if you’ll ex—”

“Ott?” Withins-Bei interrupted yet again. “That dalmatian-looking freak? You’ve odd taste indeed, gold piece. Well, what’s stopping you, then? He doesn’t bite.” He smirked odiously. “He practices blood magic, of course, but still he doesn’t bite.”

Coin swallowed sharply. He hadn’t needed the reminder of what Ott was—frankly, it was something he had been trying to forget. To fear cybramancy was a core tenet of Authority training, the kind that Coin had gone through and emerged from all the wiser. The curse was not to be trifled with, nor those who dealt in it. It made him wary, at that moment, as to how good of an idea it was to be alone in a room with such a man.

Coin quickly pushed such fears away. “Ott keeps strange company, and they don’t care to have me visiting him. It’s been impossible to get him alone.” He thought for a moment about cutting the conversation short and telling Withins-Bei no more… but then he had the first inklings of an idea. “You wouldn’t happen to know a way I could approach him, would you?”

Withins-Bei made a show of tapping his finger on his chin. “Perhaps I do. It certainly sounds like an amusing diversion. Very well, I’ll take the case! Where is that sanguineous sorcerer now?”

Coin pointed. “That room. There are plenty of other people in there, though.”

“The Eastern Ballroom,” Withins-Bei said. A lupine smile grew crept across his face. “There’s another entrance. Follow me, lad!”

Snatching an iron grip on Coin’s hand, the lordling pulled him along at a frenzied pace with which Coin could only try to hop along and keep up. Already, and not for the last time that day, he began to wonder if associating at all with Withins-Bei was a good idea.

They made their way quickly, Withins-Bei still insisting on pulling Coin along by the hand in a strange, feverish gallop. There were not many in that part of the Palace, but what few guards and courtiers there were gave a fair share of odd glances to the pair as they raced through. Coin tried to keep his embarrassment to a minimum, and began to demand that Withins-Bei let go, when suddenly they stopped. Coin nearly ran into the lordling’s back, and found that for whatever reason his travelling companion was now standing stone-still.

“What is it?” Coin asked.

Withins-Bei continued to stand still, peering ahead. Then he spun about in a circle, examining all things around him as a periscope would, before halting again and tapping at his chin. “Have you ever had the feeling that there are eyes on you, oh byt of mine?”

Before Coin could muster an answer, Withins-Bei pointed to a space behind him. “Because I wager that they have.”

Following the pointed finger, Coin looked out into a shaded hall and gave a startled jump after he saw precisely the last thing he was expecting. Looming there, half in shadows, were a pair of enormous eyes painted onto a pale, wooden mask pressed into face of a curious figure. They wore a ragged cloak that covered much of their body, giving no hint as to who they were or what they looked like. The mask was contorted and hideous in its appearance, giving the impression of a screaming mouth and eyes that wept black tears. It was locked in a stare directly at Coin.

Coin almost yelped when he saw the bizarre figure, and realized immediately who it must have been. An anonymite of the Chan. One of a trio, here in the Dreamweave of all places. Another figure he’d only heard about thus far, and one he had even less desire to meet than any drunken reprobate.

While Coin stammered in surprise, Withins-Bei laughed. “My my! What an honor it is, my mist-born lady, for us to cross paths again! Reconsidering my offer for good times? Come now: beastly I might be, but I am no Beast to be feared.”

The anonymite ignored him. Instead, the eyes of that mask continued to fix directly at only one person: Coin. A shudder went through the Brony as he considered what that might mean… but before he could ask what the Channic wanted, the anonymite darted away and vanished.

Coin blinked, still in a dread-born silence as he tried to make sense of the encounter.

“Huh,” exclaimed Withins-Bei. He then gave a shrug of his shoulders, grabbed at Coin’s hand again, and began to drag him along once more.

“Hold on,” Coin tried to say as he dug his heels into the floor. “Hol— stop tugging at me!” He smacked Withins-Bei’s hand away. “What in life’s light was that about?”

“What was what about?” Withins-Bei asked with feigned innocence.

“The anonymite. You knew who that was?”

He pretended to wonder for a moment who Coin was speaking of. Then, in a flash of mock realization, he asked “Oh, you mean Syll? Yes, I’ve been bothering her and the little posse she’s a part of for some time now. Interesting chaps and chapette. Rather brutish, of course, but with a certain… oh, I don’t know, horribleness about them that I find ever so appealing.”

“Why was she following us?” Coin demanded. It was as unnerving as anything he’d come across recently to know that a Channic was lurking about, keeping track of where he went.

“Well, I’m sure I don’t know. Perhaps she isn’t. Though,” he continued with a smirk, “I would think that she’s trying to seek me out. I’ve been intimating several intimate propositions her way, you see. I’ve never spent the night with a Channic woman before, so I thought I would try and—”

“—and do something I really don’t want to hear about,” Coin cut in, returning the favor of interruptions at last. He shivered: he’d been disturbed enough for one day as it was, without learning more about Withins-Bei’s unthinkable private life.

“Suit yourself. I’ll save any further tales or planned demonstrations for later. At any rate,” he spoke with a relieved sigh, “we’d best get back to the old grind. The work kind of old grind, that is, not the grind I plan to do wit—”

“Fine,” Coin interrupted again, desperate to stop him from talking, “let’s go.”

Only a little further, they came to a wall, built into which was a pair of large doors. Rounded windows were built at the top of said doors, and Withins-Bei indicated to Coin that he should look through. Wary that it was some kind of prank, Coin did so hesitantly, but found himself pleasantly surprised. What he saw inside was a spacious ballroom, albeit with its furniture stacked and folded away. A small crowd of people were within, either milling about, pacing, or sitting upon chairs that they had retrieved. Lips were moving, but Coin could not make out the words.

Altogether, Coin thought it a strange place for well-to-do citizens to be, but more important was whom those citizens were. Several Coin did not know, but those few that he did caught his eye straight away. Byrios Amberten, for one, scowling and speaking words that Coin could recognize as angry even from a distance. And the man whom he spoke to was Heylen Ott, bedecked in a long blue robe and listening patiently.

“They’re in there,” Coin whispered. “But Ott is surrounded. If I walked in, they just throw me out right away.”

Withins-Bei clasped Coin’s shoulder and shook him in a way that might have been meant to reassure. “Leave that one to me, my horse-loving friend. I’m well-accounted enough with distractions that I could serve as one easily. When I give the signal, you move in.”

At that moment, Withins-Bei peeled off and ran back the way they’d came. Alarmed, Coin tried to call after him without raising his voice too much. “Wait, what signal, wha—”

But the lordling was gone. Coin sighed, wondering again just how much trouble this quasi-operation was worth.

“He is quite annoying, no?”

Anonymites. When Coin turned to face the voice from the dark, it belong to a masked man who stood behind him. One of three, in fact. Outnumbered, Coin looked between them, a sense of fear sitting like a stone in his stomach. It was the full trio in front of him, he knew. One was the same anonymite from earlier, the one with the screaming mask that Withins-Bei had called ‘Syll.’ Another was the anonymite that just spoke, as far as Coin could tell: a middling figure, whose eyes were covered with a blacker-than-black film and surrounded by whirling, hypnotic spirals. Lurking behind them was one taller than each and as thick as both put together, bearing the face of a snarling monster. All three peered at Coin pitilessly.

Silence loomed between them, with Coin unable to form a response to their sudden appearance. The anonymite with the spiral eyes took it upon himself to carry forward. His pale mouth—the only visible patch of skin on his body—twisted into a half-smile. “Greetings,” he said.

“Salutations,” followed Syll in a voice like breaking glass.

The massive one in the back just added a quick grunt, like some man-ape. To Coin, the fangs on the anonymite’s mask actually looked sharp enough to cut.

“Interesting for us to be finding you here, of all places,” said the man with the spiral-eyes. “I am called Vaath, by foreigners like you. These two others are Syll and Boar.”

“Mask-names, all,” Syll cut in to say. “Do not think to control Syll with the true name that is not freely giv—”

“Not one cares what you say, Syll, so I hope to empty heaven that you shall blather no more,” Vaath said curtly. Ignoring some guttural hissing noises coming from Syll, Vaath kept the eyes of his mask on Coin. “You are the slave of the Brony woman, no? The fierce one with the violet hair and violet name?”

“I am no man’s slave,” Coin answered. “But Lady Violet is my friend and master, yes.”

Vaath scoffed. “Any man willing to surrender his name is a slave, no matter how pretty the chain may be. But I am not here for debate, Brony. You have been seen trading words with the white knights, have you not? With the slaver Halforth?”

Coin looked between the three, weighing his options carefully. Anonymites were well-known for their hatred of Moderators, and those who collaborated with them. He could only assume they were here to act on just such a hatred. Three on one, he thought grimly, and that one is injured and unarmed. He could recall the empty palm fighting techniques that men of the Authority were required to learn in their training, but Coin had never had much talent in them from the start, and doubted they would be much use to an injured man here. Running was the better choice, though not the braver one, and the doors to the Eastern Ballroom were open, so far as he knew. He began to edge towards the door handle, as he spoke.

“I act as liaison to the Moderators here,” he admitted, realizing that they already knew the answer. “But I’m not a part of any decisions they make, and not—”

“He tries to escape, Vaath,” grunted Syll, pointing with her chin towards the door. Coin stopped moving, and noticed that the shape of Syll’s hand moving under her cloak, brushing towards her belt.

“Yes, his movements are obvious,” snapped Vaath. “Cease your scampering, horse-lover: there will be no violence here, save what you bring yourself.”

Coin eyed the lot of them suspiciously. “What is this about, then?”

The smile returned to Vaath’s face. “You’ve a mouth close to Halforth’s ear, no? Not just him, but to the white knights also: raven, jester, corpse-woman, all. Their dog-trainer is departed now, I see, locked under arrest by his own brothers—and you had a hand in that as well? A fine work, if it was so. Mods themselves are the only ones that deserve to rot in their prisons. Regardless,” he said with another wave of his hand, “you will bring us to Halforth, Brony or Mod or whatever you are.”

“Another day, another wasted moment,” Syll grumbled. “Time and tide go to waste, Vaath, while you muck about with fools like this one, begging for permissions. What use is it? Look at him! He has the sign of horns about his head, and we’ve no use for a horned warbler on this. But the second plan, Vaath!” Syll tilted her head, and started to tremble with excitement. “The second pla—”

“Still yourself, insect,” Vaath snapped. “Horned he might be, but all the better to serve his better. I’ll have no ‘second plan’ when the risk is too high and another path still stays.”

Since the Channic had no issue with talking as though he were not in front of them, Coin elected to ignore their comments as well. “Sorry, but what exactly are you after? You want me to introduce you to Lord Halforth? Why?”

“Matters beyond your comprehension, horned-horse,” Syll said.

“Indeed, it is so,” added Vaath with a nod. “But your role needs no understanding. Simply make room for us to trade words with him. That is all.”

Coin regarded his words, curious. “And why are you bringing this to me, of all peopl—”

“Because,” Vaath cut in wearily, “you are not white-garbed enough to drive us away at first sight. And yet…” The anonymite paused a moment, and looked down to Coin’s chest. “... and yet you do not bear the Yellow Eye, either. That is a better omen than any that your we-slave Warden carries. Perhaps you will serve better.”

“The Honest Eye?” Coin asked, confused. “No, some friends of mine have it, but not me. What does that have to do with it?”

The black eyes of Vaath’s mask studied him silently. Then, he shrugged. “Perhaps nothing. Perhaps all. Tell me, horse-lo—”

Reaching the end of his patience, Coin stopped him. “My name is Coin Counter.”

In the back, the impudence of the response made Boar stir a bit, shifting his huge weight around to face Coin more closely. Vaath, however, merely barked out a laugh. “More backbone than I thought! And you use a freely-given name as well, not your true one—perhaps we shall make a masked-man of you yet.” The grin the anonymite gave was sour, filled with yellowed and crooked teeth. “But returning to important things. Now tell me, Coin Counter: have you ever seen ‘The Guise of the Yellow God’?”

Lost, Coin searched his mind, and thought the name sounded familiar. “It’s a Channic play, yes?”

“In a certain fashion. It is a Channic legend, well-known by my people. A tale of fratricide and damnation, and demon-gods beside. And of eyes, Coin Counter. Yellow eyes.”

Syll groaned. “This thread again? He is clueless to it all, Vaath, and we’ve greater things to mend and break on this island.”

Vaath ignored her, and continued in low tones. “There is a figure, in this tale. A man who would be Mootking, but for his own weakness. So a deal is struck, between him and an monstrous idol carved of wurmwood, painted with black and yellow from the creeping vines, whose master wears a pallid mask. Eternal life and dread powers, siphoned into a living host, one who then carries the mark of darkness in his mind. It is not a story that ends well.”

Coin heard a croak come from under Syll’s mask, but followed it with recited lines.

“Not for honor, but for shame,

a hand that bears a silver knife

will spill the blood of misspent life…”

“... then rise to bear the shadow’s name,” finished Boar in a low rumble.

For a reason Coin could not place, a chill went up his spine. “I… I don’t understand,” he admitted. For the first time, he actually wished that Withins-Bei would come back and interrupt all this. What is taking him so long?

“Then heed,” Vaath demanded. “Your master, this Warden of Honesty? Where did he come from? Whom does he serve? Does he display abilities you do not understand, hm? Does he See things that he should not?” The anonymite’s questions came in a torrent, and as he took another step closer, Coin received an unpleasant reminder that his back was to a wall and that he could retreat no further. “There was a moment, Coin Counter, when I felt an eye watching me, or else trying to do so. The masks we wear,” he gestured to himself and the other Channic, “are carved from wurmwood, painted with the creeper’s ink—totems that the Beast may see through, in its idols, but not within. And yet I am convinced there are things working here that I cannot glimpse. A man like your Warden does not simply appear from air. He was made, and I must know why.” The Channic’s voice carried with it a manic madness, a patter of words that Coin barely understood. “What is behind the patch he wears? Is his eye truly gone, or does it shine with a malice that men cannot witness?

There had been half-a-hundred questions, but Coin did not have an answer to any of them. And yet these inquiries the anonymite pressed upon him, hard as they were to grasp, carried with them such an ominous cast that Coin was made anxious just upon hearing them. Coin had the not-so-sudden desire to be somewhere else, and soon. Six save me, where are you, Withins-Bei? The man had told him to wait for a signal, but now Coin wondered if it would ever come, or if this was just some elaborate gag.

He realized that he needed to say something in response—the anonymites stared expectantly. “Ah… well, I— what I mean to say is that I don’t entirely know what t—”

“BWAH! Distraction!”

In unison, Coin and all three anonymites immediately turned their attention to the sound that had just echoed from out the double doors. Somehow, Coin already had a fairly good feeling as to what he would see inside.

Peering in through the windows, Coin could just barely see what was happening within. He could hear people shouting, and saw most of the men in the room on their feet and chasing after someone. It was Withins-Bei, dancing about and screaming at the top of his lungs. It was, by far, the worst distraction Coin had ever seen.

Well, he thought, that’s the signal. There was no telling that it would actually work, of course, but Heylen Ott did not seem to be part of the mob now hot on Withins-Bei’s tail. It might be that he was separate, at least enough that Coin could pull him away quickly. Worth a try, at least.

If it was possible to baffle a Channic, Coin imagined that it had happened to the lot of them when they saw Withins-Bei’s routine. Vaath shook his head incredulously. “As I said, very annoying.”

Coin chose that moment, while they still watched on in mute horror, to make his escape. “Excuse me, I just need to—” He grabbed the door handle, and darted inside.

The ballroom was wide and spacious, and filled with noise, all of it directed at Withins-Bei. There was half-a-dozen people chasing after him, with Withins-Bei doing his best to keep their attention and avoid being caught. Based on his current performance and dubious physical health, Coin guessed that Withins-Bei would not be able to keep it up for long—time was of the essence. The Channic had not followed him, for whatever reason, but now he had to set about the difficult task of finding Heylen Ott.

It was much simpler than Coin had anticipated, since Ott was waiting next to the doors Coin had come from.

Ignoring Coin’s startled double-take, Ott looked him over amiably, raising a black-and-white hand in greeting. “Why, Coin Counter of the Honest Friends! How strange to see you again, so soon. There are three anonymites of the Chan outside, are there not?”

Still taken aback, Coin stammered out, “Ah, yes? How did you—”

“Hmm, I would have thought they would have been the ones trying to speak w— well, nevermind. I suggest that we settle a time and place to meet in private, so we might speak. That is why you wished to find me, correct?”

“Yes, thank the Six I can finally get an answer,” Coin breathed with relief. “Please, anywhere and anytime, but we have to hurry, I thi—”

“You again!”

Coin could barely even stand to look, but he saw that the chase for Withins-Bei had ended, the lordling tackled to the ground by three people who were cursing and shouting. Now, though, all eyes were squarely on Coin and Ott.

It was an old man in fine clothes that had spotted Coin first, raising a shaking finger to him. “It’s that one again! Byrios, throw them both out! Quickly, before more come!”

Byrios Amberten ran over with fury in his eyes. “I hear you, Pendros.”

Before Coin could even think, both he and Withins-Bei were grabbed and being forced towards the door by Byrios and the others. Withins-Bei hooted and laughed, despite being in a chokehold, as merry as ever. “What now, then? Torture, is it? Ha! You’ll never break me, never I say—I torture myself every day regardless! I’ll never talk! And it was all Coin’s idea anyways!”

“Ah!” Coin heard one of the men holding Withins-Bei shout. “He bit me! Oh God, he’s licking my arm, get him off!”

Coin was trying to brace himself against walls and doorframes, dragging his boots and clawing with his hands to try and stay in another moment. But over the din and scuffle, he could hear Heylen Ott even as the cybramancer was being hurried away by the old nobleman. “I apologize that our meeting is cut short again, my friend, but as you can see I’m quite busy! Busy now ‘til midnight, a graveyard shift as some might say! But perhaps I’ll see you again!” He could say no more, before both be and Coin were pulled from each other’s view.

And without a moment more, Coin was thrown from the room, Withins-Bei following shortly after. Landing on his face, Coin had only a dazed moment to look back, only for the door to close with a slam behind them. He could hear a rush of feet in the other room—they were all running away as fast as they could. The opportunity was lost.

Coin could have popped a blood vessel from frustration. Moaning, he beat the back of his head against the wooden floor, all too conscious of yet another, now more elaborate failure.

Withins-Bei, at least, did not seem at all disappointed. He stood up with a wild grin. “God, but that one tasted awful. I’ll have to make sure I mark that accordingly in my delicacy diary. I suppose you learn something new everyday.” Panting and sweating, he looked as though he had run a marathon. “I swear to you, currency, the human body was not meant for that much exertion in so little time. I shan’t move for a week, after that. So, what are the judge’s score on my distraction, hmm?”

Coin clamped his eyes shut and just hoped that Withins-Bei would go away. “It was an awful distraction,” he murmured.

Withins-Bei scoffed. “Shows what you know. In mine own circles, that would have crowned any list of the year’s finest distractions. I make into an art, I tell you. Besides, it worked, did it not?”

“No, it didn’t,” Coin struggled to say through his frustration. “What took you so long, anyways? I was cornered by those anonymites.”

At that moment, Withins-Bei decided to lean directly over Coin, his preening face taking up the center of Coin’s vision. It was a disturbing thing to have looming over him. “What took me so long,” Withins-Bei said, the very model of smug satisfaction, “was that they were not in the room.”

Coin blinked. “What are you talking about? Of course they were.”

“Were not, and I’ll stake my life on it. When I left you by the door, I sped about to the other entrance right away. Only, when I arrived, Heylen Ott nor anyone else was to be seen. The room was bare. Not a soul within.”

Coin gaped at him. “But they were in there just—”

“Yes, that was the strange thing,” Withins-Bei said, seeming to chew on the puzzle. “When I saw no one was inside, I left the room, dawdled for a little while, drank a bit from my special flask. But then I came back, and there they were! All in that ballroom! I thought I was just seeing things again—special flask, and all—but that all seemed quite real to me. And would I lie?” Before he let Coin answer, he reconsidered the question. “Scratch that. Would I lie if I had nothing to gain, and it wasn’t that funny?”

Picking himself off the ground, Coin approached the door. He pressed his ear against it and heard nothing: he felt reasonably certain that anyone who was in there had evacuated out of the other entrance by now. Pushing the door open, he carefully went inside.

It was an elaborate hall, one that Coin could now truly take in, since he was no longer being chased around. Curving chandeliers, fanciful wallpaper, hangings upon the wall. There was a hearth with stones that bore a tiger’s snarling face, and tiles with faded filigree. A fine place, and filled with any number of small artistic touches left behind by its builders.

Including, perhaps, another hidden entrance.

“Quite the mystery, penny,” said Withins-Bei as he sauntered inside. “But before I take off, I have to know: what did you mean, when you said the plan didn’t work?”

Coin turned. “Heylen Ott. There wasn’t enough time to speak, and he never got to tell me when we could talk again.”

Withins-Bei smirked. “You are an honest friend after all. You must never forget that there’s a realm of subtext beneath any word. And what words did Heylen Ott shout to you, as you departed?”

Those last parting words raced back to Coin’s mind. ‘Busy now ‘til midnight. A graveyard shift.’ It can’t be…

“So,” Withins-Bei intoned from behind him, in the voice one would use to lecture a child, “perhaps today was fruitful for the both of us. I got to learn which of my colleagues I cannot outrun and would rather not eat, and you may have just gotten your meeting. Assuming that I’m not misjudging every word Ott said, of course.” Withins-Bei turned to leave, but stopped at the door. “It is passing strange, though. Groups of people vanishing into thin air. And now, it seems that you Bronies have taken an odd-as-all interest in an unlikely character indeed. What possible reason could there be for all that, hmm? One might have thought there was some kind of, oh what’s the word? Secret society at play?” The smile he gave to Coin was very knowing. “Perhaps I’ll find out soon. Perhaps until then, you should be happy that I’m on your side.”

And with that, Withins-Bei left. At last.

Coin checked quickly with the watch he had on hand. If his theory was right, he had hours yet until… well, until whatever came of this evening. Plenty of time to report to Lady Violet about what he had found. Plenty to search the room, to see what he might find. He started moving his hands carefully over the hearth.

It was hours before Coin gave up on his initial search. He had combed every inch of the ballroom, down to the floors on his hands and knees, but found no sign of any door or switch the Society might have used. There was no hidden latch within the hearth, no button in the tiles, no lever to be pulled in the candelabras, and Coin soon began to find his imagination wearing thin. He knew that there was something there, but after six hours he began to despair of ever finding it.

His meeting with Lady Violet proved more fruitful. He told as complete an account of the day as he could manage, with the comments of the anonymites catching her attention most fully. Vaath’s words sounded twice as strange when Coin repeated them in his own voice, but the lady did not laugh or smile upon hearing them, regarding all of it with calm consideration. Coin was not sure what exactly to make of all of it, but she appeared more confident in what to do.

As for Ott, the lady agreed more readily than Coin had expected to him going alone, but she did advise caution, whether he was truly a Changeling or not. “And whatever you learn,” she had said again, “you will bring it first to me. Breathe not a word of it elsewhere.”

Hours crept by, and Coin couldn’t help but feel night coming more slowly than usual. It was a half-hour before midnight when he set out, towards a destination that he had sought out previously, hoping it was the right one. He avoided guards as deftly as he could, dodging patrolmen and wearing nondescript enough clothes as to not attract undue attention. Eventually, he reached it.

On the side of Aureliano’s Palace, still far within the gates but down the hill enough as to not be touching the manse’s walls, there was a small plateau—a level catch in the hillside, large enough to build upon. And build they had, those ancestors of Aureliano: a small and gentle field, with water trickling down into a miniature pond, surrounded by a copse of hanging trees and a garden of yellow sand, pale as moondust. And all around, the headstones. For it was on this spot that a graveyard was made, for the sons and daughters of Martes, and of the ones that they favored.

Descending a narrow staircase, Coin found himself in that quiet place, under the light of the high and gibbous moon that hung off-kilter in the sky. He walked between the graves gently, not wishing at all to show disrespect to men that had died long before he had been born, and prayed that he had found the right spot for the meeting. Or, indeed, that there was a meeting at all. Finding a tree whose branches just barely touched the pond’s surface, he knelt down beneath it, and awaited whatever enlightenment he was bound to gain that night.

“It is a quiet place, is it not?”

At the corner of Coin’s vision, a man approached. A dark robe covered him, but Coin could see well-enough who was beneath the cowl. His dark skin might have almost faded into the shadows of his hood, but the pale blotches on his face and hands seemed to drink the light of the moon. Heylen Ott.

The Grandmance entered the graveyard not down the stairs, but rather up from the bottom of the hill on which it sat. He walked over slowly, seeming stiff as he traced his hands gently over the tops of the headstones he passed. His eyes were not on Coin—it was the names on the graves that held his attention.

“You will not find Aureliano here,” Ott said quietly. “Aureliano the First, I mean. The Dreamweaver himself, nor his son. That was a tradition begun in the earliest days of this city: the lord of this island is to buried beneath the Palace from which he ruled, like the wards around a tomb-city.” A small, sad smile fluttered on his face when he said the words, and knelt down towards one grave in particular. “But their wives, their brothers and sisters? They would be buried in this spot, behind the gates. Sometimes, very rarely, a servant would be granted that same honor, back when there was still honor to give in this place.” He traced his hand lightly over the face of the gravestone, a touch as caring and soft as a lover’s whisper. “I had always dreamed of earning that right, when I was young.”

There was a pregnant silence, before Coin realized that he should speak next. “Thank you for coming, my lord.”

Ott picked himself up. “It is my pleasure, Sir Coin. Truthfully, it was my hope that we might have had a chance like this some time ago, but various… factors got in the way. As I am certain you noticed today.”

Hard to miss it, Coin thought. “If you don’t mind my asking, how did you get away? Those others seemed to have you under lock and key.”

“It took some difficulty,” he said with a mischievous smile. “I’m afraid that I’ve been under guard for some time. Apparently,” he gave Coin a look, “some Brony found a note in his pocket, and certain people assumed I had given it. They will rarely let me leave their sight, but at least they do not watch me sleep. And as it happens, my windows were open. I still have a little of my boyhood talent for climbing, it seems.”

Coin smiled, despite himself. “You are a very hard man to talk to, my lord.” He thought about what he had said for half a moment. “Er, meaning that it’s hard to get ahold of you, not that—”

Ott brushed the concern away with a hand. “Don’t fear, Sir Coin. I’m afraid I have been rather distant, though not due to any choice of mine.” He sighed. “I hope you will forgive dear Byrios. He has been sick with worry, of late, and he does not process such anxieties well. If you knew him in better times, you might find him to be warm. But with Arcadio on the mind…” Ott frowned. “Arcadio. There is another I should apologize for.”

“Arcadio?” Coin regarded the cybramancer carefully. “You’ve no need to apologize for what he’s done.”

“Perhaps not, but then I have always felt some measure of responsibility for the royal family—even for their failings. I grew up with Arcadio and Aureliano both, you see, in the days when my own father served as Grandmance to Aureliano the Second. Happier times, for the city and myself, perhaps for those living Martes as well.” He gave an inscrutable look up at the Palace of Aureliano, looming overhead. “I remember, the Lord of the Dreamweave in those days would spend much of his time with his firstborn, to shape him into a man. The only time Arcadio got attention was when he misbehaved, and was reprimanded by hand. It is a habit he has clung to even now, I’m afraid. Arcadio was difficult before he went abroad, to see all of the more primal fringes of the Web, but he has been something else entirely after he came back. The Deep has known him, but who knows the Deep? And now that he has returned…” As his voice trailed off, Ott shook his head. “It is no matter. You did not come for courtly gossip, I expect—there is much to discuss.”

“The Society.” Coin nodded his head, eager for answers. “My lord, I believe that with the testimony you can offer, we might be able to—”

Ott raised a hand to quiet him. “A moment, Sir Coin, if you will allow me that much more. Before I can speak about such things, there are a few matters I must make clear.” Finding a patch of bone-white sand, the cybramancer sat cross-legged on the ground and peered over at Coin. “You have heard no end of things about this Changeling Society, I imagine. Unkind words, likely: outcasts and criminals, if not assassins. Hiding in walls, under floorboards, in plain sight. But why do you suppose a group of people would even choose to scurry about in the shadows like that?”

“The ban,” Coin answered. “Men sworn to the Six would need to stay hidden, for fear of the Martes. That’s the point, isn’t it? To lift the ban?”

“In part. But think more broadly. Could there not be a larger reason as well?” He gestured a hand to the lights of the Dreamweave that glowed beneath them. “This city, Sir Coin. I love it, and so do many others.” Something about that seemed to amuse him. “Perhaps you think that passing strange.”

Coin wanted to deny it, but hesitated. Frankly, he did find it strange. He had not been in the Dreamweave long, but every other thought Coin seemed to have was concerned with getting out of it, as soon as possible. It was not a place that appeared worthy of much love.

When no answer came, Ott chuckled. “Ah, you are an honest friend after all. I can sympathize with your view, sir. But how often do we truly choose whom we love? I was born in this city. I expect I will die here as well. I have never known another home in all my days, and I’ve all the fond memories one would expect, curled up around the foundations of this place. Call it nostalgia, perhaps, but the Dreamweave was beautiful once. Aureliano the First intended it to be a city of mirrors that reflected all earthly glory, all the ambition and drive that he possessed and that had possessed him to create a nation from his own hand. I was always intoxicated by history like that, Sir Coin, ever since my father first told it to me. It is the dream we were meant to inherit, and the one that we lost. But it can be regained, sir, and I would gladly be called a criminal or a traitor if it meant a chance to do just that.”

Coin considered his words. “Then the Society for more than just lifting the ban. You want to save the Dreamweave.”

“The Society might mean many things to many people. But to see my home rebuilt… that would be a wonderful thing, Sir Coin. But how can it be done,” he continued, his face darkening somewhat, “when we have such leaders as these… these lesser heirs of Martes? Aureliano, Pilara, Arcadio: fate could not have pressed upon us a trio so capricious and petulant. I have known those brothers since we were all boys, so don’t think I cannot bear some love for them. But they know nothing of history. Aureliano may try as hard as he might, and Arcadio can rage and scream as though it will save him, but ultimately they will doom us all. This Society you search for seeks an alternative… by way of a six-pointed-star.”

Coin saw the wisdom of that immediately. Opening the Dreamweave was one thing, but the fandom possessed resources that the Dreamweave might benefit from endlessly. Money, trade, political support, all could be given. But only to a regime that is willing to accept it, he realized. The Society wants—needs—reform. Somehow, they must press the Martes into accepting it. Small wonder they needed to have deep roots in the powerful circles of the city: otherwise, there was no hope of cajoling the Martes into backing down.

“We can help you,” Coin began. “If the Dreamweave can be opened, the Collective can pour in, and lend you the aid you need. All we need is for you to help us first—Dabrius Joh, he’ll die if the Society doesn’t step in.”

“And there lies the problem. If this Society exists, they likely have resolved to see Dabrius die.”

Coin gaped at him. “There must be something we ca—” He stopped in a moment, realizing something that had passed him by. “The Society. Why are you talking about it as a hypothetical? You know it exists.”

A sad look crossed Ott’s eyes. “Because of this.”

He lifted his sleeve, revealing beneath it a familiar shape. Rings and half-circles, held in a mute and static orbit around an arrow-like shape of crossing lines and jutting angles, and all of it stamped in ink. Around it was a wreath of tattooed flames, arching and spitting flame, a mark so expertly done as to seem hot and alive. A cybramancer’s registration tattoo.

“You know this mark,” Ott said as he flexed his fingers. The flames appeared to dance on his wrist as he moved his muscles.

“I do,” Coin said, eyeing it nervously. He had been taught wariness around cybramancy his entire life—that it was a dread power, a curse upon the unfortunate, a danger that had to be curbed by any means necessary. That was the Moderator’s way, and one he had once known best. Before, Coin had been sure that Ott meant him no harm… but after a look at that arm, a reminder of who he was speaking to and what such a man could do, he no longer felt so certain.

“Then you know the possibilities of it. Terrible and great, both. Cybramancy is set in the blood, and it feeds on life. Among my ancestors, it was thought to be a means of liberation: the greatest freedom a man can ever hold. Freedom from the laws of king and clan is one thing, but to break away from the laws of Creation itself?” Ott frowned at the thought. “They were right, in a way. But the gift binds us as well. Chains us, even to our blood.”

Coin swallowed. “What does this have to do with the Society?” They couldn’t be tied to cybramancers could they? Unregistered cybramancers? The thought alone twisted his stomach.

“There is an oath, known to some. If you should ever wish to keep a secret, it is the one desperate men use. It is sworn not on one’s life, nor grave, nor honor, but on blood, and an oath sworn on blood like mine has power to it. Older power than you can grasp.” He opened his hand, allowing Coin to see what was inside. The cybramancer held nothing, but across his palm were the scars. Crossing, straight scars, the lines of knives carved white across his flesh, dozens and dozens. One was more recent that the others—a faint touch of color remained in its fringes. A red color.

Heylen Ott gave a pleading look. “You see, Sir Coin? A knife across the skin: that summons my power, and a silver knife will do it best. Imagine for me this: a group of men, hunted and afraid. They could swear an oath of secrecy: that they would never, to any outsider, reveal who they were. Suppose, perhaps, one man thought it right to intervene, to speak out, so as to rescue another. Well, they would be doubly sure that he swore such an oath. And if that man were like me,” Ott continued, gaze darting back down to the tattoo, “then they would hand him a silver knife, and know he was bound to that oath by his life-blood.”

Coin pieced it together quickly. “This oath you swore, what would happen if you broke it? If you testified for Dabrius, or you told me where the rest of the Changelings were?”

Ott offered a strange half-smile. “It would be deeply unpleasant to watch.”

Coin did not even want to think of what that meant. “But you are talking about it,” he pointed out. “We’re speaking of the Society now.”

The cybramancer chuckled. “Well, an oath sworn by a cybramancer on his blood cannot be broken without… grave consequences, let’s say. But it can still be circumvented. Imagine if a boy were promised to not tell his brother where a gift was hidden. He could not say outright, of course, where it was. But to imply, to speak subjunctives, to weave and prevaricate…” He smiled. “That might work.”

Coin nodded, but his mind worked to something else. “Is that safe?” he asked warily. “You aren’t at risk of…” Hurting yourself? Dying hideously? He could blow up like a powderkeg for all I know.

“There is some chance it could go wrong.” Ott frowned and rubbed his palm, soothing the spot of his scars. “When I begin to speak too clearly, I feel a pain. If I should come too close to revealing exactly what to do or where to go, it will become unsightly indeed. If I should have those forbidden words on the tip of my tongue, then you will believe that a man’s blood can boil and split his skin from the inside out.” Ott caught Coin’s aghast expression, and raised his hands to placate him. “As I said, unpleasant to watch.”

Coin’s head was still spinning a bit. Six save us. He had known that Ott was risking a great deal in talking to him, but this was beyond the pale. “When you asked me about the truth,” he began to say, “back when we ran into each other, I mean. That wasn’t some theoretical argument. You’ve promised to not breathe of it, and if you don’t keep your word…” He swallowed again, and found his throat dry. “What can be done, then?”

“Whatever I can do,” Ott answered simply. “But first, I have another question for you, Sir Coin. How many lives is Dabrius Joh worth?”

The question caught Coin off-guard. “How do you mean?”

“I mean that, if you succeed in your goal, you will be asking men to put their homes, their fortunes, their very lives on the line to save Dabrius Joh. The life of your friend, yes. But if they act to set him free, it might cost them everything. Are you prepared to ask that?”

The question laid heavy on the air, with Coin grasping at an answer. He wanted to save Dabrius Joh, to save a man from execution for a crime he did not commit. But to ask others, perhaps many others, to risk everything they had to do it… that made things harder. Is this another test? Ott had certainly done it before. “You would not have come here if you didn’t think it was right.”

“True,” Ott admitted. “But I am not the man you’ll need to convince, I’m afraid.” He looked at Coin pointedly, asking with his eyes for a better answer.

Coin grappled with the dilemma more, trying to weigh the costs in his mind. In truth, there was far more than Dabrius Joh alone at stake. If he was found guilty, it wouldn’t necessarily mean that the rest of the Bronies would face a true punishment themselves. But as far as the Web and the Authority would be concerned, it was still a Brony diplomat who cowardly cut down a knight and a boy in cold blood, a breach of every law of decent men. There would be consequences far beyond one man dying… but that was true for the Changelings as well. Them being exposed would ruin lives, uproot families, destroy fortunes. If the Martes followed through on their threats. If Arcadio was there to do it. If. Then, a thought came to mind. The finances, the evidence from the riots, the work with Lady Kohburn, all of it. There might be a way.

“What if we could bring down Arcadio?” Coin asked. “He’s the one who would kill any ally of the Collective in the city. What if we could expose him?”

Ott seemed a touch surprised by the suggestion. “That would solve a great many problems,” he admitted. “But many have tried before, and none succeeded. What makes this time different?”

Coin smiled. “He’s never had to deal with this fandom.”

Ott returned the grin. “Not so far as he knows. I can see gears turning in your mind, Sir Coin: a plan not finished, but at least in the making. Perhaps that will be enough.” He looked out across the city, and gripped his wrist with his hand absently. “I cannot leave you with much, not all at once, not with this accursed blood of mine. But you recall earlier today, in the ballroom? That scene with Withins-Bei was an… interesting choice, by the way.”

Coin rubbed the back of his neck, embarrassed. “It wasn’t such a good plan, looking back.”

“Ah, but it worked, did it not? And in the end, that is the only measure of whether any act is good or not. I imagine you’ve been wondering for much of today how it was that a person could be in a room one moment, disappear the next, then come back just as soon.” He stiffened a bit, and his expression looked pained. “High-Hill Way. There are ruined buildings there, abandoned. If one were to search there, after noon has passed, one might just find something importan—” Suddenly, the cybramancer stumbled a bit, gripping the side of a tombstone for balance.

Coin rushed over, helping to steady Ott by putting a hand on his arm. “Are you alr—” Coin shot his arm back. His hand had been on the Ott’s skin for only a second, but it had been hot. Not a usual warm, but the kind of prickling heat one would feel if a man had a ferocious fever and then some more degrees laid on after. Coin wiped his hand on his coat, deciding it might be best if he not touch the cybramancer again.

Ott had recovered himself well enough. “I am fine, sir. You needn’t worry too much on my account.” He tried to give a reassuring smile, but it came across as weary and pained instead. “A bit of rest tonight, and I shall be fine. Though I should make my way back now, before anyone catches wind of my absence.”

“Thank you, my lord, for what you’ve done,” Coin said again. It was not as perfect a lead as Coin had initially hoped, but given the circumstances it was enough to start.

“Do not thank me just yet. The task is not yet done—only success can justify what we do, Sir Coin. Remember that.” Ott gave a bow, and began to walk away. “We shall speak again, in time. This place is as good a spot to meet as any, but only if I can continue to slip away: it might grow harder soon enough. But before I leave, one more thing. When we spoke, all that time ago, I asked you if the truth served better than a lie. And even if the cost was grave, even if the world pushed otherwise, you said it would. Do you still hold with that?”

“I do,” Coin answered. It was all that an Honest Friend could say.

“Then hold that belief close. There are some truths you might not want to hear.” And before Coin could ask more, Heylen Ott vanished into the long shadows of the Palace, and was nowhere to be seen.

The encounter had left Coin conflicted. On the one hand, a new lead to follow. But on the other… Those last words, Coin ruminated. Truths that I won’t want to know. What was that meant to mean? A few worst-case scenarios played out in Coin’s mind, and left him praying that none were true. Hope and dread intermingled closely, though another feeling was enough to drown out both.

Tired. It had been a long day, filled with ludicrous fops, Channic lunatics, secret societies, and blood-sorcerers, and now at the end of it Coin felt dreadfully tired. But the work was not yet done. There was still a person to speak to.

He found Lady Violet in her room, after having made clear to the guards just how urgent his news was. Soon enough, she opened the door, dressed in a nightgown that was only just barely proper for private conversation, but very much awake. The lady was a late sleeper, by all accounts.

“Coin Counter!” Lady Violet said, pretending to be surprised. “How nice of you to drop by. Oh please, come in, come in, I have such things to tell you.” It was only after she shut the door that she turned to him with a hopeful look. “Any luck? I swear, someone around here has to have some.”

Coin told the full story. The details about Ott’s cybramancy and the oath he made upon it did not seem to surprise her as much as Coin had expected, but he realized that Lady Violet would have had some familiarity with subject after all, considering who else served as a Warden of the Brony Collective. All of it she took in with calm consideration, while Coin just struggled to not look at her and the nightgown in an unseemly way.

At the end of it, Lady Violet moved an errant purple hair from her forehead and regarded Coin seriously. “A new lead, then. One step closer to the end of the puzzle, I should think. We will need a small team, entirely discreet, to investigate this. I believe that you and I shall be among them.”

“You, my lady?” Coin asked in surprised. “Is that safe?” The lady’s last investigation of the Changeling tunnels had not gone according to plan.

“High-Hill is only a short walk from the Palace, and in a decent neighborhood as well. Safety shouldn’t be an issue, though secrecy might be. I’ll find a way around that soon enough.”

“I’m certain someone else could go in your stead, my lady,” Coin said. “I can deliver the report to you in full, just like I have been.”

Lady Violet gave him a reassuring look. “I know you could. But truthfully, I want—no, need—to be with you if any contact should first be made with these other Changelings. I believe that they will need some convincing to help us, and I am the only person here who can make promises that are guaranteed to be kept.” She reached out and touched his arm. “You understand, of course?” She gave him the most beautiful smile.

Coin merely nodded, hoping that there wasn’t any color going to his face. Having gotten her answer, Lady Violet stood up. “We will need to be careful of some things, though, as we go forward. Of Arcadio, the anoymites, and the Mods, certainly. But of these Changelings as well, both the ones we do not yet know, and those already known to us.”

“The Changelings?” Coin repeated, surprised again. “Why should we fear them?” Secretive as they might be, they were still at least partly men of the fandom, brothers and sisters in Six.

“We’ve had our warnings, Sir Coin. Hard news from the Citadel. I do not believe that it is the case, not truly, but if there are really Oathbreakers among the Changelings, it will be unpleasant. And even if there are not, who knows what they might do?” Lady Violet offered him a grave look. “People lash out when cornered, when threatened. We need only be on our guard.”

“Ott, at least, seems trustworthy,” said Coin. It sounded odd, to say that about a cybramancer.

Lady Violet seemed to consider that carefully. “Perhaps,” she said. “A success won through trust would be a fine thing, Sir Coin. I would certainly prefer it. But be on your guard nevertheless. A victory won without trust is only half as good, but I will take it all the same.”

* * * * * *

Lady Wright:

“Tactics and strategy. That’s the main crux of the issue, right there. You know, a lot of people make the mistake of conflatin’ the two, but you have to remember there’s a key difference ‘tween tactics and strategy. That was where I made my mistake, in the Chan.”

Lorelove:

“Are you referring to the loss of Baysm—”

Lady Wright:

“You see, the difference is that tactics are what wins a battle. That’s the logistics of getting troops hither and thither, of finding the right ground, of maneuvering the people you’ve got in the right way so that its the enemy running away at the end, and not you. That’s tactics. But strategy is what wins a war, and that’s a whole different dimension. If you only ever see the battle, if you ignore the… the calculations of how to actually win once and for all, then there’s no use in even showin’ up to the battles, see? Might as well just pack it in from the start, because if you only know tactics and don’t know [expletive redacted] about strategy, you’re not getting much further than the front door.

“That was my problem. I’d won Baysmouth, taken the Slouchhall, taken the Chan. I was whoopin’ it up around the Wurmwood Throne, drinking cheap wine out of gold goblets the Mootking had left behind, and listening to my new friends cheer. But I’d taken all that with tricks, not force. Now ten thousand pissed off Channic and their new Moderator friends were heading my way—this slap-fight with the anonymites had just jumped to war, and the army I had found myself commandin’ just made itself the biggest target in the Saying Sea. All thanks to me.”

Lorelove:

“My lady, it would be wrong to blame yourself wholly for wh—”

Lady Wright:

“It’d be wrong to throw off responsibility, Lorelove. That would be wrong. And it was my fault.”

Lorelove:

“The enemy numbers were such that no force you could have feasibly assembled could defend Baysmouth. And if you had not taken it, it is entirely possible that the fandom would have never formed.”

Lady Wright:

“It’s also possible that a lot of good people might still be alive. You know the amount of resources needed to feed even a small army for just a day? You know how difficult it is to get that, when you’re in a hostile territory, and when there’s an enemy advancin’ through the countryside? You know how impossible it is to placate a city full of people that hate you and want to open the gates to that a-fore-mentioned enemy? You know how stupid it is to not consider that completely before you take the [expletive redacted] city? Well, you may not have, and neither did I, but you weren’t the one who been using the goddamn army for an ego trip.”

Lorelove:

“That’s too harsh on yourself, my lady.”

Lady Wright:

“Hmm. I doubt it. Sure, I had thought about a lot of those problems before I marched on Baysmouth. I might have thought about them long and hard, and made a lot of reassurin’ noises to my officers when they questioned it. Maybe I just weighed the options and thought the bold path was the smart one. But even if that were true, I was thinking that takin’ Baysmouth would be enough to end the war. I didn’t think of the Moderators gettin’ involved. I never considered how long I might need to hold onto that pit of a city. I was fixated on the battle, but not the things surrounding it. Tactics and strategy—I rest my case.

“You know, at that point, I still didn’t have a lot of experience in the ol’ warmongering. I was new to leading people, let alone leading armies, and until that moment my instincts were enough to guide me. Baysmouth was a hard lesson to learn, but it was one I needed—whatever natural talent you may or may not have, it doesn’t substitute for long. Luck was runnin’ out. The walls were closin’ in. We had to get out of that city.”

Lorelove:

“The retreat to Comchan, my lady?”

Lady Wright:

“Yes, all of it. The ships, the battle, the Blue Martyrs, all of it. What we lost, I… it stays with me. It was a mistake I had to make, and I regret it every day. But it wasn’t one I made twice.”

Chapter XXXIII: A Bright Guard

* * * * * *

I pass the days without thinking. Central is as it was, but the light seems to have gone out of it, and I cannot focus on my work at all. Lord Makepeace has offered me a lordship of mine own, and yet I can barely even think of the honor. At night, I dream of yellow eyes . . .

I have combed the Wiki, and found little. There are census records, of course, a few works of fiction and some general accounts of the Chan as well, but nothing helpful. Most sources outside the official Authority ones failed to meet notability requirements, and the ones that did were classified under ‘Mythology.’ Mythology . . . I saw it.

Only one source remains. The Nonconform is restricted, but a Lord Moderator can open it as he sees fit. Something happened to me in the Chan, and I intend to know what.

III

. . . extraordinary detail, though how much of it is true is hard to say. The Channic are known for embellishment. Magic masks and ghost ships and the like. But the legends all have a certain shape to them, and it matches what I saw. I had heard of their demon-god, but these tales . . .

I must go back.

Lord Makepeace has given me leave to return to the Chan on a new assignment. He smiled and wished me luck, but did not ask why. He did give me a new journal, though—it will be handy, I’m certain. Apparently a few associates of his are also joining us, and I pray they prove as useful.

If Lord Makepeace was not surprised, my team was. Sir Conscience claimed that I’d promised her that I would not send her back, but I cannot recall giving any such word. She will need to gain some control of herself—I will need all of them. Walcroft seemed in decent spirits, at least.

I have a ship under my command for the duration of the assignment—I will not be stranded in Baysmouth again. We embark tomorrow.

— Journal entries of Ira Ahzred, written after winning a lordship, though before his rebellion.

* * * * * *

Three times that night did Proximo Hart have the dream, but the third time was worst. Again and again it came: a vision of himself, standing amid a crowd of grey wraiths, all featureless but for their baleful yellow eyes. But each time the dream returned, the landscape around him changed. First, it was a void of mist as empty as the eyes of those watching. Then, a crumbling harbor, on the shore of dark water. Finally, the Palace of Aureliano, but torn down and ruined. Beneath his feet, he could feel a mass of greasy, writhing tendrils, ones that pulsed and moved in a parody of life. But the man across from him, the one meant to kill him, was cloaked in yellow, and bore a pallid mask. The figure peered out from the mask with a lidless, yellow eye, and the world unravelled around him...

It was enough to force Proximo awake in a panic, and more than enough to prevent him from sleeping again. It was still hours from his usual waking time, so he contented himself by sitting up and ruminating in the dark. He tried to rub the tiredness out of his eyes. They keep getting worse, he thought grimly.

He had hoped that his own lack of sleep in the past few days had been from anxiety—a restlessness from his worries over Imi. But in the day after they had spoken on the steps of the Palace, after he’d walked away relief and grief and dumbfoundedness, he had felt as though that weight was taken off him. It was not perfect—nothing ever was—but he and Imi both had walked away from that conversation feeling the great tension of locked-away secrets fly away, and were better friends now for having had it. That nervousness was spent and gone.

Yet the dreams continue, Proximo mused. Not like the usual ones, either. He was used to seeing his own demise, the framework of his old mistakes repeated and woven out before his eyes. But these new dreams were different: twisted, foreign, more violent. They involved people he knew, or else strangers he did not want to know. Proximo shuddered when he remembered that yellow figure, that grotesque wooden face.

Lack of sleep is doing little enough for my sanity, at least. He sighed, and decided to try and get work done. The day ahead would be important.

The next few hours passed slowly, but eventually it was time for Proximo to depart. The appointed time was still a little while off, but his escort would be waiting first. Before he left the room, he slid one more token into his vest pocket: the bronze watch from Jestin Jen.

He found his escort waiting: three guards, all in orange and gold, two of which bore the Honest Eye. One was Red Autumn, scarred but apparently back on his feet after a time recovering from the riot. Another, a guard whom Proximo recalled being named Jon Faust, nodding to what his fellows said with an amiable smile on his face. The last one, the only Friend among them that did not have a golden eye on their chest, was a tall, slim woman Proximo did not recognize. Her complexion was pale, her nose hooked, and her hair had been shorn down to little more than a black stubble. She was laughing, whoever she was, and she nudged the arm of Jon when she saw Proximo approach.

“My lord,” Jon said with a bow, “I understand that we’re to have the honor of protecting you today.”

Proximo laughed. “Small an honor as it might be, yes. You’ll find me a remarkably passive VIP, so hopefully I can make the whole experience as painless as possible—the Six know you’ve more important things to worry about.” He gave a bow to all of them, but directed his attention to Red. “Mister Autumn! I see you’ve recovered well—it’s good to see you back in the world.”

“At last,” Red grunted. “It took long enough to get Skylark’s claws out of me. I told her there was no point in staying in the barracks. I was not injured.”

The hook-nosed woman barked a laugh. “Someone dices your arm, and you cuss the doctors. You should learn to appreciate a lie-in, friend. Maybe not try and bolt quite as much.”

Red merely grumbled, so Proximo thought it a good enough time for introductions. “I am not certain we’ve met,” he said with a dip of his head. “Proximo Hart, Assistant Warden of Generosity.”

She thrust out a hand, which Proximo shook. “Selda, of Central.” She seemed to measure him with her eyes, and smirked. “No, we haven’t met. You’ve got thinner arms than most people I meet, so I would’ve remembered you, I think.”

Proximo was trying to decide if he should be put off by that, when Jon cut in. “So, this man is in the city, then? How shall we handle it?”

“The meeting has already been arranged,” Proximo answered, “though he doesn’t yet know every detail. I did say I would come alone, though. I think it will be safe, seeing how close we’ll be to the Palace, but if you wish to remain and guard me it will need to be from a distance.”

Selda scratched her chin. “This guy you’re meeting dangerous?”

He shook his head. “No. In fact, we have a mutual friend. More likely, our largest concern will be avoiding attention. We cannot afford a tail from the city watch, not with whom I’m meeting with.”

“Actually,” said Jon, “they’ve been fairly lax, of late. It might not be a problem.”

“Really?” asked Red, a skeptical look crossing his sour face. After his last experience with the city watch, he did not seem willing to underestimate them.

“Really,” Selda answered. “I was out with the White Whale yesterday, and there wasn’t a trailing eye to be seen. Odd, that.”

Odd indeed, Proximo thought. Since the Bronies had arrived, they had gotten used to seeing the red-and-bronze of Dreamweave guardsmen following behind. Proximo had to wonder if the watch was simply skimping on their usual duties, or if something else was occupying their time. If it was the latter, it could be nothing good.

They made their way to the meeting-place, leaving through backdoors and shadow-cast wynds to reach into without being seen. All the while, Proximo kept his guard up. But, though he could not claim to have the same sense for danger as an Honest Friend, it seemed to him that Jon and Selda spoke the truth: there did not appear to be any guards watching. If anything, it only put Proximo on edge all the more.

The four of them found themselves across the street from a tavern—The Blue Gleam. Selda did a quick scan before anyone else went forward. “Guard at the end of the lane, but not looking our way.”

Jon nodded, then looked to Proximo. “You’re certain we cannot come in with you?”

“I’m certain. I promised to come alone—I cannot go back on it.” It was only fair, after all—it was not Proximo put at risk by this meeting.

Red grimaced. “We’ll stay close. Watch the tavern. If you need help, we should use a signal.”

“How would we get the signal if he’s inside the bar?” Jon pointed out.

“How about if there’s trouble, he just starts screaming and running?” Selda suggested.

Red shrugged. “That would work.”

Not waiting a moment longer, Proximo crossed over, still worried about eyes on him. He was not dressed in his ordinary colors, so being immediately recognizable as a Brony was not his concern, but he still felt vulnerable without an escort. Exhaling, he pushed inside the tavern.

The Blue Gleam was relatively close to the high hill and the Palace, and as such it was at least halfway respectable. The paint was peeled, and a few less fortunate remnants of the night before were still littered around, but as a whole it did not twist Proximo’s stomach. Save for those drunks still on stools and floors, the place was largely empty, as should have been expected given the hour. There was a man, however, seated alone in a booth in a darker corner of the bar, precisely where Proximo had been told he would be.

Seeing that, Proximo approached as casually as he could. He slid into the seat of the booth, while the man across from him slurped on a soup. Sitting up straight, Proximo waited for the man to acknowledge him. Nevertheless, nothing came.

After a few moments, Proximo realized that his contact was so lost in the soup bowl that he not even noticed the arrival. Proximo cleared his throat expectedly.

Stopping mid-bite, the man’s eyes shot up and stared in bewilderment at Proximo. His mouth was hanging just slightly ajar, while a bit of soup fell off his spoon and splashed back in the bowl. “ ‘Ey,” he said after a moment’s confusion.

“Hello,” Proximo began. He looked around the room, wary of watchful eyes. “If you wanted to take this anywhere more quiet, I would completely underst—” He might have continued, but at that moment he noticed just how confused his counterpart seemed. “Er, Proximo Hart? I’m the man that Imelia asked you to meet with.”

“Oooh,” he replied, wiping his mouth and nodding. “Got it. I ‘ppose that would make the most sense.” He reached a hand limply across the table. “Cabrio. Cabrio Temley. Nice t’meetcha.”

Proximo took the hand, and tried to size up Cabrio. A few things he already knew: a keykeeper of the dungeons, a guard of the city watch, a friend to Imelia. Employed by Arcadio, but apparently of a different character entirely. His appearance, certainly, suggested that: he had none of the finery nor the cruel, handsome confidence of the Martes. Cabrio was rather short, possessed of common Devien features and wrapped in common clothes. Against his better nature, Proximo’s sense of fashion thought him a bit grubby: Cabrio’s clothes were worn and faded and dirty besides, fitting enough for a man who worked in a dank cellar. The guard’s balding head seemed smeared with a grime of some sort, the origins of which Proximo did not care to speculate on. But his face seemed honest, and he was friendly enough thus far. Proximo would have to hope that that amiability would hold strong enough to help the cause.

“So, m’colleague,” Cabrio said while flopping Proximo’s hand up and down, “what can I do fer yah?”

Proximo, his hand released from Cabrio’s clammy grip, restrained the urge to wipe his palm off on a nearby napkin. “At the moment, Mister Temley, I will take whatever help you can give.”

“Well,” Cabrio started, “the pay’s good. Lot o’ walkin’, if you like that. ‘N standin’, too. Which one yah get more o’ ‘pends on whether yer on the streets or on the Hill. M’Lord Arcadio is real tough, but ‘e’s fair too, so that’s OK if you don’t make ‘em angry which yah won’t ‘cause why would yah and al—”

Proximo stopped him. “I do not mean to interrupt,” he said carefully, “but what exactly did Imelia tell you before you met with me?”

Cabrio blinked. “She said yah were interested in the watch. I figured you were lookin’ to join. S’good work, y’know.”

Proximo considered the implications of that. Either Cabrio had totally misunderstood what Imelia was asking of him, or she had been selective in telling Cabrio why this stranger wanted to meet. Proximo guessed the latter. If she thought telling him the whole of it right away would scare him off, it would make sense to leave parts out. But she must have thought I would be able to sway him, or else she would not have sent him at all.

Proximo spent half a moment pondering what to do, then had an idea. Time for a new approach.

“Interested in the watch, yes,” Proximo replied. “But of a very different kind. You see,” he said while reaching into his vest pocket, “I believe we have another mutual friend.”

Cabrio once again seemed lost. But then Proximo’s hand brought out the chain of the bronze watch, and the guard’s dumbfounded face lit up. “Jestin Jen!” he hooted, beaming with a smile. “God above, now that was a colleague! How do yah know ‘em?”

“We run in the same circles,” Proximo said at first, but then considered his words. Would Imelia want him to know that I’m one of the Bronies? Proximo could hope for the best, but being a servant of the Collective was not a proud mark to have in the Dreamweave. Still, if he doesn’t know now, he will soon enough. He had learned recently that it was rarely good to delay such things. “He is Warden of Laughter, one of the Sixfold of the Collective. My superior, Mister Temley, and—as I said—a friend as well.”

“Oh,” said Cabrio with a nod, “neat.” He leaned back in his seat, meal forgotten, and looked amiably at Proximo. “Well, a friend of ‘im and Imelia is a friend o’ me. What can I do fer yah? 'N please, call me Cabrio.”

Proximo returned a gracious smile. “It is enough to know that there are still friends to be had here,” he began. “But your help would be much appreciated as well. Information, about the watch, the city, the court, or anything of interest. It is not an easy place where we sit now.”

Cabrio chewed on his cheek and considered the request for a silent moment. Then his face lit up again. “I’ll do yah one better,” he said with a jab to the table. “I’ll show yah somethin’!” He lumbered up to his feet, and plodded towards the exit, leaving Proximo to follow before he could manage an answer.

Back out on the streets, Proximo followed Cabrio closely, catching the eye of his escorts in the alley across the street. Red Autumn looked at Cabrio, then Proximo quizzically. Proximo merely shrugged in return, saw Selda return the gesture, and then watched as his guards surreptitiously followed behind.

To his surprise, Proximo could tell that Cabrio was leading him back to the shadow of the Palace. Above them, the High Hill loomed ominously in the morning light, full as it was with men who would not take kindly to a guard and a Brony seen together. “Is it safe for us to be traveling so close to the Palace?” Proximo asked. “It is not my intention to see you in trouble.”

“Trouble?” Cabrio looked puzzled at the suggestion. “Oh, ‘cause of the horse thing. Nah, we’ll lay low. ‘Sides, no one’s gonna follow me.”

Proximo thought about the small gaggle of his friends who were, in fact, following them, and had some new doubts about Cabrio’s judgment. “Be that as it may,” he said, “I doubt I need to tell you that the city watch have been watching my friends and me closely.”

“Oh, you don’t really need to worry ‘bout that anymore. M’Lord Halforth got real mad ‘bout something, and now we’re not allowed to get too close to yah. ‘Sides, M’Lord Arcadio’s been busy.”

Proximo knew enough about Arcadio to realize how much trouble that might be. “Busy with what?” he asked as he looked over his shoulder. He did not see any interested eyes watching, but knew better than to trust just a glance.

Cabrio shrugged, and started to pick at his ear. “Dunno. Searching places around the city, mostly. Figured it was a gang-thing. Lot o’ dangerous people on the streets.”

Dangerous people like the Changelings, Proximo knew. The city watch might no longer have Halforth’s favor enough for the Lord Moderator to authorize tailing the Bronies, but that didn’t mean that the hunt for the Society had abated at all. If Arcadio is on the hunt in earnest, we’ll need to work even faster, he realized. The Bronies were close, Proximo knew, but Arcadio beating them to the discovery would be a nightmare he scarcely wanted to imagine.

They continued on their way through the streets, but Proximo was surprised when Cabrio turned away from the main staircase leading up to the Palace and began to led Proximo around the length of the tall, iron fence. “Where are we going?” Proximo asked as they followed the fence around the left of the Palace.

“Guard’s entrance,” Cabrio replied. “S’a good way t’get in and out without all the fuss. We’re headin’ in the underside o’ the Palace, right ‘round the bend.”

Proximo turned his head back to see the others a fair distance away, watching and walking. He made a gesture towards the Palace. We’re going inside, Proximo tried to say. Red Autumn seemed to understand, and nodded.

Tracing their way around the edge, Cabrio came to a gate, which he promptly unlocked with a large iron key. Proximo looked around warily as they entered. There were guards, he could see, but they were far enough away and inattentive enough to not cause concern—they did not seem at all interested in Cabrio, at least. The two made their way through the Palace greens, until they reached the walls of the manse itself. Set into the stone was a yellow door, also to be unlocked with Cabrio’s key. Cabrio beckoned Proximo inside.

Walking into a dim room, Proximo took a moment to orient himself. It only took looking to the side, however, for his heart to jump. Immediately, Proximo moved in a panic and hid himself behind a wall. “Guards,” Proximo gasped in a low voice. “At least a dozen, right around the corner.”

Cabrio looked at him blankly, then to the guards in the next room. “Well yeah, s’the guard’s barracks.”

Proximo blinked. “May I ask why you brought me here?”

“Well, s’how yah get to the thing I wanna show…” Cabrio thought about the problem for a moment, then scratched his head. “Oh, right. Yeah, might be a problem.”

“With due respect, this seems like a supremely bad idea,” Proximo said as politely as he could. Did they notice us? No one was shouting, so he guessed not.

Cabrio nodded. “Nah, that’s pretty fair. Here,” he said as he took off his jacket, “wear this.”

Proximo looked at the jacket in Cabrio’s outstretched hand. It was in the colors of the city watch, but very grubby-looking. The right cuff was frayed, several buttons were missing, and mysterious stains formed a veritable patchwork across it. “Will wearing that help?”

Cabrio shrugged again. Reluctantly, Proximo took a deep breath and put the jacket on.

“Right, now yah should keep t’my side, and we’ll walk straight through. If anyone asks anythin’, let me do the talkin’. Trust me on this?”

In his mind, Proximo was running through the ways it might go wrong. There were several, as it happened. But Imelia trusts him, he remembered. Proximo sighed and nodded.

Turning the corner, the two kept up a casual but quick pace, determined not to call attention to themselves. Proximo tried to not look anywhere but forward as they passed by bunks, ignoring the coarse voices talking amongst themselves to the side. Just keep walking, Proximo repeated to himself, just walk, don’t look, just walk…

As they walked, Proximo’s foot hit something, kicking it off to the side with a wooden clatter. He tried to pretend that nothing had happened… but his eye caught the thing he had kicked lying ahead of them. It looked like a small figurine of sorts, with a thread strung through it. Curious, Proximo listened for a moment as he stepped forward: the conversation beside them hadn’t abated. Relieved, Proximo surreptitiously scooped up the thing as he walked by.

“We’re almost there,” Cabrio whispered hoarsely. “Just keep yer ‘ead down, n’—”

“Cabrio.”

Both of them froze. Turning around, they saw a sour-looking guard staring at Cabrio, with a folded up newspaper under his arm.

“Uh,” Cabrio stammered. “ ‘Ey, m’colleague. Ah,” he glanced at Proximo, “this is, uh, this is…”

“I don’t even care, Cabrio,” the guard said, rolling his eyes. “Just get back to work.” He then walked away.

Cabrio and Proximo exchanged a look, then hurried off.

Eventually, they reached a narrow staircase, and began to make their way down into the dark. “Where are we going?” Proximo asked, trying to avoid tripping.

“S’the level as where the dungeon entrance is,” Cabrio explained, fumbling down the stairs. “We go there.”

“But to do what?”

“That’s the surprise!” Cabrio said. He stumbled enough on the stairs that Proximo had to catch him with a hand before he fell over. The stairs really were too narrow by half. “Y’know, Jestin thought surprises were real neat.”

After a moment more of clumsy travelling, they arrived at the bottom of the staircase. Opened out before them was a long, dark hallway, branching left and right. Cabrio took a lantern from the wall and set to work lighting it, while Proximo stood beside him. “So, how did you and Jestin meet, exactly?” Proximo asked. Jestin Jen had a habit of making unlikely allies in strange places, but the Dreamweave seemed like an even less likely place to make friends than most. Though I seem to have had some success thus far, Proximo admitted.

“Well,” Cabrio said while struggled to strike the lamp to flames, “that was when ‘e was ‘ere singin’. Does ‘e still sing?”

“Almost constantly.”

“Yup, that’s ‘im. Anyways, ‘e was playin’ in the Palace and we got t’ talkin’, which was weird ‘cause no one ever talks t’ us guards durin’ the parties.” He pointed down the left end of the hallway. “If we followed that way, we’d end up back at the dungeon entrance I work.” He then pointed the other way. “We’re goin’ down there. Stick close, it gets a bit tricky down ‘ere.”

Proximo nodded, though it was dim enough that Cabrio might not have seen. It was an odd feeling, knowing that he was travelling deep into the heart of Aureliano’s Palace. Proximo had not yet ventured into the deeper parts of the manse: the only time his friends had gone below was to visit the prisoners, and plunging into dank basements to confront jailors was not within his expertise. He might have been used to the lush ballrooms and stately chambers of the Palace on the Hill, but he could see now that much of the complex had been carved into the Hill itself, stretching its fingers down into the earth. And not just in the Hill, either, Proximo thought, knowing well that the tunnels he walked in were not the sole ones to be found in the Dreamweave.

As they walked beneath the low, shaded ceilings, Proximo reached a hand into his pocket, and felt for the thing he had picked up in the barracks. He was not certain what possessed him to take it, but now he was idly curious to see what it was. Trash, most likely, he had to admit, but perhaps not. I’ve seen more than my share of strange things, of late.

As it happened, he was surprised. The thing was not trash, that much was certain. It was a carven figure, one small and crudely made. The wood was one that Proximo did not recognize at a glance: it was thin-grained and yellow, but he could not tell if the color was natural or else dyed in. It hung upon a spindle-thin string, wide enough to be hung around the neck. It seemed oddly weightier than Proximo would have expected, seeing that it was made only of wood, and felt more like a rock in his hand. The strangest thing, though, was the totem’s shape. It had been carved to resemble a repulsive creature of sorts. The head was not unlike a toad, albeit one bulbous and grotesque enough to turn the stomach, but with a body that showed nothing but squamous, arching tentacles, like a kraken. At the center of its head was a single eye.

Proximo was not a superstitious man by nature. Yet somehow, there was something about the idol that unnerved him. It was as though the thing’s features had been carved with a dark intent, weighed down with malice. More puzzling, though, was finding it where he had. Proximo did not consider himself a historian nor a connoisseur of such grim things, but he knew of places where totems like that existed: the darkling fringes of the Web, places of madness and demon-gods. The Chan. The Deep. But the Dreamweave, run-down as it might be, would not fit the list. So why is it here? he wondered, looking over his shoulders, as though the answer were already stalking him. There were three Channic in the city, he knew, and that seemed a fair explanation. But the idea of the masked men roaming the halls beneath the Palace raised only more questions, and was hardly a comfort.

Cabrio seemed to notice Proximo’s confusion. “What’s that, then?”

“I found it in the barracks,” Proximo replied, turning the image over in his hand.

Cabrio, however, did not seem unnerved by it at all. “Oh, just one o’ those?” he said mildly.

“You recognize it?” Proximo asked, taken aback.

“Yeah, that’ll be one o’ the boys’. Lot o’ ‘em like jewelry like that. Not that I’d judge, y’know, man can wear a necklace if ‘e please.”

“The boys?” Proximo thought a moment. “The guards?”

“Yup.” Cabrio saw Proximo’s expression. “Why, is that weird?”

Proximo tried to scrutinize Cabrio again. He found it very difficult to discern if the guard was just japing with him, or was truly oblivious. Hard as it might be to believe, Proximo had to assume the latter, based on how Imelia had described her friend. “Just slightly,” Proximo replied. “Now why would a guard have something like this?”

Cabrio shrugged. “Don’t really know fashion and such. Must be some foreign thing. Y’know a lot o’ ‘em aren’t from ‘ere.”
That was new. Foreigners in the guards? “Oh really?” Proximo asked casually as they turned a corner. “Where are they from, then?”

“Somewhere else.” A moment passed before Cabrio realized that it wasn’t a very good answer. “Well, it was somewhere M’Lord Arcadio went when ‘e was abroad. ‘E recruited them out there, which was good ‘cause we didn’t have ‘nough people in the watch ‘round then. So that was good o’ ‘im.”

Proximo nodded along, trying to fit the new information into the pattern. Arcadio goes abroad some years ago, and returns with new recruits for the watch. Now that he thought of it, several of the guards he had seen did not have Devien features. Men of the Isles had tan or olive skin, thin eyes, and dark hair. But weren’t there others who were pale and fair-haired?
Proximo tried to recall if he’d seen such men: he rarely forgot a face, but then he had also not met many guards. But where did Arcadio find them? And why did they come? Proximo couldn’t imagine that serving in the Dreamweave city watch was such a venerable position that men would cross the Web for that alone—they would need to be promised something. Proximo had heard dark rumors of Arcadio’s time abroad, but still only rumors. Still . . .

Proximo tucked the idol away, and made a mental note to speak with his superiors about it later. Strange things indeed.
Consumed as he was with thoughts and theories, Proximo almost collided with Cabrio when the guard came to a sharp stop. “Alrighty,” said Cabrio proudly, “we’re ‘ere.”

It was a dead end.

Proximo was not fooled for a minute, however. Cabrio did not seem the type to deliberately waste time—there was something here worth seeing. And Proximo had learned, of late, that there could be fascinating things hidden in unlikely places. Almost immediately, he began scanning the stone walls for the telltale markers.

“D’yah mind if I see that watch for a sec?”

“Certainly,” Proximo replied absently. He fished the watch out and handed it over, all while running his eyes over the walls in front of him. He saw no green hearts, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t something there. “I should tell you, though, that it is broken.”

Cabrio laughed and waved a dismissive hand. “No it ain’t, colleague. S’a family heirloom, this. Anyways,” he continued, “I’m curious. What did Jestin tell yah about me givin’ ‘im this?”

Proximo tried to remember. “He said that you gave it to him when he was leaving the Dreamweave. Well, more when he was fleeing the Dreamweave. I understand that some lady thought he was a thief?”

“Yeah, but ‘e wasn’t.”

Proximo nodded in agreement. Truthfully, he wouldn’t have expected less. Jestin Jen was not a man to be interested in thievery. “From what he told me, he had to leave with little more than the clothes on his back, and that watch as a gift.”

“Aye, that’s the truth of it. Things were gettin’ a little tricky ‘round ‘ere, if you understand. Had to haul ‘imself out right quick,” said Cabrio, placing a hand on the wall. There was a small groove between the stones, small enough to fit a hand.

Proximo smiled in understanding. “That be an interesting story.”

Cabrio grinned. “Sure is. Watch this.”

Fumbling on the stones, Cabrio approached the narrow gap between the bricks. Instead of a hand, however, he carefully slid the bronze watch inside. Proximo heard a faint click.

Then, the wall fell away.

In the center of the wall, a rectangular portion some five feet tall and perhaps three feet wide dropped, sliding down into the floor with a hard thud. Where it once stood, a gulf of darkness opened up.

Cabrio stepped back with a smile and waited for Proximo to be impressed. “Not bad, eh?”

Proximo had to agree, and answered with a numb nod. Gingerly, he stepped towards the doorway and stuck his head inside the darkened passage. “Where does it lead?” Already, he was wondering at the possibilities. If the Changelings were still hidden, and he had stumbled upon another of their tunnels, there was no telling what—or who—might lie within.

“I’ll give yah a hint,” replied Cabrio, stepping into the tunnel himself. “When Jestin had t’run, well, ‘e couldn’t just walk out the gates. Guess how ‘e managed to vanish?” He chuckled. “People were talking ‘bout it weeks after.”

“It leads out of the city?” asked Proximo, peering into the black.

“Yup. Back into it too. C’mon, I’ll show yah!” Cabrio held up the lantern, and walked inside. Proximo could only follow. After he stepped through, Cabrio knelt down and picked up the watch. After a moment, the wall began to rise again, until the two men were shut into darkness.

The tunnel was narrow, and with a low enough ceiling that a man not fond of closed spaces would find little to love. It was hard to see far ahead, past Cabrio and the fuzzy edge of the lantern-light, but it appeared straight as an arrow, with none of the turns and twists of the Changeling tunnel Proximo had crept in beneath Saffrongem Street. The air was still and stale, not disturbed for a long time, and no end was in sight. A quiet fell between the two men, save for the sound of bootsteps and the jingle of Cabrio’s belt.

Proximo broke the silence with a question he’d been pondering. “How did you know about all this, anyways?” Secret passages and hidden doors seemed somewhat above Cabrio’s pay grade.

“I told yah,” replied Cabrio, leading the way, “family heirloom!” He dangled the watch on its chain and waved it a little. “There’ve been Temleys in the Dreamweave since the start. Helped build the Palace and such. And Cabrio Temley’s just the latest of ‘em. There’s good fun, havin’ an old name. Shame there aren’t more like this one.”

Proximo held his tongue. “You’ve been greatly forthcoming about all of this,” he pointed out.

“Whaddya mean?” said Cabrio.

“Well, you did only meet me today,” Proximo explained. “Not that I don’t appreciate it, but showing me this,” he said with a gesture, “is a lot for a stranger.”

“Aw, well yer a friend o’ friends. Really, s’no trouble at all, not like I had anything goin’ on today,” he said blithely.

Proximo tilted his head at that. “No, I meant that it must have taken some trust. You couldn’t be sure that Arcadio would not learn of it.”

Cabrio looked back, and seem confused. “Why, d’yah think he wouldn’t like it?”

Proximo had to take a moment to process that. “Cabrio,” he said slowly, “does anyone else know about this place?”

“Nope. Just you, me, n’ Jestin. Actually, wait,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck, “Jestin kinda got hit on the ‘ead a lot before we went through ‘ere. ‘E might notta known what was happenin’, now that I think ‘o it.”

“But if it isn’t a secret, why didn’t you tell Arcadio? Or anyone else?”

“Didn’t ask.” Cabrio tried to read Proximo’s expression. “I mean, I could tell ‘im, if you’d like.”

Proximo politely but firmly dissuaded him, then tried his best to make an accounting of Cabrio again. Proximo could not help but be slightly baffled by Cabrio. There was nothing about the man that he regarded as untrustworthy. Far from it: Cabrio seemed almost uncommonly earnest and sincere, and made every sign of holding his friends close. Were that not the case, he would have no reason to help Proximo, a friend of friends, so much as he had. Yet Cabrio was so lacking in guile that Proximo had to worry, grateful as he was.

It was the incongruity of it that Proximo could not understand. “Cabrio,” he needed to ask, “why exactly do you work for Arcadio?”

“Dunno. I mean, I need a job n’all.”

“No, I mean that you do not seem a bad man in the least—”

“Aw, well that’s mighty nice of yah,” Cabrio cut in, seeming genuinely touched.

“—So why do you work for him? The man is vile.”

Cabrio hesitated. “ ‘E’s not . . . that bad.” When he saw Proximo’s look, he backtracked. “Alright, well, ‘e’s definitely worse recent-wises. I dunno, I don’t have a lot ‘o skills ‘ere. It’s keykeepin’ or nothin’. ‘Sides, I don’t think it’s my business.”

Proximo raised an eyebrow. “I mean to say, Cabrio,” he said gently, “that if Arcadio were to learn of any of this, it would go poorly for us both. He has already done a great deal of harm to my friends. I’d not have him repeat that on Imelia. Or you, for that matter.”

Cabrio thought on that for a long moment. Then, he nodded. “Aye, I see what y’mean there.” He looked up and sniffed at the air. “Smell that? Almost there.”

Proximo could feel it too. The air was less stale. Just barely, he could feel it moving down the hall—a slight draught, hardly noticeable, was coming from ahead.

Eventually, Cabrio’s lantern reached the last patch of inky blackness in the corridor, banishing the dark enough to reveal another wall—another dead end. But not truly, [Proximo knew. It took only a moment for Cabrio to find the same tell-tale groove in the wall, and place the watch inside as he did before. The wall fell away, and in its place was a bar of blinding sunlight.

They had been below long enough that Proximo had to shield his eyes from the noonday brightness. He stepped out, blinking hard, into the realm outside, and found himself standing on rock. Not the smoothed building-stone used in the tunnel, but true rock—a rough, jutting, natural floor filled with tiny craters and small tufts of grass. There was no ceiling above him: the wall that held the tunnel continued up only a few feet more, then had only blue skies beyond. It appeared to Proximo that they were at the bottom of a hill, with a sharp face that contained the doorway. Proximo stood in a little gulley at the hill’s feet, with a gentle slope leading out of it.

Taking a few tentative steps up, Proximo peeked over and took a glimpse of the surroundings. The direction facing the door, the way that they had come, he saw open fields that ended in a distant wall. The city’s walls, though far enough away that Proximo could only see the blurred outlines of the guards patrolling the gatehouse. Looming above it was the Palace of Aureliano, shining upon its hill. Proximo could see the two main roads out of the city in the distance on either side of the gulley, albeit with no one travelling upon them. Finally, in the opposite direction of where he had come, there were some scattered pastures not far off.

He heard Cabrio rustling behind him, and turned to see the guard removing the watch from its setting-place. The doorway began to seal once again, and Proximo could see that the secret doorway on this side was not unlike that on the other. Brickwork: one could tell that it was not a natural part of the hill, though Proximo doubted anyone would guess its purpose. To him, it appeared to be the long-forgotten foundation of a house.

Cabrio made his way forward, and stood with Proximo in the sun. “I remember back when Jestin was out ‘ere. ‘E was pretty outta it when I carried ‘im through that tunnel. But once ‘e came to we found a guy to take ‘im to Indelio, no questions asked. So it all worked out.”

The end of that story was enough to remind Proximo of his original purpose. “That’s a kind thing to do, for a man you couldn’t have known for long,” Proximo pointed out, hoping for an opening.

“Aw, well it was the least I coulda . . .” Cabrio had a look of realization. “Oh hey! I clean forgot: you wanted my help with somethin’, yeah? S’what Imelia told me, at least.”

“Indeed,” replied Proximo. He aimed to be assuaging, but clear: he wanted to convince Cabrio to testify, but not to deceive him about the dangers. “My superiors—my fandom—need your help. You know already of the position we’re in, what with these accusations. We would like to have you testify in the investigation Lord Halforth is conducting.”

Cabrio seemed surprised. “Testify? Like, to what?”

“The truth. What you’ve seen in your job in the city watch, and in the dungeons. Nothing more and nothing less.”

“Sounds simple,” Cabrio said.

“Not exactly,” he had to admit. “Cabrio, I warn you that this testimony might have an adversarial cast to it, as far as Arcadio is co—” He saw a blank look, and doubled back. “It would reflect badly on Arcadio. Enough that it could get you in trouble.”

“Hmm,” Cabrio intoned with a bobbing of his head. “Trouble, huh?”

“We could make accommodations for you,” Proximo added quickly. “If it were no longer safe, you would be protected by my friends, and that is a promise. We can arrange for you to travel, as well. I was hoping to relocate Imelia and her kin after this was over, regardless.” Proximo looked to Cabrio seriously. “We take care of our friends.”

Cabrio rubbed his neck thoughtfully. “Imelia’s goin’, eh? Well, she is a friend. And it seems she’s helpin’ you too.” He chewed on the thought. “Never been outside the Dreamweave, never once. Might be fun.”

Proximo saw the chance opening. “I swear that anything you need to ensure your help is given. As I said, we take care of our friends. And I would not ask were it not of the utmost importance.” He took a step forward. “If you would like, I could send you a list of the things on which we’d like to hear your testimony.”

Cabrio considered it silently. Then, he nodded. “Aye. Aye, I’ll look at ‘em, and see what I can do.” He looked to Proximo sheepishly. “I do wanna help, o’ course. Strange, though, all this happenin’. Not used to sweatin’ ‘bout the big stuff like this. Never really thought ‘bout it much before.”

“It will not be the last thing that will change, should you help us,” Proximo warned. He did not want Cabrio walking into danger unaware.

Cabrio smiled. “Well, I never ‘ave been hard t’please.” He stuck out an inviting hand, one of that Proximo readily took. After a firm shake, he gestured back to the door. “Wanna try openin’ it? You’ll need this.” He dangled the watch in front of Proximo.

Proximo hesitated. “Are you certain? It’s your family’s heirloom.”

“I gave it t’Jestin,” he replied, sounding puzzled, “ ‘n then ‘e gave it t’you. That makes it yours.” He tossed the watch over to Proximo, who only barely caught it. “Go on, it’s fun!”

Proximo obliged, sliding the watch into its place in the wall. He had to admit: the sight of a wall sliding down to reveal a secret door was immensely satisfying. He could see why the Changelings were so fond of it. Though, now that he had been through it, Proximo doubted that this passage belonged to the Society. It lacked their marks, for one, and only one man had access to it or knowledge of it—Cabrio, whom Proximo had to assume was no Changeling. A complete inability to keep secrets did not mesh well with admission to secret societies, by his reckoning.

Although, Proximo thought, it wouldn’t hurt to be certain. “Cabrio, are you part of the Changeling Society?”

“Nope,” Cabrio casually replied.

Well, that settles it. Proximo made an elaborate bow, and motioned towards the open tunnel. “Shall we?”'

“Sure,” Cabrio said, wiping his nose. “Let’s shall.”

They made their way back through the dark, towards the Palace. Some sparse words were exchanged between them, but Proximo was busy in his thoughts for much of the way. He had in him a certain feeling of accomplishment. One more ally, he thought while stepping through the tunnel, or near enough. Cabrio’s testimony was far from assured, but even a meager chance was good enough for now. A chance meant a hope, and Proximo’s cause always had need of that.

Eventually, they reached the end, stepping back into the Palace fold. Proximo knew that it was still best not to be seen together, so he bid Cabrio farewell—and, at Cabrio’s insistence, held on to the watch. The bronze key—and a key it was—weighed down his right pocket, while the curious idol he kept in the other. Both, Proximo knew, would warrant an explanation of some length to Lady Violet. He set off to give just that, trying to avoid the guards as he went.

As Proximo returned to the Brony wing, he was unsurprised to find his escorts waiting for him, as they had arranged. Jon Faust greeted him first. “How did it go?”

“Well enough,” Proximo replied. “Cabrio Temley is a curious man, but not a bad one. I believe we have a new friend in this city.”

“Will he talk?” asked Selda bluntly.

“That remains to be seen,” Proximo admitted. “But I think as much.”

Red Autumn grimaced. “First the guards attack us,” he grunted, “now we hope they help us. Hrm.” He motioned to down the hallway. “We’ll take you to debrief.”

Proximo nodded and followed, but it was not long before they heard someone speak up from around a corner. “Having fun?” they said in a scornful tone. “It must be nice, out in the world.”

Proximo recognized the voice, but that only confused him more. Looking around the corner, he saw him. Slumped down on the ground, his legs sprawled out across the ground, his body slouched into a heap. His clothes might have been fine, but seemed torn up and faded, and his thick black hair hung down in disarray. Proximo could still see his face, though. There was black stubble across his features, that was new, but the rest was as familiar as before. A handsome face, but only on one side. Proximo took a sharp breath.

“Dustario?” he said tentatively. “I . . . I did not realize you were out of the sick bay.”

Dustario barked out a laugh. “Are you surprised? I hate it there. Gawking. No one around. Where were you, hmm?”

The way that Dustario sat, Proximo could only clearly see his undamaged side. But he knew what lay on the other: the side of his face torn apart in the riot, the scars now hidden by bandages. Proximo had not seen Dustario, not since his injuries were deemed serious enough for selective care, and he had been sequestered apart from the others. Proximo swallowed. “Dustario,” he said slowly, “you would not let anyone see you.” The Six knew that Proximo had tried.

He gave a dark laugh. “Who would want to?”

“You’ve been drinking,” said Red Autumn, seeming forlorn. It was not a question, nor was one needed—there was a stench of alcohol on Dustario’s clothes.

“And why not? There’s nothing else.” Dustario brought his head back against the wall sharply. “It’s done. We’re done.”

Six save us, thought Proximo, looking aghast at his friend.

Red Autumn tightened a fist. “I’m not leaving him here.” Jon nodded, seeming shocked, while Selda merely stared, her face unreadable.

“Agreed,” Proximo said immediately. To Hell with debriefing, he thought. There would be time for that later. “Here, help me with him. Dustario? You shouldn’t be up like this. We’re getting you out of here.”

“You don’t get it, do you?” Dustario said. He began pushing his legs about, as though trying to prop himself up, to no avail. “I’m not getting out of here. Neither are you. None of us are.”

Proximo looked at Dustario uncomfortably. “What are you talking about, Dustario? Of course we are. We’re going to help you.”

Dustario made a retching sound that might have been a laugh. “You can’t help anyone, none of you. We’re never going to leave this place. Never!” He turned up and looked at them all, eyes alive with fury. “We’re never leaving. It told me. We’re trapped here, in this Hell. You don’t understand! We’re all trapped here, inside Aureliano’s dead dream! It’s all rotting, and so are we, because we’re dead. Why are we still walking? A black voice . . .”

Proximo didn’t need another word. Seeing Dustario in such a state made him sick and sad and frightened all at once, but that would not excuse him leaving a friend behind. With Red taking one arm and Proximo the other, they pulled Dustario up from the ground. Their friend limply swung his legs and arms against them. “Get off,” he murmured.

“No,” replied Red, as they hauled him out.

At that moment, a voice came from down the hallway. “—tario?” it called. “Dustario?” at that moment, Skylark of the Kind came into view. “Oh, thank the Six, you found him!” She rushed over immediately, gathering up her robes to run up and check on Dustario. “Drunk. He should not be out in a state like this. I cannot even say how he managed to get ahold of drink, but the man will not stay put, and there’s only one of me.” She lifted up Dustario’s face and spoke to him firmly. “Do you hear me? I will not have you disappearing while my back is turned again, Dustario. Six save me, if something had happened . . .”

“I’ll make sure he stays put,” said Red gruffly. “You need someone downstairs to keep an eye on him.”

Skylark gave an appreciative nod. “You have experience controlling patients?”

Red snorted. “Drunk ones? Yes.”

Before Proximo could move much farther in carrying Dustario off, however, he felt a hand on his shoulder. “I’ll help from here,” said Selda. “You’ve got words for the lady.”

“That can wait,” Proximo protested. “He needs friends with him.”

Selda scoffed. “Hence why we’re going.” She looked at him sympathetically. “We’re all worried, here, but there are jobs that need doing. Do yours.”

Proximo looked to the others and saw agreement on their faces. Red stared at him, then gave a small nod.

Sighing, Proximo reluctantly let Selda take his place. The two lifted Dustario up, ignoring what he murmured, followed Skylark’s path. Proximo was left alone with Jon and a heavy heart.

Jon placed a hand on his arm. “Come on, friend,” he said sadly. “Jobs that need doing, eh?”

Proximo nodded numbly. After a moment to think, he rubbed his eyes, and went off to his duty. The day was not done, and yet he felt very tired. It had been a day of bad dreams.

* * * * * *

“The Moderator invasion of the Chan took little time: forces were mobilized immediately upon the request of the previous Mootking for aid. The opportunity to move an Authority presence into the troublesome isles amicably (to the extent that was possible) was too good for the High Administration to pass up, and thus the army they sent was one large enough that—if the chance arose—it might occupy permanently. Thousands of men and women in the white-and-black poured into the Saying Sea, landing on the northern shores of Greatchan to meet with their Channic allies. Now, that combined force stood outside Baysmouth.

“Had circumstances been different, Madelin Wright might have stood for a siege. But her position at Baysmouth was beyond untenable. Her forces might have taken the city, but much of its defenses had been damaged in the process. Even worse, the Channic within the walls baled for blood: they had no love of their new occupiers, and sought to purge the fandom from the Slouchhall however they could. Day and night, Baysmouth roiled, and situation seemed increasingly dire.

“In a council of her captains, Wright took stock of precisely how dire it was. The combined force of Giles Blair and Mootkind Rohd would reach the walls within days. There was no means of reinforcement: while another Brony force remained in Comchan under the Warden of Honesty, communications between the two were scattershot, and additional forces would not reach Baysmouth in time. Though some of her captains wished to stand and fight, Wright was reluctantly forced to order otherwise—to evacuate.

“Trying to flee by land would have been futile, and thus a seizing of every remaining ship in Baysmouth and its environs began. Many had already fled when the city was taken, but all that remained were commandeered: longships, sloops, schooners, fishing boats, and mud runners, even down to rafts made by lashing together whatever materials were on hand. Many were in poor repair, and almost none were armed. One observer saw the assembled ‘fleet,’ and remarked grimly: ‘One Mod frigate, and we’ll feed the Bay for a century.’

“Thankfully, those fears had proven ill-founded, though only by chance. Lord Blair and the Mootking had been unable to agree upon allowing Moderator ships access to the Bay of Masks—Rohd feared that if such permission was given, the Mods would never leave. Thus, the complete quarantine plan Blair had originally made never came to fruition: Baysmouth remained encircled only by land, while the ornery Channic failed to organize an effective blockade.

“A greater problem, however, could not be surmounted. There were too few ships, and too many men.”

“It became clear soon enough that, with the time they had and with the Channic in Baymouth harrying them every step of the way, they no longer had the resources to evacuate everyone. Channic infiltrators had worked to destroy several ships already, and none more could be gathered from the area. Scouts had reported the enemy force approaching rapidly, and believed they would arrive within mere hours. The grim calculus became obvious to Wright: some men would be forced to remain behind.

“When she announced this news to her captains, Wright insisted first that she be left behind. It when the others forced her to back down that she did so (though the story of her being chained to her ship during the evacuation is an apocryphal one). Instead, a search began for other volunteers for the bleak task.

“They came. Some eagerly, some slowly, one-by-one, the tally rose. By the end, there were two hundred and thirty men and women standing on the docks when the last ship fled from Baysmouth, watching their last chance at escape fade away. Those that remained ran to the walls, to try and man what defenses still remained.

“The enemy were upon them within an hour, both those within the walls and without. Channic inside the city used secret signals to urge Rohd into an attack, one which Blair—sensing weakness, and unwilling to let the Channic take sole control of Baysmouth—joined. The battle did not last two hours more: the remaining Brony defenders were cut down between the military outside and the insurgents within. The last of their forces at the Slouchhall were forced to surrender, allowing a Mootking to stride through it halls and sit the Driftwood Throne once again.

“Of the two hundred and thirty who remained in Baysmouth, all were killed or captured, save for the remarkable case of the Brony anonymite Arl Everfree. Some of those captured managed to escape or were rescued later on in the war, most notably Tyver Saarthos, later called ‘the Sixclaw,’ who would captain the Nightmare during the First Rise’s final stages. Others would be freed as part of the Treaty of Baysmouth that ended hostilities. Whatever their fates, the legend of the Blue Martyrs would outlast them.

“The evacuation ended on the shores of Comchan, when Madelin Wright touched the shore and swore vengeance. Some few ships had been lost to storms, others to krakens, others to the Channic, but the vast majority landed safely, albeit at a high price. It would not be forgotten. In what is now the Brony territory of Sixchan-on-the-Shore, there stands a monument in Faust’s Square. A pillar of stone, but with scratches made on its sides, as though by a knife—two hundred and thirty of such marks were made. Beneath that, a plaque reads a single word. That word is ‘LOYALTY.’ ”

— Excerpt from“The Brony War,” by Lorelove

Chapter XXXIV: Make New Friends . . .

* * * * * *

Things are becoming complacent. We can’t have that.

Escalate, then? How? When shall we move?

Now.

* * * * * *

"A white Mod comes with badge and shield:
A time to yield,
No potter's field.

"A black Mod comes, blade at his side:
A time to hide,
Stay fast, don't ride.

"With hammer and bow, the white hats come:
A time to run.
What have you done?"

— A common rhyme, often recited by children. References to the ‘white hats’ are frequent in such songs, though always in a tone of fear.

* * * * * *

Removed from the dungeon, Dabrius Joh seemed much improved. New clothes had replaced the filthy rags he was reduced to wearing, with grime washed away and wounds covered. Though he had not shaved the wild black beard that sprung from his face, Dabrius did not seem half as ill as he once did: color was returning to his skin, and his hollow cheeks had begun to fill out again. In the waning lamplight, amid the bruises and cuts, one could see more clearly than before his small, black eyes, and how they glinted with a firm, melancholic resolve. That same tenacity had let Dabrius survive much so far, and showed no sign of leaving now.

Coin could admire the stubbornness. Without it, Dabrius might not have lasted through whatever horrors he had seen. At the moment, however, there was little that could be more frustrating.

“My answer is the same,” Dabrius said. He was lying down in his small bed, propped against a bare wall, and staring towards the other side of the room.

Standing next to Coin, Lady Violet sighed. “My friend, I understand why you feel this must be done. Were there another option, I would gladly take it. But staying silent now is neither right nor wise, not for the fandom or the Changelings or any other. Or to you.”

“I’m not in a position to weigh what’s right for me,” Dabrius replied plainly. “I will not have people kill themselves on my behalf.”

“Oh?” Lady Violet asked pointedly. “And what happens when Halforth drags you to a gibbet and hangs a Brony ambassador as a murderer and a Modslayer? Do you suppose there will be no repercussions for the rest of our friends, if the whole Web believes that the fandom was behind this crime? You’re part of our foreign service, Dabrius, you know how fragile our relations are with the major sites, let alone the Authority. The Six smile upon protecting our friends, but what you’re doing will put them in danger all the more.”

Dabrius closed his eyes and mulled on those words. Then he hardened himself again. “I won’t be swayed by hypotheticals. I have sworn an oath.”

“Like Heylen Ott?” Coin asked.

He could noticed the slightest change in Dabrius’ face. A tightening, as his jaw clenched at the name. He said nothing else.

Lady Violet frowned, but did not sound angry when she spoke. “I can see that there is nothing more I can say. Whatever it is you choose, know that I am happier than you could know to see you out of the Martes’ hands at last. I will do all that I can to see that you do not fall back into them.” She turned to leave, but stopped at the door. “If there is anything you need,” she said, “I will see that it is brought to you.”

Dabrius did not answer, and Coin followed closely behind Violet as she opened the door and departed. Coin closed it behind them as the lady began speaking to the guards flanking either side of Dabrius’ quarters.

Lord Halforth had allowed Greenglade to be guarded by the Bronies alone—his innocence seemed far more certain, and until reinforcements arrived from Central there was not room to spare Mods to watch doors. The Lord Moderator had demanded, however, that Dabrius be kept under closer scrutiny, so as to prevent foul play. Lady Violet had in turn insisted that a Brony eye be kept on Dabrius, for precisely the same reason. Both were adamant that the city watch be kept away. The compromise they reached was evident: on the right side of the door, dressed in black-and-white, was Percy Cartwright, and on the other in gold-and-orange was Crispin Peck.

Crispin waved cheerfully when he saw Lady Violet and Coin exit, though they had only gone in not ten minutes prior. Percy was more talkative. “All finished, m’lady?”

Lady Violet bowed and smiled. “Indeed, Mister Cartwright. I trust that we did not go past our allotted time?”

Percy chuckled. “I’m not gonna grudge ya fer a minute outside o’ visitin’ hours. S’least we Mods can do, I think.”

“My thanks,” replied Lady Violet. “I do appreciate how understanding your order has been in all this, Mister Cartwright. You’ve all been working quite hard to ensure that our friends are provided for, and that is not something I forget.” Percy seemed abashed at the praise, but she quickly pivoted. “I wonder,” she added casually, “how is Miss Ravenry? I’ve not seen her of late.”

The complement seemed to put Percy somewhat at ease, but Coin could tell that he was having trouble answering. “Ah, well she’s just fine. Busy, y’know.”

“She did seem rather stretched when I last saw her,” said Lady Violet.

Percy swallowed. “Yeah, yeah I guess so. She, ah, she’s got a lot to do. She’ll be fine, though.”

“Of that, I am certain.” Lady Violet bowed to the pair of them. “Well, I must take my leave. Promise you won’t get in trouble, Crispin?”

Crispin smiled brightly, but shook his head. Lady Violet could only laugh, and then she and Coin departed.

He waited until they were out of earshot. “Cellia Ravenry, my lady?” he asked.

“Just a feeling I’ve been nursing,” Lady Violet said. “Our friends in black-and-white have seemed off-kilter, of late. If they are unraveling on us, I would know. Particularly if they are the ones who have helped us.” She shook her head. “As I said, a feeling. But there are greater things to face today, no?” She gave Coin a smile. “Ready for some hunting, sir?”

Coin nodded, and they set on their way. Noon had long passed, and several of their friends were either on their way or in position already, prepared to investigate on the word of Heylen Ott. That word was one that Coin trusted, strained and ambiguous as it might have been. Before Coin and the lady could join the others, however, there was another member of the party they needed to collect.

They brought themselves to the door and Lady Violet gave a knock. It took only a moment for him to answer. The door opened to reveal Prim Enproper, fully dressed but yawning.

“I am happy to serve as always, my lady,” said Prim, looking as morose while serving as always, “but I should tell you that I am not a morning person.”

“It’s the afternoon, Prim,” pointed out Lady Violet.

“I’m not an afternoon person either. Morning, afternoon, evening, night of the full moon, or any cosmic limbo in between. All time and space seems to disagree with me.” He yawned again, and rubbed his eyes. “Well, no delay, is there? Let’s find some bugs.”

So they set off, down through the Palace, and down into the city, to do just that. In a manner of speaking, at least. On their way to High-Hill Way, Coin threw back his head and checked over his shoulder more than once: he could remember what had happened the last time they had ventured into the city as a group, even outside of their colors. No one seemed to follow, as Coin might have expected. Apparently Proximo Hart had garnered some intelligence the other day that suggested the guards had been dissuaded from tailing the Bronies again. Coin did not know all the details, but it made sense: it was only at the sufferance of Lord Halforth that such activity was allowed, and any favor he had given to the Martes was now long gone. After what had happened in the past days and weeks, the Martes would be wise to start calculating more closely exactly what they could get away with. Not that they are often wise, Coin had to admit.

In time, they reached the street, filled on either side with high-terraced buildings lined with windows on each floor. Many seemed in use by someone or other: people darted in and out the doors, figures could be seen shadowed through glass panes. Others, however, appeared abandoned. The roofs sagged, the walls crumbled, the plants had overgrown their boundaries and spilled out into street and sidewalk. No people were seen about them, nor light within. It was those houses that Coin was concerned with that day.

The rest of the Bronies were milling about nearby, looking inconspicuous until they saw the lady approach. Even with the news from Hart, Lady Violet had insisted upon precautions, and split the party into groups that would venture down into the belly of the city separately, to hide their numbers. They were not far from the Palace, nor deep into any territory lost entirely to crime and ruin like Nightside, but still there was reason to be cautious. Now that Lady Violet had come, however, they began to surreptitiously gather.

“Lady-Warden,” said Jorama with a small bow as she walked up. Behind her were Applewood and Appleblossom, walking side by side and embroiled in some light bickering. “I trust the way down was not troublesome?”

“All without issue,” replied Lady Violet, sounding satisfied. “So far at least. We shall see if our luck holds.”

“Lucky indeed,” said Prim. “I only stepped in three piles of dog leavings on the way down here, which is a new record for me. Though that doesn’t count the one in my room.” He looked up gloomily at one of the abandoned buildings. “Now that’s a proper hovel. Walls and everything. People don’t know how good they have it, these days.”

“Speakin’ of which,” said Applewood, “how’re we handlin’ this? ‘Cause I understand we were told ‘go ‘round the abandoned house’ on this street, but I can’t say I recall bein’ told which house.”

“You’re right to say so, Applewood,” Lady Violet admitted. “Our source could not be more specific, for reasons a bit complex to explain. Needless to say, he did his best, but there is still work for us—we must search each house we can. There are not many, but it will need to be one-by-one.” She looked over the group, and began assigning accordingly. “Appleblossom,” she said first to the pretty Honest woman, “you, Applewood, and Prim search the house in the corner.”

Appleblossom shrugged. “Sure.” She waved for the other two to join her.

Prim stepped over, shoulders slumped as he walked. “One request for you two. If we stumble on Changelings, and it turns out that they’re truly shapeshifters intent on marriage, do a poor man a favor and don’t save me. It’s my only chance.”

“Alright,” Appleblossom immediately replied.

Lady Violet turned to Coin and Jorama. “As for us,” she gestured to the closest building, “we have our mission. Shall we?”

The house was as dilapidated as might be expected. It’s floors and walls were largely intact, but coated with such a layer of dust and dirt that Coin kicked up clouds of it as he walked. Its prior owners had cleared the place out, and the only furniture that remained were pieces not worth taking—ramshackle piles of seats and sticks once in the shapes of chairs and shelves, now falling apart. The house looked as though it had not been lit up for some time, and the only light came in through what windows were not boarded up, sickly beams pouring through grime.

Lady Violet surveyed the scene with a wrinkled lip. “Urgh, what terrible shape. It is never a happy day when one needs to parse through filth.”

“I am certain that we can handle the searching, Lady-Warden. You need not trouble yourself,” said Jorama.

The lady waved a dismissive hand. “No no, I must insist. At any rate, it will be as good an opportunity as any to try out my new work gloves. They’re moleskin, you see, and that’s really the only thing moles are truly useful for,” she said sardonically. “Now,” she said with a clap of her hands, “where shall we start?”

Coin knelt down and inspected the floor, particles flying about as he did so. “By the dust on the floor, it seems like no one has set foot in here for some time,” he said. “I would have expected footprints, were it used recently.” Might Ott have been wrong? he worried. It would be a hard turn, for all that effort to have gone to waste.

“Unless the tunnel we’re searching for had another entrance elsewhere in the city,” Lady Violet pointed out. “This might well just be an alternate way inside. Or, we may simply be in the wrong house—only time and work will tell, I suppose.”

Coin nodded—it made as much sense as anything. Jorama chimed in next. “Would my Lady-Warden wish us to begin the search?”

“Yes, let’s hop to it. Jorama, search the second level and see if anything turns up. I would hazard a guess, though, that what we’re looking for will be closer to earth, so to speak. Sir Coin and I will reconnoiter this floor and see what’s what.”

Jorama saluted and proceeded up a rickety flight of stairs, leaving Coin and the lady below. Lady Violet stroked her chin, musing as she looked over their territory. “Go where you think is best to begin the hunt, Sir Coin. I think I shall have words with the fireplace and see if it's hiding anything. Hopefully that isn’t too cliche.”

Coin set to work investigating the connected dining room, kneeling down to thumb at the walls and corners. After a few moments of silent work, Lady Violet piped up. “So,” she said nonchalantly, “how is your shoulder, Sir Coin?”

Mentioning it made Coin move his arm reflexively. The sharp pain was no longer there, though it did ache. “Still stiff,” he replied, “but far better than it might be, my lady.” He had no doubt that, were it not for a good amount of luck, as well as Skylark and the other Kind Friends, it would have been much worse. A broken shoulder, a festered wound, a crippling injury. They were not possibilities that Coin wished to contemplate, past the risk though he might be. Still, a long rest and a heap of healing potions had been enough to fix the worst of it. He flex his fingers, as though making sure the arm itself was intact. “There’s no reason I can’t be up and about, if you were worried.”

He heard Lady Violet laugh. “Skylark had a few pointed words to say about that, when she found out you’d escaped your bed. Well, I’m pleased to have you back—just don’t hurt yourself on my behalf.”

The incongruence of it was enough to make Coin smile. “If I remember right, my lady, I’m the one meant to be part of the honor guard. By all rights, I should be the one worried about your safety.”

In the other room, there came a very lady-like scoff. “Honestly, a lady gets herself cornered by a dozen assassins one time, and then suddenly thinks she cannot take care of herself.” There was a brief pause. “Well, they’re right, of course, but I’ve never been one to let good sense get in the way of raising complaints. I do hope you see, though, why I feel the need to be out here, in the thick of things.”

Coin thought back to their previous conversation. “It needs to be you negotiating with the Changelings. To make promises that can be kept.” He looked more closely at a spot on the wall—he thought for a moment that it might have been a distinctive mark. Upon closer inspection, it was just a stain, the origins he did not want to speculate on. Shaking his head, he got up and began to investigate some cabinets in the kitchen. “If we find them, that is.”

“If we find them,” she sighed. “Yes, it must be one of us Wardens, and Honesty is—for all his progress—not one for negotiations. Particularly when the lives of friends are in the balance. I have a great deal to speak for, it would seem, and grave consequences for what I might say.” She grew silent for a moment, then spoke up. “What would you say to the Changelings, Sir Coin, if you were to stumble across another, one other than Heylen Ott? One who was not so sympathetic to our cause?”

“Me?” Coin asked, surprised. “My lady, I . . . well I’m afraid I wouldn’t be much help. I have few Generous talents.”

“Yes, save for accounting,” she said pointedly. “And negotiating with blood-sorcerers at your own peril. And being willing to sacrifice for others. And being a fine friend.” She gave a light laugh. “You give yourself too little credit. But at any rate, indulge me. I sometimes have fancies like these—best to just answer, or else I’ll latch onto the topic like a lamprey eel.”

Coin tried to think. What would I say? It wasn’t the first time he had tried to imagine just such a situation: him before an unsympathetic audience, tasked to plead a cause that he himself had joined only recently. To ask men to put their own safety on the line for another, to risk all they had. “I . . .” He struggled imagine himself in the Changelings’ place, and drew up blank. “I truly don’t know my lady. What I would say, I mean. I don’t envy the task. Particularly with Dabrius involved.”

“Yes,” he heard her say, “that does complicate things. Dabrius has gotten into the habit of doing that, of late.” Her voice sounded troubled. “It might be easier, were he not so uncommonly stubborn. That stubbornness was partly why I sent him to begin with—a talented and experienced advocate, not likely to budge, and balanced out by Greenglade. Now though, it seems that very quality is arrayed against us. I rarely meet a man so eager to throw away his own life. Yet I will save him, if he likes it or not. The first of that is finding these Changelings—Halforth will accept nothing less as proof. Though now I wonder if even that will sway him.”

Coin frowned. “I doubt that Lord Halforth would ignore something as big as that, my lady.”

“Ordinarily, I would agree. Yet all that has happened seems to have thrown him far off-balance. A betrayal from one’s friends is never an easy thing to weather, even for a man like Lord Halforth. It seems I have responsibility for that, as well.”

“It had to be done, my lady.”

“Of course it did. Don’t mistake any idle musings on my part for regrets—I have none. Yet it seems as though every step of progress we make here just consents to another wrench being thrown at us. I will need all my cunning, to make it through this. Thankfully, I have an abundance of that.”

At that moment, Coin had in his mind a thought he’d been chewing on for some time. At first, he hesitated to say it. In the end, though, he spoke up. “My lady,” he began, “have you considered . . . well, whether it’s all needed?”

“How do you mean? Urgh!”

“What?”

“Dead rat. Bleh, Six save . . . I’m sorry, you were saying?”

“What I mean to say, my lady,” Coin continued, “is maybe we don’t have to continue with all this. The lying, I mean. The Lord Moderator admires truth. Perhaps we should just come clean with it.”

There was a pregnant pause. “No,” Lady Violet said at last, not unkindly. “No, sir, I don’t think that would work.”

“But why?” Coin did not care for deception, and he knew the Lord Moderator did not either.

“Because of all that is at risk,” she insisted. “Sir Coin, I have no doubt that this has been difficult on you, and on all my honest friends. My most honest friend, in particular. I am not unsympathetic to that. But there is good reason to keep this up, and to keep that honest friend from revealing the truth too soon.”

In a moment, Lady Violet appeared in the doorway, beautiful even out of her usual gowns, with a concerned look. “Consider a moment, how much might be lost. We have kept all of this under wraps for so long because of what might happen if we do not—what might be visited upon men and women under our protection, or ones at risk. I do not play dice with lives, particularly not those of my friends. And what you propose,” she continued firmly, “is a gamble, if I ever heard one. Even we are still unsure of the proof we are chasing, with this Society. What if Halforth will not restrain himself? What if he jumps to some conclusion of guilt? And even if he does not, what of Arcadio? If Halforth learns what we know, he will be obliged by law to reveal it to all, including the Martes.”

Lady Violet sighed, and leaned her head against the doorframe. “I have never been one for games of chance, Sir Coin. Cards and dice, I have no interest in. My dear Maddy always told me that the key to war is to win before fighting, before even the first blow. I may not seem to have any overabundance of caution, but I do not move unless I have an assurance of victory. Until the opportune moment. There is a time for everything, sir, including truth. And including . . . well, the opposite. I know which time it is now. That is why it is I that must do all this. There are good actions, and then there are good results. There must be someone willing to take bad actions for good causes, and unfortunately my honest friends—meaning no offense—are not equipped for that.” She looked at him, her expression careful but unyielding. “Do you understand what I say to you, sir? There can be no disagreement on this.”

Coin might have raised a protest. Might have. He still did not feel comfortable with it, was still concerned at the implications, and still unhappy with the role he had to play. But all the same . . .

He tried to firm his resolve. No doubts, he remembered vowing to himself. “I understand. Sorry, my lady.”

“There is nothing to apologize for, my honest friend. As I said, I am not unsympathetic to your position. There is a moment . . . mmm?”

The lady’s voice trailed off, and Coin immediately heard why. The door to the house had opened. When Coin returned to the foyer, he saw that Appleblossom had joined them.

Lady Violet turned to face her. “Might I dare to hope,” she said, “that you have found something?”

Appleblossom gave a small smile. “Yep.”

They gathered themselves quickly, and left one empty house behind them. The one they travelled to was much the same: dilapidated, dusty, and dreary to say the least. If anything, it was in even worse shape: large holes were punched through the walls, and sections of the floor torn up. Appleblossom led them inside first: Prim and Applewood were nowhere to be seen. But against the back wall was a door—not a hidden one, but rather a usual cellar door, yawning upon like a great black mouth. “Here,” said Appleblossom, leading them down the stairs.

The basement was as grim as the rest of the building: bare stone, smooth and bleak, with trash collected on the floor and cobwebs in the corner. Standing in the middle were Prim and Applewood, looking pleased with themselves.

“Now, my lady, I know it ain’t polite to brag,” said Applewood with a cheeky grin, “but I don’t exaggerate to say that I’ve singlehandedly saved this entire operation.”

Appleblossom snorted. “Right.”

“If it weren’t for my clumsy feet, we mightn’t have quite literally tripped over this ‘ere thing,” Applewood continued. He pointed to a spot on the floor: a single brick, which had been raised slightly higher on the floor than the others.

“Experience would have me assume,” said Lady Violet, “that it is more than a mere brick.”

Prim drew himself up to the spot on the floor. “You know what they say, my lady, about what happens when you assume,” he said. “You’re always right, and never disappointed. Or at least, I think that’s how it goes.” He pressed his foot down on the brick. Beside him, the nearest wall made a slight click.

Prim waved over Appleblossom, and she approached the wall. Pressing her hands against it, she pushed with all her strength. It began to swing inward, like a door.

Lady Violet clapped her hands in excitement. “Now that is what I like to see! Applewood, keep tripping over things like that, and I shall have a medal drawn up for your feet posthaste.” She peered into the darkened passage that lay ahead, then motioned to Jorama for a lantern. “We have a busy afternoon ahead of us. You all know the proper protocol, should one of us encounter an erstwhile Changeling, so I shan’t bother reciting any more of it. Let’s get to it.”

Jorama took the lead, illuminating the way forward. There was a small set of stairs, then a familiar tunnel, one which Coin was set to plunge into—already, he could see the line of green stone, where the lantern-light caught it, marking the path forward. It was not the same tunnel that he had explored earlier—impossible, since none of the passages beneath the Moonlight had led to this one—but the similarity was clear. This one, though, might have someone else already inside.

And what to say to him? Coin wondered again. Apparently the basic answer was ‘talk to Lady Violet,’ but Coin assumed that he needed to lead with something better than that. In the quiet that had descended between the six of them, he began to contemplate what a more appropriate greeting would be.

It was not long, though, before that silence was broken. “Now see,” said Applewood as they stepped into the dark, “what I don’t get is why they call themselves a ‘Changeling Society’.”

Appleblossom groaned. “Again?”

“They are hidden,” Jorama explained. “And in secret places, like tunnels. And hide in plain sight, you see? And . . . they like green?” She thought a moment, as though making sure that was all, then smiled triumphantly. “All of these things are similar.”

“No, I mean like it’s an evil name,” Applewood clarified. “By the Works, Changelings are an unfriendly lot.”

“Were,” pointed out Appleblossom.

“Y’know what I mean. If I had a secret club, I mighta named it something a touch nicer.”

“There’s a bit of a dearth of secret societies in the Works, you must admit,” said Prim flatly. “Choices for appropriate names are slim. Besides, what club would you be leader of, Applewood? ‘Apple-Lovers Anonymous’?”

“ ‘Strange Question-Askers Society’?” asked Jorama.

“ ‘Cutetastically Fantastics’?” Applewood suggested with a cheeky grin.

“ ‘Idiots’?” added Appleblossom with a giggle.

“ ‘Ey!” hooted Applewood with a smile, giving his counterpart an affectionate hit on the arm. “Not nice! Yah ain’t joinin’ my club, whatever it is.” The two of them laughed.

“Enough of that, now,” interjected Lady Violet, though with a smile. “There’s work to be done down here, and low voices will make it easier. We might not be alone.”

There’s an intimidating thought. At the bottom of the stairs, he could see the tunnels opening. Two stark, emerald lines stretched forth, catching the lantern light and then plunging forward into darkness. Two paths.

Lady Violet stood in the front, and considered the choices. “Ordinarily, I might have had us all move as one group,” she admitted. “But time is of the essence. There’s no telling when this Changeling might leave. Assuming he was ever truly down here, or has not left already.” She looked back at the rest. “I think it best that we divide into two groups, one for each.”
“Perhaps, Lady-Warden,” said Jorama sheepishly, “it might be being best if you remained here.”

There came a very lady-like scoff. “Not a chance. I wish to speak with this man face-to-face, and I will not accomplish that by staying behind. Besides,” she said, observing her surroundings, “I would rather not remain in such a dreary place alone. It is hardly the kind of parlor I am accustomed to.”

Jorama bowed to the suggestion, and Lady Violet set to work dividing them. “Jorama, take Sir Coin and Prim down the right. I shall take the left with our two resident Apples. Someone needs to make sure you two behave,” she said with a sly look. Applewood had the grace to look abashed, while Appleblossom gave an equally coy smile in return. “Cover your lamps, as well. No sense in giving ourselves away.”

Jorama nodded, and fixed a wax-paper screen over the window of the lamp. The light within was enough to illuminate the green stones and reveal what was close, but not enough to reach far away—such that someone far off in the tunnels wouldn’t see the shine from around a corner.

Lady Violet bowed to them, as Applewood took out a lamp of his own. “Happy hunting. And remember, if you encounter our friend . . .”

“Bring him to you, without another word,” finished Prim. “I swear, my lady, we won’t give him as much as a ‘howdy-do’ without you seeing him first.”

With nothing else, they broke off into their respective groups, tracing their way down the tunnels. The cavernous depths were a mite wider than those Coin had encountered before, but clearly of the same make and purpose: maintenance tunnels, as he understood, now repurposed for a more secretive use. The Changelings were resourceful, if nothing else. And well hidden.

Too well, so far, Coin had to conclude. Fair enough that it kept them out of Arcadio’s hands, but he had hoped they might have at least tried to contact the Collective that others claimed they served. No such effort had ever been made, save for Heylen Ott, and that was as tortured and vague a definition of ‘help’ as there ever was. Not that it is any fault of Ott’s, of course. It would hardly be right to put too much blame upon the Society either, seeing what they had at risk. Still, they might at least let us talk to them. The terror of Arcadio must be strong. Or maybe . . .

As his group walked along, making as little noise as they could manage, Coin recalled what Lady Violet had said earlier. Maybe that has something to do with it. Concern with the Warden of Honesty revealing all. Coin was not certain how far the Warden’s reputation reached—he himself had heard only rumors, prior to converting, and most were about how the Warden was statue brought to life or a disguised demon or other such nonsense. But then, he was only a recent convert—there was no telling how much these Changelings might know. Maybe they are afraid that any contact at all will expose them, seeing that some among us might feel obliged to reveal them. If that were the case, it would be all the more reason for Lady Violet, a very different Warden, to be the first to meet with them.

That conversation with the lady still weighed somewhat on his mind. Truthfully, he did not know what to think, regarding her words about her role. Coin understood the need, of course. Revealing their knowledge now, showing their hand too early, could well prove a fatal mistake, and not just for Dabrius Joh either. There was good reason to keep it all hidden. Yet he could still feel a lingering sense of wrongness about the whole thing, as well. Wrong to lie to the Lord Moderator—both his Mod-trained side and his new calling as an Honest Friend agreed on that, perjury being what it was. Yet also wrong in concealing it all from other men and women in the Collective, those outside of Lady Violet’s small circle. Part of him thought very much that they deserved to know as much as he did—he certainly didn’t feel special enough to have that knowledge apart from them. But still, he knew the necessity was there. It was strange, how reason and feeling seemed to joust at one another.

He pushed the feeling away. What happened to ‘no more doubts,’ hmm? It was not his place to second-guess orders, not right now at least. Concerns could come later—the game was afoot now.

At that moment, though, ‘the game’ came to an abrupt halt. There was another fork in the path. On the right, a passage continued straight but then curved off slightly. On the left, there was a tunnel that abruptly stopped and seemed to open to a new path at the end. Holding up the lantern, Jorama looked down each, then turned back.

“Well,” she said in a low voice, “what shall it be?”

“We shouldn’t split up any further,” Prim said, equally quiet. “I’m lonely enough as it is, without making it worse. I say we take one and see where it leads.”

Coin nodded in agreement. He hadn’t been certain exactly why Lady Violet had chosen Prim of all people to accompany them, but Prim did seem to have a good head, even amid all his complaints and oddities.

Jorama took the lead, and ventured down the left side, Coin and Prim in tow. The dim light of the covered lantern only barely painted the walls, giving the green line a faint glow. Soon, the path turned, and they began to snake past corners, more and more as they went. The tunnels became shorter, as they started folding over again and again. Still, no new ways opened up.

Coin was about to take another step, when he felt Jorama’s hand press on his chest. She turned to him and Coin, and pressed a finger to her lips. Silently, with bated breath, Coin looked over her.

Another corner lay ahead. There was a faint light coming from around it.

Coin sucked in a breath. Jorama made a hand signal to say ‘Stay,’ then handed the lantern off to Prim in the back, who set it on the ground. Silently, she began to sidle towards the light. Coin followed, though not too closely.

Sweat dripped down his forehead, but Coin tried to focus on the light ahead. It was hard to tell from just how far away it was coming, but it did not appear to be moving—perhaps a lit lamp on a wall, or else one set down while its owner worked. Or in the hand of someone waiting. All he could tell is that it was not the light of the other group, having been turned around and set to collision by the twisting passages. That light did not come from a covered lantern, like that which Lady Violet’s team carried. It was someone else.

Jorama reached the corner, her back flat against the wall. Without a sound, she peeked her head just barely around the side for half a second. Then, she signalled Coin to move up, before stepping ahead herself.

Coin caught his breathing as he did so. The connected hallway they entered was shorter still, but the light coming from around the next corner glowed stronger, burned closer. They were near, whoever they were. Very, very near.

‘What would you say to the Changelings, Sir Coin, if you were to stumble across another,’ he recalled Lady Violet asking. He still had no answer. Yet, he was about to find out. Jorama took a single step closer.

“Is someone there?” a voice cried out, in a panic. The entire group froze. A man’s voice, but not one Coin recognized. The accent did not sound Devien. “Pen? You’re not here too, no? Who is there?”

Jorama looked back to Coin and Prim, eyes wide, as though asking what to do now. She pointed towards the lit corner. Coin picked up on the meaning immediately. He’s close. Close as we’re likely to get, now that he’s spooked. We can make contact now, or hold back. Hold back long enough for him to escape. He released a quiet breath. No real choice, then. Coin nodded to Jorama, and Prim did the same.

Jorama acknowledged it, but hesitated. For a half second, she stood. Then, drawing herself up, she spoke. “Hello?” Jorama ventured, still quiet. “We . . . we are wishing to speak w—”

Suddenly, the light vanished, and they heard the sounds of a man running in the dark.

Jorama’s eyes widened, then she flew off. “We are friends, friends from the Collective! Stop! Damnations, go, go go!”

Coin ran without thinking, following behind Jorama as she darted beyond the corner. From behind him, Coin could hear Prim curse and snatch up the lantern, but he did not stop to look: they were in a mad dash now.

The room the Changeling had once haunted was before them now, the light of Prim’s lantern only barely illuminating it. He wrestled off the wax sheet, filling the place with the glow: it was a tiny place, empty save for a table and the entrances to two tunnels. And a Changeling in only one, Coin thought in a flash, his attention switching hastily between the two. How do we know which—

“This way!” Jorama said, peeling down the nearer hallway without a second’s hesitation. “Footsteps down the way, follow!” she cried as she ran, leaving Coin and Prim to follow as best they could.

They ran. Ran and ran, as the halls grew ever shorter and the truncated passages melted away behind them, the three of them coursing through in a frenzy. In was hard, moving fast in a confined space, but Jorama led the pack with long strides, practically leaving Coin and Prim in the dust behind her.

“Follow!” she called behind her, disappearing behind the next corner. “I’ve prey on the mind, and he will not escape. Follow!”

Coin did as well as he could, lurching down the same way she took, tracing the walls with his hand as he ran. The exertion was hard on his shoulder, though he could still keep pace well enough. Behind him, he could hear Prim following behind, shaking the lantern as his breath shortened.

Still, they followed, and Coin began to catch up. The way seemed endless: he could not tell how long they had truly been running, only that the twisted tunnels seemed to go on endlessly. Or not. Coin, in his haste, tripped as he hit his foot against something raised on the floor. Stairs, stairs leading upward, and Jorama taking them two at a time as she moved further and further into a great, dark above. But over the sound of her running and of Prim lagging behind, Coin thought he could make out something else. The distant, frantic motion of someone ahead, fleeing in a panic.

Coin sprang up and pushed himself as hard as he could. He was almost at pace with Jorama—Six save me, but she runs fast! —and was nearly at her side when she shouted into the darkness ahead. “Come back! The Lady Violet wishes only to speak, no harm is meant! Halt yourself, by the Honest!”

The man did not answer, whoever he was. Instead, his panicked footsteps only seemed to quicken, leading Jorama and Coin further and further. Light was growing slightly dimmer—Prim was falling behind, his breath growing shorter, but Jorama and Coin could not let up for even a second.

Suddenly, ahead of them, there came a great noise, and light poured in before them. The stairs ended just ahead, and as Coin and Jorama cleared the top, they saw a new hallway, one that ended with an half-opened door. And from the crack in that door, light. The Changeling had gone straight through.

Throwing herself against the door, Jorama burst into the room ahead, Coin at her heels. But the door must have moved more easily than thought: with all her weight into shoving it aside, Jorama stumbled, and Coin—a hair’s width away—crashed into her. They both staggered slightly into the room . . . and Coin, for a moment, paused.

It was the ballroom. The eastern ballroom, the one where Heylen Ott and Byrios Amberten and all the others had been. Where they had suddenly disappeared and reappeared without a trace. One more mystery solved, Coin thought.

But there was no time for thinking. Coin and Jorama collected themselves immediately, and the Sajlic woman wasted no time. She scanned left and right, both places where open doors welcomed them. “Which?” she muttered. “Where did he—”

Then, they heard the sounds of steps. Ones coming closer, this time. There were voices along with them. “. . . running about? Did you hear that? S’from the ballroom.”

Jorama and Coin looked at each for half a second, then darted to the open passageway. Prim was unlucky enough to appear just that moment, gasping and wheezing. “I’m here, I’m here. Wha— where’d—” he struggled to ask.

“Back!” Jorama hissed, not above a whisper. “Six save us, back back back!”

“I just got here, now y— oof!” Prim grunted as Jorama shoved him back inside. Coin jumped in, and she wrenched the hidden door shut.

It was not a moment too soon. They were barely back inside when they heard someone on the other side of the door. “. . . someone here.”

“It was prob’ly nuthin’,” said another, deeper voice.

“You always say it was nothin’! Cripes, why would people even hire guards if they won’t check on strange noises and such. C’mon, we’re searching ‘round ‘ere.”

The second voice groaned, but both began to trail off. The trio held their silence for a few, long minutes. Then, when the threat had passed, Jorama let out a groan of her own.

“Balefire and damnations!” Jorama swore. “Until I was ten-and-six, I ran in the Mines of Moaria, yet now I cannot even catch some skinny nobleman in his silks! Our quarry is long fled now.” She banged the back of her head against the stone wall in frustration.

“Damn my mortal legs, if you’ll damn anything,” said Prim, seeming as much disappointed. He was still half out of breath, panting while he spoke. “The human body was not meant to run that much. Especially one as flabby as mine.”

Coin sighed, and tried to let his frustrations out with them. That had been their closest chance to meeting one of the Society aside from Ott yet, and they’d come up with nothing. It made him want to grit his teeth, yet there was nothing to be done now. The Changeling was long gone, fled into the balance, and they had little to use in identifying him. A voice, perhaps, though he barely said three sentences before he fled without another word. “Did you see what he looked like at all?” Coin asked.

Jorama shook her head. “The man is fleet, whoever he is being. And vanished, now.” She spoke through clenched teeth. “We must return. The Lady-Warden will be wanting to hear this.”

They walked back, now in silence and with the weight of failure on their shoulders. It took some time, but eventually they reached the entrance of the tunnels again, and found Lady Violet waiting for them, Applewood and Appleblossom in the corner arguing playfully about something.

“A-ha! And now the intrepid explorers return,” Lady Violet said cheerfully. “Our half is mapped out, but we had little of note happen. No Changelings, unfortunately.” She tilted her head at them. “What’s wrong? Was your adventure more . . . lively?”

Jorama, Coin, and Prim exchanged glances. Then, Jorama sighed and began to explain.

Coin had expected Lady Violet to be more upset. Instead, she listened carefully, hanging on every word. More than once, she asked Jorama to repeat a detail, or had Prim and Coin verify if it was correct. By the end of it, she was silent, putting together pieces in her mind.

“At least we know where the tunnel is ending,” Jorama said sheepishly, as she reached the end. “A way to the Palace might be of some usefulness. Might.”

Lady Violet was still in contemplation. “Pen,” she said.

“Shoot, didn’t bring one,” said Applewood.

“No, I mean that the Changeling said that name, and in an accent that was not Devien, so far as one can tell. ‘Pen.’ He asked after that one before he ran, did he not?”

Coin nodded. “He did. Though I’ve never heard a name like that.”

An inspired look crept onto Lady Violet’s features. “I may have. May have, mind you. I shall need to check with someone more intimately familiar with the Palace and its people to be sure. Thankfully,” she said with a smile, “I have just such a man.”

“It would have been being better, if I had not let him escape,” Jorama grumbled.

“Catching him would have been a fine thing,” Lady Violet admitted, “but it was no fault of yours. I know the three of you well enough to know you did your best, and I thank you for that.” The three of them looked around, abashed. Coin hardly felt right, getting thanks for failing. “At any rate,” the lady continued, “you should not underestimate what we have caught. The name, yes, but another benefit as well. It occurs to me that every one of these tunnels we find is one more that the Changelings can no longer use, if they wish to be secret. One fewer place to hide, and how many can remain? Do not berate yourselves—we have made certain progress, at least.”

Jorama still grumbled under her breath, enough to show that she was not wholly convinced. Still, at least they could take some comfort in what had happened. If only a little.

“We should finish exploring the rest of this complex, before we leave,” continued the lady. “No sense in leaving a job half-done. Although, I think that Sir Coin has other business to attend to.” She turned to him next. “I think it is time for you to debrief with Lord Halforth again—any silence on our part will seem suspicious. Just avoid breathing a word of this to him, for now. Remember what we spoke of.”

Coin nodded. “You’re certain you don’t need me here, my lady?”

“Your position as liaison is as unique as mine, Sir Coin. Best to make use of our talents as duty demands, I think. At any rate, we shall speak once both our duties are done.” She gave a bow. “Best of luck, Sir Coin. Check in with me once you’re finished, won’t you?”

With that, Coin took his leave. Leaving the house, he was surprised to see that night had already fallen across the city: his time in the vaults below had been longer than he expected, apparently. As he went on the short journey back to the high hill, however, his thoughts were fixed solely on what had happened. He was disappointed, though Lady Violet had assuaged that, at least a little. He was curious, though, about the entrance they had found to the Palace, the one hidden in the ballroom. Coin had combed that room to find an opening, and turned up nothing. Might it only open from one side? he considered. Perhaps, though that raised its own questions. Maybe someone was already inside the tunnel, to open it for them? The Changelings are coordinated, if nothing else. Eventually, there was no time left for idle thoughts: he had reached Lord Halforth’s chambers. Oddly, there was no one outside, but the door had been left open. Coin let himself in, and surveyed the scene for the Lord Moderator.

The room was entirely empty, filled only with what bare furniture Halforth had allowed to remain. Only one other thing stood out—a metal cylinder resting on the table. Coin recognized it at once: it was the same container from which Lord Halforth would pour himself that brown, steaming drink that Coin was certain was not tea or coffee, whatever it was.

The Lord Moderator must be out, Coin surmised. He resolved himself to wait until Halforth returned, and sat down at the table. After a moment passed, his attention turned back to the cylinder. Just then, a certain, familiar curiosity rose in Coin.

He looked left, then right, then leaned to peer into the other rooms. No one was present, so far as he could tell. Hesitantly, he reached out to Halforth’s drink and gently took it. After one last scan around him, Coin unscrewed the top. What is it that even Halforth would like? Coin gingerly sniffed at it, and recognized the smell. Incredulous, he tried once more. It couldn’t be…

Hot chocolate? Coin realized in disbelief.

“It’s the only luxury he allows himself, you see. Very pious.”

Coin was so startled that he almost dropped the container—recovering quickly, he turned to see the source of an unfamiliar voice behind him. A woman that Coin did not know, in a Moderator’s uniform.

She was taller than Coin, and very slim, with long legs and arms that were covered by a white habit. Her face was pale, graced with pretty features: a small nose, full lips, blue eyes that seemed to shine, and an unblemished, almost ageless complexion—Coin found it hard to guess at how old she might have been. Her head was covered with a hat, but poking out from beneath were sleek bangs of blond hair, sun-gold and shining. But her smile was what caught Coin’s attention the most: a happy look broad and brilliant enough to set dimples in her cheeks. Coin thought it the kind of smile that filled an entire room, and every inch of it sincere.

She laughed upon seeing Coin’s panic—a bright, well-meaning laugh. “Forgive me, sir,” the Moderator said with a mischievous look, “I truly couldn’t help myself. Here, I had best take that.”

Coin handed over the cylinder dumbly, his mind just catching up. “Ah,” he began hesitantly, face going red. “Ah, my apologies, but I don’t believe that we’ve met bef—”

He stopped, and his eyes widened, as he looked more closely at the uniform the woman wore. At first, Coin had thought it might have been Peacekeeper: certainly the white color would suggest as much to a layman. But Coin knew the Authority, and knew well enough that she was not gowned in a mere Peacekeeper’s clothes. A PK might wear white, but even that uniform would carry some black upon it: on the trim, the fringe, the gloves, and the hat. This Moderator had none of those: it was pure white, stark white, free of any impurity upon it. Even the hammer at her belt was made of ivory, not ebony. And the hat resting on her head . . .

Breath caught in Coin’s throat as he realized what he was looking at. Oh no, he could only think.

The Moderator did not seem to notice the fear in his eyes. “Oh, how rude of me!” she exclaimed, keeping the smile. “Apologies, I haven’t made a proper introduction.” She doffed her white hat daintily, and bowed her head. “I am Lord Repay-the-Sinner-with-Death Albright, of the Knight Prefects. Honestly, I prefer Aly, but Dyren is quite fussy with formalities, so you should probably just call me ‘Lord Albright.’ It’s very nice to meet you.”

Reflexively, Coin sprang to his feet and offered as low a bow as he could. He tried to keep the panic out of his voice as he found the words to respond. “Likewise,” he could only stammer out. “I… ah, I had not expected to see a Prefect in the city.”

She winked at him. “Well, we aim to surprise. I imagine you’re waiting for Dyren, though. He’s on his way up at this moment, actually—I’ll fetch him.”

Without another word, Lord Albright gave a whistle, and Coin was shocked to see two others appear out of the shadows of the other rooms. Coin had sworn there had been no one there—he had not seen anyone in the cursory check he’d done before embarrassing himself—and yet two figures stepped out. Neither spoke, and both wore grim expressions as they moved out at Lord Albright’s call, but what Coin noticed most were their white uniforms.

More Prefects. Coin’s mind was racing from the implications. There were six branches of the Authority, six Holy Orders that policed the Web. Each had their own task, and each was trained to serve with the highest level of devotion. The white hats, though, were something else entirely. No other branch had so few operatives, and yet so much power behind them, for they spoke with the same voice as the High Administration and answered solely to them. Only the most grave and dangerous of crimes demanded their attention: fleshtrappers, rogue cybramancers, pirate kings and apostate warlords and all other threats that none other could handle. And the methods to deal with such threats . . .

Coin swallowed, and found his throat dry. To even see one Prefect was a sign that something, somewhere, had gone hideously wrong.

And there are at least three here, right at this moment, Coin thought. He tried and count the reasons why a Prefect would appear in the Dreamweave, and did not like a single one of them. Six save me, what is going on?

Lord Albright looked over her two subordinates warmly. “Cotton, Marcus, could you both please leave us a moment and tell Lord Halforth I’m in his office? He should be down the hall, after a left turn, coming from the main entrance staircase.”

The Knight Prefects did not speak nor nod in acknowledgment, but simply walked out, their expressions as hard as before. Coin thought, just for a single frightening moment, that one of them had looked at him accusatorily. Coin again swallowed hard, just as Lord Albright spoke up.

“I certainly hope that you weren’t kept waiting long,” said Lord Albright, tracing her gloved finger absently around the rim of the metal container. “These are busy times, of course, and the Logos’ work is never quite done. But I’m sure I don’t need to tell you about how busy things have been here, hmm?” The laugh she gave seemed perfectly sincere. “I must say, I was hoping we would meet. Your work has been most impressive thus far, Sir Coin.”

Coin’s mouth dropped just slightly. “You . . . know my name?”

Lord Albright beamed. “Oh yes! I know everything.” She continued to trace her finger along the edge, and hummed a little tune to herself. “Three, two,” she said, then pointed to the door. “One.”

Lord Halforth entered silently, with the two Knight Prefects following behind. The Lord Moderator did not seem at all surprised his counterpart’s presence, nor ill-at-ease. “Sister Albright,” he said curtly as he crossed into the room

“Brother Halforth!” she answered cheerfully, the dimpled smile spread on her face. “I was just introducing myself to Sir Coin here. He seems very able.”

“How fascinating. I would thank you to put down my drink.”

“Of course, of course, no need to fuss, Brother.” Lord Albright set down the cylinder and stepped lightly over to a seat, plopping down into it. She offered a knowing look to Coin, before leaning back in the chair blissfully.

“You seem to have already met Sister Albright,” Halforth said to Coin offhandedly. He settled himself slowly into the remaining chair, and studied the man across from him. “The panicked look tells me,” he continued as he snatched his drink away from Lord Albright, “that you had not expected a Prefect to grace us with her presence.”

Coin cast a nervous look to Lord Albright. She was looking idly around the room, as though not paying attention. Coin knew better—Prefects always had a reason for what they did, though they answered to no one but the High Administration itself. “I hope there is nothing amiss. My lord.”

Lord Halforth rolled his eyes. “If you think there is nothing amiss in this city, you must have been sleepwalking through the last month and more. Or else you are as talented at feigning ignorance as your lady.”

Coin did not like the implications of that. He suspects, just as they said. He suspects, and now there’s a Prefect afoot. “I, ah, I have come for the debriefing, my lord. About the progress thus far, I mean.” He glanced back toward the door—no one else was coming. “Will Cellia be joining us?” She had always been present, whenever Coin had been tasked to speak with the Lord Moderator before. It was her responsibility, as he understood.

“She will not,” Lord Halforth answered curtly. “Having subordinates work on my behalf and report to me has proven to be a waste of time, and I will not have her waste mine. Nor will I allow that from you, so get to the point. I expect you will tell me that you have found nothing of interest—am I wrong?”

Coin shifted uncomfortably in his seat, preparing to dole out the usual half-truths. “We have continued interviewing members of the court.” Like Heylen Ott. “And have been chasing down leads.” Like the Changeling in the tunnels. “But we have no culprits or new witnesses for your consideration.” Because he got away. “Although,” Coin said, hoping to change the subject, “my lady did wish to extend her gratitude again for Greenglade and Dabrius Joh’s new accommodations. Their health is already improving.”

Lord Halforth regarded him coolly. “I did not have them removed for the sake of anyone’s approval,” he snapped. “Save for the Logos, that is.”

Lord Albright gave him a pointed look. “The lad is expressing thanks, Brother. Must you be so ornery? It’s only a simple kindness.”

He returned the look with a hard stare of his own. “I do not care about thanks or curses, and I do not care what anyone thinks of my actions. Neither do you, as it happens.”

Lord Albright sighed and shook her head. Lord Halforth ignored her. “I would have thought that you might offer something better than that,” Halforth said to Coin. “Your party requested documents, and I provided them. You requested more time, and I indulged it. Now we sit here, and you bring nothing.”

“It is not an easy process, my lord,” said Coin defensively. “We are making progress. My friends are working on inroads among the Palace guards, garnering new testimony—”

“And where is this testimony?”

Coin hesitated. “Forthcoming.” He could see that it wasn’t good enough for the Lord Moderator. “If I may, my lord, we’ve already provided more than the opposition. The Martes have not produced new evidence in weeks.”

“No, it seems the brothers Martes are too busy trying to cover up their latest enormities,” the Lord Moderator replied, voice flat. “And so, it seems, are you.”

Taken aback, Coin tried to argue. “We have done nothing of the sort.”

“I had truly hoped that your knightly training would have taught you not to lie. Your kind has proven to be a constant disappointment, it would seem.” The Lord Moderator’s eyes had gone dangerously cold.

Coin paled, but had some unexpected aid. “You are growing too suspicious by half, Brother,” interjected Lord Albright, looking at Coin with sympathy.

Lord Halforth’s eyes narrowed. “I do what is necessary, Sister. You of all people should understand that.”

She sighed again. “Yes, that I do.” Lord Albright glanced toward the door, and saw that one of her silent Prefects had returned. “News, Cotton? Has our guest arrived?”

“Guest?” Lord Halforth’s lip curled. “Do not presume, Sister. I will not have time left in my day if you continue inviting random louts up here for tea and cakes.”

“Oh, you know I cannot help myself,” she replied, stretching out in her chair. “Can you blame me for wanting to hear a few interesting stories? A Prefect’s business is curiosity, after all. Besides,” she added in a murmur, “meeting new people might help you become a little more friendly, Dyren.”

“Do not call me that,” Lord Halforth snapped. “Who is this ‘guest’? If you have dragged another debutante up here to cloy at me, then I shall—”

Lord Halforth stopped, then stared silently at the door, expression blank. Coin turned, and was surprised to see the ‘guest’ that Albright had brought.

Vaath.

The Channic stood silently in the doorframe, hands behind his back, the black eyes of his mask fixed on Lord Halforth. The Lord Moderator returned the look, examining the anonymite carefully.

“What do you think, Brother? May I keep him?” Lord Albright joked. “I trust you disarmed our friend, Cotton?”

Without a word, the Prefect tossed something over to Lord Albright, which she deftly caught without even looking. She examined the object carefully, then slide her thumb along its length. Suddenly, a long, twisted blade sprang out. “Ooo, fierce!” she cooed.

Both the anonymite and the Lord Moderator ignored her, continuing to regard one another silently. Coin sat awkwardly between them, his eyes flicking between the two men. Uh oh.

“I came across Vaath here earlier today,” Lord Albright explained, seemingly oblivious. She put her feet up on the table, and started dancing Vaath’s knife on her fingers. “I have always found Channic to be a fascinating people, always with interesting things to say. This Channic, in particular. I believe he is interested in petitioning you.”

Lord Halforth’s face was unreadable. “So I have heard. I recall inviting you to make an appointment.”

“A fool’s errand,” spat Vaath. “To keep my words away. Your smiling slave-maker friend thought little of your ‘appointment’ as well, it seems.”

“I have always preferred an ‘open-door policy,’ as it were,” Lord Albright said, still fiddling absently with the blade.

“And I have always preferred my doors locked and bolted, for this exact reason,” Lord Halforth shot back. He turned back to the anonymite. “It seems that I cannot be rid of you, so state your case and leave.”

Vaath drew up, snatched a chair, and sat himself opposite Halforth. Coin, now sitting too close to the Channic for comfort, started to inch away.

“I did not give you leave to sit,” said Lord Halforth.

“No, you did not,” Vaath replied, unmoving.

“Ah,” stammered Coin, “perhaps I should take my leave, my lord. I would not want to—”

“This will not take long,” said Lord Halforth, not taking his eyes off of Vaath. “Remain.”

“You wish to keep more of your slaves close, hmm?” Vaath remarked, tilting his head. “Do you fear the free people so, Central-sent? Perhaps you should have left your tyranny elsewhere.”

“If your goal was to make a positive first impression,” Lord Halforth remarked, “you have not succeeded. What is your goal here, Channic? Or is it ‘Vaath’?”

“It is,” Vaath replied. “Not that you are worthy to know it. I do not seek ‘impressions,’ Lord. I have other business.”

“It never ceases to amaze me that you Channic can have such ego even when seeking aid. I ask again: what is that business you are after? Aside from harassing my staff and charges, that is.”

“You have harmed greatly the free people,” snarled Vaath. “Your actions have forced my exile, and now they put much else at risk. I demand you reverse them now. Remove your troops from the Chan, slavemaker.”

“I would prefer not to,” Lord Halforth said casually.

Vaath grimaced. “If you would listen to my reasons—”

“What reasons?” Lord Halforth cut in. “Have you really come here to plead some degenerate folklore to me, anonymite? Like a boy at a campfire? Yes, I have had others tell me of your claims, to the extent they were even intelligible. Beasts and doom and fairy tales, by all accounts.” He steepled his hands, and look down his hawkish nose at the Channic. “I hope you have not really been trying to seize my attention just to spout nonsense. Did you truly think I would let you waste my time lightly?”

Coin could see Vaath’s temper flare. “Listen to me a moment, fool! There is much at work, things you cannot even see that act beneath you, if you would just listen.”

“Oh, things unseen? Unseen, unheard, without traces, without proof. Have you anything to actually support your claims? Anything to show me that I do not know?” The two men glared at one another silently for a moment.Halforth shook his head contemptuously. “As I thought. You have nothing, profligate, nothing at all.”

Vaath sprang up in a fury, and knocked his chair down with a fist, letting it crash to the floor. “Bastard! I know it is true!” Vaath spat out gutteral words, curses in a croaking tongue that Coin could not even recognize, though he could only imagine how foul they were. “You will heed, fool, or the consequences will be beyond anything you imagine.”

Lord Halforth’s face darkened. “Was that a threat, profligate? Never mind—any answer you can give will be just as worthless. Your time is up. Leave my chambers. Unless,” he suggested with a hard look, “you wish to learn what consequences truly are.”

Vaath seemed ready to try just that. For a long, unbearable moment, the two men continued to lock eyes. Vaath flexed his empty hand, as though searching for a knife that was not there.

Without another word, Vaath turned to leave, storming out in a dark fury. Only then did Coin breath again.

“Well, that was rather rude of you,” Lord Albright chimed in.

“He was rude enough for both of us,” Lord Halforth replied. “Perhaps next time you will not bring degenerate filth to my chambers, where they can ‘demand’ things of me. Was there a reason you felt the need for that?”

“Honestly, you are just impossible sometimes, Brother.” Lord Albright shook her head, then signalled to one of her subordinates. “Take this back to the Vaath, won’t you?” She tossed over the knife, letting one of her silent guards catch it. “Do be careful: Channic are known to do interesting things with knives like that.”

“My lord,” Coin spoke up again. “If there is nothing else, I am certain that Lady Violet will be expecting me back.” She had to be told about this news, this Prefect—it was exactly the kind of trouble she had to know.

Lord Halforth waved his hand. “Go then. I cannot claim to care much, if you scuttle off to concoct some new excuse together.”

“Actually,” Lord Albright said, “I wouldn’t mind a word.” She smiled amiably, her eyes seeming to apologize for keeping Coin.

With little choice, Coin remained. Lord Albright stretched out in her chair, shifting such that she lounged between the arms, her legs and head sprawled over the sides. When she looked at him, her head was upside down, white hat left on her chest and golden hair tumbling down. “I hope you’ll indulge me a moment, sir. I have these feelings, every now and then. Hunches, some would say, though I’ve always suspected divine inspiration. It makes me want to ask questions. You are Centrellian by birth, no?”

Coin nodded, and she continued. “Then perhaps you are familiar with some of our more traditional stories. Tell me if you can, sir,” she said with a smile, “have you ever heard of a golem?”

Coin blinked. “Uh, I think I’ve heard the name. A myth, I think. Some kind of fantasy.”

“What are you doing, Sister?” asked Lord Halforth. He seemed almost as uncomfortable as Coin.

“A moment, Brother, just allow me this one mood. To address your answer, sir, yes. One could easily call them myths and fantasies. But then, everything in this world is a fantasy, one way or the other. Did you know, Sir Coin, that we are living inside a dream? It’s oddly liberating, coming to terms with that.”

Halforth rolled his eyes. “You sound like some rarefied mystic, albeit without much sense. Or like that Channic who just stalked in. What business have you, chasing after nonsense?”

Lord Albright raised a pointed finger. “Just spare me the moment, Brother. You will know, Sir Coin, that we Moderators are much concerned with emptying ourselves—of emotion and opinion and bias and so forth. We are to be avatars of law and justice, and little else. Personally, I think I’ve done a pretty bang-up job of accomplishing that, if you don’t mind the bravado.” She looked at him, face placid and locked with the static smile. “A golem, if one listens to legends, is much the same: it is an empty vessel. Made of stone, or wood sometimes. Or a man, in some of the stories. But it is empty, that much is always clear. It exists to be filled, like glass awaiting water, by some other intelligence. By something outside the dream. Do you see?”

Coin opened his mouth, then closed it, trying to think. “I don’t think so, my lord.”

“Oh, well don’t you mind. It’s just prattle on my part.” She starting kicking her feet, and smiled so cheerfully that Coin almost believed it. “I remember hearing those stories, and I’ve always had a fascination with what people call myths. I can recall, when I was very young, I thought about how much I wanted to meet a golem. The shape of a man, but instead an instrument.” Her blue eyes shot up, cold as ice, her tone suddenly serious. “You wouldn’t happen to know anyone like that, would you?”

Despite himself, Coin began to sweat. She couldn’t mean him. Could that be why . . . no, why would . . .

He tried not to show the questions on his face. “I don’t believe so. My lord.”

“Oh.” And just like that, as though a switch was flipped, she sprang up, and all seriousness was gone. “Ah well! I think we’d both best be off, then. I’ve important business to attend to: roads to walk and apostates to process and all that.”

“Apostates?” Sir Coin stammered.

“Obviously,” Lord Halforth snapped. “Why do you think she is here? It is not for her penchant for saying vague and disturbing things, I can assure you.”

“The apostate Do-Not-Lead-Our-Family-Into-Depravity Blair, to be precise,” Lord Albright explained, bowing her head mournfully. “The man betrayed his vows, and sadly that warrants certain punishments. I happened to be in the area, and thought to help deliver that verdict—it is within Prefect purview, after all. Unless,” she offered a look, “you know anyone else around here that is perjuring themselves?” She waggled her eyebrows suggestively.

Coin shook his head, conscious of what the punishment for such a crime was. Lord Albright shrugged. “Well then! I’ll be off. Thanks for letting me share this little apartment here, Brother. Don’t worry, I promise to keep to my side.”

Lord Halforth merely groaned, and walked away into his own separate chambers. Lord Albright clapped Coin on the shoulder and bid him to stand. “I suppose you’ve business of your own to do now, sir. I must say, it was a pleasure to meet you at last. Do say hello to Lady Violet and Proximo Hart for me, won’t you?”

“Ah, likewise,” Coin struggled to say.

“I do apologize, if Brother Halforth seemed a touch short with you, sir,” Lord Albright said. “He does tend to get rather grumpy, in stressful times like these. I swear, he’s only gotten worse, since Ellen died.” She laid a soft hand on his arm, and smiled. “I hope you understand. I imagine you’re under some pressure, as well.”

Coin tensed, very aware of the grip she had on him. “I understand entirely, my lord.”

“Of course you do. Well, you must excuse me now—there is other business to attend to. Cotton? Marcus?” She snapped her fingers, and suddenly the two silent Prefects appeared on either side, moving from behind corners and converging on them. Lord Albright regarded them warmly. “Well, we’re off. Have a wonderful evening, Sir Coin. Oh, and sir?”

Coin looked at her warily. “Yes, my lord?”

Lord Albright smiled, and leaned in close. Her lips were only an inch from Coin’s ear. “I know,” she whispered.

Without another word, she snapped her fingers and pointed down the hallway—she set off at a brisk pace down that way, her two fellow Prefects following silently. As she walked, Lord Albright began to sing to herself, in a voice sharp and clear.

"With hammer and bow, the white hats come:
A time to run.
What have you done?"

Coin ran.

Moving quickly, he darted through the Palace. Damn, damn, damn! he thought hastily, as he picked up his pace. She knows. What she knows, I cannot say, but she knows. He ran through possibilities, and liked none of them. The Changelings, the truth, and all that about ‘golems.’ The Warden? What is she after? Prefects were inscrutable: one could never tell their motives, but the results were always clear enough. That was what Coin feared most.

He directed himself towards Lady Violet’s chambers: it seemed unlikely that she had already returned, but he wouldn’t risk running back to the city only to find she was no longer there. The path would take him by Dabrius’ chambers—perhaps Crispin will have seen the lady pass by. Still, he kept few thoughts on that. Light of life, what does she know? He started to think more clearly, trying be rational.

Maybe nothing. Maybe she said that just to throw us off. She hadn’t been in the Dreamweave long, after all. Or has she? Coin considered with a chill. Prefects were not seen unless they wanted to be—he recalled how Albright's aides had appeared from nowhere. There might have been white hats in the city for weeks, hiding in shadows, watching from afar. He would have never known. What might she have seen? Or heard? Or found? He continued at his pace, about to pass by Dabrius’ room. But if she knew, why not tell Halforth? That much made little sense. What is she trying to do? What—

Mid-thought, Coin stopped. He had turned the corner, expecting to see Crispin Peck and Percy standing at attention by the door, guarding their charge. It was where they were, and what they were doing, when Coin saw them last.

Instead, he saw them slumped in a heap on the ground. They were not moving.

Coin rushed over immediately, trying to remain as silent as he could in his panic. He thought first to check their pulses, but he could breath a sigh of relief before having to do so—both men were still breathing. Neither appeared injured, though they were knocked out cold. The answer to why was on the floor next to them: clothes, abandoned behind, stained wet with some unknown liquid. Coin did not need to examine them closely to know what they were.

Sleeping draught, he thought, mind racing. A common tactic to remove an obstacle without killing them: a cloth dipped in the substance forced around the mouth and nose, a punch to the side, a sharp breath, and the victim would not wake for some time. Whomever had come past had wanted to get past the guards. And the door they had stood before was now ajar.

Dabrius.

Carefully, Coin pushed his way inside. The room looked as though a hurricane had gone through it: chair broken, desk overturned, lamp smashed. Dabrius was nowhere within.

Thinking quickly, Coin darted back out into the hall and tried to think. The nearest exit, he struggled to recall as he scanned quickly to both sides. There was no other way out of Dabrius’ room. We aren’t on the ground floor. Which staircases are nearby? Dammit all! He instinctively moved towards the nearest he could think of, shouting all the while. “Guards! Guards! Come quickly, they’ve taken Joh! Come qui—”

As he called out and ran for the stairs, Coin passed by a door wrenched ajar. On the other side of the room was a window gaping open. The night wind blew through softly. There, on the sill, tied down, was a rope.

Coin rushed to the window, peering out. Below him was a rooftop, far enough down that a man couldn’t risk to jump, but the rope dangled down to its surface. Across the roof, barely visible, he could see them: human figures, dark clothed but still in view as they ran across the top of the Palace. One of them, not so far away, had something slung over his shoulder: a black sack, roughly shaped and very large. Large enough to fit someone inside.

There was only a moment to calculate. Coin could see that there were at least three figures below, not yet too far away. One against three, and possibly more. Whether they had weapons, he could not know, but he doubted that two guards would be overpowered and a room ransacked by men with nothing in hand. Coin was unarmed. He was still injured, and never had much skill at arms. But there they were, fleeing across the night, with Dabrius Joh on their backs.

Coin jumped.

Gripping the rope as best he could, Coin slid down quickly and tried to collect himself as he slammed down on the rooftop. A lightning bolt of pain went through his shoulder, but it was the least of his worries. The noise had been enough to alert one of the figures: the one with Dabrius Joh on his back turned to face him.

So much for surprise, Coin thought. “Stop!” he cried after them. “Put him down and—”

Before he could say anything more, one of the assailants sprang from the dark and rushed at him, club in hand.

The figure closed the distance faster than Coin could believe: within a moment, they were upon him. They were slender, of middling height, but with no other features to distinguish them: dark cloth and cloak masked every other part of them. But in their hand was a club, swung right for Coin’s head.

He dodged, just barely. Stumbling back, Coin struggled to remember his empty palm techniques, just as he saw that his opponent was raising their arm to swing again. Coin rushed forward, grabbing the club’s shaft in one hand and the assailant's arm with the other, grappling and turning as both tried to shift their weight and throw the other down. Straining with all his strength, Coin pushed and pulled and then struck with his elbow, catching them across the jaw and giving hope of an opening. But, only too late, he heard the soft whistle of something cutting through the air behind him.

The pain exploding in Coin’s shoulder was more than he could have believed. Sheer, blinding pain, such that Coin could not help but scream and weaken, while the one he had grappled with threw him down. Bracing himself with his arm, Coin tried to rise, only for a club to rain down a second time and hit him right on his wound again for good measure. All Coin could do was fall again and scream in agony.

Clenching his fist and gritting his teeth against the pain, Coin breathed heavily. He could barely see, with dark edges clouding his vision, but he managed to turn his head enough to see a much larger figure looming over him. The cloak did little to hide the bulky muscle, and in his hand was a club. It was raised in the air, about to strike a third—and last—time.

“Leave him!” a voice cried out.

The two standing above Coin seemed to hesitate for a moment, but then broke away. They ran, and left Coin behind.

Coin could not tell how long it was before he could stir himself. He gave a heaving, suffering cough as he tried to rise up and fell back down. He thought to cry out again, for aid or help or anything else, but found it hard to raise his voice, and harder still to remain awake. All that he could do was watch as the dark figures—with Dabrius Joh unconscious on their shoulders—ran further and further, until Coin could see them no longer, and they slipped away into the night.

Chapter XXXV: . . . But Keep Discord

* * * * * *

Lady Wright:

“The moment I touched sand on Comchan, I swore an Oath of Six that I’d make up for what we’d lost in Baysmouth. But only a damn fool would think it’d be easy. Every battle I fought would be makin’ up for ceded ground, and the first one was with my own men. A battle of words, the kind I never had much talent for.”

Lorelove:

“The Speech on the Ships.”

“That’s what they called it after. ‘Speech on the [expletive redacted]-covered hill in front of the ships’ might’ve been better. There was air to clear. Hot air, knowing me. I’m not much for speeches, but the people I led, the ones we’d start callin’ ‘the Loyal Friends,’ well they needed to hear something from the person who claimed to be leading ‘em.”

“If you could share any details . . .”

“You can find the full words in a book. I told ‘em what had gone wrong—namely, that it was me. I told ‘em what I planned to do next, and that they could follow if they wanted. Then, I told ‘em they could choose someone else, if they liked.”

“They did not.”

“There wasn’t anyone else. Not that I’d blame them if that didn’t stop them skipping me.”

“My lady, between your arrival on Comchan and the day of your address, there was a three day gap in which the remains of the army from Greatchan gathered. What happened in that span has not been widely reported on. I have heard it said that, ah, that you were not seen in those three days. That orders came from your cabin, and those that saw you in-person thought you were, ah . . .”

“I don’t want to talk about it. No, dammit, that was too harsh. Sorry. Just . . . just not right now. Later, maybe.”

“Apologies, my lady. But much of your new plan was made during that time?”

“That’s an exaggeration. Some of it definitely came together, but a lot of the rest was . . . nascent? Forthcoming, whatever. I wouldn’t have been able to put it all together before I met my honest friend and sized up what his army looked like. It didn’t take long to find out that us Loyal Friends had landed on an island under siege.

“The frying pan and the fire, as they say. It was only just after we’d made it across the Bay of Masks, beaten and broken as we were, that the Mods coiled ‘round Comchan like a Blurrite snek. I didn’t know it at that moment, but it was standard procedure for Mod interventions: quarantine first, then a red rinse after if they were feeling nervous. Giles was following the book, but with a little wrinkle courtesy of the Mootking Rohd. Y’see, that bloodthirsty [expletive redacted] figured that if black boots stepped on too much Channic land, they’d never step off again. So he insisted on keeping Mod’s-on-the-ground to a minimum: Mod ships pressin’ the quarantine by sea, but Channic troops fencing us in by land. Giles played nice, for the moment, not least because it meant more anonymites fighting and dying, and weakening for later. They’d be hammer and anvil, and us the dross in between.”

“And what did that mean for you?”

“The last time I had led a largely defensive fight, it hadn’t gone well. Now, Moderator ships ruled the seas, and masked-men hunted us on the moors. But I wasn’t the only one with an army in Comchan. Turns out, I had a hammer of my own.”

* * * * * *

“I believe I said ‘no strenuous activity,’ Sir Coin,” Skylark scolded as she tightened the bandage.

Coin sighed, and that was enough to make pain arch through his body. Skylark had been wrapping him up for the better part of an hour, and had not let him hear the end of it the entire time. “It was not one of my better ideas,” Coin had to admit, cringing from the pain. Even talking hurt a little.

“Well on that point, I agree!” said Skylark. She placed her fists on her hips, and looked at him with the very face of maternal annoyance. “I might be of the Kind, sir, but don’t think I’m in the business of mending people as some light hobby. My hope is that any healing I do goes to you living to see another day, not to encourage you in jumping off of buildings and getting yourself killed.”

“He is not dead yet, Skylark,” Lady Violet pointed out wryly. After Coin had told her the barest story of what had happened, the lady demanded to hear the rest. She insisted, though, that Skylark be present for his treatment as they did so.

“Barely!” Skylark scoffed. She snatched a vial off the table, uncorked it, then smelled the mixture inside. After half a second, she nodded, then started working the salve into Coin’s shoulder. Coin flinched at the tiny pin-pricks it made in his wound. “You are extremely lucky, sir. If you’d had half a lighter grip on that rope, you would have fallen down like a potato sack and broken your legs. If you’d been inches to the side when that club hit you, it might have broken plenty more. And if your head had been any bigger than it already clearly was,” she said scornfully as she rubbed in the poultice, “then they might have struck that skull of yours instead, and you’d be stone dead. Lucky indeed. As it stands, all you’ve managed to do is reopen your wound and make it a hundred times worse.”

“At the time, I didn’t—ah, damn!” Coin looked at Lady Violet abashed. “Sorry. At the time, I didn’t see any other option. They were running off with Dabrius.” He sighed—again, he felt a pain. “And they got away. I’m sorry for that, as well.”

Lady Violet closed her eyes and shook her head. It was still early in the morning, and she—along with everyone else—had been roused even earlier, as soon as Coin had been found. Lady Violet seemed deeply tired, rubbing her eyes. “Continuing to apologize is unnecessary, sir, especially since it was no fault of your own.”

“Agreed,” added Skylark as she retrieved yet more bandages. “I don’t imagine it was you that carried Dabrius off into the night in a sack, and left all of us here to pick up the pieces. If you were,” she said, stretching the bandages across Coin’s shoulder, “that would make things a lot simpler. As it is now, the only thing you are guilty of is being too bold by half, to put it politely.” Walking into front of Coin, she admired her handywork, stone-faced. Then, she lifted up Coin’s chin, and her features softened. “You must be more careful. There are some hurts I can’t fix. Attacking three men, while on your own and injured, is a fine way to get such hurts, and people are not often this lucky twice.”

They were interrupted by a familiar face entering the room. Gaunt and quiet, Abigail Cawtler appeared in the door, hands resting stiffly against the legs of her black-and-white Peacekeeper uniform. “The Lord Moderator will see you all,” she said simply. It was not phrased as a request.

Skylark crossed her arms. “He is in no shape to go galavanting around. The man is injured.”

Abigail tilted her head at that. “I do not know what ‘galavanting’ entails.” Without another word, she strode past Skylark and Lady Violet, and then knelt behind Coin. Uncomfortably, Coin realized that she was examining him. “Hmm,” he heard her murmur, “heavy bruise from bludgeon, atop the existing puncture. Well placed. Such color to the skin.” After a moment, she stood. “He’ll live,” Abigail intoned, and then motioned for them to follow.

Skylark looked ready to protest, but Lady Violet quelled it with a glance. “No sense in putting it off, I suppose,” the lady sighed. “Sir Coin? Can you walk?”

Coin nodded, and rose as best as he could. The wound hurt when he moved, and he cringed as he stood, but he also knew it was not nearly as bad as it might have been. It had been far worse in the hours prior—Skylark worked well, and worked quickly. Stiffly, he and the others followed behind Lady Violet, Skylark still trying to attend to him as they walked.

Outside the door, they were joined by another who had been waiting there. Half-collapsing against the wall, chatting bleary-eyed with the guards, was Proximo Hart. He quickly scampered over, once he saw the lady emerge. “My lady?”

She tried to smile reassuringly. “Sir Coin was downed, as they say, but is not out. Unfortunately, though, it does seem that we’ve lost someone else. No word of Dabrius?”

“We have men turning over every stone, my lady, but there has been no news. It’s only been a few hours, after all.” Hart ran his fingers through his air, practically bleeding nervousness. “My lady, you have not slept.”

“Nor have you, Mister Hart,” Lady Violet replied, visibly stifling a yawn. “Truthfully, I was not sleeping well even before, but with all these new happenings . . .”

Coin nodded, though she had not been talking to him. He was exhausted as well. The short time he had spent blacked out had apparently not been enough to refresh him. What little time he had spent unconscious was hardly pleasant either way, beset with dreams that he could only half-remember that were filled with cloaked figures and yellow eyes. He tried to keep himself awake, recalling that he’d had no shortage of late nights during his time in the Authority. Granted, most of those sleepless nights had not followed being beaten within an inch of his life.

Coin had lost track of whatever else that the lady and her assistant had spoken of, though he gathered that Hart was coming with them now. A few guards trailed behind as well, while the group continued on its way, each of them only growing more anxious as they neared their destination.

The dreaded moment arrived more swiftly than Coin might have hoped. When they arrived, the found the Lord Moderator’s chambers already occupied. The Martes were gathered, all three of them, and all three looking scornful and angry. Halforth’s fellow judges were also present. Sir Alwin appeared ill-at-ease, eyes darting to the Bronies immediately. Sir Borlund Barr’s face was very red, his thick neck filled with veins. The two other Peacekeepers, Cellia and Percy both, seemed almost as worried as the Bronies did, standing off to the side. Coin saw no sign of the Prefects, but he no longer took for granted that they might not be near.

In the center of the room, sitting at the head of the table, was Lord Halforth, his eyes steady and furious.

He scanned over the assembled Bronies silently. “You two,” he gestured to Coin and Lady Violet, “will sit. That foppish assistant of yours may stand. I do not know who you are,” he said to Skylark.

“I am this man’s doctor,” Skylark replied firmly.

“You are leaving, is what you are. Get out.”

Lady Violet cut in before Skylark could respond. “Skylark, please give us a moment.” The Kind sister grimaced at leaving her patient unattended, but obeyed nonetheless.

With the distraction gone, Halforth turned his eyes back to Coin and Lady Violet, now seated. “You will explain. Slowly, and in detail.”

Coin swallowed, and told everything he knew.

By the time he reached the end, Coin could feel the lack of sleep truly wearing on him. “. . . and after that I blacked out. I have no idea where they went.”

“A ridiculous lie,” said Pilara Martes, at her husband’s side.

“Agreed,” Lord Aureliano said, bobbing his head. “She is right, it would be foolishness to beli—”

“Martes, you will speak when spoken to,” Lord Halforth cut in scornfully

That was enough to make Arcadio’s temper flash. “And why?” he demanded. “You let their man out of my sight for a damned day, and suddenly he vanishes? While they were guarding him, no less!”

“Yes.” Sir Borlund Barr crashed a thick hand on the table, his moustache twitching. “If they’ve no right to speak, Halforth, then I do. Are you going to stomach these lies? This is a ruse, mark me that.”

“That is ludicrous,” Lady Violet said, calm but cold. “Are you forgetting that there was a Moderator guard on Dabrius as well?”

“Yes, because you and your pervert friends couldn’t prove him innocent. All the more reason to spring him loose now, once you’re desperate. You think we cannot see that, whore?”

Before she could retort, a hand slammed down on the table. “Quiet,” Lord Halforth said, almost shouting. “With God as my witness, I cannot tell why fate ever accursed me with such a pack of frauds and imbeciles, but I will at least have quiet. What are you all proposing then? That you are both liars?”

“We are not lying,” Lady Violet said, sounding steely.

“Nor are we,” shot back Lady Pilara. Next to her, Lord Aureliano bobbed his head in agreement.

“And so far as I am concerned,” Lord Halforth spat, “the word of anyone here is not worth the rope it would take to hang you, which I may just do.”

“My lord, that is not even close to fair,” Lady Violet insisted, nearly pleading. “I will remind whose lies it was, exactly, that made it necessary for Dabrius to be removed in the first place. Not ours.”

Sir Alwin cleared his throat. “She is not wrong, Lord Halforth,” he began. There was still some hesitance in his voice, but the young knight seemed far more comfortable now that he was truly speaking for himself. “Your honor, I cannot see how the events of that night would implicate them. The attack, I mean, it was on their men. And another of theirs, now stolen. For them to lie wou—”

“And you would know enough of lies, wouldn’t you Cameron?” Sir Borlund sneered. He pointed a finger at his counterpart. “Don’t think we’ve forgotten who it was that lied about the prisoners. I know I haven’t forgotten, not at all. It was not I who perjured himself, if you recall. Disgraceful.”

Sir Alwin was looking at Borlund with equal parts disbelief and horror, and seemed ready to fight back, when he was interrupted. “Silence,” Lord Halforth snapped. Both men settled back, though they stared daggers at each other. “You, horse-lover, I’ve heard a denial, have I not?” Halforth spun his head sharply to face the Peacekeepers. “Mister Cartwright? Say again what you recall of the prior evening?”

Percy was clutching his head, but sprang up to attention immediately. “Ah, nothing, my lord. One minute talking, and then, ah. Well, I think I felt someone grab ahold of me, but after the sleeping draught it’s all a bit, ah . . .”

Lord Halforth did not wait for him to finish. “You sit there and claim innocence,” he said, eyes boring into Lady Violet, “though you have motive enough, and the only man who can corroborate your story is one in your service.”

Lady Violet looked at him aghast. “Sir Coin was injured trying to stop this crime, he did not try to cause it!”

“His injury is genuine, your honor,” Abigail chimed in, face blank.

“That does not mean his story is,” he replied, sounding irritated. “Injuries can be garnered in many ways, Miss Cawtler, as you know.”

From the corner, Cellia Ravenry spoke up. “Your honor,” she ventured hesitantly, “that is . . . that explanation is not . . .” She looked at the Lord Moderator pleadingly. “Your honor, I was given responsibility over Sir Coin, I can vouch for his character. I cannot believe that he would lie, and—“

“I did not ask for your opinion,” Lord Halforth said, lighting up with fury. “Oh, you do not ‘believe’? When have I ever wished to know of ‘beliefs’ from you, Miss Ravenry? Or you, Miss Cawtler? Or any of you, for that matter?” The look in his eyes was enough to make Cellia cringe back. “If I must bear a single other disobedient word from any of you, I will have you sent back to Central in disgrace. What do you think this is? Am I quizzing you, Miss Ravenry, or is there work to be done? Well?”

Cellia stepped back, looking ashamed. “Your honor, I—“

Lord Halforth waved her away. “I do not need one of your answers, Miss Ravenry. Out, all three of you, and go do something of use. The horse-lover guard, the one that was ‘ambushed.’ Go and have him tell you of what happened.”

“Ah,” Percy said haltingly, “well, he’s kind of . . . mute. Your honor.”

The Lord Moderator stared at him in disbelief. “Then he will write it down. Light of life, go.”

The three Peacekeepers hurried out, but Coin could see Cellia’s face twisted up as she tried to dart away. Before Coin had any time for sympathies, Lady Violet spoke up again. “My lord,” she said slowly, “are you formally accusing our fandom of stealing Dabrius away?”

Coin could see Halforth clench his jaw. “There is no proof. No more than there is proof for these three idiots of Martes having stolen him, nor some secret society, nor anonymites, nor anyone else. I can see motive and guilt in each and every one of you, yet there is no proof.” The Lord Moderator’s mouth tightened so much that his teeth might have shattered. “Well, I shall find it.”

“You won’t find it on this end of the table,” Arcadio said, sneering at the Bronies.

Lord Halforth sprang up and rounded on Arcadio. “If you dare to speak again,” he shouted, “then by the Code of the World you will not leave this room alive! I was not called to this disgusting place to see guilty people escape, and if a single one of you thinks that it can be done, you are sadly mistaken. The Logos itself wills it. Now get out, all of you!”

All of them hastily stood, and left the Lord Moderator to seethe. The other judges remained, both unhappy in their own measure, but all others gathered themselves and hurried out. They had scarcely closed the door before Arcadio turned to face them.

“You actually think you can get away with this, don’t you?” he asked as he stepped toward them. His light brown eyes were so alit with anger that they almost seemed a shade lighter.

Aureliano hummed in agreement. “Yes, you think you can just obstruct justice, horse-lover? I won’t allow it, not in my city.”

There was only disbelief on Lady Violet’s face as she looked at them. “I don’t have time for this,” she said, shaking her head. “My honest friend?”

For a moment, Coin thought she meant him. But suddenly, the Warden of Honesty emerged from behind a corner, striding forward ominously. Aureliano and Pilara paled, while Arcadio’s lip merely curled.

“I don’t enjoy speaking with any of you, so I will be on my way in a moment,” Lady Violet continued. “But first, a very simple question.” She stepped towards the Martes, as though daring them to try and leave. “Did you any of you three play a role in Dabrius’ disappearance? Any at all?”

“How dare you?” Aureliano sniffed. “I am no criminal, horse-lover. I had nothing to do with any of this.”

“Nor I,” Pilara said with a smile. “More than can be said for you.”

Arcadio was still scowling at the Warden. “I didn’t do a damned thing. Why would I waste time trying to free a dead man? You’ll join him in the grave, after this.”

The Warden looked down at them plaintively. “Hrm. Telling the truth.”

“Shame,” Lady Violet said. She waved at the Warden to follow, and then took her leave with Coin and Proximo Hart. The Martes were left behind, their stares sharp as knives.

After a minute, Lady Violet spoke. “There is always something, isn’t there? One after another, time after time, there is always something new. It’s madness.”

“They would have to be mad, to think we had anything to do with this,” said Proximo, sounding distraught. “Dabrius gone in the dead of night, the sole suspect of this murder vanished. It’s a catastrophe.”

“In a way,” the lady admitted, “I almost cannot blame them for suspecting us.”

“This one can,” the Warden of Honesty grunted.

“Much as we hate to admit it, we are the party with the most motive, at least of those present. The Martes hardly have reason to steal away a man already trapped in their own Palace. At first, I thought perhaps they might have tried just to frame us, but Honesty has disproven that little theory.”

“There’s no way they might have been lying?” Proximo asked warily.

“None,” the Warden answered. “The Sight sees all. Answers were true.”

“It would’ve just been too neat and simple, wouldn’t it?” Lady Violet said, voice thick with frustration. “Well, no matter. It is time to start considering other theories, and I have three.” To illustrate, she held up three long, graceful fingers. “Three groups in this city that seem like possible culprits. Anyone wish to offer a guess as to option one?”

“The anonymites,” Coin answered immediately. This had not been the first time he’d considered who was behind the attack.

“Astute as always, sir,” Lady Violet nodded. “A small band of outsiders with a penchant for disruption. What do you think of that, seeing that you were the only one to have seen this kidnapping cadre?”

Coin thought back to the debate he’d had with himself some hours prior. “The numbers work,” he began. “Three anonymites, three attackers. I could not really tell if the figures matched, with the cloaks and all, but there was nothing that I knew didn’t match. The timing would have been tight, seeing that they were in the Lord Moderator’s chambers not long before, but it could have been done.”

“The only problem is motive,” Proximo interjected. “The anonymites—so far as we know—have no interest in whatever drama our fandom is in, nor in Dabrius personally. Why go to the trouble of abducting him? Particularly if under such risk, when there was apparently little time for them to rush and do it after meeting the Lord Moderator?”

“Discord,” suggested the Warden of Honesty. When he saw alarmed expressions, he clarified. “Sow chaos. Cause disruption. Offer distraction. Means to accomplish something else.”

Lady Violet thought on that. “Perhaps. Though that only serves to raise new questions. Well, anyone want to hazard what option two might be?”

It was Proximo that answered, though he seemed reluctant. “The Changelings.”

The Warden did not seem convinced. “If they are friends,” he grunted, “they would not kidnap friend. Or hurt one.”

“They might if they thought they were threatened,” Lady Violet pointed out. “We might not wish to admit it, but this investigation is reaching its close, and Dabrius Joh’s life hangs in the balance. If the Changelings thought he would give up their secrets, they might steal him away to prevent it. Or perhaps they would do so to prevent his death, seeing that he worked alongside them. Or,” she said, now reluctant as well, “perhaps they might do so to cast blame on us. Maybe they think it will be immeasurably harder to find the Society if we are caught up in false accusations.”

The Warden frowned. “They would not.”

“I agree,” said Coin. It was only a hunch, but he had more experience dealing with the Society than anyone, limited as that experience might be. At the least, he doubted they would try and frame the Bronies, but Coin frankly doubted their involvement at all. “The Changelings so far have worked to prevent being discovered at all costs, never moving in the open. Attacking Mods and stealing away the only suspect isn’t subtle.”

“True,” Lady Violet admitted. “But we must parse through every possibility, and the Society is one of them. People are liable to do anything, when desperate enough. Anything.” Before she continued, however, Lady Violet stopped and listened. Coin did the same, and could hear what she did: footsteps up ahead, and coming closer.

The source became apparent when a flash of white came around the corner ahead. White uniforms, and the white teeth of a broad smile.

“Hel-lo!” cried Lord Albright in a sing-song voice. She appeared as bright and cheerful as ever, but the two Knight Prefects behind her—Cotton and Marcus, if Coin recalled correctly—seemed to make up for it in silent dourness. “Sir Coin! How wonderful to see you again. And this must be Lady Violet, at last. Lord Repay-the-Sinner-with-Death Albright, though Aly works just as well. I’m certain that Sir Coin has already told you and Proximo all about me.”

Coin caught a brief, alarmed looked from Proximo when he heard the Prefect say his name, but Lady Violet did not skip a beat. “He had indeed, my lord,” she said with a bow, “though it is not a substitute for meeting you in person. An honor.”

“The honor is entirely at this end of the room, Lady Violet,” replied Lord Albright, doffing her hat and returning bow. Her two aides, on the other, did not move a muscle, simply staring forward. Staring at the Warden, specifically, and even more specifically at the weapons he carried at his belt. The Warden returned the look, as though he and the two Prefects were engaged in a silent contest. “Now then,” Lord Albright continued, looking slightly more serious, “it is a good thing that I caught you all here. There was an important matter I wanted to ask about, my lady.”

For a moment, the Prefect merely considered Lady Violet, face blank. Then, “How in the Web did you dye your hair like that? It’s spectacular, and I’m jealous as sin. I can’t see a dark root anywhere.”

“What, this frumpy thing?” Lady Violet said slyly, batting one of her purple curls with a finger. “Just a matter of practice and quality colors, my lord. Honestly, though, I’m the one who should be jealous. You needn’t dye a single hair, not seeing how well you wear blonde. I think you chose the right branch: white is a wonderful color on you.”

“Now you know why I went with the Prefects,” Lord Albright said with a wink. “Just don’t tell Dyren.”

The two laughed and continued to talk, all while Coin looked on, confused and slightly frightened. He noticed a momentary change in Cotton and Marcus’ expressions, like a second’s worth of exasperation as they watched the two ladies chat. One of them shot a look to the Warden, then to Lord Albright, then an inquisitive glance back to the Warden. Oddly, Coin could almost see the look as asking a question: ‘Is yours always like this?’ The Warden had a slightly pained look of his own, and gave a nod. ‘Yes,’ it seemed to say.

“. . . and of course, that was the last time I wore heels,” said Albright. Coin had only caught the last part of what he said, but apparently Lady Violet thought it was worth a very ladylike laugh. Proximo merely chuckled uneasily as he looked between the two women. “Anyways,” Albright continued, “I’m afraid I must depart for now. Some drama with Dyren that demands my attention.”

“Some drama?” Lady Violet said, with a hint of surprise. Coin could not tell if it was feigned or not. “Do you not know what happened last night, my lord?”

“Yes, something involving kidnappers and the prime suspect vanishing and such.” Lord Albright shrugged. “It’s all very tedious, really. Though I was sorry to learn of your injury, Sir Coin.” Despite naming Coin, Albright turned her eyes to the Warden of Honesty, and smiled up at him. “I imagine this one might be useful in sniffing out the culprits. Assuming that no one thinks that you lot did it.”

The Warden stiffened. “We did not,” he said, squinting down at Albright in suspicion.

“That, I do know. Are you not from the Chan, Warden of All Honesty?”

He did not seem surprised by the question, but spoke reluctantly. “Yes.”

“As I heard. I have heard many other things as well, my Lord of Honesty. There were men and women in the black-and-whites who fought in the Chan during your war, and many I know came back with tales of the golden terror they were met with. A figure of singular ferocity, as I understand it, even more than the Lightning Lady. Mootking Rohd and Giles doubted those stories, to their sorrow. I do not.” She smiled, but there was something other than friendliness in it. “You carry a hammer, Warden, and a sword as well. I imagine you use them?”

“Hrm,” the Warden nodded. Lady Violet looked between the two of them, pretending not to take grave interest.

The answer appeared to please Lord Albright. “As well you should. You care for these friends of yours. And kill for them, as we must.” Still the smile lingered, frozen in place. “Unfortunate. But necessary, many times. You might hate the things you are forced to do, Honesty. So do I.”

The Warden contemplated her. “Liar.”

Again, Albright only seemed pleased. “Not usually, but yes. I will have to speak with you again, my Lord of Honesty. After all this is sorted, of course.” She turned to the rest of them. “Until that time, good day. I wish you the best of fate and fortune, in your search.” As she walked away, Lord Albright seemed almost to glide across the floor.

Lady Violet watched carefully as the Prefects departed. “And there,” she said softly, “goes option three.”

Coin went wide-eyed. “You think that the Prefects might have taken them?”

“It is only the mildest of suspicions,” Lady Violet admitted, “with scant little support. Yet I am not one to ignore strange happenings, ones involving someone like Lord Albright least of all. If that is her real name.”

Proximo scratched his chin at the thought. “She does seem to know a great deal, for someone ostensibly here just to round up an apostate. But would the times work? Lord Albright left at the same time as Coin, from the same place, on that night.”

“Oh, it would not have been her personally. We’ve no knowledge of what agents the Prefects might have in the city, or how many. Though I find it hard to believe that she would know so much without at least some lurking about ahead of time. What are our thoughts?”

“She seems friendly enough,” Proximo pointed out. “Albeit a bit odd. What in the Web was all that talk with the Warden of Honesty?”

“This one did not understand,” grunted the Warden of Honesty. “Also does not understand what you say,” he said to Lady Violet. “Friendly talk when she is here, then suspicion after. Order this one to question, if suspicious.”

“Ones who presume to demand answers from Prefects,” Lady Violet said wryly, “usually come to regret it. If we’re going to risk offending a Prefect by asking pointed questions, I should like more time to plan it out—there are enough cataclysms going on right now without us making more. Though I am curious to know if she ever lied, when I spoke with her.”

“No,” said the Warden.

“Really? Not even when she complimented my hair?”

The Warden made a sound that might have been a groan. “No.”

Lady Violet looped one of her curls around a finger. “Well, she has good taste, at least. And blonde really is her color, on that point.”

“But why would Lord Albright—or any Mod—want to take Dabrius?” Coin asked. “If we’re to speak of motive, they have none.”

“None I can name,” replied Lady Violet. “And yet I would be a fool to think all of this is coincidence, her arriving now of all times. A full three Prefects, in a backwater like this, just to take a prisoner into custody? Not to mention what she said to you, sir, or to Honesty. She might seem odd, but there is a direction to what she is doing.” The look on her face was nothing but troubled. “The motives of Prefects have never been easy to pin down. They answer only to the Admins themselves, and there is a method to what they do that no petty people like ourselves can grasp lightly. Sometimes their actions seem to advance no interest at all, or go against what they wish, on the rare times they even let themselves be seen at all. Yet it is all for a greater purpose at which we can only guess. And when they act in earnest . . .

“I remember one of my neighbors claimed to have seen one once, when I was young. These neighbors were not well-liked, and often had unknown guests in their home. Some people whispered that they were pale men in strange leathers, ones who had sailed to the Devien Isles from afar. From the east, though there is nothing in the oceans east of the Isles save for Firaffin the Outcast. And the Deep. One day, that neighbor was far into his cups, and told everyone who would listen that a white hat had been following him. No one believed him, but a day later he was gone. Him and his whole household, all of them disappeared without a trace. Even the portraits carrying their likeness on the walls were gone, and any record of their names was scratched from the town records.”

“A Ban Upon Memory,” Coin said with a shiver.

“Indeed. Though I do remember, sir. One of my singular talents, as whomever stole Dabrius will soon learn.” Lady Violet looked forward, and began to walk again. “There are people with whom we must speak. One familiar with the court, first of all.”

“Oh no,” Proximo moaned. “Not him, not right now.”

“No time like the present, Mister Hart. Though I scarcely have need of a bigger headache, there are some pointed inquiries to be made. See that he is brought to my chambers, and tell him that I and Sir Coin will be waiting.”

Some hours later, when he finally arrived, Withins-Bei did not seem at all put-off by the events of the prior night. Unlike the bleary, glazed looks of most others (save for the Warden of Honesty), Withins-Bei seemed positively chipper. “Morning all!” he shouted too-loudly on entering the room with an annoyed-looking Proximo. “You all look awful. Tired, as well. Did you have a date with a Blurrite last night? I hear their paint-horses are the hardiest in all the Web, so I imagine they would—”

“Withins-Bei,” Lady Violet interrupted icily.

“Fine, fine, that’s all I wanted to do today anyways,” Withins-Bei said with a roll of his eyes. “Honestly, I might have thought that having your leal man stolen away might have put you in a better mood. One fewer salary to pay. Of course, someone might think that you were the ones to do it. That would be awkward, wouldn’t it?” He gave a buttery, infuriating smile. “Good thing that Lord Halforth is so understanding. One might have thought that a man who hanged his own son would be less than kind.”

“And what do you think, Withins-Bei?” Proximo Hart asked curtly, as though he already knew Withins-Bei would say it regardless. Locating and escorting the lordling around seemed to have done little for Proximo’s patience.

Withins-Bei snorted. “You lot, stealing away people in the night? That one,” he said pointing to the Warden of Honesty, “is about the size of the entire Palace. Subtlety weeps just looking at that ugly face of his. You might have more a mind for intrigue, my lady, but the whole theory seems a touch overwrought to me. Or perhaps just stupid, which is a quality I know well. And, more importantly, I find it boring. I much prefer my mysteries to have more colorful answers, don’t you? Right now, my theory is that a flock of magical beasts just whisked up to the rooftops and carted him away, probably to eat him.”

“This is unlikely,” said the Warden of Honesty, face blank.

“You are not one for jokes, too-tall, are you?”

“Did not summon for jokes.” The Warden turned that stare to Withins-Bei, and already Coin could see the lordling grow uncomfortable.

“No, that I did not,” Lady Violet said. “I take it that you know nothing about who stole Dabrius away?”

“None, I’m afraid. Your Dabrius was too ornery and too captive for my tastes.”

Nothing from the Warden of Honesty—Coin had to assume that meant it was true. Lady Violet continued. “In that case, we have certain inquiries to make in the Palace court. But before all that, I have another question for you, Withins-Bei.”

“Sorry to decline, but there are already several young ladies I’m attending on, I’m afraid.”

Proximo flushed red, but Lady Violet did not react. “No, my question a bit sharper.” Coin expected her to ask about ‘Pen,’ the name they had heard yesterday from the Changeling. Strangely, though, she chose something else. “What do you know of the Knights Prefect?”

At first, Coin was confused. But then he noticed the slightest change in Withins-Bei’s face. The smile remained, but his eyes did not smile with his mouth. “What, the white hats? Tedious folk, or so I’ve heard, much inclined towards hanging hanger-ons like me.”

“There are three in the city now.”

Withins-Bei froze. “Ah.”

“If I gathered correctly,” Lady Violet continued idly, tracing a spiral in the table with her finger, “you know nothing else about them of consequence?”

“Nothing to speak of, and I am inclined to speak often.”

“Liar.”

All eyes, save for Lady Violet’s, went to the Warden of Honesty. He had stirred, and was looking at Withins-Bei with what might have been surprise.

The lordling tried to laugh it off. “I’m certain I don’t know what you mean, I—”

“Liar.” The Warden said again, taking a step closer.

Proximo gaped at Withins-Bei in disbelief, and Coin shared the feeling. It couldn’t be . . .

Withins-Bei was looking beyond uncomfortable now. “Now, that isn’t very nice. I . . . well, I would not impute on the motives of one like me. How would you even . . .”

Lady Violet leaned back in her chair. “I tend to trust the word of my friends. My honest friend more than most. Will you be an honest friend as well, Withins-Bei?” She folded her hands in front of her, and for a moment her stare was almost as piercing as the Warden’s. “The Prefect I met was odd, but not least because she seemed to know much about me, and my friends.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Liar,” the Warden grunted again, angrier this time.

“This will be easier if you answer directly, and truthfully,” Lady Violet said, calm as still water. “What did you tell them?”

“Nothing, I said nothing to anyone, I—”

“Liar.”

“Stop saying that!” Withins-Bei blurted out. He was looking very quickly between the two Wardens now.

“My honest friend is none too fond of jokes,” Lady Violet said, rising in her seat, “or deflection. Enough of both. What did you tell them?”

Withins-Bei opened his mouth, then closed it, stunned beyond words. Then, he slumped back with a sullen look. “All. Everything I knew.”

Lady Violet examined him carefully. “I had suspected you might have been reporting to someone, but I had thought it was the Chamber. That would have been harmless enough. Prefects are far from harmless. How long?”

Withins-Bei grimaced in his seat. “I had someone approach me some time ago, asking for information about the court. I am fond of money, after all, and things one spends it on.”

“That is true,” the Warden murmured. Withins-Bei shot him a dirty look.

“Did you not realize that they were Prefects?” Lady Violet said, tilting her head.

“I did not ask. It hardly mattered to me, until they started showing up everywhere,” Withins-Bei said ruefully. “I didn’t see my first white hat until a full two weeks after you arrived. That was one pair of pants ruined.”

“Then the Prefects had been here since that long, at least,” Proximo mused. “But they were interested in this place before we arrived? Why?”

“I cannot say.” He caught a hard glance from the Warden, then backtracked. “By which I mean that I don’t know. When they came to me I . . . I had assumed political rivals, the Chamber. Not them.” He laughed a bitter laugh. “It’s enough to sober even me. Well, almost.”

“We live in a time for unexpected things, it seems.” Lady Violet curled a hair around her finger.

Withins-Bei shifted in his seat. “And what, if I may ask, will you do with me?” He looked at the Warden of Honesty with discomfort. Specifically, at the Warden’s sword belt.

“I’m going to do one other unexpected thing.” Lady Violet now stood, and reached across the table to touch Withins-Bei’s hand. “I forgive you.”

The jaws of everyone in the room dropped, and Withins-Bei’s most of all. He looked at her, as though suspecting trickery. “Why?”

Lady Violet gave a look of both sympathy and sternness. “One of my friends is Lillian Semmer. The Warden of Kindness. She once told me, ‘It costs no coin worth keeping to forgive a friend.’ Perhaps we were just another of your games, Withins-Bei, but I would be a liar myself if I said that I didn’t enjoy your company. I wish you the best, my friend.”

Withins-Bei merely looked at her, stunned. He snatched his hand away. “No, no friend.” His face had twisted up, and his pudgy hands clenched. “I have no friends, nor will I. I need to leave. Good day.” And with nothing else, he leapt from his seat and stalked out as quickly as he could.

It took only a moment for the inevitable question to come. “My lady,” broached Proximo, “was that wise? He betrayed us.”

“That he did. And yet,” the lady said as she retook her seat, “what else was there? We do not have the authority to punish free citizens here, Proximo. If I had wanted him brutalized, it would have brought us nothing but more charges. He’ll get no more information from us, but I saw only two options. I could berate and curse him and throw him out, and I would certainly feel good in doing it. Or,” she continued, looking between them, “I could offer honey instead of vinegar. Perhaps that will leave a door open, some distant day from now.”

The Warden of Honesty hardly seemed convinced. “He is faithless. Will not appreciate forgiveness.”

“That may be. But consider this carefully. ‘It costs no coin worth keeping to forgive a friend.’ So tell me: what did that cost me?”

Coin considered that. “Either he feels some debt to us now,” he said, “or he is no more distant from us than he would be otherwise.”

Lady Violet’s smile was equally sly and confident. “I am never one to exhaust an asset, not until I know its value is truly run. Withins-Bei may yet be of some use. And besides all that,” she said with a sigh, “what Lilly said was true. Forgiveness is often the right thing to do, for all that’s worth. We shall see if it was the right thing for today. At any rate, we learned some choice things from this meeting.”

Coin had already begun piecing that together. The Prefects have been here for some time, he thought. Watching from shadows, gathering information. They became truly active only recently, but we’re not the only ones they’re interested in. If the Prefects had been using Withins-Bei before Sir Harald was even murdered, let alone before the Bronies arrived, then they might not be interested in the fandom at all. Who did that leave, as their targets? The Martes, maybe. But now we have new questions.

Coin was roused from his theories by the voice of Proximo. “It is a shame, though,” he admitted. “I cannot claim to miss Withins-Bei, but he was a good source. We needed his help on this ‘Pen’ business.”

Lady Violet gave him another sly smile. “Did we? I believe I said there was no cost. You cannot recall another person on-hand, with equal knowledge of the Palace?”

Proximo blinked. “Oh. Oh! Yes, my lady, I’ll ask after her.” He went for the door.

The lady chuckled. “Tell her to come as soon as she can. I have some suspicions I want to air. Some hat suggestions as well.” After Proximo left, she stood up. “As for you, Sir Coin, I think it’s time for you to rest again.”

“I can do more, my lady,” Coin protested, ignoring how sore and tired he was.

“ ‘Can’ is not ‘should,’ sir,” Lady Violet said gently. “I would rather have you in one piece. So far as I’m concerned, your priority now should be rest and healing, and I don’t say that because I fear what havoc Skylark will wreak if I do not. Well, not entirely because of that, anyways.” When she saw that Coin was about to protest again, she related only a little. “If it will help your peace of mind, you might do one thing. A very small thing, on your way back to your chambers. Lord Halforth was having Crispin interviewed by his Peacekeepers. I had Mister Peck placed in a room that is on your path—could you pop in and make sure he’s well? No need to report back, unless things are truly catastrophic. Sleeping draught can adle the head, and Crispin’s head was odd enough to begin with.”

Coin bowed, and left the two Wardens to discuss matters between each other. He walked on his own, alone with his thoughts and fatigue. Coin did not feel it right to admit it, but he was tired. And hurt. His shoulder flared with pain now more than ever—he would be back to not sleeping on it properly, not least to say how much Skylark would need to dote on him with salves and salts. He wasn’t going to relish that.

Yawning, Coin tried to keep his mind alive by pondering again. Three theories, three options, or so the lady says. And not a one of them good. Anonymites, Changelings, Prefects. Masked men, hidden nobles, police-fanatics. Some lacking in means, some lacking in motives, and none of them seeming likely to Coin. Well, maybe the anonymites. But even seeing them as the culprits didn’t seem completely right to Coin, not without knowing what those three were truly planning. Yet at the same time, Coin could not think of any others that it might have been. The Warden of Honesty’s senses never lied, so the Martes were ruled out. None of the other Mods in the city, the ones not with Albright, had any reason at all to steal Dabrius. He continued towards the chambers where Crispin was held, and continued to think as he did.

Are there any others? The Web was filled with dangerous characters. The Oppressed of the Blurr, the Red Hats of Reddit and the Saying Sea, the fleshtrappers and Torric Raiders of the Deep. All brutal, secretive, vicious people. But not one of them with an interest in the Dreamweave, so far as Coin knew. Perhaps Heylen Ott might have a clue. Coin was not one to rely on sorcery, but the cybramancer might have some lore or knowledge that could shed light on things. He knew the Dreamweave, at least.

Even all his thinking, however, could not distract Coin from the pain. His wound stung like hell, even through a mild haze of painkillers and whatever it was that Skylark had basted his bludgeoned shoulder with. The sling around his arm annoyed him, but not as much as the realization that he would be confined to quarters until he healed. Again. More days or weeks of sitting around, Coin thought ruefully. Useless again. This time, he doubted he’d even have financials to keep him occupied. The very thought of it made him groan.

As Coin approached the chambers where Crispin was held, however, he heard soft sounds from hall ahead. “. . . ain’t my area o’ expertise, y’know!” a voice said, in a whisper just harsh enough to be heard. “You’re the one that’s supposed to know what to do. Oh, light of life, are you OK?”

“I’m fine,” another insisted.

“You are not,” said a third, muted and calm. “It is a sign of severe anxiety.”

“It ain’t right. Not right at all. He could talk like that to me, not to you.”

“It’s my fault. I wasn’t good enough, Percy. I’m fine, I’m fine.”

“Like hell!” one of them hissed. “What is wrong with ‘im? I should tell ‘im that—”

Coin cleared his throat, and then walked around the corner.

The three Peacekeepers turned their heads when Coin entered, having stopped their conversation abruptly. Percy and Abigail both stood, the former with his arms crossed and his face worried, the latter expressionless. Cellia, though, was sitting on the floor, leaning up against the wall, and looking completely out of sorts. She had brought her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them, but her whole body was trembling despite how tightly she gripped herself. She was breathing heavily and with ragged pauses, as though there was something pressing down hard on her lungs. Her notepad and pencil had been dropped on the ground a foot away, and lay there forgotten.

Coin looked over them awkwardly. “Ah, sorry. I was just sent to check on Crispin. Is he, ah . . .”

“Yeah, ah,” Percy stammered, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, we’re done. I think ‘e’s fine. I mean, ‘e can’t talk, but I sorta think ‘e was . . .” He looked down nervously at the floor. “Yeah.”

Coin having giving them warning before he entered had given them an opportunity to stop talking before they saw him. That meant that they could all politely pretend that Coin hadn’t heard anything they had been saying. But seeing the state of the three, and Percy’s nervousness, made Coin worried. “Is everything alright?”

“I’m fine,” Cellia repeated hoarsely, even though Coin hadn’t asked about her specifically. She certainly didn’t look fine. Coin noticed that she was trying to avoid looking at him. When he tilted his head slightly, he could see why. Her eyes were very red.

“She is not fine,” Abigail interjected. “Panic attack. They happen occasionally.”

“Don’t tell him that,” Cellia said, still shaking a bit.

Abigail took no heed of the request. “Focus on your breathing exercises. Slowly, and with timed gaps.”

Coin looked at Cellia with concern. Panic attacks. He’d seen the sort before, during his time in the academy. He had never expected one from Cellia, though. They were brought on by stress, as Coin understood it. Halforth, he realized. The Lord Moderator’s behavior had had a larger impact than Coin might have first noticed. Someone has a lot to answer for.

Cellia shook her head. “Apologies, sir. I should stand.” She braced herself against the wall and began to rise, chest heaving as it was. Percy rushed over to lend her a hand, though she tried to wave him away. “This isn’t right. You shouldn’t see me like this. Improper.” She wiped at her eyes, and tried to look away.

For half a moment, Coin had an odd feeling in his shoulder. A stinging, quivering feeling, as though it shivered from the touch of absent ice. It passed immediately. “Cellia—”

Then, without warning, Coin’s world became blinding pain.

Coin thought he screamed, but there was no sound, no light, no space, just falling as the floor gave way beneath him, falling through void without end under sight of cold stars that burned and saw him and felt no pity while he tumbled down, down, down, and felt the slick tendrils looping around his arms and legs, and wherever he looked he saw only blackness and lines upon lines of impossible geometry that propped up just barely the very Walls Between the Worlds, the Walls were failing and he was falling and nothing remained except for a voice that split his mind and said only RETURN.

Coin gasped, his vision swimming in blurred images he could barely see. He was lying on his back, propped up, with the Peacekeepers all hanging over him, talking at once. Someone was shaking him, though he could barely hear for the ringing in his ears. “ . . . Sir Coin? Sir Coin! Light of life, check him quickly, is he having a stroke?”

“Uh,” Coin grunted, trying to raise his arm.

“Oh thank God,” said Percy, “he’s awake.”

“What . . .” Coin coughed. “Where?”

Cellia Ravenry was directly above him, hands clasped firmly to his arms. Relieved, she let out a breath. “You collapsed, sir. You just fell over without a word.”

“I blinked, and ‘e was on the ground,” said Percy, gaping. “Like ‘e didn’t even fall, just vanished and reappeared right there.”

“Are you alright?” Cellia demanded. “Abi, what can you see.”

“A moment.” His vision was still blurry, but Coin felt someone working at the clothes around his shoulder. Oddly, it did not hurt at all.

Cellia’s face was full of worry. “Just to collapse like that. Exhaustion? Is it something to do with his wound, Abi? I wouldn’t have thought, but I can’t think . . .” There was a long pause, and Coin felt the hands inspecting his shoulder cease. “Abi? The wound?”

“There is no wound.”

“What?”

“It is gone. Look.”

Cellia darted behind Coin, and gasped.

It was enough to force Coin into panic himself. “What? What?”

“Like it was never there,” Cellia said. She almost sounded frightened. “Coin, there’s nothing. Just skin.”

“The hell?” Percy murmured.

Abigail sounded calmer, though still strained. “Please try to move your shoulder.”

Taking aback, Coin did as he was bid. It did not hurt. Not even slightly—it felt as though he had never been wounded. As though, just as the others said, there was nothing there.

“Hmm,” he heard Abigail say. “Odd. This does not usually happen.”

“It’s impossible,” Percy blurted out. “Abi, yah must have seen it an hour or two ago. It couldn’t just up and vanish.”

Coin brushed off the hands on him, and tried to stand. His sight had returned to normal, though he was still a bit dizzy, like he’d been spun about like a top and only just crashed back to earth. What happened? When he had fallen, in that moment of pain, he had see something. Something impossible, as impossible as a wound vanishing in the blink of an eye. I don’t understand.

Coin nearly tumbled down, before Cellia caught his arm and hoisted him back on his feet. “Sir, where are your quarters? I haven’t a clue what’s going on here, but we should lie you down and summon your doctor immediately.”

“Barracks,” Coin managed to say. “Far downstairs.” That was where he stayed last, at least, before his injury.

Cellia frowned. “Too far. We’ll find you a place closer.” Helping to hold Coin up, even though he felt his strength return, she escorted him down the hall, the others following closely and whispering to one another.

They found just a place, and Coin found himself flopped onto a couch. Truthfully, he did not feel as though he needed the aid any longer—the pain and dizziness were long gone. His protests, however, meant little to people who had just see him keel over without warning. If he had an explanation, he would give it. Lacking one, he could only obey and wait. Six save me, what did happen?

After depositing Coin in his seat, Cellia turned to face the others. “Sir Coin’s superiors should be informed posthaste. And I imagine that Lord Halforth will wish to know what we found from the guard.”

“Want me t’stay with ‘im?” Percy offered. “Y’know the fandom folks better than I do.”

Cellia nodded. “Yes. I suppose that would be best. I will return in a moment.” She made moves to leave, and Abigail went as well.

Before she truly left the room, however, Cellia stopped. “Wait,” she said with a sigh. “Wait, no. There’s something I must discuss with Sir Coin. In private.”

Percy cast Coin an uncomfortable look. “You, ah . . . you sure you should be tellin’ ‘im?”

Cellia closed her eyes and stood firm. “He is my responsibility. I was given discretion. And I think he has a right to know.”

Coin looked between the two, lost. But Percy seemed to understand immediately: he nodded and took his leave, despite the discomfort evident on his face. Only Cellia remained behind.

“I apologize if this seems a bad time, Sir Coin,” Cellia began. “Truthfully, I have not been sure about this for some time. I am not one for doubts. Not usually. But the truth,” she continued hesitantly, “the truth is that I’ve become . . . worried. Lord Halforth has not been acting himself, of late.”

That I noticed. And he noticed as well the look of shame that crossed Cellia’s face. She still blames herself. It wasn’t right, and he told her as much. “It’s no fault of yours, Cellia.”

Cellia’s face twisted, and she continued without heed. “This . . . situation. It isn’t one I have dealt with often. It isn’t one I deal with well, either, as you’ve seen. I apologize.” Before Coin could interrupt with reassurances, however, Cellia pressed forward. “But myself aside, there is something you must know.”

She turned around, so as to ensure no one was there. When she looked back, grave concern was written all across her dark features. “Lord Halforth is planning a red rinse.”

Coin fell back into his seat, as though he’d been struck, and his throat was tight when he strained for words. “Six save us,” he managed.

“I only found out this morning. I had not heard a word about it before, but now Lord Albright and her men are in the city as well, and his patience is run out. There is no faith anymore in a legitimate investigation, none. Not after what has happened. After Sir Depravity, especially that, and the Martes as well. He refuses to leave this island without Arcadio fitting a noose, at the very least.”

His head was swimming. “But if Halforth shuts the investigation now—”

“Summary judgment,” Cellia said with a nod. “He is certain to throw out almost any testimony from the Martes, including those false confessions, and will act on his discretion starting with them. But only starting. Sir, I cannot claim to know what his honor thinks, not any longer, but a red rinse may well put more lives than just the Martes in danger. Your man Dabrius will be tried in absentia, and sentenced based on what evidence we already have. As will the rest of your fandom.”

Coin sucked in breath. We aren’t ready. Not even close. A red rinse. A mass ban. It meant more than just judicial proceedings, far more and far worse. It meant occupation, executions, and hanging courts. If there were courts at all. Coin had only seen a red rinse once. The Silk Road. There was not one man left alive after that. “How long?”

Cellia shook her head. “Not long. He had acknowledgment from Central to act with discretion when all this began, but that was hesitantly given, and before all of this became so . . . complicated. There will be debate. I expect they will grant it, his honor’s reputation is such. Even so, it will take time to move the proper men into place. Days, not more.”

Not enough time, a doubting voice said. Coin tried to ignore it. “I might be sick.”

“Hence the couch,” Cellia said sheepishly.

Coin looked at her. “Why tell me this? Cellia, the risk!”

She did not answer at first. Then, she straightened her back, and closed her eyes. “Because you are innocent. I wondered at first, but I truly believe it. I simply don’t think that your fandom is responsible, not after what I’ve seen. But I’m not the one you must convince.” Her stare was as grave as Coin had ever seen from her. “I wish I could do more than just tell you. But I can’t. Not with the duty I was given, the one I still have. You have to sway Lord Halforth, and soon.”

Can we? He wanted to ignore that doubting voice, but to convince Halforth now, after everything . . . “We can get proof,” Coin found himself saying. “We’re so close, Cellia, more than you can know. Justice for Dabrius. We can save him.”

Cellia did not waver. “Find what you can, sir, but do it quickly. Or else Dabrius might not be the one who needs saving.”

* * * * * *

During their travels south, Our Founder would look across the waves at the lands that passed. The Theel’s ship passed then across the rim of lands that were later the North Forum Isles, and through the Summersale Straits. John would remark upon a sight on the horizon.

“There is land in the distance, I think,” said he.

One of the Theel’s sailors answered him. “That is the Isle of Steam.”

“Why does it burn?”

Aurheim the Austere spoke next. “The mountains breathe fire, in that land, and the earth is tore by great rents that go down to the roots of the world. A strange place. A traveller from that land, a trader from their port of Gaben where the Berush meets the sea, once kicked my barrel in the marketplace, and I had him repay with stories. He said that it was a land of fortresses, and much war between the Pureborn of his land and idolaters that dwell in temples of water, fire, and forest. The Pillars of Loss are close to this shore, the Woolie Hole far from it. There is a swamp filled with green lights that dance and trick men into folly and death. The men worship the stars.”

“The stars?” This struck John as most curious, and he wondered if others had heard the celestial song.

“It is said that the stars bespeak strange shapes from the World Beyond the Web, names and lands measureless to man. The men in the Isle and elsewhere fit themselves into these shapes, and worship the names they learn. We will see more of their ilk before we are done. The ones Beyond the stars speak to them.”

Our Founder considered this carefully. “But what do they say?”

This Aurheim did not know, nor did any other on the ship.

— Excerpt from The Books of Black and White

Chapter XXXVI: Mother Changeling

* * * * * *

I proceed to the Chan, but not alone. My usual team is with me, and with some additional aid as well, courtesy of Lord Makepeace. Sir Animate-the-Words-of-Truth Adamah joins us, and brings experience as well. I cannot claim to know him well, but he seems a good match for the mission. Well in his years, but driven, and with Lord Makepeace’s praise. Logical, as well, which I will have need of, especially with Sir Conscience’s recent emotional lapses.

He also has a certain interest in the Chan. I’m not certain of his specialities, but he has worked on projects concerning the isles with some frequency. It may be of use, though honestly I am always pleased to have more Enlighteners alongside me.

Our arrival in the Chan was without fanfare. The Channic stayed away, at least, and we have occupied a safe-zone near the Baysmouth docks once again. Hopefully my searches will not require straying far. This place is not to be trusted.

Sir Animate has provided some aid that may help with just that. His previous missions in the Chan have given him contacts, men who can move on our behalf and learn what we need. Officially, this remains a census call stack operation—I have told no one of my motive. I suspect that Sir Animate knows that there is a more secretive purpose here than I let on. He is a canny man, and experienced in this place. He might know more than I realize.

III

Sir Animate’s hirelings arrived today. I am not impressed. The Chan is a rough place, but these men seem like common thugs, and act the part. Freelancers, as far as I can tell, interested in pay only. Their leader, a man named Briar, is the worst of them—a brute and a beast. I caught him accosting Sir Conscience. He did not touch her, but what he said . . . she has locked herself in her room since then. I need her functional. This Briar man might have Sir Animate’s favor, but if he tries anything like that again, I will have him flogged. Walcroft seemed more than willing to do the deed regardless, once he heard what happened.

I have sent my usual team to accomplish their usual tasks. If they were not assigned such, they might suspect that this was not a census operation. Meanwhile, I have asked Sir Animate’s aid in researching something altogether different. Rumors. Legends. Local folklore. Cult activity. Unsavory, but necessary. He seemed eager to set his team to work.

— Journal entries of Sir Ira Ahzred. These entries, along with others in the Darksea Compendium, have been sealed by the Moderator Authority as part of the Nonconform. Only scattered, highly illegal copies exist outside the restricted stacks of the Great Wiki.

* * * * * *

Proximo’s first difficulty in his mission was finding a team. It was not so much for his own protection—the city had been quiet since the riot, and he felt as confident as he could—but he felt far more of a duty in keeping Imelia safe. The journey from her home to the Palace was a short one, but he did not intend to let any other friends be taken by whomever it was that preyed on Dabrius. So, he set about locating his friends.

His second difficulty came when he found them. There was a gaggle of people not far from Lady Violet’s chambers, clustered and silent. Proximo thought little of it when he approached, until he realized how quiet the six people ahead of him were. He could see Daria Faust alongside Red Autumn, Donnet with his arms crossed, Kriseroff standing awkwardly and tugging at his beard. Nearest to Proximo in his approach was portly Caleb, dabbing at his sweaty forehead, and looking off at someone else. In fact, they were all staring at someone, or pretending not to without success. Curious, Proximo drew up to speak with them.

“Hello all,” he said, hoping to break whatever tension had fallen. “I wonder if—”

It was only upon moving past Caleb that Proximo saw who they spoke to. He might have been afraid that the Mods or Martes might have been skulking after his friends, but the man wore the colors of the Honest Friend, save for the bandages covering half his face.

Dustario was standing alongside the group, but not with them, leaning himself against a wall only a few feet away. Proximo swallowed: the last time he had seen Dustario, he had been drunk and deranged and filled with grief. Proximo shared that grief, and had hoped to see Dustario, but he was not sure if this was another escape from Skylark’s care or not. Everyone around him seemed uncomfortable—Red and Donnet tense, Kris and Caleb nervous, and Daria’s eyes locked on Proximo with wide, mute pleading.

Proximo tried to not let the surprise show. “Dustario,” he said carefully, “it’s good to see you again. Are you well?”

Dustario spared a glance, but little else. “As well as I’m like to be. What do you need done?”

Proximo shifted in place. “That can wait a moment, it’s—”

“You wouldn’t have come out looking for people if there wasn’t work to be done,” Dustario cut in. His voice was as flat as his stare. “Where?”

“In the city, I—”

“Let’s go.” Dustario shoved off the wall, and began the way to the Palace’s gates, hands in his pockets. Proximo exchanged concerned looks with everyone else, and bid them to follow.

As they walked, Proximo drew himself up to Dustario’s side. “My friend,” he asked, “does Skylark know you’re about?”

Dustario continued to walk, and for a moment did not speak. “If she doesn’t, she’ll know soon enough.”

As I feared. “Dustario, are you certain that you’re well enough t—”

“What is that meant to ask?” Dustario scowled, but did not slacken his pace. “If I’m drunk?”

“Yes,” cut in Red, unabashedly blunt.

The curl in Dustario’s lip did not change. “I’m not, if you’re so concerned about it. There’s no point in talking about this. There’s work to be done.”

Daria did not seem at all convinced. “Dusty . . .” she began, reaching for him.

He shrugged away. “I don’t want to talk, and I don’t want to be down in some damned bed where I’m no use to anyone.” His tone was angry, but not at anyone in particular. He took a long breath, and offered a downcast look to Daria. “Do we need to say more? Let’s just go.”

Proximo was ready to protest when Dustario started walking off again, but a hand on his shoulder dissuaded him. Donnet gripped Proximo, and shook then his head. Donnet’s eyes were hidden behind his spectacles—the color changed now to twin discs of glossy black—but Proximo could reach what his friend’s face was saying: ‘Let it pass.’ He might have objected to that as well, if not for one added note, one that he knew Donnet was saying as well: ‘For now.’

Sighing, Proximo let it pass. For now.

As they walked through the Palace, to the entrance hall, Proximo set himself to thinking. About Dustario, more than anything, though every other trouble and doubt of the last few hours and days and months bubbled up as well. What are we going to do? It almost amused him, thinking those words. About what? So many choices.

About Dustario? He knew his honest friend better than most—long had they served together, through trial and triumph—and yet even he was not certain how to handle this. About Dabrius? That damned stubborn man—the Six protect him—was long gone, blown off like the wind and having upset everything in his mysterious departure. About who took him? If only they knew who it was. Every answer only raised more questions. That’s not even to touch on the furious Mods, or the daggers at our backs. Troubles, troubles, troubles. When they reached the main hall, Proximo caught the eyes of the portrait that adorned the room’s front, the one displaying the proud face of Aureliano the First. The man who had built the Dreamweave. If only he knew. This city of yours has much to answer for, my lord. Those painted eyes seemed almost to linger on Proximo as he turned and walked out the door.

As they stepped out of the Palace and into the crisp, still-morning light of an early day, Proximo stole more glances at Dustario, his friend, as they marched. It was hard to recognize him. Not even in his face, not even from the scars, but in his whole person. Before, Dustario had been always the charmer, the smiler, quick with a joke, everyone’s friend. Now . . . now he was leaner, sharper. It was as though a smooth polish had been scraped away when that broken glass had dug into his cheek. His hair was looser, more shaggy, his face covered in rough stubble, his mouth pressed firm. He seemed paler, yet not bright. Even his fine clothes had lost a certain luster.

He says he wants to work, Proximo thought, as he watched Dustario walk so stiffly downward. Work, and that alone. Yet Proximo knew, more than anything else, that the last thing Dustario needed was silence. He needed his friends—if he didn’t, then he would not have left Skylark’s care and sought them out—yet did not want to talk to them. What will we say? As he thought about it, plotting out words, they all seemed hollow, or worse, pitying. Lady Violet will know. She always does.

Before long, they had arrived on Imelia’s street, and then Imelia’s building, and then Imelia’s door. After a few knocks, it did not take her long to appear. “Proximo!” she exclaimed, drawing him into a hug. “I heard there was trouble at the Palace—I was about to go there myself. What’s happening?”

“Conspiracy, peril, and imminent disaster,” Proximo admitted.

“Hm,” Imelia replied, “not so different from usual, then. I don’t suppose we have time for more details, do we? Over tea?”

“Certainly, though we might need to heat the kettle at the Palace. If you’ve the time, we have an urgent matter you might be perfect for.”

“Perfect?” Imelia repeated with a light laugh. “Now there’s one compliment I have been missing recently. Well, lead the way!”

Proximo held the door and laughed with her. It was extraordinary, how much Imelia had changed of late. Gone was much of the hesitancy and sadness she’d held when they first met, and laughter seemed to come more easily than ever. A smile suited her—more than once, Proximo wondered if he was seeing shades of the Imelia from before, from a time when she had fewer cares and fewer griefs.

It was not the only noticeable change about her, though. Proximo noticed her hand go to her stomach as she bid farewell to her grandmother and stepped out. Is the baby starting to show? It was hard to tell, with the loose dress she was wearing. But then, perhaps wearing that was a sign in itself.

Imelia stepped out the door after a brief goodbye. She smiled at the rest of the party assembled outside her door . . . and paled when she saw Dustario. It took only half a moment to recover her composure, but Proximo could see that Dustario had noticed: he turned his bandaged face aside in a scowl. Proximo suppressed a sigh, and led them down the stairs to the street.

Imelia began chatting with the others behind Proximo as they walked back down to the street, though he only caught the tail-end of what they said. “. . . and they just disappeared? Just like that?”

“Like a thief in the night,” he heard Donnet say. There was no mistaking such a rough accent. “Which, o’ course, they were.”

“And Sir Coin was terribly hurt trying to stop them,” said Daria, voice laced with concern. “I certainly hope he’s well.”

“Skylark’ll prob’ly nail ‘im to a sick bed this time,” Donnet remarked.

“This is likely true,” chimed in Kriseroff. “All that bandaging and sewing and scolding. Kriseroff barely had scratch, but almost had to chew off own arm to escape. But this is expected. Women never can let this man go.” He gave a bellowing laugh.

Proximo could practically hear the eyes rolling behind him, but before much else could be said they reached the ground floor and the street. The Dreamweave opened back up to them, and they began on their way to the Palace for the business still ahead of them. Let’s hope it goes better, Proximo thought wearily. Seeing Imelia improved his spirits, but the days and nights had been grinding away at him, lately more than ever. Catastrophes continued to pile up, and lack of sleep did not improve things. It was all he could do to avoid thinking on just how tired he truly was.

It was Donnet sidling up to him that woke Proximo from his fatigue. Around them, the Dreamweavers moved in crowds, many talking, some shouting. Behind Proximo, Imelia and the others continued to chat as one ordinarily might. Donnet, however, leaned in towards Proximo and spoke soft enough to only just be heard. “So,” he murmured, adjusting his spectacles, “Dustario.”

Proximo glanced at Donnet, and saw a stoic expression. But beneath that, Proximo could see the same concern that he shared. “We ought to go to Lady Violet first.”

“Aye, she’s a mind for such things.” Donnet flipped the lenses in his glasses to purple. “This whole thing’s not unusual t’ me, least. The underside of Central isn’t a place for happy folk. I’ve some experience wit’ this.”

“As do I,” Proximo whispered. Unwittingly, his hand went to the scar across his chest. They walked past the fountain at the foot of the Palace, paying little mind to those around them, save for some idle glances from Proximo. “At any rate, we’ll need to—”

When Proximo stopped, Donnet shot him a look. “What?”

“Option one,” Proximo murmured, looking off into the crowd.

“Huh?”

“The anonymites. I just saw them.”

And so he had. Straining his neck, Proximo caught a glimpse of them again, skulking around near an alleyway. They were moving out of the square and into the city proper, a trio of oily clothes and wooden faces much at odds with the civilized airs of the Dreamweave, as hollow as those airs might be. Proximo could see only their backs, but he could be certain it was them: no sane people would be wearing sea-lion skin hoods and retractables at their belts.

“Well there’s somethin’ yah don’t see every day.” Donnet squinted at them, flipping his glasses to black. “I’m not as up t’brim on the word-around reports as some, true, but have that bunch been seen out-’n-at-’em before?”

“They have not.” Until that very moment, neither Proximo nor anyone else had glimpsed the anonymites outside the walls and halls of Aureliano’s manse. Yet there they were, in broad daylight. And on this day, after what so recently happened, in particular. “Now doesn’t that seem like just an extraordinary coincidence?”

“If yah believe in such.”

“Do we?”

“Not bloody likely.”

Proximo turned to the others. “I regret to say, Imelia, that I may need to hold on that tea. Red Autumn, could you lead the escort back to Lady Violet? There’s something I wish to look into.”

“The masked men,” Red grunted. “You can’t go alone.”

“The fewer tailing them, the less likely they are to notice. I can handle myself.”

“No, you can’t.”

“No, I can’t,” Proximo had to admit. “But I do have experience in making myself scarce and finding out things that others would rather I didn’t. Donnet?” He turned to his bald friend. “If I’m not to be alone, I’d prefer someone with similar talents. Care to compare the lower dregs of Central to the upper dregs of the Dreamweave?”

A flick of his finger set his spectacles to yellow. “I’m not like to say no.” A smile crossed his face.

“Then we’ve little time.” The Channic were still in sight, but only barely. The parting Dreamweavers gave them away, even at a distance. “We shall see you all back at the Palace in good time. If there’s any sign of danger, I swear that we shall run back with all haste and leave any other sleuthing behind.”

Red grunted something under his breath, while Imelia prepared to leave with the others. “Stay safe, Proxi. I never liked the looks of those Channic.”

“The smell is not better. I shall see you soon.”

With that, they went apart, and Proximo and Donnet began on their own, new mission. The Channic were far ahead, only barely still in-view. “Still remember your old tricks, Donnet?”

He laughed. “Folk keep askin’ me that. Don’t seem to guess that I never stopped usin’ ‘em.”

They followed the bobbing, slouching heads of the anonymites through the streets. Carefully, quietly, but not closely, they followed. There were crowds in their path—at midday, even a wretched hole like the Dreamweave was bustling—but that was all the better for hiding in plain sight. Proximo and Donnet used the skills they’d earned over a career of diplomacy or skullduggery, respectively.

Proximo had always known better than to ask Donnet what exactly his profession had been prior to taking up the white-and-purple of the Generous Friends, but the things he spoke of and the way he moved gave hints. Donnet passed leisurely through crowds and darted past shadowed alleys in the same manner, with light feet and observant looks. It was a grace that bespoke no formal training, save for things learned through the brutal trial-and-error of the slums. Yet it was grace, a kind of rough and stealthy pace not unlike a feral cat. They were the motions of a man who’d lived with a strong reason to not be seen or heard or spotted, and one that had grown very good at it. Proximo had known of Donnet’s talents, but the way that he padded and crept at one moment but then blended seamlessly with the crowd at another told Proximo that Donnet spoke the truth: he had not forgotten a thing.

Proximo kept up at his own pace. Sometimes the two men would travel side-by-side; more often, they would go separate, though usually within eyeshot. And always within close enough sight of the three anonymites. They kept themselves scarce, but only just so, using wynds or packs of people or vendor stalls to remain aloof but observant. It was working, as well—the anonymites made no sign of having seen them. For the most part, the Channic walked in sullen silence, only occasionally talking time to bark at someone passing by, or more often at one another. Not for the first time, it occurred to Proximo that their common cause must be strong indeed to keep them together, seeing how they seemed to barely stand being around one another.

After several streets and some time, the anonymites came to an unexpected place. A large, rounded building, whose columned facade gave a civilized elegance to a city often lacking in such. That antique sense was betrayed by the trash around it, though, and the suspicious characters lurking not far away. They were not in Nightside, but this place had come under the same spell of disuse and decay as the rest of Aureliano’s city. It was large, though, perhaps one of the largest buildings in the city outside the Palace itself. And the anonymites stopped close to it.

“The opera house,” Proximo muttered to Donnet. They’d caught up to one another when the anonymites halted, Donnet watching carefully with a fixed stare. “Odd venue for three anonymites of the Chan. Is that place even open?”

“Look ‘n see.” Donnet pointed to signs at the front. “There’s a playin’ company in town. Hailin’ from Yutu or Neflik, most like.”

But why would a Channic care about that? Oh, the Channic were as human as anyone else, and as a people might share a fondness for the same stories as the rest of a Web. But that did not explain why recluses like those three suddenly gained an interest in the theater-house. At that moment, the three Channic seemed to be bickering again—after some raised fists but no blows, they made for an alley beside the building.

“They’re goin’ in,” Donnet pointed out. “Do fall it, or call it?”

Proximo examined the building as best he could. “We should try to get closer, at the least. It might be harder to hide ourselves in there, though.” He pushed off from the wall he spied from, and walked across the street.

“What then?” Donnet asked as he followed. “Could have a team spy it out laters on, see what’s what.”

“That might be best.” Hardly ideal, but hopefully some clues might be discovered, or an eager witness found. Assuming there was any nefarious happening at all, that is. With those three? It seems likely. “Either way, let’s just see if we cannot—”

Proximo fell to the ground. Not because he had tripped over something; it was as he had taken a step, only for the ground beneath him to vanish. He began a curse, but a sudden sensation washed over him, a feeling like every muscle and sinew in his body had been worn down to nothing. And when he looked up . . .

When he looked up, he was not in the Dreamweave.

His hands did not touch the cobbles of a city street. Instead, he found himself immersed to his elbows in still, murky water, freezing cold. A terrible wind was howling, strong enough to strip the flesh from bone, and yet it did not make a single ripple on the water’s surface. Around him, the buildings were the same as the Dreamweave, but crumbling away, covered in long, creeping vines that sprouted leaves, black and midnight blue like the color of a bruise. Proximo stumbled up, splashing the stagnant water around him as he turned.

The Palace of Aureliano was burning, consumed by the turning of a tall pillar of black flame that arched into the sky. And above that, the sky had become an immense darkness, one of ribbed and striated clouds so dark and stretched as to look like a vast ocean of black water. There were pale shapes, barely glimpsed, pulsating and coiling amid the mists above.

There was no breath in Proximo’s body, no warmth. Around him, the shapes appeared. Grey wraiths in pallid masks, surrounding him in a circle, as though to watch a duel. His duel. The yellow eyes of each shadow watched in cold regard. But it was only when Proximo saw his opponent that he collapsed into a noiseless scream—

Proximo gasped, and felt stone against his face. Wrenching up, he darted his head around, looking for the shadowed watchers, for the black fire and dark-sea sky. But they were gone. Around him was the familiar street, the same city, that he’d known for weeks. He rubbed his eyes, but there it was still: not a mote of difference. Not a hint of what he’d seen. It was here. No, I was there.

He saw Donnet next to him, down on his hands and knees and retching. “What . . .” he muttered, wiping his mouth, “what . . .” He froze, and looked beside Proximo.

At first, Proximo felt a panic as his vision seemed to darken again. But he realized immediately that it was from someone’s shadow passing over him. He turned to find, looming over him, the anonymite Vaath.

The sea-foam spiraled eyes of Vaath’s mask looked down at Proximo. The Channic tilted his head. “I had felt a shifting,” he said nonchalantly, “yet I did not expect to find you possessed by it. This is a strange thing. Nearly as strange is finding you here, of all places.”

The cloaked Syll appeared beside him. “A spy. What have you done, Vaath? Why did you not say that I was followed?”

“Because, fool, I did not know myself until now.” Vaath’s voice was dry, with the hint of a smirk crossing his lips. “You are to be commended for that at least, horse-lover.”

Proximo tried his best to stand—his legs felt like jelly. Donnet did not seem to be faring better, drawing to his feet with an ill expression. There were people around them, most of them trying to avoid the anonymites and whoever their prey might be. It was only at that time that Proximo noticed something that had changed: the sun had moved down in the sky. He gaped at the sight of it—it had been not long past noon what seemed like an instant ago, but now . . . Six save me, how long was I out?

Donnet swayed as he stood, and seemed ready to keel over before Boar drew up, grabbing his shoulder with a huge hand and forcing him in place. The look Proximo got from Vaath was nearly as forceful. “Odd indeed. A moment, I saw nothing but cobbles. Then, you flicker into the spot you were lying upon. Are the datalines so threadbare, so soon?” He leaned in towards Proximo’s eyes. “What is it you saw, hmm? No good things, I think.”

“What . . .” Proximo shook his head, straightening himself. “What happened?”

“Did I not say this thing? A shifting.” The twisting of Vaath’s mouth seemed somewhere between anger and amusement. For a moment, he merely considered Proximo. Then, he spoke again. “Listen more closely now. I and these and you will go to your master. The one you call ‘Warden.’ ”

Syll hissed. “More time wasted, Vaath? More? This thread is pointless, end this stupidit—”

“Can Syll not see?” Vaath shot back. “Eyes are watching this place more closely than I thought. A hand reaches through. I will know what this creature in the Palace is, and you will follow.”

Proximo tried to project as much dignity as he could. “We are not going anywhere with you.” There was nothing to back such a statement up—Donnet still seemed dazed, and Proximo was little use in a brawl even at the best of times. But occasionally, seeming confident that one would win was enough to convince others to not try.

This was not one of those times. Vaath’s expression was nothing but grim amusement now. “Oh, truly? I believe you will. Perhaps you might be more gracious. I might have left you to bleed out in the mud.”

“Bleed out?” Proximo asked. After getting to his feet, he felt oddly light-headed.

Vaath gestured down at Proximo. And when Proximo looked down, he saw something rather strange. Little red roses had blossomed on his white shirt, in a line across his chest. Still groggy, Proximo did not understand it, until he realized it was blood. Blood, leaving a trail from his shoulder down to his navel. Blood, coming from his scar.

“Oh,” Proximo muttered, then collapsed.

Only half-aware, Proximo felt Vaath catch his fall, then gag in disgust and shove Proximo toward Boar. The huge anonymite growled, but grabbed Proximo by the arm regardless. Before they knew it, both Proximo and Donnet were being yanked along like dolls, with Vaath leading them back to the Palace.

Proximo’s head was swimming too much to laugh at the absurdity of it. Through the haze, he could feel them on his chest; little droplets of blood, running down his stomach. They almost tickled, even as he felt . . . felt something, some pain, over his scar. It was impossible, of course. That wound was years old, closed up long ago by stitches and poultices and time. As impossible as seeing sights that are not there. As impossible as vanishing and flickering back, hours apart. Proximo looked vacantly around him, trying to recollect his thoughts. Six save me, what is happening?

It was difficult, at first, to keep track of where they were or how much time had passed. As he started to regain his wits, Proximo heard a familiar groan. “Donnet?” Proximo murmured. He began to feel a little strength return. Whatever had happened, it had sapped him considerably, but he started feeling able to take two steps on his own. Not that Boar was like to let him, of course.

The groan intensified. “Proximo. Deepenin’ Hells, my head.”

Proximo nodded, though he wasn’t sure Donnet could see. He felt like he hadn’t slept in a week, and that someone had been using his skull for a kettle drum in the meantime.

“Proximo,” Donnet continued, his voice soft and grim. “Proximo, I saw something.”

“So did I.” A dark city, a dark sky over dark water. Evil things lurking in fog. Like the Deep, but right before his eyes.And, in front of him, the shadows from his worst dreams. Dreams of the day I earned a scar across my chest. He looked down, and saw that the blood had dripped down enough to make little red rivulets across his stomach.

“My old neighborhood,” Donnet said, voice quivering. “The people there. My people, but . . . but all wrong.” He heard a shudder. “Never wanted t’ see that, or them, again. But I was there, Proximo. Six save me, I was right there.”

It wasn’t the same. He saw something different. But something equally horrible. Whatever it was, this experience was not made for Proximo alone. Whatever it was. He hadn’t a clue. Hallucination explained nothing. No other sane explanation crossed his mind.

In time, Proximo and Donnet had recovered enough to walk unsupported, but they could still feel Channic breath on their backs. Proximo had the idle thought to try and run, but a comparison of how weak he felt to how large Boar was dashed that ‘plan’ immediately. At any rate, it wouldn’t do to leave Donnet, who seemed as weak as Proximo, on an action so foolhardy. And pointless, as well, seeing that he’d likely run to the Palace anyways. He felt idiotic just considering it, but wondered if perhaps such thoughts were a natural thing to a man captured. He wouldn’t know—this would have been the first.

The strange party received their share of odd looks ascending the entrance stairs, and more when entering the main hall. Especially from a pair of Honest Friends who happened to be there, whose eyes went wide upon seeing their entrance.

“You, orange ones,” barked Vaath. “Be dogs and fetch your master. I will wait for him.”

The Honest Friends looked to Vaath, then to the blood on Proximo’s chest, and sprinted to get help immediately. It did not take long for it to arrive.

“What is the meaning of this?”

Proximo looked up, to see Lady Violet, the Warden of Honesty at her side, both looking at the anonymites with fury. The Warden of Honesty seemed ready to rip off someone’s head, and Violet’s eyes had a dangerous cast to them that Proximo rarely saw. Around them, a squad of Honest Eyes, all armed, and daffodil-and-pink robed Rosesoul as well. Against them, Vaath led the anonymites, while Syll remained close behind, back clouched and cloaked head tilted. Boar was further back, arms crossed, observing the Bronies opposite him silently. As a whole, none of them seemed happy.

Vaath shrugged. “Your slave is injured.” When Honesty’s hand darted to his sword, the anonymite raised his hands. “Not by my doing, I should say.”

Violet looked to Proximo, for confirmation. He sighed. “That much is true, my lady.” With his hand, he made a quick sign with his fingers, one that Violet immediately recognized. A cipher-speech, not unlike the secret one the Mods were said to have, known only between members of the Generous Friends—a useful thing, in delicate situations.

Seeing the gesture, Violet could be assured that he was speaking the truth, rather than what the Channic demanded. Still, her expression did not soften in the least. “I am curious, then, as to who did do this thing.”

Proximo hesitated. “I am not sure myself, my lady.”

“It is from a weakening of the world,” Vaath said plainly. “As dark things move through the datalines, they erode. The real is more fragile than you realize.”

“How cryptic,” Lady Violet replied. “My sincere thanks, in aiding Proximo and Donnet in their return. I believe that we can take them from here.”

“You will remain. I have words to be said.” The eyes of his mask turned to the Warden of Honesty. “Words with you, ‘warden.’ ”

Syll scoffed. “You waste time, Vaath. Let the warblers fly, it is nothing to me now. What do you think this creature is?”

Vaath’s lip curled. “I think he is the creature. Do you see that eye? Have you ever seen an eye so yellow?”

That eye, the one possessed by the Warden of Honesty not covered by a patch, narrowed at Vaath. The rest of the Bronies seemed prepared for a fight, but the Warden looked like a coiled spring, tension waiting to be unleashed at any moment. Syll either did not notice or did not care; she waved a dismissive hand. “His eye is gold.”

“Is gold so far from yellow?” Casually, Vaath’s hand went down to the hilt of the retractable on his hip, his fingers gently tracing a spiral on it. The anonymite watched carefully as the Warden mirrored the gesture on his own blade, ready to whip it forth in an instant. Proximo could not tell if that gave the Channic pause, or merely amused him.

Vaath’s hand rested on the hilt. “You do not wear your true name, ‘Honesty.’ I had thought perhaps you were Channic yourself, after learning. I did not realize how correct I was. Do they know your true nature?” He made a sweeping gesture at the rest of the Bronies. “I think not. Whatever face you possess, called ‘Honesty’ or not, you have always been the fount of lies.”

“You are confused, Vaath,” Lady Violet replied calmly. “Release my friends immediately.”

“That animal has only one eye,” Vaath sneered, “and yet I think it is you who is blind. Do you not remember the legends? Have you not seen the signs? I told you, some time ago, that its return was nigh, spurred on by Halforth. And now the living avatar stands here, before you. Do you know why your slaves were taken beyond the bounds of the real? Because that,” he pointed to Honesty, “is a conduit to darkness.”

Proximo looked to Vaath, then to the Warden. Honesty had not shifted an inch, scowling at the anonymites. But he did not answer. Proximo had no Sight for himself, but he knew that Vaath believed every word was true. No, it couldn’t be. It couldn’t.

The Warden of Honesty merely stared, and said nothing. Lady Violet spoke for him. “Enough of this. Vaath, move or be moved.”

“I will have my answer,” Vaath spat back. With a flick of his finger, the blade of his retractable sprang out. Spinning the knife in his hand, he spoke with his arms outstretched. Proximo watched, nervously, as Vaath drew slightly closer. “I will wait no longer, for Halforth or you or any other. Creature, you will tell me what you are, or—”

For a second, the knife in Vaath’s hand pointed at Proximo. Whether it was intentional or not, he could not say. But then, in an instant, it did not matter.

The Warden of Honesty sprang forward, and before Proximo could blink he had Vaath’s throat in the vice-grip of his massive hand. The surprise was enough to make Vaath drop his knife, but that did not stop his fellows. Syl and Boar screeched and threw themselves forward, but not before Honesty had wrenched the blade from his scabbard with his free hand. Boar halted when he saw the ugly sword now at his throat. Syl did the same, when the Warden tightened his grip on Vaath’s neck just slightly. Hands trying uselessly to pry himself free, Vaath gagged and kicked his legs as the Warden hefted him in the air like a child holding a doll.

Proximo and Donnet needed no further signal to run back to their peers. But the Warden did not move further. His eye was squarely on Vaath, the rest of his face neutral. Syl and Boar rotated around him slowly, on the balls of their feet, but the point of the Warden’s sword followed and Vaath’s choking only worsened. For a moment, no one dared make a sudden move.

It was Lady Violet who stepped forward. “Honesty,” she merely said.

The Warden did not look back. “Will we kill him, my lady?” Vaath’s struggled grew more frantic, mouth moving as though to speak. Only gagging came out.

Lady Violet folded her hands behind her placidly. “Release him. Gently.”

Gentleness was something the Warden still lacked. He dropped Vaath to the ground and turned back without a second look, leaving the Channic gasping on the floor. Boar and Syl rushed to his side, but Vaath cursed and threw their hands aside. “Fool,” he choked out. “Fool!”

Lady Violet did not react. “By bringing my injured friends back, you had my thanks. By not releasing them, you lost that. By threatening them, you gained something else.” She sighed. “With due respect, Vaath, this situation seems to me like a failure to communicate. So let me be clear.” She fixed the anonymites with an icy look. “Do not accost any of my friends a second time, or you will not survive to try a third. Good day.”

Vaath spat another curse, but he turned and fled regardless, Syl and Boar giving a final hiss at the Bronies and then following. It was over. For now.

Proximo let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. He caught a look from Violet right away. “I am starting to wonder, Proximo, if you do not cause too much trouble when I am not around.”

Proximo rubbed the back of his neck, embarrassed. “I have always considered you a restraining influence, my lady. My sincere apologies for the mess. And my thanks, my lord, for the rescue.”

“Would that we had won it without making another enemy,” Lady Violet sighed. Her eyes went immediately to the blood on Proximo’s shirt. “Proximo, Donnet. What happened?”

He had no idea where to start. Donnet took the lead instead. “Haven’t gotta a goddamn clue, beggin’ yer pardon m’lady.”

It took a few minutes of explaining, sitting down, and fussing from Skylark before the two got out the whole story. Proximo would have been more embarrassed by Skylark ripping his shirt open and sniffing at the wound had he not felt so awful—he still felt like a grape with all the juice pressed out. His strength was returning, but slowly.

Violet considered what she was told carefully. “These . . . visions. They appeared real?”

“Like I was there, m’lady.” Donnet shivered. “In flesh n’ blood. Seen fever dreams n’ drug-trances b’fore. This weren’t it.”

“And what Vaath said, my lady, made it sound much the same.” Proximo wondered if they would believe it. He hardly did himself. “The way he described it, we just . . . appeared there, on the street. Like we were conjured up, somehow, and hours after we arrived. I do not understand it.”

“Nor do I,” Violet admitted. “My honest friend?”

Honesty had seemed uncomfortable since the meeting with Vaath. He answered readily, but not with certainty. “This one is unsure. We have encountered theories previously. Speak of thinning of world. Natural law undermined. But only theory. The Channic believed they were true, though.”

Proximo saw that people were avoiding putting any further question to Honesty regarding what the anonymites believed. Then again, Proximo could not imagine a more serious accusation. He knew Honesty far better than Vaath ever could, as a leader and friend, and as a man who had saved his life twice now. Still, there was something about Vaath’s conviction that troubled Proximo.

Whatever doubts anyone else had, they did not voice them. “I will need to consult with the Magic Friends. Our theologians might understand this problem better, and Mars better than most. What has happened to you, though—the fatigue, the injury—troubles me even more. A mirage alone could never do that. Skylark?”

The Kind Friend frowned. She’d been doing that since first looking at the wound. “I am a medical professional. I am not one to deal in impossibilities. Now I have seen two in one day. This cut on Mister Hart’s chest appears like a sword-stroke. But, my lady, it is done exactly atop his existing scar.” She traced a finger softly down the new bandage on Proximo’s chest. “No deviation. No alteration. It’s as though the scar has merely opened up again, like it was new, but that cannot be.” Skylark rose, and shook her head. “There was a cut on Donnet that was the same, atop an existing scar. Thankfully, neither were as deep as the actual scarring wound, only just enough to call up blood. They’re dressed now, and with the poultices there’s little to no chance of infection. But I am disturbed nonetheless.”

“You are not alone, Skylark. Thank you.” That Lady Violet shared her concerns was evident from her expression. “You both rest and recover. Unfortunately, there’s another matter that needs my attention immediately. This is proving to be a busy night.”

“The masks?” Donnet ventured, sitting up in his seat.

“Partly. I am sending out eyes to keep watch for them, and to investigate that opera house as well. The Six only know what they are up to, though. But a more immediate issue is in the Palace.”

“Halforth. The red rinse.” Proximo could not suppress a shudder. He could still hardly believe it, even after Lady Violet assured him of its truth, but it seemed that Lord Halforth was planning out their worst fears. As if things weren’t bad enough.

Violet nodded. “Imelia has been hard at work, and I think we have our lead. I am off to regroup with her and Sir Coin now.”

“Sir Coin?” Proximo asked, surprised. He would have assumed that the man would still be in bed, nursing the damage those kidnappers had done to him.

Despite it all, Lady Violet allowed a grim smile as she departed. “Ah yes, have you not heard? Skylark said it first—yours is not the only impossibility we have met with today.”

* * * * * *

“That’s him,” whispered Imelia.

Coin perked up after hearing her. He was glad to be on assignment, rather than resting a wound, but he had some trouble concentrating on the task at hand. Given what had just happened to him, perhaps he could be forgiven for having his mind elsewhere.

He approached the balcony, and peeked his head out just slightly. Being seen was not an option at the moment. Down below were a group of courtiers in bright colors. “Which one?”

“Towards the east door, by the statue. Green necktie, gold chain. And grey hair.”

Coin found the man quickly. The very old man. He frowned. “He hardly seems spry enough to have been the one that ran from us yesterday.”

“You’re right,” Imelia said with a smile. “But he is the one you want.”

Coin opened his mouth to ask more, but was interrupted. The sight of purple hair told him all he needed. “A new development?” Lady Violet asked.

He drew himself up into attention and stepped back around the corner—no one below would see or hear them from there. “Hopefully so, my lady, though Lady Koburn may need to explain it.”

“Then I shall be sure to listen. First, though: is your condition stable?”

Rosesoul bowed her pink-hooded head. “I’ve seen no change in him, my lady. Were it not for what we know, I’d assume he was the picture of health.

For once, Coin could not complain about people worrying over his health. Things as bizarre as the . . . incident earlier that day demanded study. He was just glad that, after much poking and examining by the baffled Kind Friends, they’d allowed him to continue working. That they only demanded one of their own to watch over him was as generous an offer as he was ever like to get. That it was Rosesoul, the far less ‘eager’ of the three Kind Friends in the Dreamweave made it all the better.

“Curiouser and curiouser,” the lady mused. “For the interest of safety, I should tell you there’s been an incident. Proximo returned—” Coin noticed a flash of concern cross Imelia’s face “—and with the anonymites in tow. We scared them off, but not without some harsh words and a few other things. He and Donnet are fine, but they seemed to have stumbled into something altogether odd. Odd like what happened to you, Sir Coin.”

Coin swallowed. Had it not been for the miraculous healing, he would have never thought his bizarre episode was anything more than imagined. But if it was happening to others . . . “He saw things.” Coin felt himself go tense, unwillingly. “Was he healed as well?”

“In a word? No. He and Donnet are being cared to now.” When she saw Imelia’s expression, Lady Violet raised a placating hand. “With nothing serious, I should add. At the moment, we have more tangible problems to which we must attend.” She craned her neck to look towards the balcony. “I think I heard that you had a development, Imelia. Is it our man from the tunnels? The sprinter?”

“No, but that’s to be expected. I have the next best thing.” Imelia smiled. “Haxtoll.”

Lady Violet had a look of delight. “Imelia, you are as superb as always.”

Coin, on the other hand, had no idea who they were talking about. “Who is Haxtoll?”

“Oh, forgive me, Sir Coin. I forget that Imelia was born to the this place, and that most people had better things to do than read reports about every courtier in the Palace. Haxtoll is one of the nobles of the Dreamweave, and one that I had a particular hunch about. One that Imelia has just confirmed.”

Still, Coin was lost. “But he’s not the Changeling we wanted, lady? Someone’s going to have to explain this.”

“He isn’t the man from the tunnels, the one that fled from you,” Imelia admitted. “But you were never going to see him around here anyways. If the Changelings have any sense, he’s hiding somewhere and lying low—if he’s seen in public at all, he’d never be foolish enough to meet with the rest of them. But what you told me about this mystery man,” she continued, “was enough. He’s clearly athletic, and he had a foreign accent. A Sajlic accent, if Jorama was right. That means one man in the court: Johastoff. He’s a trader from Faircraft, in Etsi.”

Coin frowned. “But surely there are other Sajlic men in the Dreamweave. Dozens, at least, if not hundreds.”

“But how many,” Lady Violet added with a satisfied look, “would mention someone named ‘Pen’? That was the name that your man mentioned, no? Another Changeling he expected to see? Because it just so happens that Johastoff is an inseparable friend to one Haxtoll. And Haxtoll’s first name is . . .”

“Pendros,” Imelia finished.

Coin sidled up to the balcony and peeked around again. Pendros Haxtoll was still there, chatting with a few others. It occurred to Coin that he had seen this man before. He was stooped slightly, but his grey, pointed beard and solemn eyes still projected a certain refined dignity. But when Coin had seen him last, Pendros Haxtoll had been yelling to have him thrown out of the room. “Yes, I recognize him. He was one of the men with Byrios Amberten and Heylen Ott. A Changeling.”

“Thanks to your investigation, we have suspected him for some time. Now, we know that he has access to the tunnels, and that the other Changelings at least expect him to be down there to meet with them. If Johastoff’s comments from the prior night are to be taken at face value, at least.”

“So,” Rosesoul said, “if he is followed, he may lead us to him.”

“But how can we know that he will go to them?” It would hardly do to follow an old man around, only to catch him in the diabolical act of buying clothes or getting food. He might have asked Ott for advice on when the Changelings might meet, but that would assume that Ott could even give such information without blowing himself up. And that Coin could even find him: the cybramancer hadn’t been seen since Dabrius disappeared. Which is troubling in itself.

“I am afraid that we cannot be certain. But consider this,” said Lady Violet. “There is a chance—however unlikely—that the Changelings have Dabrius. Even if they do not, we know that he was an associate of theirs. Either way, his kidnapping will undoubtedly cause a stir within the Society. Were I in their position, it might assuage my paranoid mind greatly to meet with my peers and decide what to do.”

“I suppose that would make sense,” Rosesoul nodded. “If you have a secret society that doesn’t meet for this, what’s the point? But there’s no guarantee.”

“No, there is not. But it is the best chance we are like to have.”

“And he’s leaving now,” Coin said.

Pendros Haxtoll was drawing towards the door, bidding farewell to his fellows and leaving alone. Based on the door, Coin guessed he was heading towards the main entrance of the Palace of Aureliano.

“Then we follow,” said Lady Violet. “This will not be my first tailing. One lone person takes point and keeps him in sight, the rest will remain back and move on his signal. If all goes as planned, he will not know he is being followed.” She turned to Lady Koburn and bowed. “My thanks again, Imelia. You might have saved us yet. It seems I might owe you two giant hats.”

Imelia returned a bow of her own. “My pleasure, my lady. I’ll just go and check on Proximo. Happy hunting.”

Lady Violet nodded, and turned to Coin and the rest. “We move now. If all goes well, we might end this tonight.”

Coin bowed. “Ready, my lady.”

“You are certain you are well?”

Coin hesitated, but only for a moment. “I can’t claim to know what happened, but I feel fine, my lady.” As though I was never injured. Convenient as that was, it still made him uneasy.

“As you say. My friends, the crisis has reached its peak. There is danger on all sides. Be wary, be alert, be aware. But if we succeed tonight, we might have a fighting chance. I intend to succeed. Let’s move.”

The group all bowed or saluted, and filed out. Coin went with them. He took a long breath to calm his nerves, and followed them down to where Haxtoll likely was. This is it, Coin thought, tonight. Do or die. Hopefully the former. Whether the Changelings had Dabrius or not, the Bronies had to find the Society and end this trial as soon as they could. But will we find them, he wondered, or will they find us?

* * * * * *

“While the actions of Lady Wright and the Warden of Honesty took the forefront during much of the First Rise, they were by no means the only actors involved. Far from it: had it not been for the actions of several others in a less martial capacity, the war would have likely been lost. Each of these persons are now household names among the Collective, but their origins nevertheless bear repeating.

“Amid the tumult of warring and raiding that took place during the First Rise, it is often overlooked that the conflict was only one aspect of what occurred in the Chan. While the nascent Loyal and Honest Friends fought to ensure the fandom’s safety, two other movements were taking place to better secure the Collective, and see that it survived the war. The first among these was a process of community building. The fandom was still brand new, barely organized and lightly trained. Numerous small factions rose, each with common goals but also distinctions that sometimes hindered cooperation. Even the armies of Lady Wright and the Warden of Honesty were barely in contact during the war’s earliest days, let alone with the innumerable smaller groups that cropped up. It fell to some to organize these disparate fandom-followers.

“Much of this work was accomplished thanks to the indomitable will of a single man: Feylen Mars. Hailing from the far north, this scion of an ancient blood-fief of the cybrahakar arrived in the Chan on the wings of prophecy, working to preach, convert, and unite the Bronies wherever they could be find. That work was centered on Comchan, but over time he would be known far and wide due to a series of lectures and pamphlets that elaborated on fandom theology and theory, explaining the moral lessons of the Six and their expectations of their new followers. Lord Mars’ pace of work was near unthinkable to his contemporaries: even amid the myriad of negotiation and organization he embarked upon, he wrote 54 such tracts in the span of six months, in addition to other fragmentary pieces completed later. Such was his reputation that he rapidly became known as ‘The Proof of Six,’ even despite his young age.

“His work was not done alone, however. At his side during this formative phase was an old friend who had taken up the same fandom, Lillian Semmer. A Blurrite educated in the medical arts, the two had been acquainted during Semmer’s pilgrimage to the north, studying the effects of magic in the lands of the cybrahakar. They became friends and correspondents during her studies, and she joined him upon learning of his presence in the yet-unvisited Chan. Shortly after, she converted to the Collective and swore a vow to the Kind Friend.

“While Mars preached to large crowds and tried to bind the Bronies together through force of ideas, Lady Semmer quietly gathered a society of ascetics and mystics, attracting all manner of esoteric types to the Brony cause. With a growing team of healers, her work focused on tending to the large refugee population the war had created, actions that helped spearhead a wave of conversion among the population. Between both ideals and actions, the Brony movement was growing at an alarming pace.

“While Lady Wright and Lord Honesty led what armed forces could be mustered, Lord Mars and Lady Semmer rallied the civilian population, the many converts who had no skill in arms. After the Fall of Baysmouth, it became clear that their presence in the Chan was untenable—the invasion of the Moderators and the renewed Channic offensive put all of them at grave risk. Neither had a chance to meet with their military counterparts in-person, being on opposite sides of Comchan, but their respective reputation grew such that they began correspondence between one another. It was soon determined that the path of the unarmed converts was clear: evacuation.

“Calling on all resources available, Lord Mars and Lady Semmer organized a mass withdrawal of Brony civilians from the Chan. While not all could or would join, the largest share managed to escape the isles to land on a sparsely inhabited island to the east. The landing site of the Exodus would bear a new name: Sixchan-in-the-Sea. The civilians were secure, more or less, and the fandoms contacts abroad growing. Soon, this would draw in the last of the fandoms six leaders, the two who would embark on a more treacherous mission: the negotiations in Central.”

— Excerpt from “The Brony War,” by Lorelove

Chapter XXXVII: Queen

* * * * * *

“I don't feel silent any more
I know where I'm supposed to be
Crushed my enemies long ago

The last one left to go was me”

— “Last One Left,” by Replacer

* * * * * *

Coin did not remember being captured. If it were not for the ropes binding him to a chair, he might not have noticed.

He blinked, groggily, only realizing his arms were tied down when he tried to reach up and wipe at his eyes. Immediately, drowsiness fell away to dull panic—any jerk or tug from his arms or legs only met with more ropes. He could not see either: at first, he thought he was in total blackness, but it took his dulled senses only a moment to gather that he had a bag over his head as well. He could tell he was seated down—and on a singularly uncomfortable chair, at that—but little else.

Coin’s first thought was to start screaming, but he managed to remain in control long enough to breathe. Breathe, he thought, ignoring the ropes chafing at his wrists. Breathe. Assess the situation.

Very vaguely, Coin could hear noises that might have been voices. They were dampened, though whether it was by walls or his own dull senses, Coin could not say. He ignored it, and everything else, and let out the breath he’d been holding. Summoning his old Moderator calm, he began to think. What is the last thing you remember? The memory came back immediately. Following Haxtoll. Violet and the others. We left the Palace, and . . .

Coin drew up blank. And then? He could not recall a thing. Well, not precisely. Some vague impressions came back: doors and darkness, muffled voices, Coin going off alone. Well, he thought with another tug at his bindings, that one at least explains something. Clearly he’d been ambushed at some point. They must have gotten him while he was on his own. Alone in the Changeling Tunnel.

A new fear grew in him. And if I wasn’t alone? It was not just him that had ventured off to find Haxtoll. A litany of names appeared, Lady Violet chief among them. Six save me, if someone’s captured her too . . .

The noises he had barely heard earlier were growing louder. Either something was getting closer to him, or whatever spell of dullness he was under was beginning to fade. He did not want to think about what ‘something’ might be. He focused on the latter instead. Things that numb the senses. The means of attack can identify attacker. Concussion? It couldn’t be—Coin felt completely uninjured. Drugs, then. It couldn’t have been ingested, which leaves inhalants. Like sleeping draught. The same kind that was used to abduct Dabrius Joh.

Coin sucked in another breath, quietly. The voices—he knew they were voices now—were definitely becoming more distinct. He could understand what they said. Coin still was not certain if they had drawn closer to him or if his sense of hearing was merely returning, but he did know where the voices were coming from. Right behind him.

“—damn you,” the voice trailed in. “God damn you, I can’t believe it! You know what you’ve done?”

“I am certain I don’t,” a familiar voice replied.

“You have undone us all, is what!” a third person said, their voice shaky. “You arranged it all, didn’t you? You led them right to us!”

“You seem certain it was my doing.”

“Who the hell else would it be?” someone else exploded. “All this time, you’ve been prodding them along for . . . for what? To get us all killed?”

“Arcadio will skin us living.” Coin did not recognize this person voice, but could hear the terror in it. “When they talk—”

“If.” The angry man from earlier cut back in. Coin knew who that one was. “If they talk.”

Coin heard a snort. “You cannot think they will keep this quiet, Amberten. That one will tell everything the moment he walks from here, no chance otherwise.”

“Perhaps I can find new ways of persuading him.”

“That is ill-thought, friend,” said the voice of Heylen Ott. Coin was certain it was him now, the one everyone was accusing. Ott soft voice was unmistakable, though there was a steely edge to it Coin was not used to. “Methods like that would do dishonor to us. And to you. If you are so conc—”

“Shut up. You have officially lost your advice-giving privileges, seeing that you’ve tried to kill us all with this.”

“You think I told him how to find us?” Coin heard the rustling of clothes, like someone rolling up a sleeve. “I needn’t remind you of the oath you had me swear.”

“That we had all of us swear. And don’t pretend you haven’t been trying to sneak your way around it. God’s sakes, I’d have thought that the threat of your skin melting off might have been enough, but you are just impossible to reason with.”

“What are we going to do?” someone wailed. “We will have to quit the city. Or beg from the Mods, for all the good it will do.”

“It will do us nothing,” a female voice replied. “Arcadio will find a way. The city is his.”

“Then we must go!”

“We go,” Byrios Amberten muttered, “or he does.”

There was a long, still silence.

It was Ott that began first. “We cannot even con—”

“He’s awake.”

Coin seized up, trying to remain perfectly still. It did not help.

“What? How do you—”

“His head moved,” the female voice said again. “He is listening to us.”

Before Coin knew it, someone ripped the bag off his head. He tried to remain still, eyes closed, miming unconsciousness.

“Oh, don’t even try it,” Amberten snarled. He seized Coin face in the grip of his hand, and Coin found himself looking into the furious face of Byrios Amberten.

“Byrios! He can see your face!”

“Idiot, he already knows it!” His grip on Coin’s mouth tightened painfully.

“And you just said his name,” the woman added. Coin could see her now: a Devien lady, one that Coin did not recognize, hair up in a bun with bamboo ink-brushes neatly wrapped within. There was a weedy man standing close to her, eyes darting around nervously, whom Coin also did not know.

“Disguise your voices,” someone behind Coin hissed.

“If he’s been listening so far, he already knows them.”

Heylen Ott carefully approached Coin’s side, his white-and-black patched skin eery in the darkened room. They were in a stone cell, of sorts, dimly lit, and the wan light made the pale spot on Ott’s face appear like the eye of a ghost. “Good evening, Sir Coin. Byrios?”

Amberten took a hateful look at Coin, then jerked his hand away with a scoff of disgust.

Coin instinctively went to rub at his face, but found himself still bound. He sighed. “Evening, Ott.”

“I trust you are well?” Ott asked with a faint smile.

“Well,” Coin replied carefully, “I seemed to be tied up, and I would rather not be.”

Ott chuckled. “Yes, I imagine that would be disagreeable. Perhaps we could—”

“Not a chance, sorcerer,” the noblewoman scolded. “He will remain comfortable as he is, until we have chance enough to think.”

“You,” Byrios barked, “you said that he would sleep for night, at least!”

An accented voice outside Coin vision—the Sajlic man, Johastoff, he guessed—spoke defensively. “The mixture, it can be temperamental. If you want the brew better, you are welcome to try yourself.”

“This is besides the point.” An older man walked evenly into Coin’s view. Pendros Haxtoll, aged and hunched slightly, but still dignified. He lifted the walking stick he carried under Coin’s chin, to better look at him. “You know my face as well, don’t you, boy?” When Coin nodded, Haxtoll continued. “I should think so. You and your friends followed me, yes? None of them are here with you, in case you wondered.”

“None who were in your party,” Ott clarified.

Coin stared at him. Now what was that supposed to mean? If they had someone else, someone not in the group following Haxtoll, but nevertheless captive . . .

“Where am I?” Coin asked first. He couldn’t be sure of answers, but questioning was the most he could do now.

Haxtoll tilted his head. “I might have thought you would make a guess, seeing that you chased me down here.”

“I’m afraid I don’t recall.”

“Don’t reca—” Ott frowned. “The draught?”

“It is known to have side effects,” the foreign-accented man—still likely Johastoff—admitted sheepishly.

“Hmm. Let us hope that is the extent of them.”

“Would that he forgot all of it,” muttered Amberten. “Perhaps we should hold a soaked rag to his mouth until he forgets his own name.”

“That would hardly solve our first difficulty,” Ott said sardonically.

“Where am I?” Coin repeated, insistent this time. Learning that they had addled his mind with alchemies did not improve his mood.

“Don’t answer that,” Amberten snapped.

“No,” Coin stuttered, “no, I remember. It’s coming back.” He looked up at them. “Nightside. I’m in Nightside, aren’t I?”

“Don’t answer that,” Amberten repeated, when he noticed Ott about to speak.

But it was already returning to him. They had followed Haxtoll, all of them. Followed him into Nightside, or near enough to it. He could not remember exactly where they found the tunnel, but he wasn’t sure he needed to.

“This is it, isn’t it?” Coin turned his head, to try and better measure the room. “These are the tunnels beneath Nightside, the ones where you had met with Dabrius. There was a witness who sighted him disappearing in an alley near there.” He strained to think, to sort through the fuzzy images floating in his memory.

The lady scoffed. “So much for memory loss. Can we dispense with this now, Amberten? It seems he already knows everything he needs.”

“Bah!” Amberten waved a hand and turned away in disgust. “You want to speak freely? You’d rather implicate yourself? By all means! When Arcadio is flaying you, don’t expect me to speak up.”

She nodded. “I am Lady Joania Willburm, friend. And you are somewhere you ought not be.”

“Friend?” Coin examined her closely. “Are you . . .”

“Yes,” she replied, a faint smile crossing her lips. “As is Johastoff and Ott, though I imagine you guessed that already. And my Algie, in his own fashion,” she said with a gesture to the nervous-looking man next to her. “Amberten and Haxtoll are not, in case you wondered, though they’re no less dedicated to reform than I. One does hope we shall ever reach that goal, now that your snooping has put a new risk on us.”

“I’m hardly the one to blame for being tied up in your base, my lady.” Coin was hoping they would end that sooner rather than later—the ropes were starting to chafe even more.

“You are the one that tracked Haxtoll closely enough that you had to be drugged to give up the chase, though. The place that you are uncomfortably residing now is behind a false wall within the tunnels, and several paths down from that. So, we needn’t fear being interrupted by any of the other more nosy members of our fandom, will we?”

“We had no choice but to seek you out,” Coin countered. “We need your help.”

“And we made it clear,” cut in Haxtoll, “that our work demanded secrecy. If even one of us steps forward, even one of us is exposed, it will put not only that one in great risk, but all of us.”

It was not the first time Coin had thought on just that. “Dabrius said the same, when we last spoke.”

Haxtoll scoffed. “Dabrius was right, though he was more often wrong. And now both of you have put us on the cliffside.”

Coin snapped his eyes to Haxtoll. “Both of us?”

Amberten snarled, grabbed the chair Coin sat upon, and lifted it effortlessly around. Coin rattled as the wooden legs met the stone floor, facing the opposite way. Facing, miraculously and unhappily, a sight that Coin had both hoped and dreaded to see.

Dabrius.

He was not awake. Like Coin, he was bound, tied to a seat. Unlike Coin, whatever stupor he was in had not yet worn off, his head hanging listlessly. He did not seem harmed, at least.

“Dabrius Joh,” Coin whispered. “Six save me, you did take him.”

“We did no such thing,” Lady Willburm said.

“Found him here, we did,” said Johastoff, voice defensive.

“What?” Coin asked. “What do you mean, ‘found him?’ ”

“It’s the truth, boy. Some hours ago, stumbled on him down here in the tunnels, trussed up like a game-hen. Had Ott not discovered him, he might have died down here.”

Coin shot a look to Ott. “It is the truth, friend,” the cybramancer said.

“But that’s ridiculous!” Coin shook his head. It wasn’t that he doubted Ott so much that he could not comprehend the crime. “Why in the Web would anyone kidnap a man, just to deliver him to someone else? Someone who didn’t want him, for that matter.”

“Someone trying to frame us,” Amberten muttered, arms crossed. “Or trying to force us into coming out of hiding, into making a move. Like your fandom?”

“Oh, come on!” Coin exclaimed, in disbelief. “You don’t actually believe that!”

“No, he does not,” Ott said. He cast a disapproving look to Amberten. “Perhaps, my friend, we can restrain ourselves?”

“Fine, listen to the man who sold us out for good advice. If you must know, I think it’s obvious who is behind this, and your fandom does not top the list.”

“Obvious?” Coin repeated. “Who?”

“The Channic, clearly.” Amberten sounded annoyed he even needed to explain. “Who else?”

Ott nodded. “They are the most suspect, Sir Coin. The anonymites have a talent for chaos, and not just the ones in the Dreamweave. It is not hard to imagine them putting that talent to work here.”

Coin thought about it. He could not be certain of anything, but at the same time few other possibilities came to mind. “I suppose you might be right. I just can’t understand why.” He looked around the room. “Or how, for that matter. They would have had to know about this place to do all this. Did they?”

“If you could follow us and find this place, they might have done the same. As for why?” Ott shrugged. “I cannot say. Much of their motives in being here remain confused to me, whatever they might say. And this city has become stranger and stranger, of late.”

“You needn’t remind me,” Coin said, thinking of his vision.

“All that I can say is this: none of my friends in the Changeling Society brought Dabrius here, nor did they steal him away to begin with.” Ott laid a hand on Coin’s shoulder. “I have always tried to be truthful to you, Sir Coin, however much I was able. I am not lying to you now.”

Coin measured his words carefully. None of it added it up, truthfully. There was some piece to all of this missing, some motive, some reason, some plan, one inscrutable to everyone save for whatever mind concocted it. What that could be, or who was behind it, Coin still hadn’t the slightest certainty. But he had to place his faith somewhere. He let out a breath. “Very well. I believe you.” And a more appreciative smile from Ott, Coin had not seen.

“This is all very touching,” Amberten growled, “but that still leaves the question of what we’re doing with you.”

Coin looked around at all of them. There were eyes on him, considering what he might say. And, for the first time, he noticed something on Amberten’s belt. A knife.

All of a sudden, Coin sorely wished it was someone like Lady Violet making this case, rather than him. “Well,” Coin started, “it seems as though you’ve weighed your options already.”

“Loudly, and at some length,” Lady Willburm said dryly.

Coin shook his head. “Come with me. Let me out of here, and Dabrius as well, and talk to the Lord Moderator. You can clear his name and yours, all of you. We can help you, I and the Wardens.”

Amberten’s temper flared. “I think we’ve told you and your Wardens enough already. Do you not get it? If we come out of hiding, we’ll die. Not just us, either. I’m not the only Amberten in this wretched place, and worthless as my brothers might be, I’ve no interest in seeing them killed in the streets either.”

“We can protect you,” Coin pleaded. “Or if not us, the Moderators.”

The nervous man with Lady Willburm—Coin thought it was ‘Algie’—did not seem convinced. “Not bloody likely. When Halforth learns that Joh is here, with us, he’ll hang us for sure.”

Lord Haxtoll sighed. “There was a time I agreed more with you, sir. Seeking protection seemed a fair idea. But doing that would mean giving up everything in the Dreamweave as well—our homes, our property. Our families would have to come too, and give up all of theirs, or else be at risk. And now, I’m not even certain it would help. Algerius might well be right.”

“You’re asking us to die,” Amberten growled.

“It seems,” Coin retorted, “that you’re asking me to do the same.”

He could see discomfort racing across the faces of the Changelings. Reluctance, at least, was a decent sign. Perhaps the most he could hope for. In the brief moment he had, Coin thought a prayer to the Generous Friend. “I have a question.”

“Speak it, sir,” replied Lady Willburm, folding her hands behind her.

“Are you Oathbreakers?”

A chorus of outrage sprang up from all quarters. “Never!” cried Johastoff. Heylen Ott remained silent, but Coin could see the chagrin in his features.

“You insult us, friend,” Lady Willburm muttered. “Oathbreakers are—”

“—Fandom-traitors,” Coin finished. “And murderers, I know. Dabrius Joh denied it as well, when we asked him. When we asked him if the Changelings had killed an innocent man, he said they’d never. So let me ask again.” Coin glanced, unconsciously, at the knife Amberten had at his belt. “Was he wrong?”

There was a moment’s silence among them, one of quiet shame. Lady Willburm was first to speak. “No,” she said, “he was not.”

“Indeed,” said Johastoff, to which Lord Haxtoll nodded.

“It’s lunacy.” Byrios Amberten looked at them all, red in the face. “You’re all mad.” He took a step towards Coin. “If you can’t do it, then—”

Heylen Ott moved between them. “My dear friend,” he said calmly, “give it up. You are no murderer.”

Amberten’s jaw clenched, and his hand tightened as well. Tightened around the hilt of his knife, knuckles going white. With the slightest sound, he pulled it from the sheath.

Then, with a clang, he threw the knife to the ground. “Dammit,” Amberten muttered. “Dammit, I’m not.” Groaning, he gripped his face in his hands.

Ott moved gingerly and retrieved the fallen knife. “I believe I can make better use of this.” Coin saw the cybramancer move behind him, then felt the bindings fall, one by one.

Rising carefully, Coin looked around the room at the Changeling Society, the mystery he had finally solved. “Thank you,” he said to Ott. “I swear, you won’t regret this.”

“I will hold you to that,” said Lady Willlburm.

They were interrupted by a groan from across the room. Dabrius Joh was stirring, though not yet conscious, slumping and shifting in his chair.

“So, our other guest awakens,” Lady Willburm said with the slightest smile.

“Shall I give him the drought?” Johastoff’s hand went to his pockets.

“Hardly a point to it now. Let him wake. There is work to be done, I think.”

“My lady,” Coin interjected. “If we intend to go forward, it will pay to have the Society together, and safe. Are these all the Changelings?”

Willburm raised an eyebrow. “Not the least. What you see here is merely the highest cell. Any more information than that, I’m afraid, will have to remain with me.”

“If it—”

“If we intend to ‘go forward,’ Sir Coin,” she continued, “it will be done my way, on my terms. I will take no risks that are not necessary. This is non-negotiable.”

In no position to refuse, Coin relented. Lady Willburm went on. “Perhaps you think this unfair. But changelings, my good sir, are rarely safe. Without their Queen to protect them, at least.” That small, dignified smile returned again.

Coin looked at her carefully. “So you are their leader?” The smile did not fade. “I admit, I thought I might have heard of you.”

“It seems, sir, that you have hit upon the advantage of a secret society. Ott, would you care to rouse our friend Dabrius? It would be best for him to wake to a familiar face.”

Ott bowed. “It is rare that a face like mine is put to good use.” He drew away and attended to Joh.

“I will need to find my friends, my lady,” said Coin. “And return to Lady Violet as well. And make some kind of plan.” There were still mountains left to move. Coin realized then how tired he was. “This has the makings of a long night,” he sighed, dusting off his clothes.

Lady Willburm nodded. “Yes, that would be best. I imagine Lady Violet will be interested to learn who I am. I admit, I have been curious to learn if she suspected my identity at all. She is shrewd, I know, but I doubt that unsigned datagrams gave much hint.”

Coin stopped himself. What? “How do you mean?”

Lady Willburm tilted her head. “The messages that we have sent.” She seemed confused as well, but only for a moment. “Ah, she did not tell you.”

“Tell me what?” Coin demanded. He looked around at all of them. “What are you talking about?”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” said Amberten. “She’s been speaking with us for months!” He looked at Coin in disbelief. “Who do you think organized us?”

* * * * * *

It was not long after the landfall of Lord Mars on Sixchan-in-the-Sea that a Devien noblewoman stepped foot upon its rocky shores. A daughter of a prominent Chamberseat family from the isle of Kursedos, she could not have been more out of place. At the time, the fandom and its members were in disarray. In the main archipelago of the Chan, its armed forces were rebuilding, beaten and bruised from their flight out of Baysmouth. And in Sixchan, thousands crowded in their new exile, refugees forced from their homes and afflicted with new doubt for the success of their cause. Nothing that this new arrival saw would have inspired further confidence. None would have been surprised if she had packed and left.

Instead, she threw herself into work immediately. The importance of this singular choice cannot be understated, as the young lady who eventually took the name ‘Violet Brushshape’ would prove to be as shrewd and intelligent as she was talented, well-trained in the arts of the Devien Isles and superb in negotiation. Within a day of her arrival, she had already been introduced to Feylen Mars, and rapidly became a close friend. Their debates on fandom dynamics and theology helped in speeding Violet’s conversion to the Six, and it did not take long for her chosen branch and talents to become clear.

It became obvious early on that she possessed skills in sore need. Her training and experience made her an early standout among the fandom artists who dutifully produced divinely inspired works in greater numbers by the day. Ability and drive they already possessed, but it was Lady Violet’s vision that propelled them to greater heights. Concurring with Lord Mars, she concluded that the followers of the Six were unique among all fandoms—toughened by war, stronger in will, with a fanaticism and virtue utterly unlike any others—and her ambition to see the fandom triumph led to an artistic initiative of enormous scale. Under her direction, fandom artists were producing at lightning pace, and exporting their works outward, flooding content markets across the Web with Brony works, and winning scores of new converts as they did.

Not content to bring in new members of the nascent fandom, Lady Violet set to work in uniting those that existing already. Brony cells and communities across the Chan were scattered, with the defeat at Baysmouth sending many into hiding and cutting off communication between others. Some Brony fellowships held each other apart, resentful of certain fandom divides or suspicious of possible infiltration by the anonymites or the Mods.

Realizing that the only chance of survival was in unity, Lady Violet’s work and pace was tireless, careful, and utterly thorough. Alongside Lady Semmer, she began a system of messengers and representatives who could reach out and reintegrate the windswept elements of the fandom. Using charm, guile, bribery, and threats wherever needed, she managed to bring together the piecemeal parts of the fandom in ways that Lord Mars and Lady Semmer would otherwise have not considered.

At the same time, her efforts were not close to done. The largest challenge still remained. It was found far away, past the dark waters of the Chan, past Aggra’s Gate and into the Connecting Sea, where lay the topless towers of Central, and one curious figure who had just arrived on its white shores.

— Excerpt from The Brony War, by Lorelove

Chapter XXXVIII: Let Go

* * * * * *

“So she’s not much for speeches

The farthest reaches of her will

Measures a heart, faithful and strong

As strong as it needs to be

And it needs to be mended when broken by promise untrue

She writes to you

‘Don’t worry

Don’t worry now . . .”

— E40, by SoGreatandPowerful

* * * * * *

There was a pain in Proximo’s scar. That was a feeling he had not had in some time, nor ever expected again. But there it was.

Of course, it wasn’t truly a scar anymore. The blood was proof enough of that, hidden as it might now be under the wrappings over his chest.

He remembered when that wound was last open. A flash of steel raking across him. Brown mud intermingling with long red rivers. Weeks and months, insensible then raving then miserable, wasting away, halfway between life and death. Proximo hoped to never see Hell, but once he could scarcely imagine it being worse than that hospital bed.

And now, he thought, I am not so certain. Was that what he saw, in that vision? Hell and damnation. Or perhaps not. The place he saw was not so foreign to him. Never had he seen the black water, the great columns of dark fire, the pale, horrid shapes from behind mist-waves. And yet, he had seen that place—the Dreamweave, ruined but recognizable. A nightmare, he hoped. But part of him worried that it was something else entirely. A vision, not yet realized. A future to come.

Proximo shivered. Lying in his bed, alone in his room, there was no one to see his fear. But it was not a time to be afraid. Lord Mars will know better. They had sent word to the Citadel, but time was needed to ascertain such things, and it had not yet been so long.

And I have other things to worry about. He knew that Lady Violet and the others had returned from Nightside some time ago. Most of the others, but not all. Where are you, Coin Counter? No searching had revealed where he was, though there were still some at work finding him. As soon as a man disappeared, however, they had evacuated the lady back to the Palace, despite her objections. Now she was fretting, but demanding Proximo did not do the same. He wanted to help, but she insisted that her assistant rest.

He couldn’t hardly blame her. Men being struck down by some spectral force, seeing visions and having their chests opened up was not something to take lightly. Frankly, though, his wound was barely even noticeable, just open enough to bleed. A nuisance. But a nuisance that would keep him confined.

Proximo did not sleep. Part of him wanted to—he was exhausted, in truth. Seeing Imelda earlier has perked him up, but she had left some time ago, and he’d been alone since. The hours weighed on him. How long has it been since I had a decent night’s rest? He did not want to think about it. But he did not sleep. Not with so much on his mind. And not with the dreams, either.

They had been growing worse and worse. Dreams of grey wraiths and cursed eyes, watching him, and a voice that spoke loathsome things. He had blamed it on nerves at first, but after what he had just seen? Worse and worse. And each time, somehow, similar to the nightmarish thing he had witnessed earlier that day. He felt like weights were strapped to his eyelids, and yet he dared not close them for long.

Proximo sighed, fiddling with Jestin’s watch. Or Cabrio’s watch, now that he thought of it. Technically it had belonged to the guard before the Warden. Still, he preferred to think of the bronze timepiece as a gift of Jestin’s more than anything. Lying in bed, surrounded by confusion, afflicted by who knows what, Proximo found it more important than ever to recall laughter.

Still restless, Proximo tossed in his bed. He was surprised to see that the door was open. He was more surprised to see that he was not alone.

Yelping, Proximo groped for a shirt to cover himself with, when light flooded into the room.

“Good Lord, Proximo,” said a familiar voice, “You own a hundred shirts, and can’t be bothered to wear one? What happened to the fashionable brother I knew?”

“Gallia!” Proximo fought the urge to throw something, and groaned. “Six save me, how do you keep finding where I stay?”

Gallia drew away from the lamp, yawning. “I have my ways, Proxi. Ascribe it to familial instinct, if it comforts you.”

“Is it Withins-Bei again?” Proximo snatched up a shirt and threw it on, working the buttons as best he could. “You shouldn’t trust him. He’s a spy for the white hats.”

His sister did not seem put off. “Truly? How interesting. I did not take him for the Moderator type.”

“Gallia, it’s an ungodly hour. What could you possibly want?”

“A great many things, as always.” She meandered lazily over to Proximo’s wardrobe, opening it with a finger. “I am surprised you need ask, though. Would I not be concerned, what with you injured?”

“How did you— oh, never mind.” Trying to ask Gallia anything was usually pointless. “Well, here I am, alive and well. I’m barely even hurt, so you needn’t worry. What else?” He saw her rifling through his clothing. “Don’t touch that.”

“Devio’s hand, do you have anything that isn’t white or violet? You aren’t an eggplant, brother.”

“They’re my colors now, and they suit me well. Not all of us look good in green.” Gallia did not cease pawing through his things. “Would you stop?”

She looked up momentarily. “What about that, then?” She gestured to the watch in Proximo’s hand. “A little dull, isn’t it?”

“It was a gift,” Proximo grumbled, “and a useful one at that.” He tossed it into an open suitcase before Gallia could demand it from him. “Now, get out with it so I can go back to sleep.”

“Rude, impatient, unfashionable. Are there three greater crimes?” Before Proximo could fire back, she went on. “I have heard much of the peril you have encountered, of late. I thought perhaps a brush with danger might make you reconsider Father’s offer.”

“No.”

“Petulance will get you nowhere, Proxi.”

“Six save me, you still don’t understand it, do you?” Proximo rubbed at his temples. “You’re saying that the threat would make me want to leave? You’re wrong. It means all the more reason for me to stay. I cannot abandon my friends in danger. Will not.”

Gallia sighed. “You are like to drive me past despair, Proxi. What will it take? I remind you, I am prepared to steal your luggage, if I must.”

“You are welcome to try.” Proximo lay back in the bed, head against the board, facing the wall. “I am not returning, Gallia, and you can tell Father as much. You’re asking me to choose between staying with my friend and . . . what? You have nothing to hold over me. Nothing at all.”

Gallia tilted her head at that. “Not even Aloysia?”

There was a moment’s temptation. Proximo could imagine her face, his baby sister, now years older, but with all her same happiness. For a moment, he wanted little else but to see her again. A moment.

He shook his head. “I can’t believe that you would use her as some tool to drag me back. No, I take it back, I can believe it. Either way, the answer is the same.”

Gallia let out another sigh. “So be it. I shall see you again soon, I am certain.” She went to leave.

Proximo’s face twisted. “Fine then. Do what you wish, Gallia. You always do.” He did not watch her go.

Left alone, Proximo hit his head against the backboard, though it did nothing for his frustration. He tossed over, shirt still half-buttoned, and resolved to sleep again.

There was a knock behind him. Proximo groaned. “For a happy moment, I really thought you’d leave. Can’t I get a moment’s peace?”

“In this job, my faithful assistant? Not likely.”

Proximo sprang up. “My lady!” he said with a bow. Lady Violet stood in the doorway, expectantly. “Ah, apologies, I thought you were Gallia.”

“Perish the thought. I would need to improve my habit of annoying you to new heights.” She was still wearing the coat she had donned before venturing into the city, having wound it tightly around herself. She leaned against the doorframe. “I owe my own apologies—I shouldn’t wake you.”

Proximo waved a hand. “Gallia took care of that already. Besides, you know I’d rather be awake.” He propped himself up in bed. “Is there news yet, my lady?”

She shook her head. “That’s what worries me most. Hours, and still not thread or hair of Sir Coin. What’s become of him?”

Proximo knew her well enough to see worries beyond those she voiced. “You can talk to me about it, my lady.”

She smiled wanly. “I always can. Thank you, Proxi.” The smile left as quickly as it came, leaving a tired expression on her face. “Truthfully, there has been much on my mind of late.”

She approached the bed—obliging, Proximo moved his legs and let her sit. “Proximo,” she began, “I recall what you said to me earlier, about the . . . incident you underwent. I feared for you, my friend. But now that I’ve thought more about it, I wonder if I should not fear for myself as well.” Lady Violet offered him a grave look. “Proximo, I believe I have seen something similar.”

Proximo gaped. “My lady?”

“Not in a vision like yours,” she said immediately. “But something. Proximo . . . now, don’t think me a fool for asking, but have your dreams been dark, of late?”

“Yes.” Proximo said it immediately, as childish as it seemed to admit it.

Lady Violet shivered. “Mine as well. I have . . . seen things, in those dreams. I don’t know what it means, if it means anything. I might have blamed them on the job, but now I am not so certain. They grow worse by the night as well.” She leaned back, her eyes closed. “I truly cannot tell you how long I have been, Proxi, without good sleep.”

Proximo could see that. Her face was flushed, eyes seeming more hollow than usual. “I’ve been the same,” he confessed. He had not wanted to say it before, whether for fear of being ridiculed or told to rest from the work at hand. But if was not the only one feeling it? Six save me, what is happening?

Lady Violet seemed to have the same unspoken question. “I wish I knew the answers to this. I have consulted with friends who might know better, but I doubt that what we hear will reassure us. Late hours spent awake have given me time to think.” She rested her hands on her forehead, massaging gently. “I wonder, Proximo, if I have not made a mistake.”

“What do you mean?” Proximo asked.

Before she could answer, someone else darkened the door. “My lady?” said Jorama, hand at her golden scarf.

Lady Violet recovered herself immediately, and stood. “Well?”

“He has returned, Lady-Warden.”

Lady Violet’s eyes widened. “Lead me there, I must speak with him immediately.”

Proximo scrambled to his feet and began to follow. He was part-way through putting on his shoes when Lady Violet gave a prim cough. “Ah, Mister Hart?” She gestured to his chest.

He looked down to see his shirt only half-buttoned, chest open to the world. “Ah,” Proximo said, red in the face, “right.” A small smile crossed the lady’s face while he buttoned up the view.

Proximo put himself together as they walked, briskly as they could, through the halls. They crossed the halls and rooms, until they reach Lady Violet’s quarters, flanked with guards.

The Warden of Honesty stood among them. The giant gave a nod to Lady Violet as she approached. “He is within.”

Lady Violet gestured, and the door was opened. Inside, Coin Counter sat alone, and unharmed.

It was a relief to see, but Proximo relaxed only slightly. In his appearance, Coin did not look hurt. Disheveled, maybe—his clothes were roughed, his red hair in disarray—but Proximo could see no wounds on him. His expression, though, was troubled.

“Oh, thank the Six.” Lady Violet rushed in, letting Proximo and the Warden follow behind.

Coin bowed his head. “My lady.”

“I think we can dispense with the pleasantries, no?” She gave a relieved laugh. “You had me more than worried, sir. There was half a moment when I feared the worst.” She eyed him carefully. “Was it them, sir? Your hosts?”

Coin nodded.

Proximo sucked in a breath. At last. That Coin returned at all was a good sign. Hopefully.

“And Dabrius?” Lady Violet asked, leaning in.

“With them.”

“Six save us,” Proximo sputtered. “They did have him.”

“But, my lady, they didn’t take him,” Coin continued quickly.

“What?” Proximo thought he’d misheard for a moment. “How do you mean?”

“They claim to have found him, down in that tunnel we were exploring, just earlier today.” Coin looked around to see skeptical expressions. “It’s hard to believe, I know. But I think it’s the truth.”

Lady Violet was regarding his words carefully, so Proximo spoke for her. “They found him?” he repeated. “Prime suspects in murder cases do not merely appear in secret headquarters. How is it possible that anyone else would even know where to place him?”

Coin seemed at a loss for words. “I’m sorry,” he said eventually, “but I truly don’t know. He was unharmed, at the least.”

“If you spoke with them,” Lady Violet said, “then there is much for us to discuss.” She turned to Proximo and Honesty. “My friends, would you allow us the room? It would be best for this to continue in confid—”

But before she could continue, Coin cut in. “I’m sorry, my lady, but I would rather they stay.”

All eyes went to Coin. Proximo looked at the man, confused. Beside him, the Warden of Honesty rumbled. "The lady commanded. You obey."

Coin seemed reluctant, but still pressed on. "I'm sorry, my lord, but I cannot."

"Sir," Lady Violet said again, "I understand that you're under the stress of the moment, but we truly ought to--"

"My lady," Coin asked, "is it true that you knew of the Changelings before we arrived here?"

Silence. Proximo tilted his head at Coin. "Pardon?"

"The Changelings. They claimed that Lady Violet was the one that organized and funded them. Is that true?"

Proximo scoffed. "That's ridiculous. I never heard of such a thing."

"A lie," the Warden of Honesty concurred gruffly.

"Am I lying?" Coin asked.

The Warden examined him for a moment, a glint in his golden eye. "No," he said. "Only because you believe it. Still false."

Coin crossed his arms. "They seemed certain. Can you say the same?"

"Yes," Proximo and the Warden both answered, without hesitation. Proximo continued on. "We never heard a word about this Society before we came here, none of us. I don't even know how we would move that manner of funding. It’s absurd, frankly.” He looked to Lady Violet, for her own dismissal.

But Lady Violet did not answer. She looked at Coin, her face placid. But beneath that, Proximo could see more. The smallest, wriggling doubt, behind her eyes.

“My lady?” Proximo asked again.

A grunt came from the Warden of Honesty. “Owes answers to nether of you. No right to make demands. Obey.”

“But all the same,” Coin said carefully, “she has not denied it.”

Lady Violet narrowed her eyes. “Very well, sir. I deny it wholly. Now must I answer more questions from you, or will you deem to answer mine?”

But Proximo could see it. The slightest tenor in her voice, a stiffness in her stance, the care she took in choosing words. It leaped out to him, someone who knew her better than any other. It told him something was wrong.

Proximo’s eyes widened. “Oh Six save me,” he said, taking a step back, “it’s true.”

Lady Violet shot a sharp look to Proximo, and the Warden one even sharper. “Thinking wrong,” Honesty snapped. “Repeating falsehoods. Not right.”

“It isn’t a falsehood,” Proximo insisted. Pieces were fitting together in his mind, from words that were said or things he had seen, turning with the key that Coin had just said. “Our source of information in the Dreamweave,” he said, thinking back weeks ago. “My lady, the reason you did not tell me who it was when I asked . . . I thought they were courtiers or merchants we had paid off, but they weren’t. It was them.” There was a sinking feeling in his stomach, as he grasped at the thought. “My lady,” he said, advancing forward, “please tell me this isn’t true.”

Before Proximo could take the step, the Warden of Honesty cut between them. “Back,” he growled, shielding the lady.

“If you are so sure, my lord, then ask her,” Proximo pressed. “You know when men lie, do you not? Turn that eye to her, and tell me who is false.”

That eye narrowed. “Never,” the Warden replied, voice hot with anger. “Speak from ignorance, not truth. Know nothing. Nothing.”

Yet as Honesty spoke, Proximo could see a change in Lady Violet’s expression. Discomfort raced across her face, and her nails dug more into her crossed arms.

Not noticing, Honesty continued. “Say no more. Silent. Learn to obey, or we will—”

“I am sorry, my friend,” said Lady Violet, sad and slow. “But it is true.”

The shock in the room was powerful enough to make hairs stand on end. The accusations on Honesty’s lips died immediately, replaced with a silent stare.

“Light of life,” Coin muttered.

Proximo felt much the same. “My lady,” he said, “you lied to me! I thought I . . .” His face screwed up. “Why?”

Lady Violet hesitated a moment, but only that long. “I can tell you the ‘why’ of it,” she said, “if you will listen to the ‘how’ first.”

She took long, elegant steps to cross the room, standing before the only window, clasped firmly shut. The light of the moon and stars was wan, the light of the lamps orange-gold, and the tone of Lady Violet was calm and cool as still water. “There was a message,” she began, “some time before all this business began. Before Dabrius was accused, before he even arrived. Before that young man burned himself alive, even. I knew of the Dreamweave prior to its coming, of course—no site in the Web bans our fandom without my knowing. This letter offered a solution.

“I am not one to turn help away, Proximo, nor friends. The message provided both. All that was needed was money and supplies, and some information I could happily dig up on their behalf.”

“Funds of the Generous Friends,” interjected Proximo, “and spies from our branch. How did I not know?”

“Not every spy lies with the Generous,” she replied, “and there are always things that I alone know. Confidential things, Proximo, and this is no different.”

“Confidential?” Coin repeated in disbelief. “I don’t expect to know everything, but how long have we been here? Weeks, going mad on this damned island, and all this time you’ve know who—”

“Who the Changelings were?” Lady Violet flashed him a look. “I have known nothing of the sort. If I did, I would not have needed Dabrius to tell me. If I did, this might have ended in short order. I had no such advantage. There was secrecy at every level, in every communication. Pseudonyms and codewords at all turns, forward and back. If you truly met them, Sir Coin, I expected you would have understood that their paranoia had no bounds. Though,” she said with a mirthless laugh, “I suppose they’ve been proven right. At least they trusted well in Dabrius—it took lengths like you would not know to convince them to meet an agent in the flesh, and only after they were certain that he would keep confidence. Even from me.”

“So yes, perhaps Coin does speak true. In a certain way. I knew they existed, I sent them funds and whispers and whatever else they needed to gain trust and build a network. I gave them the advice they needed to influence the court to favor our fandom. I even gave the Society that droll nickname, which seemed so much more clever at the time. But I could not have solved this mystery any quicker than you did, and you would not have solved it any quicker had I told you. So there it is. The truth, in this instance, was on a need-to-know basis. And you did not need.”

Proximo stiffened. “The other wardens—”

“Do not know,” the lady finished. “Or, at the least, I did not tell them. The burden was not theirs to bear. This was my task. My duty, and mine alone. It was no different from what I have done elsewhere, and sometimes with your knowledge and approval, Proximo. That is the job, and nothing less. And here, the burden was not yours, either.”

“Burden?” Proximo exploded. “This is not charity, my lady, this is bold-faced lying to everyone. To me, of all people!” He felt like such an idiot, not having seen it earlier. Shame stacked up atop hurt, atop betrayal. “Six save me, what was I thinking?” Proximo could understand confidentiality, and secrecy. He had never expected to know everything. But this was far beyond the pale, to have been not only keep in the dark, but deceived straight to his face. He could only imagine that Coin felt the same. “Have I not earned trust, my lady? Why did you—"

“Not everything,” Lady Violet said calmly, “is yours to know.”

Proximo knew that tone: the staid voice of cool command. Lady Violet used it for diplomacy, at times when words had to be chosen most carefully. He had heard it before countless times, even in the Dreamweave: against Halforth, against Vaar, against Pilara and Aureliano and Arcadio. Against enemies, and not friends. That alone shocked him more than anything.

“You do not command me, Proximo, nor does Sir Coin. I am the one that moves pieces where they need to go, and the one that feels the consequences when the battles are lost. I would not wish that weight on you, even if I thought I could pass it on. There are dangers involved on a scale you cannot possibly fathom, not having served in this role yourself. Hundreds of sites, thousands of lives, can hinge on what a few people at the center do. Our fandom was born in war—I saw it myself. So much has been done to build my friends up since then, but can you imagine what might happen if a single thing I do goes awry? If I make a single mistake, here in this city, right now?”

The look she offered was pained, but she did not relent. “You ask me these questions, all of you, but there are none I have not already asked myself, and none that I was comfortable in answering. Perhaps you do not care for those answers either. But the point is that you are not the one that has to answer them. It’s on my head. If I must do something wrong to do what’s right, that pain is mine, as is the consequence of not acting when I should have. Everyone is depending on me. I will not fail.”

From when her last word sank in, a deep silence set upon the room. It never ceased to amaze Proximo that, even when the entire audience was against her, Lady Violet could still make them hang on every word.

There was, at last, truth, and understanding with it. Hearing the lady explain it made Proximo want to collapse. The weight she described . . . perhaps he could feel it, and had felt it in some measure. All the times he had worried about hurting Imelia—when he himself had wrestled with piling hurts on another—had been about truth as well. In the end, whatever he had resolved to do, he had not needed to make that choice between lies and honesty—Imelia had chosen for him. And Coin, Proximo knew, must have felt the same, misleading the Mods as they had.

Now multiply that by a thousand fold, Proximo thought woefully. Imagine it in every decision Violet has made. He tried to recall all of the choices he had seen her make, all the disasters averted, the crises avoided, the threats dealt with. How many lives may have been at stake, had they failed. Six save me, how many might there have been?

Proximo bowed his head. He saw Coin show a measure of doubt as well. They, the both of them, did understand. And yet . . .

And yet, that did not mean he was wrong. “My lady,” Proximo said quietly, “I know why you did it. I do. But something like this? On this scale? We should have known. We’re your friends.”

“This is about protecting my friends.” Lady Violet rubbed at her temples. “We all make sacrifices for the people we care about. That is why you, Proximo, have not seen your family in years. That’s why, Sir Coin, you are no longer a knight in truth. Giving up a part of yourself—that is what being generous means.”

Her expression was somehow both apologetic and fully resolved. “I am sorry if this hurt you. It hurt me to do it. But if anyone learned about this, if a single word of it could have possibly gone to someone willing to use that knowledge against us, everything would be undone. So if I must sacrifice truth on the altar for the greater good, I will do so, and would do it again.” She looked down at her hands. “Is that wrong, Proximo? Is it truly?”

Proximo realized that she was really asking. Not even for a point, but because she did not know herself. “I . . . I do not know,” he answered. That much, at least, was true. Coin could add nothing, his head tilted down.

“You lied to us,” someone said.

All that time, the Warden of Honesty had said nothing. He listened, blank in the face, silent as the grave. It was only then, as though his mind had finally caught up to what Lady Violet said, that a growing terror showed on his face.

If there was sadness in Lady Violet’s expression when facing Proximo and Coin, it was doubled now that she saw the Warden. She did not seem to know what to say. “My honest friend,” she eventually began, reaching out her hand for his.

The giant’s hand shot away, wrenched aside as the Warden of Honesty stepped back. Back, and away from her.

Proximo had grown to know the Warden well. Just as he could read meanings into even the most placid expression of Lady Violet, he had begun to understand that there was more feeling than he once thought beneath the scowls and blank stares of the Warden of Honesty. Proximo had seen unexpected things behind the golden veil of that single eye before. Anger, during the Warden’s slaughter of the assassins. But concern and worry, when he thought Violet or his friends hurt. Iron conviction, fanaticism for the faith of Six. But, at the same time, regret and remorse. And doubt.

It was not merely doubt in the Warden’s eye now. Proximo had never seen the emotion so plainly written on the Warden’s face before. Pain—sheer, naked pain—yes, but confusion as well. Proximo could see thoughts racing in the Warden’s mind, but none that could make sense of what he was hearing. An unstoppable conviction was meeting an undeniable truth, and he could not comprehend the collision.

As horrible as it was, the expression on the Warden’s face was like that of a dog, kicked by its master. It was the look of someone who had been hurt, cut more deeply than they thought possible, and by the person they trusted most. And they could not understand why.

“Would never lie to us,” the Warden whispered. He did not understand.

Lady Violet had seemed pained before, trying to explain herself to her assistant and her friend, but she still seemed certain of her choice. The Warden banished that. The look of cool command melted away, and a look of horror took its place. “Honesty,” she said, formality dissolving, “my lord, my honest friend, listen to me, you must understand, I— I know it hurts to hear it, but I had to. If you knew, you would have told them, Halforth, all of them, if they had asked, don’t you see? They— they would have taken it as proof!”

She raced through words, stammering and stumbling, anything to make the Warden stop shrinking away from her. “Conspiracy! It’s what all of this is about, Sir Harald’s murder and what they said about Dabrius, and, and the Changelings as well, but— but Honesty, I did help them, so if anyone found out, they would have . . . would have . . . oh, Six save me, Honesty you have to understand, I never meant to hurt you in all this, please—”

“Lie,” the Warden said softly. But not to her.

When she saw the Warden twitch, Lady Violet’s hand shot to her mouth. “Oh, God.”

“God,” the Warden choked, convulsing.

Proximo’s eyes widened. He had seen all of this before—weeks prior, when he and Violet had argued over Sir Alwin. That evening, when all the Warden’s convictions had been shaken, Proximo had seen his voice fail him, his huge body falter, his mind seem stricken, though Proximo could not understand how or why. Something about that moment had made the Warden—undefeatable in all else—fall, and it was happening again.

The Warden had collapsed to one knee, head twitching violently, his eye rolling back into his skull. His armored fists curled up, tightening so much that Proximo worried he would break his own fingers. “My lord!” Proximo cried, moving towards him. “My lord, are—"

“Fool,” the Warden croaked, “Fool.” The words came from his mouth like a strangled gasp, and the voice from his mouth . . .

It was not the voice of the Warden of Honesty.

Proximo moved back so quickly that he stumbled over, a sudden madness in his panic. Coin sprang from his chair, reaching to his belt for a sword that was not there, fear alive in his face. The same fear in Proximo. I know that voice, he thought with dread. The dreams. That nightmarish, black voice that had spoken to him. It was as though he was back in the phantasm, surrounded by grey wraiths and yellow eyes. A voice so vile that it made his stomach churn just to hear it. It came from the Warden. Oh God, how . . .

Lady Violet did not hesitate. The Warden’s face was twisting, mouth and brow curling into a mask of immense pain, eye showing white alone. His body jerked involuntarily, in the manner of a stroke, twitching with such strength that Proximo had the panicked thought that he would strike at Violet—she would not walk away from such a blow. And yet, in a motion, as a reflex, as though without even the moment’s fear, Violet reached out and took the bent Warden’s head in her hands, and in his ear whispered words that Proximo could not hear.

When she took a halting step away, the Warden seemed to still, like a machine shut off. It was only then that Proximo saw how pale, how terrified, her expression was, as she fell back against the wall.

For an eternity, the three of them watched, and waited. The Warden’s eye had roll back in place, and his limbs were motionless. All of was quiet. The moments stretched out, seemingly endless, before any of them felt safe to speak.

“What the hell was that?” Proximo whispered at last, back against the wall. “That voice, it was the one from—”

“The dreams,” Sir Coin gasped. “You too? In my vision, I heard it there as well. It spoke to me!”

“And to me,” Lady Violet whispered.

Proximo gaped at him, then to her, then to the Warden. “What is this?” He pressed himself firmer still against the stones. “What is he?”

The fear still lingered in Lady Violet’s expression. She opened her mouth to answer, but stopped herself. “I don’t entirely know,” she said at last.

“Please,” said Coin, “no more lies. No more cryptic talk, I can’t bear it.”

“I am not lying,” Violet insisted. “I think we are all past that, at this point. But what little I know . . .” She looked to the Warden, half-afraid. “It is not for me to tell. I promised him I would not.”

“Promised him?” Proximo asked, taken aback even more. “The Warden of Honesty asked you to keep something secret?” It was so extraordinary that Proximo couldn’t even believe it was a lie. Lady Violet was a far better liar than that. “What did—”

“We must go,” the Warden of Honesty said suddenly.

Everyone made an involuntary jump back as the Warden spoke and stood. Remnants of his shocked look remained on his face, but only traces—as though all resolve had returned, his expression returned to its ordinary stone-like state. He began to walk to the door.

“My friend? My honest friend?” Lady Violet asked hesitantly. “Where are you—”

“Halforth,” the Warden grunted, reaching for the door.

“No.”

The Warden of Honesty froze in place, hand outstretched, and turned his eye around to face Violet. There was some measure of fear on her face, but even as the Warden of Honesty loomed over her, large enough to break her like a twig, she stood her ground.

“You will go nowhere,” she said steadfastly. “You will remain here, and not speak of this. That is my order.”

Proximo buried his face in his hands. “My lady,” he said, exhausted, “we can’t keep this up any longer.”

“Are you suggesting,” Lady Violet said, “that you will tell Halforth?”

“Yes,” said Coin, standing up straight.

“I think not. Because you understand the consequences, both of you. What do you suppose will happen, when Halforth learns of this? I think you can imagine well enough. Is that a risk you are willing to take?” No response came. “My honest friend, the consequences of truth are no concern to you. I love you for that, but I still cannot allow it. Will you disobey?”

The Warden not taken another step since the order came. He looked to Violet, his expression unreadable. “We cannot,” he admitted. “But we cannot hide this truth. Let us go.”

“No.”

“Please,” he said quietly.

She shook her head. “No words I can say will ever sway your mind. It is no fault of yours, but I will never convince you. But I do not have to. You have your orders.”

“Have you not said,” the Warden of Honesty began, “that we must think more for ourselves? As a person? Not just orders?”

Those words seemed to strike deep. Lady Violet was, for a moment, speechless. “This will hurt people, Honesty. Friends. I cannot allow that.”

The Warden bowed his head. “We will allow no hurt to friends. Would never act to cause it. Never.”

“Whether you choose it to hurt someone means nothing. It will nonetheless.”

“We can set it right. Save friends. Not hurt.”

Violet looked at him in with a sad and desperate look. “I’ve seen this before. Not long ago, that night when the anonymites came, after you had threatened Sir Alwin. You had collapsed then, as well, and when you woke you pointed a sword at your own neck. I had to stop you. Don’t you see that this is the same?”

“It is not.” He took a gentle step forward, but halted as he saw her tense. “This one has learned. Learned much. From you, and others. Were wrong before.” He raised his head, his look distant. “Still hard to admit. The way of this one not always right. Things we did not see. Things we should not do. But this,” he said with a gesture to the door, “is right. No alternative, to save them.”

“The Warden is right.” Proximo stood up straight. “My lady, how can we possibly keep this up? The truth is out—we cannot put the cork back in the bottle. Even if we wished to, how can it be done? You and us, the Changelings, the Martes, the Moderators. There are too many moving parts, too many variables, too many to hide it from, or to expect to hide it. It will get out, one way or the other.”

“Halforth already knows it,” said Coin. “He just can’t prove it. It won’t matter, if he launches a red rinse.”

Proximo nodded. “We can either come clean now, or simply watch him infer the truth later, when his guess will be enough to condemn us anyways.” He braced himself against the table. “I don’t know if it was right to conceal this before, but there is no way that we can do it now.”

Lady Violet could see that it was three against one. “Halforth,” she said, “is not reasonable. The reasons for withholding all of this will not matter to him. He will not listen.”

“He will listen to us,” said the Warden. “There is a way. End lie, protect friends. Both. We know how. You taught us.”

Lady Violet squeezed at her temples. “I have taught you, but not enough. You don’t know how to speak to lords or judges.”

“Halforth is different. Is like us. Like this one.”

“He is the only one we need to convince.” Proximo ran the scenario through his head. “There are three judges to decide Dabrius’ fate, and ours. Sir Borlund is lost, but Sir Alwin is already with us. Lord Halforth is the last, and he is the only one who can call off the red rinse as well. It does not matter what the Martes or anyone else thinks—only him.” The more he considered it, the more sense it made. “My lady, I think the Warden should try.”

Coin jumped in. “We have tried everything else, and all it did was lead us here.” He looked to the lady. “Halforth can be swayed, by the right voice. What else is left?”

There came a knock at the door.

It was as if an Engine at full speed had come to a sudden, jerking halt. Everyone went quiet. Proximo might have wondered who could possibly be demanding time from them at such an hour, but part of his mind already worked out the answer. The guards down the hall were not to interrupt under any circumstances. He could imagine only one other that would still be working feverishly so late at night, still be awake to send representatives to the Wardens. A creeping dread worked across Proximo.

Lady Violet seemed at a loss. No doubt she’s having the same thought as me. If that was true, though, it meant that she had little choice. “Enter,” she said, weakly.

Cellia Ravenry stepped in, hesitantly. “My lady,” she said. “Sir,” she added to Sir Coin. “Lord Halforth demands to see you.”

Lady Violet gaped. “Regarding what?”

Cellia bit her lip. “I cannot say. I was surprised when his honor asked for your presence at this hour. I had expected to find you abed.”

Proximo noticed a certain fatigue as Cellia spoke. He had the distinct feeling that this night had not been much easier for her. It is about to get worse.

“There’s nothing you can tell us?” Coin asked.

The Peacekeeper rubbed at her eyes. “I am truly uncertain. There was another person there, when he sent for you. I do not know who, some Dreamweave lordling alongside Lord Albright.”

“Oh no,” Proximo heard Coin murmur.

Lady Violet waved him to silence. “I will proceed there posthaste. But, Miss Ravenry, could you allow us the room a moment longer?”

Cellia opened her mouth to object, but glanced around the room. Then, she nodded and shut the door behind her.

“Time is up,” said Coin.

Lady Violet stood alone, and looked at the door like it was the mouth of Hell. “There is a way around this. I . . . I just need a moment.” Her fingers dug into her forehead. “I can do it. I have to. Remain here, this is the only way—”

“Yes,” said the Warden, “this is.” Standing between her and the door, the Warden extended to her an enormous hand. “Do not need to carry burden any longer. This one will take it. We will do this thing.”

“I can’t,” Lady Violet whispered, exhausted. “My honest friend, I—”

“You always said,” the Warden began, “that this one could be better. Be more. You said this. Was it true?”

She had no reply. Violet closed her eyes, head tilted to the floor, then wiped at them with a shaky hand. “I am so tired,” she said numbly, after a moment. She shook her head. “It was true. It still is. I believe in you. But you must promise me—promise me—that you will be careful. So much at risk. It will not be easy.”

“We know,” said the Warden, as he walked to the door.

* * * * * *

They went together. Cellia led them forward, but otherwise they walked side-by-side, all of them, through the Palace of Aureliano. They walked silently. Nervousness radiated off Cellia. Lady Violet had recovered much of her poise, but her eyes betrayed her. The stony face of the Warden of Honesty betrayed nothing.

Coin was no longer with them. Lady Violet’s last instructions to him were clear. “Many of our friends are now abed. Rouse them, and ready them,” she had said.

“I can,” Coin had replied, with some reluctance. “But ready them for what?” To fight? was the unspoken question.

Lady Violet did not say as much. “I truly do not know. Something will happen when we enter those chambers. We might be saved, or doomed, and I cannot say which. But I believe that whatever it is, you will feel it echo in ever hall in this Palace. Be ready, for when we emerge.” And so Coin had taken his leave, and left them all with one fewer friend walking to Halforth’s chambers.

There was nothing but the sound of their own feet as they walked. The Palace halls were empty in the dead of night, lit by nothing but dimming lamps and the faint moonlight.

Proximo walked numbly, as though someone else was steering his limbs. He wondered if his own unease was obvious as well—if someone could look at him and recognize anxiety. And fear. He knew what lay at the end of this. There was good reason to be afraid.

None of them spoke when they reached the door. It seemed to loom very large. No one went to open it.

Cellia’s voice was low. “Sir Alwin and Sir Borlund are present. As is Lord Albright. I did not see her other Prefects, but then I never think they’re in the room until they appear. Percy and Abi are down in the city.” She paused. “Be careful. I don’t imagine I will be able to help you more, once we are in there.”

“Thank you, Cellia,” said Lady Violet. She looked up to the Warden. “Are you ready?”

He nodded solemnly. Without another word, Cellia threw open the door.

Proximo found them all present, just as Cellia had warned. At the center of Halforth’s sparse chambers, there rested a table. On its left side was Sir Borlund Barr, his thick neck bulging with veins and his face hot and red. To the right, Sir Alwin Cameron sat quietly. Standing to the side was the slim, white-clad form of Lord Albright, an odd smile dancing on her lips as they entered.

In the middle of them all was Lord Halforth, radiating anger, with Withins-Bei at his side.

“Ah,” said Halforth, “our resident horse-lovers.” His words were curt and clipped, as though he were biting them off at the end. “I have been hearing interesting talk from this revolting halfwit sitting beside me. If what he tells me is true, it would appear you have a profound interest in being hanged.”

“You always did know how to broach a subject, Brother Halforth,” said Lord Albright, that smile remaining static on her face.

“Quiet,” he snapped. “If even half of what slithered out of this creature’s mouth is accurate, I doubt your answers will even be necessary, horse-lovers. And yet for some ridiculous reason, I feel compelled to ask regardless. Because I have heard,” Halforth continued, hawkish eyes narrowing, “that your agents both traced and made contact with a certain secret society in this city. That, indeed, there has been a sustained, successful, and wholly undisclosed relationship with these individuals over the course of this entire investigation.”

Proximo had grown to know the Lord Moderator well over the past weeks. Never before had he seen Halforth like this. It was not merely in the way he spoke, his usually staid voice laced venom and contempt. His thin face somehow seemed more hollow in the cheeks than usual, and his eyes hinting at dark rings. Surely his head and shoulders were not always so stooped, either. In his tired mind, Proximo wondered idly if the Lord Moderator was perhaps just as exhausted as the Bronies were. Absurd as it sounded, Proximo had never thought of Lord Halforth as a man who needed rest or sleep, but his appearance suggested otherwise.

Proximo did not have any more chance for idle wondering. Sir Alwin opened his mouth to speak, but not before Sir Borlund cut in. “Perjury,” he said with a bash of his hand on the table. “A betrayal of the court! Foul and fouler crime, and with your fandom at the head.” Sir Borlund pointed a finger wildly at the two wardens, and looked back to Lord Halforth. “Did I not say as much? Didn’t I? You can see the lies hanging off their very lips!”

Lord Halforth did not speak against Sir Borlund. That alone was a bad sign. “I have long grown tired of this charade,” the Lord Moderator said harshly. “I have never thought much of your fandom. Never have I held your practices in great esteem. And yet neither did I presume that you would show such a willful disregard for this court. I see that was my first mistake.” His lip had curled from a scowl to a snarl. “This has been a farce from the first word, and I am beginning to see who is behind it.”

“Yes!” spat out Sir Borlund. He brought another meaty fist down onto the table. “Dont’ think I haven’t been watching you. Skulking in the shadows. Lurking behind honeyed words, all while sharpening a dagger to sink into my back. You did the same to Sir Harald and his lad, don’t think I haven’t seen you aiming to do the same to me.” Sir Borlund was on his feet now, and shouting. “Do you deny it, horse-lover? Deny it to my face, if you still care to! Is it true that you have met with the Changeling So—”

“Yes,” said the Warden.

The room was very still. Silently, the Warden of Honesty pulled out two chairs opposite the Lord Moderator. “May we sit?” he asked Lord Halforth.

Sir Alwin and Sir Borlund appeared frozen. Albright was still smiling, her eyes still. Lord Halforth stared at the Warden silently, then offered a nod. It was only after Honesty and Violet took their seats, with Proximo and Coin behind them, that he spoke again.

“You will explain this.” Lord Halforth’s eyes betrayed none of his thoughts. “All of it.”

The Warden did. All of it, every detail, every answer. Occasionally, Lady Violet would speak as well, to comment or clarify, but each would trust the other to speak without reservation, and each spoke only the truth. Weeks of findings and inquiries, marching by in terse, simple words: what they had heard, what they had seen, what they had found. The Changelings, Dabrius, and all else. As it was said, the Lord Moderator looked on, face even, silent and unmoving.

At the end, Lord Halforth looked between the two Wardens. “I suppose,” he began sharply, “that you believe this makes a difference. To reveal this now, after having concealed it.”

“Concealed,” Lady Violet admitted, “but not out of guilt. The danger to our friends—”

“Is irrelevant,” Halforth snapped. “Good reason, to betray the law? There is no such thing. And by law, this information should have been disclosed at once.”

“We disclose it now,” said the Warden of Honesty.

“And we hold nothing back.” The look in Violet’s eyes told Proximo that she had found an opportunity. “My lord, all that we told you is true, and it is the whole truth. Withins-Bei might have told you about Sir Coin trying to arrange meetings with a Changeling agent, yes. But if we had chosen, we could have admitted to that and remained silent on everything else. Instead, we chose to tell you everything, even where we could have done otherwise.”

“I don’t understand,” Sir Alwin said. It was the first time he had gotten a word in since the Bronies entered the room, and he still seemed shocked. He shook his head. “You found this man—your man, your Dabrius—confined among these Changelings? And yet they claim to have no involvement in taking him?”

“That is so,” replied Violet. “They believe it the work of some third party. Saboteurs. I am inclined to believe them.”

“It is absurd,” said Lord Halforth scornfully.

“It’s perjury,” barked out Sir Borlund. “Don’t you see what you’ve done? You’ve given it up.” The sneer on his face had a feeling of triumph radiate off it. “It is as I said, as I always said.”

“It is nothing of the sort,” Lady Violet said coldly. “You accused us again of killing Sir Harald and his squire in tow. You asked if we denied it, though I doubt you cared to hear an answer. Well, I do deny it. I deny it now, as I always have. We had naught to do with his death, not me, nor the wardens, nor Dabrius or any other. We did not kill him. But now, at the end, I am beginning to suspect who did.”

“Well, color me curious,” said Lord Albright. Her smile had not faded, not even once. “It seems to me that the evidence has all run in circles. What proof are you proposing to offer? And against whom?”

“For the proof? I would ask for a questioning. And as for whom?” Lady Violet turned her attention back to the Lord Moderator. “The Channic.”

“The anonymites?” The surprise in Sir Alwin’s voice was not, Proximo suspected, because he had never considered them suspects, but that Violet should mention them now. “Why?”

“They are the only ones left,” said Violet. “I cannot conceive of any others with the motive to accomplish all that has happened here. Give us the chance to interrogate them, and you will have your answer.”

“Oh really?” Lord Albright leaned in. “I admire the confidence. But how can you be sure you will get a truthful answer?” There was a look of excitement in her blue eyes. Proximo got the strange feeling that the Prefect already knew the answer.

Lady Violet seemed reluctant to answer, then sighed. “My honest friend,” she said. “He has a . . . talent for reading the truth of what men say.”

“Court can call witnesses,” the Warden of Honesty said. “We can question. Will not take long.”

“I have that power,” said Halforth. “But if you honestly believe I intend to allow you this, you are more mad than I ever considered. This investigation is over.”

Off to the side, Cellia looked aghast. “Your honor,” she said carefully, “if there is more evidence to consider, then it is improper to—”

“You will speak when spoken to, Miss Ravenry,” Lord Halforth said angrily, “and not before.” When she grew silent, he cast a glance to the Warden. “Is that it, then? Are you a reader of minds, horse-lover? It seems the least of what Lord Albright claims you are. Well, perhaps then you know if I am telling the truth when I name this a desperate gambit, put forward by people caught in a lie.”

“You believe it is true,” the Warden said plainly. “It is not.”

“Oh please,” spat Sir Borlund. “Spare us your denials, horse-lover.” That satisfied sneer had not left his face. “I knew of your guilt the moment I heard of this. I knew, and I was right. Do you see what they’ve done?” he shouted, to no one in particular. “Lying to the court, coercing witnesses, blackmailing a Moderator to do your bidding and rule how you wished—oh yes, don’t think I haven’t learned how you broke Alwin around your hand! Frauds, deceivers, deviants, murderers. I’ll wrap a rope about your neck for this, see if I cannot!”

“That is not true,” Sir Alwin said firmly. “At the least, we ought to hear out these Channic before we rush to—”

“I will delay no longer,” Halforth replied. “Not true, you say? I see differently. It has already been proven to me.”

Shouting erupted from the Moderators. Sir Borlund was railing and pounding the table, veins bulging, while Sir Alwin rose to his feet and demanded to be heard. We’re losing this fight, Proximo thought. A panic was rising in him. The longer this conversation slipped from their control, the worse their situation had become.

“I want a ruling!” shouted Borlund amid the din.

“You will have it,” Halforth replied, rising from his seat. He had taken his gavel from his belt, the black hammer poised in his hand, head resting against the table and ready to be brought down.

Lord Albright eyed the instrument. “Take care not to be hasty, Dyren.”

“Be silent, woman. I will hear no more from you.” Halforth’s grip on the hammer tightened. “I have heard enough.”

Some of Proximo’s panic was clear in Violet. “My lord, I ask—!”

“You will ask for nothing, horse-lover.” Halforth pointed the gavel at her, his face like stone. “You deserve nothing. Save only for this. A motion is before us, sirs. Will judgment be rendered?”

Borlund said ‘yes’ nearly as fast as Sir Alwin said ‘no.’ That left only one.

Lord Halforth was silent. Momentarily, there was a flash of something on his face, something less than certainty. It ended when he clenched his gloved hand. “My course is clear. Miss Ravenry, read them the litany and take them away.”

Proximo wobbled on his feet. That’s it, he thought. It’s done. He saw Violet and the Warden of Honesty ready themselves to speak. They did not get the chance.

Cellia Ravenry had seemed as stunned as Proximo, for a moment. Then, quietly, she spoke. “Your honor,” she said, “I cannot, in good conscience, obey this order.”

“What?” Halforth snapped his gaze to her. “What?”

“It is true that,” Cellia began. She swallowed, then pressed on. “It is true that these actions are suspect at once, your honor. But considering the extenuating circumstances doctrine outlined in the Code, there is reason to—”

“Don’t you prattle the law at me,” Lord Halforth said, furious. “I am the one that wrote it.”

“Then you know this isn’t right!” Even she seemed surprised at her words.

Borlund’s face had gone even more scarlet than before. “You will obey your master, Peacekeeper, or so help me I—”

“I am obeying him, sir,” Cellia replied. “Obeying what he taught, the lessons I learned.” The words seemed to tumble out of her as she spoke. “Your honor, I have been in your service for years. For all that time, you taught me to stand for law, honor, temperance, and truth. For justice. How does this thing you’re doing square with that? How does it square with any of it? You are about to condemn them without appraising all the facts!”

Halforth’s mouth twisted in fury. “You will hold your tongue, Cellia, or I will have it carved out of you, what—”

“The Lord Halforth I know would never talk like that. Not to his servants. Not to me. Your honor,” she said, desperate, “can’t you see there’s something wrong? This isn’t you. You aren’t acting like yourself.”

Even in a man so often stoic as Lord Halforth, Proximo could see that those words triggered something in Lord Moderator’s mind. There was something in his eyes—some flash of color, a flicker of doubt that Proximo could not imagine. For the first time, Dyren Halforth was backing away, confusion clear on his face.

“I . . . I—” Halforth did not seem to have the words to reply. Proximo would not have believed it could happen, but Halforth’s sternness was vanishing. Something else remained—something vulnerable and afraid.

It died in a moment, and the fury returned with a glint of wan color in Halforth’s eyes. “I don’t believe it. Betrayal. I have betrayers and traitors on all sides, and now you as well? There is no one left to trust,” he said, full of hollow anger. This was not Lord Halforth anymore—the man that spoke was erratic, and beyond furious. “I will not countenance it. I will not allow it! You of all people, Cellia, ought to know the cost of this apostasy. I will see it punished with the full force of law, and I will correct it as—”

“As you did for your son?” the Warden of Honesty asked.

The room froze. There was shock on every face. Lady Violet’s mouth hung agape, and Cellia was beyond stunned. Withins-Bei looked as though he desperately wished to be somewhere else. Even Lord Albright’s smile had faded away in an instant. No one spoke.

“How dare you,” Sir Borlund hissed. “To speak such words to a—”

“Get out,” Lord Halforth said to him.

Borlund turned about in surprise. “What?”

“Leave this room. All of you.” Whatever had come over Lord Halforth before, it seemed to wash away from him now, buried beneath cold, calm rage. “Miss Ravenry and the horse-lovers will remain.”

Sir Borlund might have argued, but a look from Lord Halforth dissuaded him thoroughly. All of them left, filing out in a line. The Bronies and Cellia were left with the Lord Moderator. Before Proximo could dare to wonder what in the Web his honest friend was doing, the silence was broken.

“You asked a question of me,” Lord Halforth said, a dangerous tone in his voice.

“This one asked,” Honesty said plainly, “about your son.”

“About my son. About what he did? About my actions? Oh yes, I am certain you would wish to know, and accuse me with what you would learn.” He gritted his teeth. “You have no right to sling such a thing at me, none. You have not the slightest notion of what you say. My son?” He jerked his head away, but Proximo could see his face twisted into a mask of fury. “I suppose you heard some fool rumor that I had him hanged. I did not, though it was all that he deserved. Did those rumors tell you what he did? About the trade he had been dealing in? About who he had been working alongside? About the blood . . . blood on the floor! The graves that had to be filled! Men were dead, and he had used my name to try and sweep it all away. You know nothing.”

Halforth’s hand clenched into a fist so hard that Proximo thought he’d start bleeding through his gloves. “It was irrefutable, undeniable even before he confessed. When he was there, in the court before me, I had the choice to step aside, or to step up and find him innocent despite it all. My own blood, despite it all. But I refused. It would not be right, to let a man go and see him walk away free because of his name, when any common man would see justice. Justice. I should have hanged him, but instead he rots in a cell by my verdict, and there he shall remain.”

The Lord Moderator looking over at them, hand quavering. “To be one with the law, and the Code of the World, it means sacrifice. Of the self, and all the self begets. It was my greatest test, but I passed it, God help me. Perhaps there was a time I would have wept, but I did not. Could I do otherwise, and not betray what was right? Never. Not for anyone, not even for him. My son . . .”

Lord Halforth seemed to sway, grasping at the table for balance. There was panic from Cellia and Lady Violet both, but Halforth raised a hand to stop them.

“This changes nothing. You said this to distract me, to make me doubt, to turn me aside. I cannot be turned. I have gone too far to turn back now, and—”

Cellia stepped forward, and took his arm. “Your honor,” she said quietly, “please.” There was pleading in her eyes, and tears as well. And behind both, fear.

Lord Halforth looked at her hand, then to her face. He saw her eyes, and that fear, and in an instant his expression changed. It might have been unrecognizable in anyone else, but it was as though something was melting away from him, melting off and lightening his features. For a moment, he was silent, his stare not cold but rather full of an uncertainty that did not suit him. As though under a spell, he gently stepped away, and stood alone, facing away from all others.

There was another slow silence. Cellia took a step. “Your honor?”

Halforth’s head was bowed, his hat covering his face. “I have acted shamefully.”

Lady Violet spoke. “No more than us.”

Halforth did not turn. “By the Code of the World,” he said solemnly, “all crimes deserve punishment. But where a crime committed by a Moderator, that assailant is punished by twice the sentence of a common man. No one is held to higher standard under the law than those who make the law. We ought to know better.” He looked down at his hand. “Miss Ravenry, you spoke correctly. I am not acting like myself. The nights pass, and I cannot sleep. I find myself in dreams, ones I cannot describe here. And I see them still, even now with my waking eyes.

“There is . . . there is something very wrong here. Wrong with me, and only now can I truly see it, as though some mist over me was lifted. I told myself it was just in my head, and God help me I think it is true.” He gave a bitter, shaky laugh. Removing the glove from his right hand, Halforth stared down at the wedding band he wore. “It has been some time, since I was last afraid.”

That admission hung heavy in the air. It was Lady Violet who spoke again. “My lord,” she began, “I believe I know of what you speak. There is something happening in this city that I do not pretend to fully understand. But it is dark and dangerous, whatever it is, and I cannot doubt that it has a terrible intent. And I believe,” Lady Violet said gravely, “that it is somehow linked with the fate of Sir Harald and his squire. Tied with everything that we have been searching for here. The Channic might be at the center of this. They practically said as much to us.”

“Yes,” Lord Halforth said. He still seemed shaken. “I know what they say. My lady, I am not a superstitious man. But I have seen the Chan. I believe I know this thing to which they refer.”

“The Beast in the Bay,” the Warden of Honesty murmured.

“Indeed. Foolishness and folklore, some would claim. And yet I have seen things in my days and dreams. When rational explanations fail us, we must turn to the answers that seem impossible. You are not the only ones to have considered this, my lord and lady.”

The words clearly worried everyone in the room. “What do you propose, my lord?” Lady Violet ventured.

“Find the Channic. I will send orders, have them brought to us, and put them to the question. But beyond that?” The troubled look in Halforth’s face did not fade. “My lady, I cannot say at the moment. I . . . need to clear my head. It is not clear to me if my judgment can still be trusted.”

* * * * * *

The mood in the barracks when Coin and the others awoke those Honest Friends still abed had not been good. It had scarcely improved after he told them all what had happened.

“The lady commanded us to ready ourselves,” Coin concluded. Around him were the various Honest Friends of the night shift, alert and alarmed, and those of the day shift, a few still rubbing the sleep from their eyes. All were listening carefully, with varying degrees of shock, determination, and fear present on their faces.

“To arms?” Red Autumn grunted. He was already armed, as it happened. If someone told Coin that Red slept in his armor, the way the Warden of Honesty was said to, he would not have doubted it.

“It would appear so,” said Coin. He couldn’t believe the words coming from his lips, but there they were.

“Oh God,” said Daria Faust, eyes wide. The dozens of other Honest Friends around them seemed to agree. Murmurs and whispers ran through the assembled ranks.

Jon Faust stepped forward, and put up a quieting hand. “Enough. We have orders, now let’s set about following them. I want a drafted team of Friends that will be able to march down to the city and secure the Changeling Society. If Halforth rules in our favor, we will need to send a party to get the Changelings in hand alongside the Mods.”

“And what if Halforth doesn’t rule in our favor?” Dustario said sourly. His lip curled across the scarred side of his face in displeasure. Clearly, he already knew which was more likely.

Jon Faust swallowed. “Well,” he said, “then we’ll have quite a night on our hands.”

“So this is it.” Dalwin said solemnly. “For good or ill, the hour of doom. A grim time.”

Strongshield glowered. “I can’t believe that all our prospects lie in the hands of a stubborn old man.” She fastened the straps on her armor tightly, each tug with more anger behind it than necessary. “They cannot hope to overcome the Warden’s will.”

Jon, an Honest Eye as well, nodded. “Not so long as we carry it out. Our first priority is to secure our other less martial friends. Squads to each room in the Palace taken by Friends of other branches. Retrieve them and the guards they have posted outside their rooms, and then bring them all back here.”

Applewood raised a hand, while he was retrieving weapons from another Honest Friend with the other. “Not meanin’ t’question, but will this be the safest safekeep for ‘em? If Halforths feeling’ unkindly, Mods are sure to raid our home sweet home down ‘ere.”

“You are not wrong,” Jon said, “but frankly we have no other choices. This is the place in the Palace we can best secure, and we can hardly take to the streets as an alternative.”

Jorama piped up. “Weapons for the close-quarters, then. It shall be like the mines of my homeland, once more.” She pulled up the golden bandana around her neck, covering her mouth.

“Too right,” said Applewood. “Where’s Selda? We could use that axe ‘o hers. Actually, where’s Kriseroff? Assumin’ he fits in the hallways.”

“Selda is down in the city with Apple Orange, keeping watch on that opera house,” said Jon Faust. “The anonymites were seen around there, so we had need of eyes on it. As for Kris, I should hope that he is—”

“Uurrrgh,” came a sleepy groan from the corner of the room.

“—Awake,” Jon finished. “Yes, there he is.”

“I am woken,” Kris said hoarsely. There was still an unsteadiness in his step as he clambered forward. It had taken three people to rouse him, and even then he was threatening to drift back to sleep the whole time. “If Kriseroff’s waking is because of enemies, you will be telling me of them. I will kill them, and then sleep again.”

“If the Mods might threaten us,” Red Autumn interrupted, “we should not be waiting meekly down here. We should seize the Palace now, while there’s a chance. The Warden’s strength goes with us.” Next to him, silent Crispin Peck began nodding enthusiastically.

There were some murmurs of agreement from others, many of whom wore the Honest Eye upon their breasts. Jon spoke up to silence them. “We don’t have close to the men to take the Palace,” he said. “Not against the Watch and the Mods as well. And it would be madness to make the first strike before we even know if we’re fighting.”

“Lady Violet and the Warden may yet resolve all of this,” Coin spoke up. “And even if they cannot, it may be that they do not wish us to fight.” He knew that if it came to it, the Wardens would much rather give up themselves and have the other Bronies go free. That those same Bronies would find such a sacrifice unthinkable would no doubt also occur to them. Six save us, I hope it doesn’t come to that.

Jon nodded. “I know what’s at stake, but we holdfast and follow the command. I will have no one here making the first blow, understood?” When it was clear that it was, Jon said, “Very well. Two minutes for the first groups to suit up and group up, and then we head for the rooms. Everyone else, get ready as fast as you can and start securing this place. Six and One.”

“Six and One,” everyone intoned, and set to their work. They moved quickly: the night shift were already prepared for a fight, and began lining up, while all those who had been asleep strapped on armor and took hold of arms.

Standing near the door, Coin could not banish that sense of dread that had been with him all night. ‘The hour of doom,’ Dalwin had named it. Whatever happens, this is where it will be decided. That door to the rest of the Palace suddenly seemed very unfriendly.

He felt Jon Faust clap a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t free, friend. The Warden has emerged from far more dire straits than this. The lady too. I’ve little doubt they’ll succeed.”

“I hope so.” Coin did not wish to seem hopeless. It was in part, after all, his own advice that had led to the Wardens going to Halforth themselves. He believed they could do it, somehow pull everything back from the edge of madness. But in the dark of the night, it was difficult to see when dawn would come.

Jon’s hand squeezed Coin’s shoulder reassuringly. “Hope, and set forth, my friend. We’ve a plan, and the means to do it, and that’s better than most. I would say—”

They were interrupted by the door opening. An Honest Friend who had been guarding it from the outside stepped in, a tense look on his face.

“What is it, man?” Jon asked.

“Sir,” the guard said quietly, “I think there is someone out there. In the halls.”

Jon and Coin exchanged a worried look. Remaining quiet, Jon signalled the assembled friends with his hands, urging them to stand ready. Gingerly, he and Coin stepped outside the room.

It was late enough at night, and the barracks were located low enough in the earth, that the halls were pitch black. They all led to other wings of the basement or upstairs to the larger Palace, but it was hard to tell that in the dark. Shadows seemed to pool down those halls, extending far like the tunnels of a cave.

Jon peered down those halls, trying for a glimpse at whatever had been seen. He looked down them, silently.

“I . . . I thought I saw someone,” the guard explained. He tugged at the gold-and-orange uniform he wore. “I could have sworn . . .”

Coin took a look as well. Whilst Jon watched the left, Coin looked right. It was utterly still. He saw nothing move in the dark, and heard no sound. Nothing.

He heard Jon let out a breath behind him. “Let’s get moving. We’ve got ground to cover, seeing that the Martes insisted on spreading out our Friends across the Palace, we ought to—”

Then, faintly, there was a noise from the shadows

Jon halted suddenly, and then drew a sword from his belt. “Who goes there?” he barked. “Show yourself, or—”

Coin spun around just in time to see a knife fly out from the dark and take the guardsman next to them in the neck. Gasping, Coin dove to the side.

“To arms!” he heard Jon cry, as the next knife flew.

* * * * * *

“I can feel it in my bones. On the surface of my mind.” Lord Halforth rubbed at his head. “Even in the darkest days of the Channic campaigns, it was never quite like this. How did I not recognize it sooner? There is a subtlety to it that is difficult to explain. Hard to see, before another points you to it.”

Now that Halforth spoke to them as something other than an executioner, Proximo felt some of the tension depart the room. It swelled back when they began discussing the ‘presence,’ as they had so named it. He still felt his skin crawl when he thought back to the episode he’d experienced some mere hours ago. Somehow, hearing a man like Halforth speak of it in deadly seriousness made it all the more unnerving.

Lady Violet looked as though she were trying to pick apart every word and thought, and put them back together again. If that were the case, Proximo doubted that arranging those pieces made them any easier to understand. “What of the red rinse?” she asked at last, with an exacting look at Lord Halforth.

“With all frankness, my lady,” replied Halforth, “this uncomfortable realization of mine has not made me less inclined to pull this island apart and affix those responsible to a gibbet.” There was a certain wryness to his tone, though it did not reach his face. “Your concern I understand. Prior to tonight, it would have been warranted. But I have too few Moderators in this city to solve a problem of this magnitude, and too few resources. The reinforcements from Central will be black-clad, with block boxes in hand. Nothing less will do.”

“In the meantime,” he continued, “there is the matter of the Changelings and the Channic. I will have words with both, before this is done. Prior to that, I would ask for the room. Yours is not the only counsel to which I owe much. There are some words that I owe my Peacekeeper.

Cellia’s look was a mix of surprise and concern. To the request, Violet bowed her head. “Of course, my lord. Take whatever time is needed. We shall all eagerly await your calling. Until then, I—”

“Hold,” said the Warden of Honesty.

“My honest friend?” Violet asked. Her face sank, when he did not answer at once. “My honest friend, what is it?”

The Warden took a step away from the wall, keeping his back to her and everyone else. His eye was fixed squarely on the door. “Someone outside. More than one.”

That drew Proximo’s attention. He stared at the entranceway, at the shut door. Proximo had not heard anything . . . but then, he was not the Warden of Honesty.

“Mister Cartwright and Miss Cawtler?” Halforth suggested.

“No,” the Warden said, “more.”

Proximo was on his feet before he even knew it. Cellia had stepped in front of Lord Halforth, just as Honesty stood between Violet and the door. It was Violet who next spoke. “My lord,” she said evenly, “we ought to—”

It was at that moment that the door flung open, and for a moment Proximo went blind. He had heard something crack and hiss and bang in front of him, and then suddenly all his vision had gone to blurry outlines, and his hearing but to noise. Just barely, he could see motion and movement from show indistinct forms, then the shape of a giant pass in front of his vision. It was only a half-second later, amid the noise and fear, that he saw the masks the figures wore, and the steel in their hands.

* * * * * *

No one knows precisely when the Warden of Laughter joined the Brony Fandom—not even the Warden of Laughter himself, to hear him say it. In the author’s interviews with Jestin Jen, the Warden claimed that there was no moment of conversion, nor any sudden choice to join with the other followers of the Six. His presence among them, and his cognizance of being a Brony, simply ‘was.’ This author would grow increasingly used to answers of this character whilst writing of Lord Jen’s story.

Regardless, it is known that Jestin Jen was indeed in the Chan during the advent of the fandom, but only briefly. Such were the ways of a Bard Errant, a Troper of Taveeda, a member of that strange order of raconteurs and players that wind their way about the Web, searching out new songs and stories to add to their great catalogues. A Bard of Lord Jen’s character would spend their lives in near constant motion, travelling wayward as the muse takes them, seeking out the permutations of the Monomyth in which they believed. Of the Wardens of the fandom, only Lady Wright could claim to be nearly as well travelled as Lord Jen, and even so she doubted that he had told her half of the things he had really seen.

So what was Lord Jen expecting, when he stepped off that teetering merchant hull and onto the salt-mired shores of the Chan? Tropers seek out stories, after all. If it was a drama he wanted, the Chan certainly delivered.

By this point, the Brony fandom had truly become a fandom, and the Chan a firestorm. The early weeks of various cultic bands of Bronies were long gone, and a new order had arisen, one of armies and exiles, leaders and followers. Madelin Wright’s flight to Comchan was completed, and her army had united with that of the Warden of Honesty—the man who had carved a fragile realm with blood and sword. Feylen Mars, Lillian Semmer, and the newly-named Violet Brushshape were among the nonmilitant members of the fandom, many of whom were evacuating to Sixchan-in-the-Sea, far from Mods and Channic alike. All of them knew one another, either from meeting in person or from letters exchanged at feverous pace. For at this time, their deeds were such that most everyone in the conflict knew the names of all our present Wardens.

All, save for one. For at this time, Jestin Jen was a stranger to everyone. This would not last long.

— Excerpt from The Brony War, by Lorelove

Prologue

THE WORLD WITHIN THE WEB

* * * * * *

Prologue

* * * * * *

“On this day I would declare myself for the Six Who Are One.
Let me give Kindness when there is only hate.
Let me show Loyalty to all who I call friend.
Let me be Honest to cut through the lies.
Let me have Generosity when I have nothing left to give.
Let me know Laughter when only darkness remains.
And let me see the one Magic that unites us all.

“Through day and night, through sun and moon,
let me follow the One True Path.
On this day I pledge my life to the Collective,
for the ten thousand trials and triumphs to come.

“Six and One.”

* * * * * *

Two men walked urgently through the city, long after the sun had set on the Internet.

Hanging above them were dim paper lamps that shined with a smattering of different colors, all reds and yellows and oranges, casting painted shadows down the wynds and alleys. It was late in the evening, late enough that the streets were almost deserted, aside from a handful of suspicious looking youths and the occasional drunk. The city of the Dreamweave was sleeping, and the lights people had hung up earlier in the day were beginning to go out without anyone attending them.

It was all pretty enough, but Dale had more important things on his mind, and he suspected that Sir Harald did as well. Though Dale had been Harald’s squire for nearly two years, he had never felt as though he was in danger until that night, as they walked through the streets of the Dreamweave.

Sir Harald Corey was a Knight Censor, more used to reviewing and clearing books and portraits for public viewing than fighting in battles or going after criminal gangs. Dale couldn’t stop himself from feeling disappointed when he first started serving the knight, especially after all the dreams of adventure he’d had in the academy. It seemed silly now, with a feeling of dread sitting in his stomach like a rock as the lights darkened.

Dale was barely twenty, but he was nearly two heads taller than Sir Harald, who was stocky, red-faced, and around forty at Dale’s guess. The knight was a hot-headed man, and none too pleased with having to put up with the nonsense that was natural to working among the people of the Dreamweave. He didn’t seem the least bit frightened, however, as Dale followed him down Sighing Street and toward the dark part of town. They hadn’t seen anything particularly threatening yet—aside from four unwholesome-looking sorts with brightly dyed hair who had almost walked up to them, before Sir Harald moved for his sword and sent them scurrying off—but it didn’t matter much to Dale’s mind.

The two had left a few hours after their evening recitation, and Dale had been trying to work up the bravery to tell Sir Harald to turn back since then. He didn’t have the courage for that either. Get a hold of yourself, Dale thought. You’re a squire for the Order of the Guided Hand and you’ll be a knight of the Moderator Authority yourself someday. A Moderator fears nothing, and neither should you. Though he knew it to be true, the thought helped allay none of the unease Dale felt as they walked closer to the unlit district.

The area had had a proper name once, but Dale had never bothered to learn it, and everyone just called it Nightside now anyways. It was a maze of abandoned buildings, shops, and homes, left empty when their owners had left the Dreamweave for better opportunities elsewhere. No one respectable went there anymore, at least not when they were in the eye of the public. But nevertheless, that was where Sir Harald was intent on going with Dale in tow. The squire had hoped that it wouldn’t come to that, but his master had insisted as soon as he received the letter not ten hours before.

'Aureliano and Pilara, Arcadio and the watch, the horse-lovers, the nobles and your guards as well,' the message had read, 'today they smile and plead, but there are daggers in the dark… and eyes on you, Sir Harald. Something is moving in the city, and you are at the center, whether you know it or not. You were threatened last night. Your men are selling secrets. You are in danger, and you know this more than anyone. The move will come soon. Meet us tonight: Nightside, the Laughing Man. Come alone, but come armed — the streets are not safe.'

Who had sent the message, Dale did not know. But despite what it said, the squire had found himself ordered to come with the knight regardless. Dale remembered how he had argued with Sir Harald, begging him not to go, but nothing would stop him.

“Someone’s out to kill me,” Sir Harald had said. “I either go talk to these people or wake up with a knife through my head. All I wonder is who’s behind all of it,” he had ranted while pacing back and forth in Dale’s small room. “The nobles all hate me, you’ve seen that. Aureliano with his simpering, Arcadio threatening, Withins-Bei and his damn jokes. But the horse-lovers, it must be them. You’ve seen them skulking around, like they always do, whispering behind my back. You heard what that little prat Dabrius said to me last night! It must be them, I always knew it!”

“With all due respect, sir, I don’t think this is a good idea,” Dale had replied. “You shouldn’t go alone: if you ask your guard then I’m sure th—”

“No. If someone’s trying to kill me then I can’t trust a single one of them, just like I’ve always thought,” Sir Harald had said stubbornly. “You. You’re going with me. Because there’s no one else I can ask.”

There wasn’t anything left for Dale to say after that. Even if he could say no, Sir Harald wasn’t one to give up anything once he got the idea in his head. He was a short man, and not just in terms of height. He had a temper like no one else, and it hadn’t helped him make friends in the Authority, nor in the Dreamweave where he was assigned. The people his job forced him to deal with hadn’t made that easy to begin with.

Sir Harald had been sent to the Dreamweave three months ago in order to settle a dispute the Lord Moderator was interested in seeing finally put to rest. The Dreamweave was open to almost everyone, with both independent artists and members of any of the major fandoms free to create and sell their art as they see fit.

Any of the fandoms, save for one. The exception was saved for one group in particular, the newest of the Great Fandoms, one that had risen from war in the Chan and only grown since then, one that had warred against the Moderators in the past, and one with members as strange as its subject. They styled themselves ‘the Brony Collective,’ and had become a grave concern for the important people of the Dreamweave.

Dale was not certain why the noble families of the Dreamweave had banned the ‘horse-lovers’ from entering their city, but a Declaration of Doctrinal Incompatibility was no idle show of disagreement. Followers exiled, art banned, ships that flew the fandom’s colors turned away, and things only grew worse from there, until a few months ago when some deranged Brony burned himself alive on the docks in protest. The Lord Moderator had dispatched Sir Harald to resolve the situation before it garnered any more attention, but so far neither the Dreamweave nor the horse-lovers would budge. Sir Harald was not one to give up easily, however.

Nightside was unlit, and empty from the looks of things. The buildings here were half ruined, a mass of wood and stone and concrete that looked about ready to tumble over. Still, it was clear that it wasn’t all abandoned—dim glows could be seen in a few windows, and new looking posters and graffiti plastered the walls around them.

They were Brony propaganda, that much was certain. One read ‘Are you an Honest Friend?’ while ‘Are you a Laughing Friend?’ was written on another. There was a curious message over the same wall, though: in white paint, someone had scrawled the words ‘Who is the Oathbreaker?’ The lord of the city often talked about how secret Collective supporters organized in Nightside, and for all his pomposity and lies it seemed he wasn’t completely wrong.

Dale had never been to Nightside before, but the way people spoke of it made him expect roving gangs, people cutting purses or robbing unlucky vagrants. Not tonight though. The silence was almost palpable; not a soul could be seen anywhere. There were no shouts, no screams, no crashes or clangs or a single whisper to be heard. Somehow that made it far worse.

“Sir,” Dale spoke up, “it’s not too late to turn back.”

“Of course it is,” Sir Harald replied. “If my life is in danger then I want to know who’s behind it.”

“The danger’s right here,” Dale said nervously. “I don’t like this place.” He looked up at the buildings around them, all of them looming ahead oppressively. The streets seemed to be growing darker and darker the closer Dale and Sir Harald came to the end. “It could just be another one of Withins-Bei’s pranks. We should go back, now.”

“Are you afraid of the dark, boy? You’ve been my squire for two years now, don’t fail me when I need you more than ever.”

Dale swallowed. “Yes sir.”

They walked for a few more minutes, though it felt like an eternity for Dale. Eventually the two reached the end of a street that connected to some sort of square, long abandoned. There was a patch of dirt in the middle where the remnants of an old and long-forgotten tree stood, with stone benches lining each side. The squire was about to step forward when Sir Harald put out his hand to stop him.

“You see that, Dale?” the knight said quietly as he pointed to a ruddy and rundown-looking building. “The sign in the front. That’s the Laughing Man.”

Sure enough, the building had a painted sign swinging on a pole outside of it. It depicted a grinning face, though the paint had long since faded. There were no lights inside, however, and no one to be seen around.

“There’s no one there,” Dale said.

“Yes, I can see that,” Sir Harald whispered, sounding irritated. “Here’s what you’re going to do. You stay here, just around this corner. I’ll walk over there and see if our friends plan on showing up. If it seems like anything’s wrong, you whistle. If something happens to me, you try and help me over there. And if you can’t, you run back to the palace and tell the guards exactly what happened. Where we were, who I spoke with, what they looked like, everything.”

“I’m not going to let you go out there alone!” Dale said, only barely able to keep his voice down.

“Yes, you are. They told me to come on my own.” The stocky knight put a meaty hand on his squire’s shoulder. “And remember, if anything happens that you can’t help me out of…”

“I run back to the palace and get the guards,” Dale said dejectedly. A knight never runs, and neither should his squire, he thought. But it was no good saying that.

“Right. Now stay put.” The knight walked slowly into the courtyard, while Dale only nodded dumbly.

Sir Harald continued to move forward, passing the benches and reaching the sign in front of the Laughing Man. He stood there for what seemed like a long time, but just as he looked around again a voice called out from the shadows.

“Sir Harald?” they asked. It was a man’s voice, but it sounded muffled.

“Yes,” he replied. “You’re the one who sent the message?”

“My friend did. He’s here as well. You are alone?”

“As agreed.” Sir Harald turned around, peering about to find the speaker. “Can’t you step out here, where I can see you? I would like to see your faces.”

The voice sighed. “I know you would. Very well.”

Two figures stepped out of the shadows, one from the front of the Laughing Man and the other from an alley behind it. They were both hooded, and wore long, dark clothes, but that wasn’t what made Dale frightened. On both of their faces were masks, covering them completely. It was difficult to see their exact designs from where Dale stood, but they left little doubt as to who they belonged to. Anonymites, Dale thought, panicking. The anonymites of the Chan were infamous for wearing masks, even among friends and family. It was considered a sign of weakness to show your true face there, or to give your birth-name. They were a strange, lawless, and brutal people, and they had no love of the Authority either.

“Who are you two, then?” Sir Harald asked brusquely.

“Friends. The best kind.”

“Something more specific would be nice. You said my life was in danger?”

“Well, of course,” the man on the right said, his masked and hooded head tilting at the knight. “We meant what we said, you know. The Martes, the horse-lovers, the rest of the nobles as well… forgive me for saying so, but they do hate you.”

Sir Harald snorted. “I noticed. But you people don’t?”

The masked man laughed softly. “I do not, Sir Harald. Truly, I do not.” He raised a hand into the air and whistled to the darkness, but Dale saw no one in the direction to which he had signalled.

Sir Harald glanced over as well, and grimaced when he saw no one. “More friends?”

“Indeed. Forgive me again, Sir Harald, but we had to make sure it was safe. Nightside is dangerous. And the men you wanted to know of, the ones that want you dead? They are close, even now.”

“Who?”

“Us.”

Sir Harald rushed forward, looking to lash out at the masked man, but the anonymite was too quick and dodged out of the knight’s way. Suddenly, out of nowhere, before Dale could even think, a crossbow bolt shot out from the darkness.

Sir Harald doubled over, a thin quarrel sticking out of his back. Striding over, the second man drove a knife into Sir Harald’s side. He cried out in pain, throwing a meaty fist at his attacker and smashing him across his head.

Hands shaking, Sir Harald grunted and moved for his sword. He never reached it. The masked man he had been speaking to dashed back, knife in hand. In a flash, Dale saw the blade buried in his master. Sir Harald gasped and fell, reaching dumbly to the bolt sticking out of him, as Dale looked on in numb terror.

The knight slumped to the ground, blood pooling out in front of the grinning sign. The two men with the knives stood over him, while another walked in from the dark, crossbow in hand. Dale wanted to run, to hide, but he couldn’t find it in him to move. He could only watch as the three figures looked up from the body and to one another.

“Well, that’s done then,” said a different voice, more harsh and coarse than the first. “He stays here?”

“Yes. They should find him tomorrow. It’s a shame,” the first anonymite said, almost sadly.

“What is?” said the second.

“That he didn’t come alone.” The empty eyes of the mask turned to face directly at Dale.

Dale forgot that he was a squire then. He ran, blind with fear, but felt something slam into his back. The force of it made him stumble, but it was only when he looked down and saw the bloody metal point sticking out of his chest that realized what had happened. No, he thought as he fell to the ground, I have to get the guards. I can still move, I can…

A hand grabbed him on his shoulder and twisted him around. Dale tried to cry out, but the hand moved to his throat, squeezing out his breath. As he gasped for air, the young squire’s eyes rolled up, terrified, at the attacker.

His face was only a mask, made with hollow eyes and a hideous grin that was smiling back at Dale. In his other hand was a knife.

Chapter III: Three Honest Men

* * * * * *

“It is said that there are two kinds of men within the Honest Friends: the builders — farmers, bankers, and workers of the fandom — and the protectors — the Brony Guard forces, and the others who seek to defend the Collective from harm. This makes the Honest Friends one of the more varied branches of the Brony community, as it contains a much wider range of skills than other followers. Consequently, they are the most well-rounded, and the most likely to share tasks with the other Friends. The fandom’s finances are maintained by the both the Generous and Honest, food production is tasked by both the Laughing and Honest, and defense is handled by both the Loyal Friends and the Honest (though the Loyal forces are more attuned to offensive fighting than the Honest). They are the backbone of the Collective, the steady foundation on which all other things are built, and oftentimes those who do not fit within other Brony groups will find their place under the tutelage of the most Honest Friend…”

— “Six Friends: The Structure and Society of the Brony Collective”, by Trending Tome

* * * * * *

“Are you Coin Counter?”

Startled, Coin looked over in the direction of the voice. The speaker was a short man, dark-skinned, dark-haired, and clothed in orange robes and a yellow hood. Around his neck was a golden clasp in the shape of an apple, the symbol of the Honest Friend whom both he and Coin served. On the man’s chest, though, was a symbol Coin didn’t recognise: a golden eye, open and staring out. The messenger smiled, and looked down at Coin eagerly.

“Er, yes. Yes, I am,” Counter replied. He had only just arrived in the Honest Wing of the Citadel, after nearly getting utterly lost. He rubbed his tired eyes quickly and then stood up, giving an awkward bow to the man. The messenger smiled and returned it in kind.

“Forgive me for assuming, but I take it that isn’t your birth name?” the man said, his voice sympathetic.

Coin felt himself turning red. “No, I — ah, I made it up.” Counter had heard that it was common for new converts to take Brony names, and truthfully he had never enjoyed his original one. It seemed foolish to him now, with people asking about it.

The man must have seen how embarrassed he was, because he gave a reassuring smile and said, “Don’t worry, it’s a fine name. People around here will be happy that you didn’t take something with the word ‘apple’ in it — it’s getting hard to keep track of them all. My name is Rolf, by the way.”

“Nice to meet you, sir.”

“Rolf,” he repeated. “This isn’t like what you’re used to in the Authority, where everyone’s a sir or a lord or something. Well, some of them are, but not me. Honestly though,” he said while giving Coin another look over, “I had expected you to be a bit more grandiose with a new name. Trusted Sword, or Oakheart or something. You earned it, considering the service you did the Collective in Reddit. I understand that you were the one who wrapped up that investigation?”

“No. Well, yes, I mean,” Coin stammered. “There was a whole team behind it, Book and Es did a lot of the investigative work as well, and Greenheart was the one who copied the reports for the Authority. If anything they deserve—”

“To come and be congratulated by the Wardens rather than you?” Rolf interrupted. “They’ve been give their commendations and promotions as well, Coin, so don’t worry. But you led the investigation, collected most of the evidence, and presented it to the Lord Moderator over there. Don’t sell yourself short! You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t deserve it. You might be new to the Brony Collective, but that doesn’t mean you’re not important here as well.”

“I… if you say so,” Coin said. “I’m sorry I seem so anxious, but it’s strange being here so soon. I only joined the Brony Collective a few months ago, and now I’m supposed to be talking with the Wardens of Friendship. It’s just… surreal.” Since he had first taken a step into the Citadel, he had been feeling more and more like the Wardens had made some kind of mistake, a thought that hadn’t been helped as he saw the increasing vastness of the palace's interior.

Rolf laughed. “You’re doing fine, really. Walk with me, we’ll get you prepared to meet the Wardens.”

Coin followed behind him, the two of them walking from the bench he was sitting on to the main hallway of the Honest Wing. The room was bustling with people, shouting, singing, pushing carts of food and arguing with one another.

The walls were hung with great murals; one was a map of the Known Internet, while another was a painting done of a green orchard teeming with apples and a red barn in the center. Under it were the words "Faithful and Strong,” written in gold. On another wall was a historic rendering: the armies of Loyalty and Honesty meeting one another for the first time on the Chan, with the two Wardens shaking hands between their troops. The Warden of Loyalty stood proud with an open hand extended, a blue aura around her head. Warden of Honesty was obscured by a group of painters who were renovating the image.

At the end of the hallway was a huge illustration of three apples carved into the wall, marking the area as the center of the Honest Friend’s followers. The whole wing was home to those pledged to Her, all dressed in orange and yellow robes. Rolf and Coin part of this group too, though Coin lacked the proper attire. Pushing through the crowd, they moved into another room on the side, after which Rolf spoke up.

“I trust the voyage over was agreeable?” he asked pleasantly.

“It was fine. A bit slow, though. I’ve never really cared for ships, to be honest. Engines are much more reliable.”

“I suppose they don’t need to catch the wind like ships do.” Rolf sharply turned another corner, before speaking up again as Counter moved to follow. “You’ll be meeting with all of the Wardens during their daily meeting after noon, but the Warden of Honesty has asked to speak with you personally before then.”

“The Warden of Honesty?” Coin said, alarmed. He had never met the Warden before, but the stories that had reached him told a grim story about the man. They said he was equal parts strange and terrifying, a giant who was inhuman, implacable, and utterly without mercy. Coin wondered for a moment how his friends back on Reddit might have felt, if they were in his place. Book and Es would have been honored, and Greenheart would greet the Warden with the same cocksure smile he gave everything. Counter just felt a rock settle in his stomach. “Are you certain he would like to speak with me? I would hate to waste his ti—”

“He asked for you specifically. I’m sure he has a legitimate reason to occupy his time with you.” Rolf gave him a look, and suddenly got a moment of realization. “Ah—you didn’t happen to hear any stories about the Warden before you came, did you?”

How could I not? Coin thought. “They said… he is very brave. And true.”

“I’m sure they also said he was twelve feet tall, breathed fire, and could kill with a glance. I suppose they also said he was a demon in human form as well?” The assistant laughed. “Some of the stories are true, Sir Coin, but many aren’t. You shouldn’t fear meeting him. He is an intensely private man, and sees few guests. You should be honored that he’d like you to join him."

“I… yes, very well,” Counter said, still uneasy. He thought about staying silent, but instead bit his lip and asked, “What is he really like then? I’m sure you know him better than I do.”

Rolf was quiet for a moment, then replied carefully. “He is beyond description. The Warden has... enlarged my mind. A genius, and no less,” he said, his voice full of awe.

He pushed the door open, and the two of them went inside. The room was dim, barely lit at all aside from some candles in an alcove on the wall. It was almost completely bare as well. There was a single chair set aside, completely plain and without ornament. The floor was cold, pale stone, hard and uncovered. Directly in front of Coin, on the other side, was another door, tightly shut. There were two guards standing on either side of it, and a faint light coming from the crack below the door. On the other side, Counter could hear a sound, half-inaudible it was so faint, like a log crackling and burning on a fire.

Seeing them arrive, one of the guards walked up to the two. He had messy hair that stuck up in some places and was matted down in others, and wore chainmail armor with an orange cloak and a sword at his belt. His hand went to the hilt of his weapon as he approached them. “Hey, whoa. What are you doing here, Rolf? And who’s this one?” he said, pointing at Counter.

“This is the man from Reddit, Russi. You remember? The one the Wardens wanted to meet? I thought it would be best if he could talk to the Warden now, before he met the-”

“Oh, he wants to talk to him, hmm?” the guard said, taking a step closer, keeping a hand tight on his sword’s hilt while pointing a quivering finger at Coin. “Listen close. You don’t talk to him, you get that? You listen to him, and he talks to you.”

Coin started to back away slowly, but Rolf stepped in between the two of them. “Calm down, Russi. The Warden asked for him—he isn’t just barging in on a whim. And I was the one who brought him here, so you can blame me for just coming in like this.”

Russi eyed them suspiciously, leaning past Rolf to peer at Coin again. Looking at him, Coin couldn’t help but notice that the guard had a symbol on his chest that matched that of Rolf’s: a golden eye. As he started to wonder what the image meant, Russi spoke up again. “You’re a good man, Rolf, don’t think I don’t know that. But he can’t be thinking he can just go up to the Warden like the Great Honest One is any man. He has the form of a man, yes, but none of the letter, you see? The shape is not him! He’s an instrument,” he said as he turned back to Coin. “You have to remember what he is, or you’ll hurt, understand?”

Coin nodded his head, even though he hadn’t the slightest idea what the deranged guard was talking about. The light under the door seemed to be growing brighter, and the strange crackling sound from behind it was intensifying. By now, however, the other guard had walked up and put a hand on Russi’s shoulder.

“Calm down, friend,” he said. “The Warden will be out soon, and we’ll make sure this one understands before he meets him. You stand watch at the door.”

Russi shot another look at Coin, but nodded his head and walked back to the still-closed door. The other guard turned to Coin. “Sorry about Russi. He can be a bit… enthusiastic towards new people meeting with the Warden.”

“Is he alright?” Coin asked, giving a hesitant glance at Russi. “I thought he was going to attack me, for a moment there.” Truthfully, he was still worried, but now that he was back at his post Russi almost appeared not to notice the people in front of him. His eyes were fixed forward, unflinching, with his hand down at his sword-hilt.

“He can be like that when he thinks people are disrespecting the Warden. He has an enormous respect for him, as do we all.”

Coin nodded, but couldn’t help but feel on-edge. This ‘Russi’ character seemed calm now, but he had a sword and Coin did not.

The guard turned his attention to Rolf. “He isn’t completely wrong, though. The Warden is meditating at the moment, and cannot be disturbed under any circumstances. You know that as well as I do, Rolf, so I’m afraid that you two will have to wait until he’s finished. Besides,” he said to Coin, “there are a few things you should know before you meet him.”

Coin looked between the two of them, lost. “Like what?”

“The Warden is not a man for pleasantries or flattery. Don’t use either of them when you’re speaking to him, just speak as plainly and as straightforwardly as you can. And don’t be unnerved by how he speaks either. Once you know him, you’ll understand.”

“Don’t mention anything about his appearance either, especially his honest eye,” Rolf interjected. “He’s never told anyone about it, and asking will only make him angry. And never lie to him, under any circumstance. He can tell, and there’s no better way to earn his ire than to prove you’re a liar.”

“What?” Coin asked, confused. He glanced over to the closed door, trying to imagine the man who was behind it. The light from under the door was quite bright now, and the burning sound was louder than ever. “How can he tell? And what do you mean, his honest eye? What a-”

Before he could finish, a woman wearing purple robes with a green hood walked in. She strode up to the guard urgently.

“I’m sorry to interrupt, but Lord Feylen has requested the Warden of Honesty’s presence immediately,” she said quickly, while giving a bow.

Russi walked up again. “He’s not to be disturbed when he’s in his chambers. Not under any circumstan-”

Suddenly, the light under the door went out, and the noise from behind it stopped. Russi went wide-eyed and ran back to the door, as did the other guard. Coin, Rolf, and the messenger were left staring at the door as a series of metallic clunks came from the other side. Both Rolf and the messenger went down on one knee facing the door, and once Coin saw he did the same, panicked.

Coin was sweating under his clothes, but Rolf leaned over to him and whispered, “Don’t worry too much. Russi was right about another thing, though. The Warden is greater, different from anyone in the world. He’ll change who you are, how you think, everything.”

“I’m not sure I should be meeting him now,” Counter said. He had the sudden urge to run out of the room, but a similar terror kept him rooted to the spot. “I don’t even know his name!”

Rolf looked at him, almost amused. “The Great Honest One? He doesn’t have a name. Isn’t that the most incredible thing?” he said, softly, as he looked again at the door.

Coin followed his eyes, and saw the doorknob turn. The door opened quickly, and Counter almost gasped as his eyes shot up to finally see the Warden of Honesty emerge from the black room behind him.

* * * * * *

“I had been asleep in the street. I thought I had been asleep. Was I? But I was not, though only that could explain the sight above me. The paper sky was burning away, the fabric veil of blue and pale clouds dissolving from my mind’s eye, leaving behind only the foundations of the world! Terrible numeracies multiplied and stretched thin across strange aeons that were tortured into intelligible geometry, flickering into comprehension. The grave symbols of future times were open, and across the empty gulf I saw the opening of the World Beyond the Web, and the World Beyond Even That!

“Beyond and terrible things swirled about me, like the sea-foam, and ahead I saw the fuel of the fire that torched the sky above. An alien and distant sun was rising behind the tall tower of the city that hung on the blue mountain, bathing the vale in the illume. The moon dripped with bitter tears of black oil, prompted by foreign stars to struggle against its cage bars. I saw the colored shapes that danced and spun and called my name, and through the tears I could at last see the Six-Pointed Star of fire!

Its tendrils reached and called into our world to find the devout and true, and to lead us into glory within and without, never ceasing until the All-Web would buckle under the higher weight of the Divine Friendship. I saw the flames of gold curl around, effortless and untied, to the surface, and pool in labors to light their instrument. And all the while, the Eye!

“He is upon us, friends of friends, the Great Honest One! We are cradled in his soul, and he is the One Who Finds The Truth, the Warden Godsight! The Eye is upon all, and sees all below and beyond, and he will lead us to the eternal victory of the Lady’s Vision — weep, friends of friends, weep for joy at the instrument of the Six and One. Weep long for terror at your salvation!”

— “The Seeings of an Honest Eye,” by an anonymous author.

* * * * * *

“Aside from the obvious division of the fandom into the six separate branches, there also exists a classification based on when the convert joined the Brony Collective. The group called Faustians are those who joined during the Season of Discovery, when the Collective first formed on the Chan, and in the ensuing Drought that occurred immediately after. On the other hand, the Thiessenites are all those who joined after this first Season.

“Since the greatest expansion of Brony converts occurred during the Second Rise and the Season of Expansion, it is unsurprising that the Thiessenites comprise a vast majority of the fandom: though exact numbers are difficult to come across, it has been theorized that there are anywhere between 3-to-12 Thiessenites for every Faustian Brony. Despite this, however, the Faustians have a disproportionate influence in the fandom, with all of the six Wardens having joined during the First Rise and most other high-ranking members having done the same — this is particularly true among the militant branches, whose officers are often veterans from the Brony Wars in the Chan.

“In terms of philosophical differences between the two groups, however, there are few. The denominations exist more as a way to categorize who-came-when than to classify prevailing beliefs, and thus there is little conflict between the two. It is true, though, that Faustians are often inclined towards the doctrine of Original Intention — that the truth of Six that is not explicitly named in the Works should be derived from the beliefs and views of the creator-source — than Thiessenites often are. The latter majority are more sympathetic to the idea of Adaptive Intention — that the Works have changed in subtle ways, and while we must remain respectful of the original intent, one must pursue the truth of Six through other avenues, rather than risk the temptation of nostalgia or reactionary resistance to new ideas.”

— “Six Friends: The Structure and Society of the Brony Collective”, by Trending Tome

Chapter XIII: Here on the Moon

* * * * * *

Death is as light as air, and law as heavy as the earth. This is the correct way.

To achieve order in the world, one must find order in the self.

My form is weak, and yearns for decay. My soul is strong, and yearns for release from the form. A time will come when I must choose between death for the sake of righteousness, and life at the cost of wrongfulness. When this time comes, I must choose death. By living each day with this in mind, the choice between death and dishonor will become no choice at all. This is the only way.

To live in accordance with the Logos, to preserve the sacred law and order, I must live as though I were dead already. I say, “I will die,” and in this truth I find the courage to do what is right, even if it costs me my life. This is the only way.

— Recitations from “The Books of Black and White”, the sacred text of the Authority

* * * * * *

The difference in mood between the departure from the Citadel and the arrival in the Dreamweave was easy for Proximo to see. Leaving his friends in the Blogosphere had been accompanied by parades, fanfare and cheering. Speeches were given, gifts were exchanged, fond goodbyes were made.

The Dreamweave was quiet. But not for long.

When the Wonderbolt and its five companion ships docked in Dreamweave harbor, they found it relatively free of other ships— a few traders, some pleasure yachts from Indelio or belonging to local owners, but largely deserted. It had taken more than an hour to depart the ships, with each of the six vessels relieving itself of its passengers and luggage as well. The latter would be delivered to the Palace of Aureliano separate from its owners, taken in shifts. The former organized themselves into rows and columns and prepared to march to the palace on foot.

The Bronies moved themselves in lines of six, walking in tandem down the main street from the docks while the city watch cleared the path ahead of them. Proximo stood beside Lady Violet and the Warden of Honesty, with two rows of Honest Friends striding in front, each armed and armored in gold and orange—though with their swords sheathed at their hips.

Both the Warden of Generosity and her assistant had chosen less martial attire: a long, flowing purple dress with white accents for Lady Violet, and similarly-colored shirt, suit, and tie for Proximo. Both outfits were as finely made as they were modest in style, free of ostentatious jewelry. It had taken the better part of the evening, but in the end the two of them had decided to have their fashioned attire be modest. Too much finery or overuse of white in their clothing would not endear them to the Authority in their first meeting, as the Mods were known to use the latter in their uniforms and frown upon the former.

The thought of how enjoyable the hours of swapping ideas, changing clothes, and deciding on fashion had brought a smile to Proximo's face, but it quickly cleared it away. Walking with his friends down the path cleared for them, it was clear that now wasn't the time for grins or jokes. The crowds had been watching them intently since they stepped off the ships, hundreds of glassy eyes following each of the Bronies closely as they made their way through.

“Clear a path!” one of the city guards in the front yelled to the mass of people poured into the path ahead, “Out of the way, all of you! City watch!” The leading guardsmen were shoving their way through, pushing the crowds to either side of the road and brandishing cudgels to let the escort through, but most of the people blocking the way cleared away when they saw the uniforms they wore. Those that remained stood on the sidewalks to the left and right of the cobbled streets, watching the procession.

It was strange to see how different the reactions were. A few laughed and waved, though they didn't get any response: obviously those ones saw a certain humor in the situation, or didn't care much for the gravity of it. More than a few seemed less amiable: stares and glares, scowls, whispers, harsh words, a few drunken shouts. It was to be expected, given where they were and why they were there. But most were nothing of the sort. On a corner, Proximo could see a gaggle of well-dressed men, likely nobles. Looking to his left, there was a baker carting hot trays. On the right was a storefront with a bored-looking owner inside, and in front of that was a mother with three children around her. And when Proximo saw their eyes on him, there wasn't humor, hatred, or fear. Curiosity, perhaps, but more ambivalence than anything else. It's just another day to them, Hart thought. Well, maybe a slightly stranger one, but still.

A certain feeling of tension was still palpable, however. Since stepping off the ship to begin the long walk, their party would march forward several yards, before encountering a crowd that the city watch would force out of the way. But every time they pressed on, the crowd would close the gap behind them, swallowing all of them inside the mass of pushing, straining people like an island in a human sea. And every so often, they would enter a more narrow portion of the street and the circle around them would tighten, forcing the the border made by the guards to push closer and closer still towards the captive Bronies.

Once or twice, a man would push his way to the edge and begin screaming or threatening to throw a bottle or rock at the closest Honest Friend. The friend's hand would twitch around their sword-hilt, but then the rabble would be pushed away, and the rows would start to move. Citizen, guard, and friend alike were becoming more anxious, more fearful, more claustrophobic by the moment; Proximo prayed they would reach the clear soon, before it could erupt into something worse.

And with every step they took, a building in the distance loomed ever nearer. Proximo had seen it in the harbor, something shining yellow and red on the horizon. At the end of the main road leading from the docks, on top of a hill that saw across the entire city, the Palace of Aureliano stood as old and proud as the last time the assistant been in the Dreamweave. A long manse of brick, glass, and bronze, the house of the Martes had stood vigil over its builder's city since it was constructed so many years ago. It caught the light of the sun like nothing else, gleaming above the petty homes and roads below like a lantern planted on the highest hill.

Proceeding down the Way, it became clearer as they approached: two rectangular, multi-floored wings on the left and right, connected in a concave shape to an even larger building in the center; with great pillars covered in bronze plates in the front and a staircase going down the middle to the streets. Proximo Hart had seen the Palace several times in the past, and even been invited inside once, but never before had he been so apprehensive of it—though whether that was due to how foolish he had been when he had last come, or some paranoia he had gained in his later years, he could not say.

Finally, after what seemed to be a long time, they managed to push their way into a large plaza that led to several diverging streets, flanked on all sides by shops and houses. Most of them were made of wood and brick with a smattering of concrete foundations and pillars here and there, and many had small, unlit paper lanterns hanging upon their windows and balconies.

But as colorful as it was, there was a feeling about much of city that Proximo couldn't shake: one of decay. Paint was chipped off the side of homes and wood was left to rot, the once bright letters and designs ornamenting the sides of the taverns were faded and worn down to bare, the very stone of the street beneath them was cracked and filled with shoots of grass that no one had bothered to maintain.

In the center was a fountain with a statue that read “Our Founder” beneath it, with the wise-looking marble figure wearing a handsome robe and pointing proudly at the Palace he had made. But the only water in the fixture was stagnant and sallow, and parts of its sides had been chipped away without repair. Both statue and fountain were white, but it was obvious from the small pools of residue that they had only recently been repainted, likely to cover up graffiti. The buildings themselves seemed to sag under their weight, like an aging man becoming heavy-set and exhausted as the years pushed down on him.

People had come out onto their balconies and storefronts to coo at the passing Bronies, but with fewer people crammed into the main plaza than the narrow streets of Aureliano's Way, they were able to ignore them and make good progress while circling around the fountain to continue on their path. This plaza was the last intersection before the Palace itself: at the north end was a separate road that led to cast-iron gates with the letter A and M on either side, then another pair of gates beyond that.

At each point, a dozen guards stood watch, wearing the same uniforms as those escorting the Brony group: red coats covered in chain-mail that slid over yellow shirts underneath, with bronze plates sewn onto both the chest and the half-helms on their heads. Proximo could see their eyes on him when he passed, some vigilant and others seeming bitter. Hart tried to avoid eye-contact as he passed the first gate, but glanced after the group was through: the guards were still looking after them intently, and he could see money being exchanged between a few of them as they relaxed from their stations.

Up a set of stairs, they came to the second gate. It was taller than the first, topped with sharp spikes and with the design of a winged tiger on the doors. After they swung open, the rows of six marched again up and up the staircase, coming ever closer to the Palace. Every other step had a guard on both sides, armed with long spears and sheathed swords, whom the rows had to pass by to reach the top. The city watch's presence was clearly making some of the group uncomfortable: Caleb appeared to be sweating his entire body weight, Theosyrius seemed to be coughing more than was necessary, and several of the Honest Friends had hands hovering just slightly away from the weapons at their belts.

Finally, they reached the top. Proximo knew that, had he looked behind him, he would have had a clear view across the city to the ships they had crossed the Painted Sea upon, with their blue sails still billowing in the wind. But his vision stayed fixed upon the door. Two heavy-set, oaken barriers stood in front of them, crossed with lines of iron and closed shut. The design on the front of it was the same as the previous two gates: a tiger with an eagle's wings, snarling fiercely, with the letters AM at every corner. There was a phrase etched in gold letters at the top, but it was printed in Scriptspeak, and Proximo hadn't the time to translate it before the doors groaned open and they were bid to enter.

The guards filed in first, and the Bronies followed behind, compressing their rows to fit inside the doorway. They stepped carefully into a large, long hall, decorated with fine-made rugs, bracing pillars and swirling designs upon the walls and stain-glass windows. The inside was filled with people, lined up along the sides of the entrance in droves to see the curious visitors: nearly all were well-dressed gentlemen and ladies, gaping at the arrivals and murmuring among themselves as Proximo and the others walked past. They seemed interested in the entire party that was marching through the Palace, but Proximo noticed that many were staring wide-eyed and open-mouthed at the Warden of Honesty, pointing at his massive frame and turning to each other urgently. Some of the nobles here might have never even seen a servant of the Collective before, so Proximo could only imagine that seeing one over seven feet tall and armed for battle was even more surprising.

At the end of the hall, there was a raised dais complete with two separate floors, three seats on the first level and three seats on the second, all of which were behind covered tables that would expose only the shoulders and heads of those who sat behind them. The bottom table was adorned with two banners draped over the sides: a black flag, with a white shield in the center and, in the center of that, a black hammer—the austere symbol of the Moderator Authority. No doubt this was where the representatives from Central would be seated.

Before traversing too much of the hall, Lady Violet gestured her hand in the air. Seeing the signal given, all of the fifty-four Honest Friends attending them (save for the Warden) stopped in place and sharply turned inward. Taking a step back, the orange guards allowed the Wardens and the diplomats in the center to proceed on their way to the front. Lady Violet had thought that perhaps approaching their judges with a fully-armed escort surrounding them would send the wrong impression, and after some debate she had convinced Honesty the same. Moving on their own, the remaining friends moved further down the carpet to the end, passing pillar after pillar on the way.

Finally, they stopped before the platform. Behind it was a large portrait that presumably depicted Aureliano the First, the rich robes and wise weathered face of its subject resembling the statue they had encountered in the plaza below. Beneath that was an alcove, containing a marble statue of the same winged tiger they had all seen throughout the Palace and the city. They stood in front of the seats for a moment, but it did not take long for someone to emerge. A door on the left opened, and the crowds turned to face the two figures that emerged.

First was a woman, and a beautiful one at that. Long, dark hair hung down gracefully from her head, only slightly dropping in front of her thin, mischievous-looking eyes. Her skin was slightly less tan than Proximo or Lady Violet's, and she had a somewhat longer nose than some, but it complimented her face in such a way that it only served to make her more attractive.

The other one to emerge was a man, delicately holding her hand and trailing behind her. He did not truly compare to his companions' looks: though not ugly in any sense or even truly plain, his eyes were shallow and his face seemed to have an unsightly droop to it. His hair was the same style as hers, but cut much closer—Proximo could not help but notice the similarity to the style worn by the Aureliano in the portrait behind him. The man's chin was slightly weaker than that of the woman's sharp features, and he had made no attempt to cover it with facial hair, remaining entirely clean-shaven.

Both wore exquisite robes: not the modest ones used in the Citadel or the rough-spun habits of the Authority, but gorgeous silk-upon-silk, perfectly fitted and colored with overlapping yellow and bronze-red. Fine jewels were heaped on both of them, forcing both of them to take effort not to jingle as they walked past the front to take their seats in the top row.

A guard in the corner stamped the butt of his spear on the ground and called out. “All see! All see the most high and noble Lord Aureliano Martes, the third of his glorious name! Lord of the Dreamweave, Archon of the Island, First Commander of the Armed and First Sailor of our Seas, Light of the City, Friend-Servant of the Moderator Authority, and One of Gifted Lineage!” he cried to the crowd. “All see his wife and love, Lady Pilara Martes, formerly of the Blurr, now of the Dreamweave and the joy of our people. Long may they live, long may they reign!” He stamped his spear again and the hall repeated the last wish of his call, though Proximo and his friends remained silent.

The Lord and Lady of the Dreamweave gently lowered themselves in the middle and left seats of the uppermost level—whomever was customarily seated on the right was obviously not in attendance today. Lord Aureliano took the moment to turn his drooped face down onto the thirteen colorful ambassadors below him, posturing himself to look as far down his nose as possible with a distinct frown.

Lady Pilara had her face towards her husband, but her eyes were down on the Bronies as well, and a small smile graced her lips. It may have seemed more courteous than her husband, but there was something unnerving about the smile: no warmth came along with the way she turned her mouth, and Proximo could not shake the impression of a cat overlooking the day's choice vermin. She took her husband's hand and said something in his ear that made him soften slightly and smile at her, all while keeping her eyes on the people before her.

Lord Aureliano seemed as though he were about to speak, when another man called out. Dressed in black and white, he clenched his left fist and raised it to his right shoulder, before crying out, “All attend to the honorable judges, the Lord Moderator Dyren Halforth, Knight Arbiter Borlund Barr, and Knight Censor Alwin Cameron!” Then, a separate door in the back of the room opened beside the guard, and the three Moderators filed in one-by-one.

From the descriptions that Proximo had heard, the first could only have been Sir Borlund. To be fair, he wasn't that fat: pudgy in the face, with a keg of a belly that struggled to remain inside his robes, but it likely would have been more excessive had he not been a Moderator, expected to lead an ascetic life. He had prominent jowls hanging from his red cheeks, and a combination of thick mustache and thinning hair that seemed to have gone white before their time: Proximo guessed his age at only mid-forties, despite looks to the contrary. A pair of small, brown eyes sat sunken into his large head, squinting around as he walked across the room.

The next was Alwin Cameron, much younger and the complete opposite physically. The young man's face was plain, a small head stuck on a long neck stuck on a gangly body, and a reedy frame of stick-thin arms and legs that loomed over Sir Borlund—six feet tall at least. He stumbled clumsily as he walked out of the door to take his seat in the left-most chair, his large eyes darting about the room anxiously.

Finally, the venerable Lord Dyren Halforth arrived.

From the stories, Proximo might have expected someone taller. The Lord Moderator was of only middling height, though he stood utterly straight and upright as he walked into the hall. When he showed his face, the first thought that came to mind was the image of some bird-of-prey: a long, crooked nose, sharp chin, and small, flinty, gray eyes that had the cold shine of an avian predator. His features were harsh, lined, and weathered from years of experience and asceticism, the product of long fasts and long campaigns in enemy lands, deprived of luxury and necessity alike.

The robes afforded to him by his office were, for the most part, pitch-black, a robe that folded across his chest and hung down to his shins. Only the ends of the habit were white, along with the edge of the fold that pinned below his collarbone and the white cloth that wrapped around his waist. Tucked into the cloth-belt was a small black gavel, the symbol of his office. Like most Moderators, he wore a pair of tight-fitted gloves on his hands and a wide-brimmed, flat-topped hat on his head, all black as well. The two Knights accompanying him had similar uniforms, but ones with far more white than Lord Halforth's: a sign of their lower rank in the Authority. Both turned to face their superior, and repeated the guard's salute by clenching their fist and bringing it to their shoulder as Halforth entered the room, while the Bronies, the Martes, and most of the attendees bowed.

Halforth did not acknowledge them, and instead walked calmly to the middle seat on the row given to the Moderators, sat down, and steepled his fingers. Without a word, he looked intensely at the people assembled in front of him, scanning over every face, every hair, every detail. Then his eyes fixed on the Wardens—if he had the same surprise regarding the Warden of Honesty's appearance that the nobles had, he did not show it. After a moment of silence, Proximo realized that they were expected to speak.

In the Citadel, Lady Violet rarely felt the need for a formal announcement of her name and rank, but this was the Painted Sea, and here men were given respect as according to their prestige. If the Martes had a slew of titles, so must the Wardens, or they would not be seen as equals. So it was when Proximo Hart stepped forward to deliver the introduction to the court.

“Presenting the Lady Warden of Generosity, Violet Brushshape,” he called, careful to measure the confidence of his voice. “Champion of Charity, Shaper of Dreams, One of Gifted Lineage, Servant of Faust and Thiesson and the Six and One, the Eternal Generous Hand and the Lady of Diamonds.”

Lady Violet stepped forward from the line, bowing to the Lord Moderator before returning to her place. Proximo then spoke again. “Presenting the Lord Warden of Honesty,” he said, “Champion of Trust, Shield of the Collective, Commander of the Brony Guard Forces, Servant of Faust and Thiesson and the Six and One, the Eternal Honest Eye and the Lord of Apples.”

For a moment, the Warden did not react. Then he stepped forward, turned his head to Lord Halforth, and stepped back just as suddenly. Proximo fought the urge to wince, and imagined that Lady Violet did too. He didn't bow, Hart thought, would it have been so hard to bow? They hadn't even spoken properly with the Lord Moderator, and his misgivings with the Warden of Honesty were already starting.

Lord Halforth stared intensely at the two and continued his silence. Proximo realized why. We are fewer than he expected, the assistant realized as he remembered Lord Feylen's plan. Halforth was indeed expecting all six Wardens to arrive, not just Violet and Honesty: Proximo could only hope that the gamble paid off.

The Moderator's hawkish eyes flickered, then he dismantled the steeple of his hands. “This investigation,” he said in a refined Centrellian accent, “begins now. You stand to defend the two members of your fandom from charges of the murder or conspiracy to commit the murder of Sir Harald Corey of the Order of the Guided Hand and his squire, Dale Linesend. You have also been accused of taking part in said conspiracy by Lord Aureliano. Have you anything to say before our proceedings formally begin?”

Lady Violet answered. “That we are innocent, and shall prove it, my lord.”

It was a straightforward answer, and Halforth seemed to appreciate that. He nodded, then stood. “We are dismissed for now. I will speak with you privately, Brony Wardens, in the other room. Bring whomever you feel requires my attention. Martes, follow me as well.” He then turned and walked briskly to the room he came from, while his two companions looked to one another and followed after.

The rest of the room broke into whispers and murmurs as the Martes bestirred themselves and walked slowly out. People began to leave as Lady Violet turned to the rest of them. “I shall stay and speak with Lord Halforth and the rest. Honesty, it would be unseemly if the other Warden wasn't by my side, so you'll come with me. The rest of you can go, if you like: follow the guards to your quarters.”

They bowed and filed away, preparing to be led away to their respective rooms. Proximo prepared to join them when Lady Violet took his arm. “And where does my assistant think he's going?” She smiled. “If I'm to face the fearsome Dyren Halforth, will you leave me unattended?”

Proximo bowed again. “Certainly not, my lady.”

The three of them walked into the small room on the side. It appeared to be a sitting room, though it seemed substantially less comfortable when Lord Dyren Halforth was standing in the center of it. Proximo could see up close that his once dark hair had gone almost entirely gray from his age, though the black hat Halforth wore covered most of it. His cheeks were hollow, his frame rod-thin, and his uniform immaculate. Behind him were the two other Moderators: Sir Borlund seemed to bristle as the three entered the room, bushy mustache turning with a scowl, while Sir Alwin was fixed wide-eyed on the Warden of Honesty.

“The horse-lovers have arrived, your honor,” said Sir Borlund. His voice was gruff, and not lacking in contempt as he looked angrily at the three. Halforth was speaking with Aureliano, but turned his attention to Lady Violet when he saw them enter.

“So,” he said in a measured voice, “you are the Wardens.”

“Two of them, my lord,” Lady Violet answered.

“And who is this one?” Halforth said, gesturing to Proximo.

“My assistant, Proximo Hart.”

Proximo bowed. “It is an honor to meet you, my lord. Let me ju—"

“Spare me your pleasantries horse-lover, they will do you no good here,” the lord cut in. As Proximo tried to prevent his face from going red, the Moderator quickly turned back to Lady Violet. “You are younger than I expected.”

“We are a young fandom, my lord,” replied Lady Violet.

“I trust you are experienced enough to understand the gravity of these accusations?”

“A peaceful envoy, cut down in a peaceful city,” someone said in a rich voice. It was Pilara Martes, stepping out from her husband's side: the Lord Moderator had not asked for her presence, but it seemed that Aureliano's wife went where she pleased. She gave another cat-like smile. “Your rebels and fanatics have tried to steal my husband's home, but even I was shocked by the cowardice of brave Sir Harald's murder.”

Her husband nodded, his yellow-gold chains jingling as he did. “Cowardice, yes cowardice. I'll see that justice is dealt for it, mark my words.”

“Lord and Lady Martes,” Violet answered with every courtesy, “I don't believe we had a chance to speak until now. It is good to meet you, at last.”

“I'm sure it is.”

“Enough,” Lord Halforth said. He betrayed no emotion in his voice, but one could tell his irritation at the exchange. “I believe I asked you a question, Brony.”

“The gravity is entirely understood, my lord. And I can assure you, our innocence of such a grave crime will be proven in short order.”

“If you value your continued existence, you should hope so.” Halforth's gray eyes were piercing as he stared at Lady Violet. “If you or they are found guilty, the sentence is death. So it is written.”

The threat made the Warden of Honesty stir. His mouth turned to a scowl as he looked down on the Lord Moderator, until Lady Violet shot him a quick glance that made him relax his stance. Lord Halforth noticed nonetheless, and walked over to the giant. Though the Warden towered over him, the Moderator looked at him the same as he did everyone, without the slightest hesitation. “You are the Warden of Honesty?” he asked.

The Warden continued to stare forward. “Yes.”

“I heard some fool say you were a demon.” Halforth looked up and down the thick armor covering the Warden's body. “You are certainly taller than most.”

“Yes.”

The gray eyes squinted. “Ordinarily, men refer to me as 'Your Honor' or 'My Lord'.”

Honesty looked down. “Hrm.”

Proximo was sweating when Lord Halforth leaned in closely to the Warden, staring directly into his single gold eye. “Do you normally talk this much?” he asked with a scrutinizing glare.

The Warden of Honesty bore down, and stared back at the Lord Moderator. “Yes.”

The two simply looked at one another for a time, completely silent, until Lord Halforth turned. “We may get along,” he said, and then walked away.

He strode over to a table in the center of the room and rested his hand on it. “You and the rest of your people are confined to the Dreamweave until this investigation concludes,” he said to Lady Violet. “You may walk freely within the city, but both the city watch and my Authority Peacekeepers will be watching closely. Your investigation team will report to Sir Depravity Blair so they can learn about the details of this case today, then they may begin their inquiries. They will be allowed to collect evidence and testimony to prove your innocence and will be given a certain leave throughout the city—within reason.”

Sir Borlund huffed. “They should be in cells, your honor, along with their 'friends'.”

Lord Aureliano nodded. “Yes, I won't have them polluting my city further. This is my city, I thought we had discussed th—"

"You discussed it. Regularly,” Lord Halforth replied contemptuously, “I, however, agreed to nothing then and will agree to nothing now. The mere fact that you accused them means little, and they will be given a chance to disprove those claims during this investigation. That is the law, and justice does not bend for this man or that. Keep that in mind.”

Borlund crossed his meaty arms, and Aureliano pursed his lips, but the two said nothing more. Lady Violet bowed. “Understood, my lord. My honest friend,” she said to the other Warden, “could you perchance speak with your investigation team and inform them of their duties for today?”

The Warden of Honesty nodded, sharply turned, and immediately walked out, orange-gold cape billowing behind him. Lord Halforth's eyes followed intensely as the giant ducked his head beneath the doorway and exited.

Even after Honesty left, Halforth continued to stare after the departing Warden. “Where in the Web did you find that creature?” he asked incredulously. “He looks like a galleon with legs.”

“My honest friend joined the Collective himself, for his own reasons, my lord,” replied Violet.

“I would like to hear that story for myself, in time. A pity, though: someone that fearsome would be of great use to a more practical organization. The Knight Prefects, perhaps.” He seemed to consider that for a moment, then turned away from the door. He waved a hand to his two fellow Moderators. “You already heard the names of Sir Borlund and Sir Alwin, I imagine. That tedium we just went through made them near impossible to avoid.”

“Hello,” Sir Alwin said meekly to the Bronies, raising a hand in greeting. When he realized that perhaps waving wasn't the appropriate greeting, he tried to recover by bracing his shoulder in a salute. The knight was likely older than Proximo, but his gawkish appearance and robes that appeared too small on his long limbs made it difficult to take the man seriously—the assistant thought it amazing that he managed to secure a knighthood at all, family connections or not.

“Well met, sir,” Lady Violet said with a kind smile and a bow. The knight seemed to appreciate it and gave an abrupt bow of the head in return. “And to you as well, Sir Borlund.”

Borlund snorted and turned his face to her. “Trying to cover your deviancy with false courtesy? Typical horse-lover trash, playing nice instead of speaking like real men. Your honor, I'd like to take my leave from this.”

Lord Halforth glared. “What you like or dislike is irrelevant, Barr. You will take your leave when I say you do, and until that moment you will recall where your station is on this assignment.” He took the moment, however, to pull a cheap, plain pocket-watch from the sleeve of his robes, and glanced at the time. “It would seem, however, that you may have your wish, sir. With all the time that idiocy in the hall took up, I am behind my schedule for the day. I will bid you good day for now, Lady Violet.”

She bowed. “As you say, my lord. Good—“

“And my lady?”

“Yes?”

“There are fewer of you here than there should be. Do not try to play with my words again, or you will regret doing so.” His eyes were very cold. Somehow, they reminded Proximo of another man. “As I said, good day.”

The Lord Moderator tipped his hat, folded his arms behind his back, and quietly walked out. The way his robe trailed behind him, he seemed to almost glide as his stepped past the Martes and out the door. The two other Moderators followed behind like ducklings, with Borlund refusing any eye-contact as he stomped out. Sir Alwin glanced hesitantly at the Bronies, and then did the same. Lord Aureliano was left giving a unpleasant look to Lady Violet, until his wife smiled and took his arm. “Come my love, let's leave these two to their plotting. I'm sure Lady Violet has much to discuss with her boy-pet,” Lady Pilara said as she led him out.

Lady Violet gave another courteous bow, but Proximo could see that her eyes were unamused. “I do not care for her,” she said mildly after the two had left.

“I'm not sure any of them inspire confidence, my lady,” Proximo replied. It was the first time he'd spoken up since Lord Moderator silenced him, and he was still grappling with the mistake. Fool, he thought, obviously the Lord Moderator wouldn't care for honeyed courtesies. Anyone could tell that from how he dressed. Stark, bleak, a pure uniform without ornament or display of any kind. Anyone could see that it belonged to a man who had no time for hollow words or pretty ceremony. He would have to do better next time, for his friend’s sake—and Lady Violet's. “She does seem rather disagreeable though, doesn't she?”

“That's not necessarily the word I would use, Mister Hart. But the preferred term is not fit for proper society.” She turned to her assistant. “How do you feel?”

“Fine,” he lied. “Foolish,” he sighed. “I'm sorry about what happened when I was speaking to the Lord Moderator, I should ha—“

“That? Proximo, please.” She put a hand on her waist and cocked her head. “It was a split error, and one that anyone could make. Don't fret yourself about it now, when we have more important things to keep in mind.” Her hand went to his shoulder, and she smiled reassuringly.

He gave an embarrassed smile in return. “Thank you, my lady.” His mind clear, Proximo thought to the rest of the meeting. “He seemed to accept Lord Feylen's gamble, at least.”

“Yes, not that it wasn't a close thing. You could have peeled paint with that stare of his.” She shook her head. “Still, it seems like Mars' intuition was right. Lord Halforth seems committed to starting this investigation without delay.”

“Fine for us. The sooner we start, the sooner we can leave the Martes behind us with our friends in tow.”

Lady Violet laughed. “Now that is a plan I can support wholeheartedly, Mister Hart. Come on, then; we should see to what kind of rooms they've allowed us here.”

Diligent as always, Proximo Hart followed close behind. Truthfully, he was curious to see what kind of quarters he would have as well. After the reception they had received, he wouldn't be surprised to find himself in the kennels.

* * * * * *

Servants of the Authority are expected to perform recitations every day—once at dawn, once at noon, and once at dusk—as part of a daily ritual to remind them of their purpose. There are hundreds of these simple phrases and sayings, all recorded in the Books of Black and White, and by repeating them at set times each day the Authority hopes that their followers will never forget their duties and responsibilities, both to the Logos and the preservation of justice. To the Authority, every person in the world has a purpose and a place, and people require constant reminders of their own role in life.

The Bronies of the Collective have a practice not unlike this, which is designed for much of the same purpose. A Brony is expected, every day, to spend time immersing themselves in the glory of the fandom— appreciating its art and music and poetry, reading the words of their friends, and contributing to this institution however they can. Through this quiet contemplation, a Brony can be reminded of the wonders of the fandom, and what their own task in upholding it is. For harmony states that everyone has a reason to be, and will have a time to fulfill this reason.

Chapter XXIX: The Best of Intentions

* * * * * *

The work proceeds on schedule. With Providence on our side, we shall all be free of this assignment before much longer. I cannot imagine why Lord Makepeace needed us to return so soon after having given such a thorough report last time, but it hardly matters now. Such is life of a Web Crawler, it seems: travel, gather census data, depart, and leave again. We shall soon be departing from the Chan, it seems.

It is not a day too early, either. Barely a night goes by without some of the Channic harassing us. Just yesterday, a group of them crowded outside Sir Conscience’s window to jeer at her. One of them threw something inside, but I could not compel her to tell me what exactly it was or what they had said. I had guards posted outside to deter anyone else that might try, but she insisted on switching rooms regardless.

I was passing by one of the rooms today by chance, when I thought for sure that I heard someone crying inside. I am certain it was Conscience—this assignment is getting under her skin. She always hated being away from her husband for long, but she could hardly expect to bring Ryver with her on an assignment like this. It is either that, or whatever the Channic said to her that night got to her more deeply than she let on.

The waterfront was quieter today than usual. I find myself walking along the shore more often than not. I always did care for the sea. At any rate, there were not as many anonymites milling about as there sometimes were. I saw that there were dark clouds building over the bay, so perhaps the storm scared them off.

Just an hour ago, I ran into Sir Conscience. I told her that when we returned, I would ask Lord Makepeace to exempt her from more assignments like this one in the future, so she might spend more time with Ryver. She thanked me for it, but I could tell she was more relieved than she wanted to say.

III

When I was walking along the bay early this morning, I saw that one of the ugly buildings on the waterfront was on fire. It was a salt-stained heap, but the place was blazing down, and no one seemed to care at all. What few people were around just walked by as though nothing was happening.

Of course, there was hardly anyone there anyway. I cannot figure out why, but these past few days it seems like there have been fewer and fewer Channic on the streets, at least on my route. I tried to ask one man where everyone had gone, but he hissed at me like some kind of animal and ran off.

Regardless, we leave in a few days time. Let the Channic have their games.

Where in life’s light are they all? The streets were practically deserted for blocks all around where I and the rest of the team were stationed, and one could be forgiven for thinking that the waterfront was completely abandoned. Walcroft supposes that the Channic are trying to unnerve us, but Ether is certain that the locals have removed themselves so they could make war on some other part of the isles, or perhaps raid out in the Saying Sea. I have heard no word of that, but it seems as likely as anything.

Whatever it is, it has Sir Conscience on-edge. She advised that we clear the area immediately, head to the docks, and wait for our ship to arrive. It would be pure folly: the ship does not come until tomorrow afternoon, and we can hardly just sleep on the docks until then. We stay put for now.

There is something in the sea. I saw it last night. I have no idea what it might have been, but I saw it.

I honestly do not know why I was even out. Did I even have a reason? I had told everyone to stay indoors, but I found myself out at the shore, and I cannot remember why. I was just standing in front of the water.

There was no moon out, and the water was dark enough that I could not tell where the sea ended and the sky began. I could only hear the breakers when they hit the shore, but suddenly the noise ceased. It was as though the waves just stopped in their tracks.

There was something out in the water. I could see the lights, like lamps under the surface. Yellow, dying lamps. It was touching me, I could feel it on my skin even when I was a dozen paces from the water’s edge. It was like something crawling inside my mind. Then, in an instant, it was gone.

— Journal entries of Ira Ahzred, named ‘Apostate One’ by the Moderator Authority prior to his execution by hanging twelve years ago.

* * * * * *

The smile of Arcadio Martes was a twisted thing, devious and insincere. It was the smile of a man who was getting away with something.

“Of course, the watch is doing its best to find any of the rabble-rousers,” Arcadio said, that smile of his filled to the brim with false courtesies. “The fools have melted away since my men came upon them—you’ll find no more rioters in the streets now.”

Lord Halforth paid him little mind. “That is fortunate,” the Moderator said flatly, “seeing that the riot was some three days ago.”

“And it has taken us each of those days to restore order,” Lord Aureliano protested, craning his neck over the table. “That filth in the undercity saw fit to set half my home aflame, if you have not forgotten. If they would only show their necks, I would see all of them hang. We’re lucky my brother was able to bring the unrest down as quick as he did.”

His wife, Lady Pilara, rested her hand on Aureliano’s. “Of course,” she demurred, “it was also the bravery of our protectors, the Lord Moderator and his staff, that aided in ending the crisis. Is that not so, my love?”

Aureliano blinked, then bobbed his head. “Yes, yes without a doubt. Truly, we’re lucky to have a man of your talents, Lord Halforth.”

From where Proximo sat, he did not see the Lord Moderator taking any pleasure from the obsequious praise. The thin line that was Halforth’s mouth tightened just slightly.

Sitting in Halforth’s bare and unadorned quarters, Lady Violet was at Proximo’s side. “I find it strange,” she said with a look directed at the Martes, “that none of the men that accosted my friends seem to have been caught.”

“That ugly brute that follows you around killed the ones that threatened your delicate person, if you remember,” Arcadio scowled.

Lady Pilara gave her usual, sleepy look at Violet. “Dead men tell few tales. If your hope was to have men captured, perhaps you might tell your manservant to contain his bloodlust. I certainly hope he is not a danger to others—your people have already assassinated two upstanding men, and my lord husband would not wish for more.”

Lady Violet’s temper flared. “If we’re to speak of assassination,” she answered boldly, “then perhaps we should ask why roving gangs were able to track down two separate parties of my friends in the city. One might also wonder,” she said with a pleading look to Lord Halforth, “why they were in possession of Authority repeaters.”

Aureliano gave a shocked look to Lady Violet. “I hope you are not suggesting, horse-lover, that the Authority had anything to do with this riot. Are you mad?”

Lady Violet looked at Aureliano in disbelief, and Proximo could not help but share her distress. It was very difficult to tell if the Lord of the Dreamweave was merely playing dumb, or if he had actually misconstrued what Violet was implying. To his credit, Lord Halforth did not seem to rise to the bait either way, merely closing his grey eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose.

“My men have recovered no repeaters,” Arcadio answered with a sneer. “Outside of whatever dream-land you live in, where are these weapons, hmm?”

In your men’s hands, Proximo thought angrily.

“One of my friends was shot with a crossbow bolt,” Lady Violet said with narrowed eyes. “Unless you suggest that it was conjured out of thin air, someone shot him.”

“Do you imagine that your little pervert-parade were the only ones caught out in the city?” Arcadio asked. “The city watch fought them bravely while you and yours fled like cowards back to the Palace. If someone in the riot had such a thing, they no doubt stole it off of one of my guards. Personally, I wonder why you don’t thank us for protecting you all. It was your presence, after all, that caused this mess.”

Lady Violet seemed ready to declare exactly what kind of ‘thanks’ she was prepared to give Arcadio, when Lord Halforth interrupted. “Whatever your interest in juvenile works, horse-lover,” he snapped at Violet, “I have no interest in watching the five of you bicker like children. Martes, take your wife and brother and leave us.”

Aureliano gave an insulted look. “I must insist—”

“You will insist upon leaving. We shall continue this conversation later, in private or not at all. Good day.”

The three Martes scowled, but did as they were bid and left. After they did so, another man poked his head inside. “They did not seem pleased, your honor,” said Sir Depravity Blair, who had been outside the room. “You must have done something right.”

Lord Halforth shook his head. Seated at the bare table, the Lord Moderator carefully pulled upon one of the black gloves he wore, removing it from his hand. He flexed the bony, hairless fingers that emerged, but Proximo noticed him paying attention to something that rested upon one of them. A ring on his second finger, plain and unadorned and cast from black iron. Lord Halforth was looking at the wedding band with a plaintive expression, lips pressed together firmly. “Attend to me, sir. I am sick to death of being among fools.”

“Then you will want to send these two away,” Sir Depravity remarked, casting a sour look to Proximo and Violet.

The lady tactfully ignored him. “My lord,” she said instead, “if you wished t—”

“Just because Aureliano is too witless to realize what you imply,” Lord Halforth interrupted coolly, “does not mean that I am. You would do well to take a page from your Warden of Honesty’s overlarge book. Speak openly or not at all.”

Lady Violet leaned back in her chair. “Very well, my lord. Is it not obvious? The others and I were cornered by men with repeaters, the same that Arcadio’s men carry.”

“We carry those as well,” Sir Depravity pointed out. “My team and I use the same bows. Is that the only evidence you can provide?”

“You do not carry a motive, sir. Or at least I pray you do not. The Martes on the other hand—”

Lord Halforth waved a hand, irritated. “I would have you conjure fewer ‘other hands’ and furnish us with something to actually back your claims instead.”

Proximo could already see that they were losing the Lord Moderator. “If we have offended my lord, then—”

“I care nothing about offense or people being offended. You have no proof. That and that alone is my concern, horse-lover. Can you provide some to me, or can you not? You give me hearsay, and I value that less than your fine, fine clothes, and those I value little enough as it is. I will hear no more about it.”

To Lady Violet’s credit, she did not allow the displeasure Proximo recognized to be shown on her face. “Very well, my lord,” she answered mildly. “I did have one other matter to bring before you, however.”

Sir Depravity crossed his arms. “That being?”

“Have you heard much in the way of news from the Chan, of late?”

Lord Halforth fixed her with an odd look. “I am chair of the Channic Relations Committee—of course I have. Is there something you wish to know?”

“I only ask,” Violet said, “because I had some unusual guests some time ago. Three anonymites of the Chan, masks and all, showing up in my quarters.”

Sir Depravity groaned. “Them again.”

“I take it that you’ve encountered these characters already?” Lady Violet remarked.

Lord Halforth frowned. “In a manner of speaking. They spent at least a week harassing my staff to attempt some seizure of my attention. Typical Channic entitlement—they wax on a great deal about their intellectual superiority, but have a hard enough time grasping the concept of an appointment. I suppose them coming after you makes them equal-opportunity annoyers, however. What was their aim?”

“Forgive me, my lord, but it appears to have been you. They seemed utterly desperate to speak with you, and frankly,” Violet said with a raised eyebrow, “I must admit that some of their claims were… unsettling.”

The Lord Moderator steepled his hands, looking intently at Violet. “Such as?”

“Strange as it may sound, they seem to be under the impression that you are ending the world.”

Halforth gave a very thin smile. “One would think I might have noticed.”

Lady Violet shrugged. “I would guess so as well. And yet they were all abuzz with talk of their Beast in the Bay, and of some coming apocalypse.”

“A man cannot take a breath in the Chan without it being heralded as the end times. I would not read into their claims too closely, my lady. If these three expect an answer from you, tell them that I will speak to them when they schedule an appropriate time to meet within the next month, and not before. I have little time for petitioners at the moment, and little interest in them besides. And if they should be harassing you as well,” Halforth said with a fixed look, “bring it to my attention. I will not have them stalking after people under my watch.”

“I thank you for the offer, my lord, though I hope it shall not be needed. I do wonder, however, if it might not be better to simply hear them out, even if they are wrong. At least then their concerns would be addressed.”

Sir Depravity rolled his eyes. “If his honor sat and listened to every half-wit and profligate conspiracy theorist that knocked upon his office door, none of us would have a moment for our work. They can wait in line like everyone else.”

“I am inclined to agree,” said Halforth. “My lady, the Channic are a difficult people to classify. Broad labels fail, more often than not, simply because they are by nature so fractious, so ornery. They loath groups and communities, and whatever ethos come with them. Still, there is one thing you might be sure of—a man from Veechan and a man from Baysmouth might be at one another's throats over most anything, but they share a certain robust egotism. An anonymite thinks himself a god and king alone, and expects all the world to bow and pay homage. They talk a great deal about being ‘free men,’ but in truth they are slaves—slaves to themselves. They aspire to nothing greater, and one finds little fortune in trying to bargain with them.”

Lady Violet considered that. “And so they wait?”

“And so they wait,” Halforth replied. “I have no interest in feeding their delusions of grandeur, or their idea that the world ends with them. Perhaps the experience of limiting themselves for a few weeks will disabuse them of such notions.”

Lady Violet chuckled. “If that is your hope, my lord, you will need to keep them waiting for a very, very long time.”

Another thin smile crossed Halforth’s face. “Perhaps. Good day to you, my lady.”

Following their dismissal, the two Bronies took their leave, departing from the Lord Moderator’s presence. Violet was the first to speak as they walked away. “Why is it,” she asked, “that I never leave one of these meetings happy?”

“They’re being intransigent, my lady,” Proximo replied, putting a hand on her arm. “You cannot blame yourself for that.”

“I can certainly make an effort at it. I fear for our friends’ safety if we stay here much longer, Proxi. I see Arcadio’s oily fingerprints upon all of this, and those Channic make me nervous, despite myself.”

“The Channic,” Proximo repeated, recalling the night they had met the anonymites. Vaath, their secretive leader, Syll the resenting follower, and Boar the brutish stranger. The strange, twisted masks, and the strange, twisted words they shared. If Proximo were to judge them on appearance alone, he would say that they dressed like vagabonds and were up to no good. If he were to judge them on some more objective criteria… he would probably still say they were up to no good. “Have we learned anything more about those three?”

“Little enough. Like Withins-Bei said, they appeared just before we arrived, though who it was that thought it a good idea to let them into the Palace is anyone’s guess. Most seem to think that they offered a bribe, but no one can agree on who received it.” Violet walked forward purposefully, such that Proximo could practically see the theories dancing in her mind. “Of course, it is hard enough to learn any useful information about obscure people from half the Web away, made only harder when they only use pseudonyms. Our eyes in the Saying Sea knew nothing about anyone who called themselves ‘Syll’ or ‘Boar,’ but their was some vague talk from Polchan of an anonymite named ‘Vaath.’ The Six only know if it’s even the same person, but one source seemed to think he was a member of the Red Pillar.”

“That hardly bodes well.”

“Indeed. The Web could not have conjured three more unlikely sorts, and yet here they are, in the Dreamweave with us. Logically, I know that there are plenty of people that may travel through this island in a given time. But I still cannot shake the idea that none of this is coincidence… particularly not with what Mars has sent us.”

Proximo gave a look of concern. “News from the Citadel?”

“Of a certain sort. It came in not long after the riot, and I’ve been consulting with Caymen and Skylark about it since then. We’ll need some tea for this one, I think.”

Back in Violet’s quarters, Proximo held the teacup closely as he read through the strange report. From the first words, a certain unease came over him as he realized exactly what it was.

Proximo knew, of course, about Lord Feylen Mars’... talents. One could not dwell long in the Collective’s inner circle without picking up on exactly what the Warden of Magic was capable of. That did not make Proximo any more comfortable with the details of it, however, even with the knowledge that it was done for the best. Odd tidings, Proximo thought as he read about the symbols and signs of the distant dreams, from times that haven’t come yet.

“When I told you that I did not want to know about when Lord Mars produced this sort of thing, save for when it might directly relate to our work,” Proximo remarked once he had finished, “I did it with the hope that it would never relate to our work.”

Violet smiled wanly. “Sorry to disappoint, Proxi. I’ve been writing to Lilly, so as to make sure that Mars doesn’t go overboard with this again, but the more I read the more certain I am that some of this pertains to us.”

Proximo had to admit to parallels, but could not entirely share that confidence. He had met few cybramancers in his life, and of those few only Feylen Mars possessed the powers of prophecy, but Proximo had learned over time that the things could not always be trusted. They never lied, per se, but it was hard to tell what things were true to a given time or place—one image might appear to be about their mission in the Dreamweave, but in actuality be about something else entirely, happening to someone else at some other time in some far distant place. There was a logic and pattern to it all, but it was not one that men picked up upon easily.

Still, some things were close enough that Proximo had to wonder. “Three masks,” he said, “which are rage and fear and vengeance. This dream of Lord Mars points to them specifically. They certainly bring to mind a certain three individuals on this site, my lady.”

“That was my thought as well,” admitted Violet grimly. “I have been suspicious of Vaath and his crew since they appeared, and now I think they deserve even more attention.”

“Do you think they might have been involved with…”

“The murder?” Violet finished for him. “That I cannot know. By all accounts, they were not in the city during the assassination of Sir Harald and his squire, and yet my instincts tell me that they cannot be ignored. Those three have an agenda all of their own, and the will to carry it out.” She gave a grave look out the window, where the yellow sun was high in the sky. “We must be careful.”

“As always, my lady.” Despite himself, Proximo yawned, and rubbed his tired eyes.

Lady Violet caught the gesture immediately. “Are you well, Proximo?” she said with concern. “You seemed exhausted.”

Proximo shrugged it off. “I missed a bit of sleep last night, my lady. Nothing to be concerned with.” Truthfully, he had been missing quite a bit of sleep recently. His mind had been ill-at-ease since the riot, since his sister returned, since he’d spoken with Imelia. Resting was hard, with such things weighing down on him.

“You haven’t been the only with ill dreams, apparently,” Violet said wryly. She had a look of close contemplation, one that told him that she had been considering these tidings from the Warden of Magic carefully. “Mars talks of men in black-and-white—certainly those are our Mods. Ships with blue sails, I suppose that must be the Loyal Friends that bore us here upon the Wonderbolt and the others. But one of them… what was it? ‘A changeling stamped with a mark upon his wrist?’ There is only one man that could be.”

Proximo knew immediately who she spoke of. “You suspect the cybramancer? This man, Heylen Ott?”

“Before, I suspected him. Now, I am absolutely certain of him. We must track him down and find out what he knows, as soon as we can. That man is our lead to finally finding this Society that people speak of, and if we should do that then we can finally provide Dabrius with an alibi.” Violet sighed, and looked distantly out the window again. “Besides,” she said, “there is reason for us to be careful about these Changelings as well.”

Proximo picked up something in her voice, and tilted his head. “How so?”

“Mars claimed to have picked up certain symbols in his vision. One in particular, near the end of that dream—the Smiling Skull.” Violet fixed Proximo with a grim stare. “He suspects it points to Oathbreakers.”

Proximo paled. Traitors and torturers, he thought, dread churning his stomach. He had hoped that the Oathbreakers had gone extinct, after all this time. Now, he could only pray that was true. “Six save us,” he murmured. “Do you think the Changelings might be connected with them?”

“I truly don’t know,” Violet said, shaking her head. “But we must find out, and soon.”

They were interrupted by the door flying open, slamming into the wall with a sound that made Proximo jump from his chair in surprise. He looked up to see the Warden of Honesty looming in the doorway, a grim look carved into his face.

Proximo grimaced and sat himself back down. “My lord,” he said in as kind a way as he could manage, “could you perhaps knock in the future?”

Violet chuckled. “He has a point, Honesty. We did discuss the knocking issue.”

“It was mentioned,” replied the Warden offhandedly. “We have problems.”

“Problems?” Violet repeated with a raised eyebrow. “I have never known you to misuse the letter ‘S’ before, my honest friend, so that tells me that we are indeed dealing with a plural here. Exactly how many problems do we have?”

The Warden of Honesty wordlessly raised three fingers.

Violet groaned. “Speak of devils, and lo, they appear.”

The Warden looked at her with confusion. “Not devils. Anonymites. Found this one, demanded to see you. Will we drive them away?”

Violet tapped her chin with a finger. “How many guards do we have outside the room?”

“Five. And this one is inside the room.”

“I can see that, my honest friend. I’ll go out and meet them.”

They found the anonymites lurking outside the room, milling about in the hallway while the Brony guards looked on. The white spiral-eyes of Vaath’s mask turned to greet Lady Violet first. “So, you still live, flower,” he said with a half-bow of the head. “I and these are pleased to see that much.”

They did not seem terribly pleased. Sylla was grumbling something under her breath in the manner she usually was, whilst Boar stood on the opposite side of Vaath. In front of Boar was Crispin Peck, who was looking curiously at the anonymite before him. Boar returned the stare, with the ugly snarling face of his mask locked onto Crispin, and folded his arms plaintively. Crispin mimicked the gesture, and the silent staring continued. After a moment however, the two of them nodded to one another, as though some mute conversation had taken place.

“ ‘Ey, m’lady!” called one of the Honest Friends who had been guarding the room. Proximo saw that it was Apple Orange, scratching his black beard and grinning widely. “Glad you came out here, what with these three stinkin’ up the area,” he said as though the Channic were not immediately in front of him. “I figure you’re out here to tell ‘em to get lost, and good thing too. That one with the spooky screaming mask smells like a sweaty ashtray, har!”

“She does not!” Syll screeched, making a motion to lunge herself at Apple Orange, until Vaath laughed and put a restraining hand on her shoulder to hold her back.

Apple Orange, apparently oblivious, seemed eager to continue. “Yeah, I bet she— oof!” he grunted, after the guard next to him, Apple Blossom, gave him a sharp punch to the side. Blossom gave him a withering look, and mouthed the word ‘quiet.’

“Maybe stop talking for a moment, Orange,” said Lady Violet, visibly struggling to not be amused.

Apple Orange coughed, and gave a thumbs up while fighting for breath.

“While it is good fun to insult Syll,” Vaath said with a smile, ignoring the angry ranting from his aforementioned companion, “I did hope to speak, flower. Perhaps alone?”

“I would prefer to stay in my friend’s company, if you do not mind,” Violet responded politely.

Vaath smirked. “Very cautious. You are smarter than you look, Brony.”

“I’m glad you noticed,” Violet responded nonchalantly. “But you say that there is something about which you wish to speak? How might I help you?”

“Oh, you already know that,” Vaath replied. “Some time has passed, and such eventful days, no? You’ve had long words with the Lord Moderator, plenty of time to tell him what I asked of you. Did you act as I commanded?”

“I do not remember feeling ‘commanded’ to do anything,” Lady Violet replied sternly. “If you happen to mean the subject I very kindly offered to broach on your behalf, I can tell you that I chose to inform the Lord Moderator.”

“And?” asked Syll, with a tilt of her large head.

“And it was as I warned you. He did not believe your claims, I’m afraid.”

Vaath’s smile curdled quickly, while Syll hissed audibly under her mask. “Syll told you so, Vaath, I told you a hundred times!” she cried in her scratchy voice. “The horse-lover cannot speak well enough for us—she has a clumsy tongue, and half-hearted words without Channic talent. We must break down this Moderator fool’s door, so our better words are heard!”

“You are, of course, welcome,” Violet sighed. “As to your second point, I sincerely doubt that Lord Halforth would appreciate such a move.”

“Experience suggests Moderators respond poorly to threats or—” the Warden of Honesty said before a sharp look from Violet caused him to stop talking.

Vaath’s mouth was clamped tight. “You told him everything I had said to you?”

“As fully as I could, given my apparent lack of ‘Channic talents’ when it comes to stating a case,” Violet said sardonically. “He did not, it seems, share your concern about the imminent doom approaching.”

The spiral eyes of Vaath’s mask were fixed on Violet. “Ah, you still do not believe what I tell you, flower.”

“I am not certain I said that, Vaath.”

“Yet I can see it in your eyes, in the way you speak. Foreigners think themselves subtle, because they do not speak their minds, but you show your soul on your faces. Why do you think real people cover them, hmm?” The anonymite smiled that unsettling smile of his, and folded his hands behind his back. “Whatever you believe, this news must still reach that face of Halforth.”

“Good fortune to all three of you, then. The Lord Moderator seems determined to face you in a month’s time, and not before.”

“A month?” Syll cried. “The Beast does not wait, horse-lover, and neither must I!”

“May I be perfectly frank with you, Vaath?” Violet said.

Vaath laughed. “I would have nothing else.”

“Even if you were to find yourself an audience with Halforth, I am not certain he would believe your claims,” she replied pointedly. “Without proof, we haven’t been able to sway his mind to a single thing we have claimed since coming here, and our own theories were still more… grounded than yours.”

Vaath was silent for a moment, then spoke in a measured tone. “That may be, flower. To be true, it has come to me that slaves might not hear what I say. Halforth is not the man to listen easily. That one suffers from a disease of the mind, which is what made him dangerous to my people. Halforth is pure, you see.”

Proximo cast the Channic a strange look. “You say that as though it is a bad thing.”

“Oh, but it is, horse-lover. There is no man within this Web so dangerous as one that is pure. He has no vice, no distraction, no pleasure. His cause does not allow for it. Would you ever see him weep, or laugh, or fear? Never.” Vaath scowled. “There is a legend among my people. They say that when the Beast in the Bay waxes strong, it raises corpses from the dead, infesting them with yellow light and sending them out as thralls. They might writhe with graveworms and feel no pain, and yet they obey. A pure man is much like that. Halforth is much like that. He is not even alive, not really. Halforth cares nothing for himself—he is already dead, just as his precious code demands. He would never see that code challenged, by me or you or any other. You think he will save you?” Vaath chuckled ruefully. “I and my people know his kind well, and they are no man’s savior. There was one like him, before. You know his name, don’t you?”

When Violet offered a confused look, Vaath continued. “The white knights would call him Apostate One.”

“The Mad Mod,” Syll added.

“The Dark Ally,” rumbled Boar, stirring to speech at last.

“You speak of Lord Ira Ahzred,” Lady Violet finished for them.

All three of the Channic nodded silently.

The name alone was enough to make Proximo uneasy, though it had been twelve years since that infamous man had betrayed Central and led a bloody rebellion the name of a demon-god he claimed spoke to him. The only trace of the Mad Mod in these days were rumors and tales, and the blood-soaked tome that Ahzred had written which chronicled his madness. Yet still, that name still had a certain power to it.

“Ahzred is many things,” Vaath continued, even though he too seemed uncomfortable to speak of the Mad Mod. “You heard the tales of him? The streets run red in the villages he raids, and men who cared nothing for gods will pray at first sight of yellow sails. The last thing they see might be the Dark Tomorrow, a ghost ship manned by thralls, strung up with whichever fools had let themselves be taken alive.”

Syll’s voice was low and choked. “Men dangling legless from masts, the meat hanging down in tatters. Women’s skins sewn into the sails even while they still lived. Children fastened to the bow with their throats open, all as blood-tribute to the Dark Ally’s master below the water.”

“There is your pure man, flower,” said Vaath. “Pray you do not meet him. Or perhaps you have already met just such a one?” He fixed his eyes on the Warden of Honesty. “Your slave who calls himself ‘we’ is peculiar, no?” Vaath looked up and down the giant intently. “Where did he come from?”

“If you have a question about my friend,” Violet answered firmly, “then you may direct it to him.”

“The Chan,” the Warden replied simply.

“Oh, truly?” Vaath said with a tilt of the head. “You have lost an eye. And yet you still think you see, don’t you? Are you really a man, giant?” The Channic’s smile peeled back, showing off yellowed teeth. “I would watch this creature carefully, flower. Ira Ahzred is a pure man, and so is this one. No dreams, no thoughts. Just a weapon used to kill. A corpse that walks.”

Violet seemed ready to defend her friend, before catching herself. A moment’s flash of confusion crossed her face as she looked at Vaath. “You speak of Lord Ira as though he is still living. The Mad Mod was hanged twelve years ago.”

Vaath simply smiled.

The masked man turned around to depart, waving for the others to follow him out. Syll sulked behind him, while Boar carried on at a slower pace. Before he disappeared around a corner, Boar looked back at Crispin Peck. Noticing the stare, Crispin smiled and gave a little wave as the burly Channic left.

Apple Orange, apparently having recovered, snorted after the anonymites departed. “What a bunch of weirdos. Guess we should be glad that they di— oof!” He grunted as Apple Blossom punched him in the stomach a second time. “Alright AB,” he struggled to say, “was that ‘cause I said something stupid, or just ‘cause you think it’s funny?”

“Yes,” Apple Blossom said with a little smile, patting Orange lightly on the back as he doubled over.

Proximo turned to Violet, still feeling ill-at-ease. “My lady,” he asked expectantly, “what do you make of what they said?”

Violet’s eyes were fixed on corner around which the Channic had walked, her face a mask that betrayed no thoughts. “I am not certain,” she replied, “but we have other business to attend to. I believe there was someone else we were meeting today?”

“Yes, my lady,” Proximo answered, already dreading the thought in his mind. He had not been looking forward to this one.

“Then perhaps we should take our leave. Honesty, I’ll speak to you about all this later today. Oh, and Apple Orange?”

“Yeah, m’lady?” the bearded guard managed to say.

“I wish it were not so, but I’m afraid that your speaking out of turn means that you’ll be cleaning the lavatories tonight,” Violet said pointedly. “Don’t do it again, and all that.”

Orange grinned. “This day just keeps on improving.”

“Mmm-hmm. Well, let’s go.”

As they walked through the halls on their way to their destination, Violet turned to Proximo. “Did you give it any more thought?” she asked quietly. They both knew exactly what issue ‘it’ was, even left unsaid.

Only every day, Proximo thought ruefully. Now there was a cause for sleepless nights, not that all that thinking had made conjuring a solution any easier. Proximo sighed heavily. “I don’t know what to think, my lady.”

Violet placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder, though her words were firm. “I confess that I’ve never been in a situation quite like your own,” she said, not unkindly, “but this is not a problem that will improve given time.”

Proximo produced a bitter smile. “That I do know, my lady.” Every moment’s delay only makes the knife twist a little more, he thought, a painful twisting of his own setting his heart and stomach in knots. Six save me, I only wish I knew what to say. The Generous Friend was the aspect of creativity, but all of Proximo’s prayers had not yet given him the words he needed.

The way forward through the Palace halls felt thin and stretched and far too long. By the time they’d reached their door, Proximo felt as though his own mind was strapped to a rack, every doubting thought being torturously prolonged. When they at last reached the door to Lady Violet’s quarters, he tensed up and took a deep breath. Stop being a child and do your job, he chided himself. He pushed his way inside.

Imelia was exactly where she had promised to be, having seated herself in the small room set aside for Violet. Proximo saw her expression turn from discomforted to hopeful when she saw Proximo enter. What was not expected however, was who she sat with.

“Gallia,” Proximo muttered when they locked eyes.

Imelia was dressed in light green, but Gallia was in a darker verdant shade, and seemed to have been talking with her counterpart when the Bronies entered. His sister offered a lazy smile when she saw Proximo. “Afternoon, brother,” Gallia said with a yawn. “I was just having the most fascinating chat with Lady Kohburn here, all about you. Nice to know that you’ve been hard at work here in the Dreamweave.” She raised an eyebrow in a way that implied a great deal about exactly the kind of ‘work’ he’d been doing with Imelia.

Proximo had to suppress a groan. “How did you even know that these were Lady Violet’s chambers?”

“A little drunken birdy told me, of course. Keep up, Proxi.”

“Don’t call me that. Also, get out.”

Gallia sighed. “Throwing aside family won’t save you, Proxi. I’ll let you pass the time.” She slowly stirred herself and walked out, hips swaying as she walked.

After his sister had finally left, Proximo offered an apologetic look to Imelia and Violet. “My apologies, my lady. And to you as well, Imelia—being trapped in a talk with my sister is not a healthy way to pass time.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Imelia said with a small smile. “She really just wanted to talk about you, actually.” Imelia looked opened her mouth as though to ask something, then halted and bit her lip. “Is she always so… ah, so…”

“Whatever adjective you’re hesitant to use, the answer is probably yes,” Proximo smiled.

Imelia giggled. “Well, if you say so.” She looked between him and Lady Violet. “I know that you wanted to touch base on how my source is getting along, so should we get started?” Imelia gave a particularly hopeful look to Proximo. He noticed that the seat next to her was left conspicuously open.

Proximo doubted that the gesture escaped Lady Violet, who said, “By all means,” and then took that open seat. Proximo repressed breathing a sigh of relief that Violet had preempted that chance to embarrass himself, and sat down across the table instead, to Imelia’s mild disappointment. They got to talking soon after.

Imelia and Lady Violet chatted both seriously and idly, first on the details of the case at hand, but after about fashion, art, life in the Dreamweave, and all manner of other things. Proximo added in his own word when it was appropriate, but for the most part he found it hard to speak up, with his mind ill-at-ease.

There was a question that Proximo had to answer, sooner rather than later. He could put on a pleasant face as long as he liked, but it gnawed at him nonetheless. How do I tell her? Proximo wondered unhappily. Should I tell her? Surely Imelia had a right to know that Proximo did not feel the same way about her that she clearly did about him. It had to be wrong to lead to her along. But at the same time, he could not see how revealing that would help at all. It would be kicking out one last leg that Imelia stood on, and he couldn’t bear to see her heartbroken again.

Imelia was carrying the child of someone, though she would never say who. She had loved and lost once before, and now she was trying to pick up the pieces and move on. Do I have the right to shatter all that again? What would that do to her?

There was no light in the situation, no good option. Whether it was truth or lie made no matter—people stood to suffer all the same. And yet, he had to choose.

Things wrapped up before too long. Imelia rose from her chair, and giving a little laugh to a comment that Lady Violet said. “You’re far too kind, my lady. I honestly always thought I was hopeless when it came to clothes.”

Violet waved a hand. “Pish-posh, Imelia. I truly think that green suits you wonderfully—we must go out shopping sometime. I’ll have you in a giant hat of your own before all is said and done.”

Imelia giggled. “I’d love to. Though I suppose we’ll need to finish everything happening here in the Dreamweave first.” She turned to Proximo. “My friend and I are going to be meeting again in a day or two, and he’s promised to bring me more information when that happens. Perhaps we could meet after that?” She wore an earnest smile that told Proximo a great deal about how much it meant to her. “You can come by my house, if you like.”

Proximo braced himself. Tell her, he urged himself. Say you need to talk in private and tell her, you idiot. He looked into her deep, green eyes, and prepared himself. “That sounds wonderful, Imelia,” he heard himself say instead. “I’ll see you then.” Damn it all.

Imelia left the room cheerfully, while Proximo suppressed the urge to curl up and die on the floor. He rested his head against the wall forlornly while his cursed his own cowardice. Violet laid a reassuring hand on his shoulder while Proximo tried to collect his thoughts.

While he tried to think, however, the Warden of Honesty—who had otherwise been silent in the corner—spoke up. “You are wrong to mislead her,” he said bluntly. “Should speak truth.”

Proximo shot the Warden a scathing look. “You don’t know anything about her, or me. And I did not ask for your advice.”

The Warden stiffened. “It is cruel.”

“What in Hell do you know about not being cruel?” Proximo snapped. He was surprised at how angry he was, but he had absolutely no room for patience with the Warden’s attitude right now. “Don’t pretend that you care about ‘outsiders’ like her. You’ve never given a damn about them, and the last thing I need right now are words of advice from a brute lik—”

“Oh, Six save me, I cannot abide this right now,” Violet interrupted, stepping between Proximo and the Warden. “I have too much to deal with in this moon-banished island without having to hear the two of you fighting again, so knock it off. Honesty, do you recall me telling you that I was going to teach you courtesy?”

“Yes,” the Warden replied, seeming perfectly miserable at the prospect.

“Well, go down and check on the barracks. Because when you return, we’re having a lesson about when to offer counsel to our friends.”

The Warden departed silently, leaving Violet and Proximo alone. She looked at him with a strong measure of disappointment. “I will not have this any longer, Proximo.”

“You’re giving him lessons on courtesy now?” Proximo asked, incredulous at the very idea. “You would have more luck teaching a fish to dance.”

Violet was not amused. “No more. I am so far past the point of having the space or time to deal with this petty sniping that I will go mad if I have to hear another word of it. I realize that you and Honesty have differences, but this ends right now.”

“He hasn’t changed, my lady,” Proximo countered. “You know how much damage he’s done to our cause since he came here, and he hasn’t changed in the least. I tell you, it won’t—”

“Proximo,” she said as patiently as she could manage, “you do not know him. At all. Do you know why I’m meeting with him, hmm? Because he asked for my help, so that he does not make another mistake. If you would just talk to him, perhaps you would see things differently, but at the very least I will not have some feud happening under my nose between my friends.” She gave him a very pointed look. “I had hoped that after he saved all our lives, you might have at least shown an ounce of appreciation.”

Proximo did not have an answer to her, so Violet continued. “Proximo, take a walk and check in with our other teams. I want you to think on this, OK? Because this cannot keep happening.”

He left, half-angry that she was still taking Honesty’s side, and half-ashamed that he had been scolded by his closest friend. Finding someone standing outside did not improve his mood.

“I know that look,” said Gallia, milling about in the hall. “What’s troubling you, brother? You seem upset.”

“Leave me be, Gallia. I’m really not interested.”

“In what? Sparing a word for your own long-suffering sibling, or in accepting our father’s generous offer?”

“Either. Both.” Proximo tried to walk away—he needed time to think, and that was hard to do when his sister was undercutting him.

“I thought I would tell you,” she said nonchalantly, “that girl Imelia is inordinately fond of you. I figured that you must not realize. You always were hopeless with women.”

Proximo stopped walking, and shot back a look. “Don’t bring her into this, Gallia.”

She smiled furtively. “Ah, you did notice. My my, Proximo, I’m almost impressed. I’m sure you’ll make her very happy.”

Generous Friend, please give me the strength to not attack my sister, Proximo prayed while giving a heavy sigh. The urge did not pass immediately.

“You know,” Gallia continued, “you could just marry her.”

Proximo fixed her with a skeptical stare, waiting for the punchline. None came. “Excuse me?”

“Marry the girl. She’s from a noble family, and so are you. Bring her back to Hartshold with you and be pleased that you’re aiding your family. You can even bring her grandmother along with you. Imelia would be far happier at home than she would be in this wretched place, and you might be the only chance she’ll ever have to escape. Do you suppose any other suitors will line up for a poor girl fat with someone else’s child?” Gallia’s green eyes flashed when she smiled smugly. “Of course, Father will be disappointed that he could not arrange a better match, but you’ve never cared much for what he wanted, have you?”

Proximo clenched a fist. “You’re just saying this to tempt me to return home with you.”

“Certainly,” Gallia admitted readily. “But I’m also telling the truth. Or, of course, you could just break her heart now and leave her behind, like you did so many times before. Prove me wrong, but that doesn’t seem like something that ‘new and reformed Proxi’ would do.”

Proximo had had enough, and walked briskly to escape his sister… and hopefully some of his new doubts as well. She did not let him get away too easily. “Weigh your options, Proxi,” Gallia called from behind him, “but do it quickly. The choice is entirely your own.”

* * * * * *

If you should meet a poor man on the road, murder him and steal his possessions.

If you should meet a king on the road, murder him and steal his possessions.

— Channic proverb