"It makes little sense," said Jollis to an empty chamber.

As the day in the Urisi Nation hurtled towards late afternoon, the sun had just risen over the Oceanus Imperial Palace. It was well past the candlemark when his Master should be seated at his desk tending to the morning reports. Yet the flame in the lamp at the corner of the desk remained low, untouched since Kyllos had retired the evening before.

Jollis took a slow, deep breath. His own words disturbed him, not so much for their meaning as the fact he had felt the urge to say them when no one would hear them. And what exactly made little sense? That his Master was not present? That he felt the need for guidance? That he had not solved his Master's dilemma?

Jollis left the chamber. He gazed down the corridor and spotted Yonlas at the far end. When his faithful assistant did not move, Jollis tilted his head. "You feel the need for distance this morning?"

Yonlas paused, his fingers knitted together before him. "Of course not, Wanderer," he said in a flat voice as he advanced. "Good morning and good blessings to you."

"Good blessings upon you as well," said Jollis, a ghost of a smile upon his lips. "Have you seen Master Kyllos?"

"This morning?"

Jollis hesitated. "Indeed, yes, this morning."

"No, I have not."

Jollis nodded once.

"Have you trouble, Wanderer?"

"In a manner of speaking. I seek guidance on what to do next."

"Have you no more leads to follow?"

"I do, but I fear they will result in the same failure."

Yonlas clenched his fingers, his hands knitted into a tight ball. "Master Kyllos believes the Rogue Mages are being forewarned somehow."

"Ah, yes, I had thought this myself." Jollis looked at Yonlas. "You have been speaking on the matter with Master Kyllos?"

"Only in passing."

Jollis looked intrigued, his face a silent bid to elaborate.

Yonlas stood rigid before his would-be mentor despite his efforts to relax. Chagrin clouded his eyes, though he was quick to hide it with a steady voice which exuded a confidence the rest of him did not share. "He spoke a few words to me as he retired last night. The candlemark was late; that is likely why he is not yet present this morning."

Jollis nodded again, though he did not accept the explanation. Master Kyllos was like the mountain: old, yet formidable and strong. His Master could go days without sleep if needed.

And he could tell Yonlas was anxious about something. He gave the faithful Cohort a small smile. "You appear to be expressing the same consternation I will not allow myself to express so openly."

Yonlas summoned all his powers of quick meditation to force his tight muscles to relax. He gave himself time to digest Jollis' words until he understood they expressed amusement rather than admonishment. "Perhaps that is for the best so you may go about your tasks unencumbered, Wanderer."

Jollis laughed, and Yonlas did not clench his fingers as tightly. "If you do have something else to offer, I would be most grateful to hear it."

Yonlas' fingers relaxed further as he barreled into the opening Jollis had left for him. "Perhaps it is time to seek a wider counsel."

"An intriguing thought. Who would you suggest?"

"The Holy Order."

Jollis hesitated. In the silence, he could hear his assistant's steady breathing. He recognized the cadence for the meditative technique that it was. He finally realized just how nervous Yonlas was and how desperate the Cohort was to hide it. "Would that not strike of ambition?" Jollis suggested, more as a test rather than a serious criticism.

"Not at all, Wanderer. You do not seek to gain favor. It is not as if Master Kyllos had denied you and now you seek advantage with someone more powerful."

"I consider knowledge to be power. One could think I wish more power by bypassing my immediate Master."

Yonlas knew this was not the correct application of the concept, but he could not simply declare as such. "The wise man accepts there are always those wiser than him," the Cohort intoned after a moment's thought. "He becomes the fool when he denies others that greater wisdom."

Jollis slowly smiled. "You know your path well. I am most pleased."

Yonlas' lips twitched into the first smile he had felt able to express in many stretches of days. "Your words honor me."

"Have you a further suggestion as to where I may go to seek their wisdom?"

"If you are troubled, I would suggest somewhere familiar to you."

Jollis' smile widened. "Such as the D'ronstaq Manor."

"Yes, Wanderer, that would be a most excellent choice. I understand there is a contingent of Rogue Mages assisting the Holy Order there. You may learn something from them."

"Indeed. Would you know if the Holy Order brought a Priestess with them?"

Yonlas tilted his head. "Priestess?"

"I feel the need for a Purification again. These feelings of being watched at the last few camps I have investigated are most distracting. I need to rid myself of them if I am to remain effective."

"I do not know if one is present, Wanderer."

"Ah, then Master Kyllos did not relay that information to you."

Yonlas let out a ragged breath, his meditative state shattered.

"I would advise you," began Jollis, unable to keep a tiny bit of amusement from slipping into his voice. "To practice your meditative techniques. Your future attempts at stealth will depend upon it."

"Ah ... stealth, Wanderer?"

"You may tell Master Kyllos you have accomplished your task most admirably. I will seek the Holy Order as he wishes of me."

Yonlas let out another long breath. "I beg forgiveness for the deception. It is--"

"It is what was expected of you, and thus you performed your duty well."

"But--"

"The fool lies when it pleases him to do so," intoned Jollis. "It is the wise man who practices deception when it serves a greater good. You have been the wise man."

"Thank you, Wanderer." Yonlas paused. "I feel I must tell you this has left me even more disturbed than I was before."

"Ah, yes. Your instincts serve you well."

Yonlas' face was caught between surprise and despair. "I should be disturbed?"

"The word 'should,' you will find, can be very imprecise," said Jollis. "It does not properly convey from whom we receive our direction. And thus you have used the word correctly in this case."

"I am most troubled by this," said Yonlas. "Things are not proceeding as I had thought they would. Enlightenment is slow to come to Oceanus."

"You understate the matter. I suspect Master Kyllos has a greater purpose in mind for me which he is hesitant to reveal. Perhaps he had hoped I would not realize this."

"My failing, Wanderer."

"Not at all. Do not belittle yourself. He tasked you with something which taxed your abilities to their limits. You did very well in light of this. It is better that I know; I will be more open to anything unusual."

Jollis stopped, his mouth having opened to give voice to his next thought, but he closed it and looked pensive.

"Is there something else?" asked Yonlas.

Jollis shook his head. "We have spoken enough on this matter, and I need to set about my new mission. You may inform Master Kyllos you had succeeded in your task. You may choose to avoid further explanation if you wish."

"Thank you. Good day and good journey to you."

Jollis smiled and stepped past Yonlas.

Yonlas watched Jollis until he had turned down another corridor. He let out a windy sigh and bowed his head in a short prayer to his patron god. Master Kyllos had been right; he was indeed picking up his would-be mentor's gift for sensing the unusual. Something had remained unspoken, and now his shoulders ached as if from the strain of bearing its weight.

Jothan stood to the side of the road, where lingering moisture from a morning rain dripped upon his head and down his back from the towering canopy of leaves. He stood calm and still as a horse clopped by, drawing behind it an empty wooden cart. Several peasants sat near the front, one of them holding the reins, which he snapped to quicken the horse's pace as they approached the wider road.

Jothan studied their faces. One turned his head and looked at him. Jothan bowed his head in greeting and received a casual response. It was the same here as back in the village; the peasants were less fearful of the expatriate Mages now. They betrayed no sense of relief as they left the former Overlord Manor, not as they had when the Manor was once home to a cadre of young naked women.

After the cart had passed, he waited for any more to emerge from around the bend. When he heard nothing but the fading squeak of wheels behind him, he stepped onto the road and continued along his way.

The energies he had first sensed a candlemark ago were growing stronger, rising and falling in an irregular cadence as the Portal was energized and de-energized, as if attempting to diagnose a problem. He believed he had a solution for the problem of the spy pearls failing to relay Portal energy patterns. He hoped to find their hiding places and re-enchant them with his corrected spell.

The gate to the D'ronstaq Manor rose before him. Two unarmed Cohorts were in attendance, the gate itself as wide open as it had been in the heyday of the Overlord who once owned this Manor. Yet now the openness was misleading. Jothan looked past the gate and saw staff-wielding warriors guarding a point where the main path forked towards the Portal building, and two more standing outside a thatch-roofed hut.

The Cohorts came to meet him. "We bid you welcome, traveler," said one. "What brings you into our humble midst?"

Jothan lowered his hood and bowed his head. "I look for honest work for a fair price."

The second Cohort scrutinized him. "You are a Mage?"

"Yes. I am unaffiliated with the Guild, however. I hope that is not a problem."

"Not at all, honored Mage," said the first Cohort. "But we have a number already in the employ of the Holy Order. I do not believe they require any more at this time."

Jothan smiled. "So you have indeed employed several of my brethren as I have heard. Quite fortunate they are. Is there nothing I can do for you?"

"We regret having to turn you away."

Jothan sighed. "That is most unfortunate, considering how far I have traveled."

The Cohorts paused and gazed at each other for a moment. The first one nodded. The second turned to Jothan and spoke. "How far have you come, honored Mage?"

"From the main continent." He paused, allowing his eyes to cloud. "There is no going back for me. I am something of an exile. But I should not bore you with such things." Jothan turned. "I will be on my way."

"A moment, please."

Jothan paused, then turned to face the Cohort once more, folding his hands before him.

"We have a saying in our culture," said the Cohort. "When faced with potential failure after great effort, the wise man will make the attempt anyway. Only the fool will accept defeat easily."

"I see. Then I shall not be the fool in your eyes. I am at odds with my brethren who do not see the wisdom in working with the Inonni. I believe they squander a wonderful opportunity to perform Magery in a more apolitical atmosphere."

"And they do not share your feelings?" the Cohort asked.

"They do not. Thus I cast myself from them, and came here in hopes of proving them wrong."

The two Cohorts again looked pensive and exchanged another glance. Something was whispered between them which Jothan could not quite hear. The first one nodded, then the second. The latter turned back to Jothan. "Have you nowhere else to turn, honored Mage?"

"I will likely be forced to wander about the countryside," said Jothan, injecting the right amount of chagrin into his voice. "I certainly cannot return to our camp."

"Camp? An active camp?"

Jothan tilted his head. "Active?"

"Has it been occupied for some time?"

"Yes, indeed. For quite awhile."

The Cohort gave him a solemn look. "It is a great pity we do not know the locations of these camps."

"Oh?" Jothan asked. "How so?"

"Our great task is to bring Enlightenment to Oceanus," said the Cohort. "This extends to the Mages as well. We would be most happy to approach your brethren and show them they have nothing to fear and everything to gain."

"Then might I offer to share my knowledge of the location of the camp from which I originated?"

The Cohort looked nonplussed and glanced at his partner. "You would do this for us?" asked the second Cohort. "Willingly?"

"Oh, yes, indeed. But I feel I must warn you. Many of them do not trust you. Some even fear you and believe you will attack them."

"Then your assistance would be imperative," the first Cohort said.

"Then I ask again for you to reconsider and accept my services," said Jothan. "If I can work for you for but a small span of days and some decent platinum, I will inform you of the location of the camp. Then you can meet with them, and through me they will come to accept you, seeing how I have been treated fairly by the Inonni."

"Very well, honored Mage," said the second Cohort. "I will take you to our Mage Master. He can better determine your skills and where we could use you."

Jothan smiled as he stepped into the Manor behind the Cohort. "I thank you. You are most kind. I hope this leads to a final reconciliation between your people and mine."

Pain flared along Tarras' side near his waist, like a thick needle thrust into him. He resisted the urge to rub it, not so much in the knowledge it would do little good as he did not want to appear weak before Frenon. His legs ached, his joints about to scream in agony. He could not have kept the pace save for Frenon pushing him ahead. Tarras would have thought this cruel punishment were it not for the fact that Frenon was acting as a shield to those behind them. Yet when he stumbled and felt a new pain flare in one ankle, and Frenon pushed him onward when he tried to stop to tend to it, he thought it punishment anyway.

Tarras ceased to see the stream of peasants flowing like a parting river on either side of them. His now hurting ankle made it harder to avoid colliding into them when he tried to step around the detritus which littered this squalid section of the village.

"To the right," Frenon suddenly hissed in his ear, startling him into another stumble. "To the right, my Lord!"

Tarras almost blundered past it, and Frenon had to grasp his arm to help him make the turn. They dodged into a narrow alley littered with splintered wood, bent nails, broken horseshoes, and an upturned cart, its timbers warped and whitened by the elements.

Frenon grabbed Tarras and thew him behind the cart rather than attempt to direct him verbally. Tarras thumped first against the wall, then to the ground. Frenon crouched beside him, stringing his crossbow and holding it ready. "Be quiet," Frenon said in an urgent whisper.

Tarras wheezed and had not the breath to tell his protector this was as quiet as he could be. He rubbed the ankle he had twisted. The pain was fading, so it was not sprained or broken.

Frenon eased his head up until he could peer over the cart, his eyes narrowing to slits. He ducked back down and gestured to Tarras for silence. He held up three fingers.

At the end of the alley, three Cohorts appeared. Their walk was unhurried, yet the two on either side were sweeping curious gazes around them as if searching. The one in the center bid the others to stop, and they engaged in soft conversation.

Frenon frowned and found a gap between the warped boards of the old cart. He watched as two Cohorts nodded at something the third had said. The third pointed, first back the way they -- and Tarras and Frenon -- had come, then in front of them and away from the alley. Another nod, and all three walked out of view.

Frenon remained still, staring for a long moment before he turned to his companion. "They have moved off, but we will stay here awhile longer before we leave."

"They did not seem in a hurry," said Tarras.

Frenon sighed through his nose. "I am aware of your theory concerning them, but I cannot take chances. They appeared to know you when they looked at you."

Tarras spread his hands before him. Not a single finger was spared a callous, healing cut, or scratch. "I no longer appear the part of the Noble Lord."

"You cannot change your face, my Lord, and they will eventually know what face to look for. And please keep your hood on."

Tarras raised his hood back into place. "I have found that people who look like they are hiding something are more suspicious than those operating out in the open, no matter what they are doing."

Frenon peered above the cart again. He gripped the crossbow tighter. "There are far too many Inonni in this village for my liking."

"There are going to be far more in our eventual destination."

"Yes, and if you have spoken with Lord Rennis, you know my opinion on that."

"It is necessary for me to--"

Frenon waved him silent. "With all due respect, my Lord, do not bother debating me, it will not get you far. I have taken an oath to protect you regardless of my opinions on the merits of your task."

"But I want your opinion, Frenon."

Frenon shook his head, a gesture which exasperated Tarras to no end. "My Lord, it is my understanding you and the others wish to reestablish the old order. This means I must know my place if I am to fit into it once more."

Tarras had no reply to offer. With his own thoughts about the future now muddied beyond the ability of simple answers, whatever he said would make him sound like a hypocrite to his own ears.

Tarras strained to look over the cart himself. "Frenon, I am becoming cramped. We--"

"Shh!"

Tarras clamped his mouth shut, but made known his indignation with a gusty sigh.

Frenon raised his head higher. "I hear carousing."

"Pardon?"

"There is a tavern nearby. If I can hear them above the bustle of the street, there must be a large number of people present." He rose to his feet. "Come along, we will hide in there."

Tarras stood and smirked. "Hide? In a crowded tavern?"

"Yes, my Lord, hide. There is no better place to lose oneself than among a multitude, especially a loud multitude."

Tarras nodded. He felt foolish for not thinking of it himself. He pined for the days when he was the one who dispensed such advice, only to realize he had never had to follow through on his own words. Others would always act on his words. Others would take the risks. Others would die.

In war, men die. That was the mantra he had oft repeated to Duric. How blithe those words seemed to him now.

Frenon led the way, pausing at the entrance to the alley to glance in either direction down the street before ushering Tarras along. Frenon directed them down a side street, then another alley, then yet another street. It was not until Tarras could hear the cacophony of laughter, shouting, and even singing that he believed Frenon was not simply picking a random path through town.

The air became laden with salty moisture as they scrambled down an embankment as a shortcut towards an isolated building lying just short of a narrow strip of beach. Further on, just down the shore and past some jagged rocks, piers jutted into the water, several large sailing ships moored beside them. Men swarmed over them, loading and unloading crates using nothing but their own muscle, thick rope, and a few pulleys.

Outside the tavern, a sun-bleached and brine-encrusted sign squeaked as it swung in the breeze. Faded lettering read: The Crumbling Lighthouse.

Frenon lowered his weapon. He took one last glance around them, then unstrung it and clasped it to its holder at his waist over his hip. He pushed open the door, and the sound of boisterous men and clinking tankards blasted around them as they entered.

Tarras reeled at the thick, heady smell of brine, cheap ale, and sweat. His ears rang from the thunder of raucous conversation and barks of laughter. Over in a corner, at least two dozen men had crammed three tables together. Most sported full, thick beards, their faces as weatherbeaten as the sign outside, their bodies stocky and corded with muscle. Around the periphery were men of lesser girth, with smaller beards and goatees, but no less rowdy than their larger friends.

Frenon bent towards Tarras and said in his ear, "Merchants. Mostly sea merchants."

Tarras had already gathered as much. All merchants wore beards when most Oceanus men opted for a smooth appearance.

Frenon gestured for Tarras to follow him to the bar. "Best we blend in as much as possible."

Tarras was not in the mood or mindset for drink, but he accepted the tankard of reddish, sharp-smelling beer without complaint. "What now?" Tarras said, his voice straining from having to almost shout to be heard.

Frenon took a long swig from his tankard and wiped his lips on his sleeve. "We wait for a bit, perhaps until the merchant ships have exchanged their cargo. Then we leave when they do."

Tarras heard a sudden, staccato shout from the merchants' tables. Others joined in the mantra, which sounded to him like the word "drink" shouted and repeated, until the entire tavern reverberated to the same rhythm.

Tarras turned. Roughly in the center of the merchant gathering, two men sat next to each other. One was a broad-chested sea merchant, the other a thinner, slimmer land merchant. Each had a tankard to his lips, slowly leaning back as their throats bobbed up and down, ale leaking around the corners of their mouths and dribbling down their beards. The mantra of "Drink! Drink! Drink!" hastened as the sea merchant finished first and slammed the tankard down. His compatriot did the same a moment later, but the sea merchant's friends had already shoved a second tankard into his hands.

Frenon turned towards the spectacle as well. "Another reason for coming in here. There is always something else to draw everyone's attention. No one is paying attention to us."

Tarras did not acknowledge him. He stared as the sea merchant finished his second tankard and started on a third, his hapless companion still choking down the last swallows of his second. The mantra rose to a cheer as the sea merchant downed the third tankard and slammed it back to the table, launching himself to his feet and raising his fist in victory.

The land merchant set down his incomplete third tankard and stood. He gripped the sea merchant's hand and pumped it once. Yet it was clear the ritual was not over. Other merchants lifted their tankards from the table and removed the empty ones.

A shouted question rose above the din, spoken to the land merchant, "Do ye know the words, lad?"

"He better know the words, if he don't want to visit her himself!" shouted another to general laughter.

"Ain't the kind of 'wet' he be expectin' from a female, aye?" cried another, which was met by even more thunderous amusement.

Several thick hands pushed the land merchant forward until he climbed atop the table. One of the more buxom barmaids rushed forward, her blonde hair flying behind her, hands on hips. "Oh, here now, none of that! You know how hard it is to get scuff marks off the table tops?"

"Do ye know the words, lass?" a merchant suddenly asked her.

"I oughta, I hear you louts sing it enough times when you're so ale-soaked you can barely stand. And not even in key!"

"Well, there ye have it, lads, we need her to key us up!"

More laughter roared from the merchants as several vaulted the table and leapt towards her. She uttered a yelp as she turned to escape, though Tarras noted she was not trying very hard, her struggles minimal when they dragged her towards the table and forced her to stand atop it.

The barmaid folded her arms in what to Tarras looked like mock indignation. From the way it pushed up her already ample bosom, he doubted it would do little more than gain her more attention. "Yeah, and this certainly ain't no excuse to look up my petticoats!"

"Why, you want us to look at 'em from a different direction?" cried one merchant.

"Then ye would have more than scuff marks to clean up, lass!" boomed another to more raucous laughter.

The barmaid blushed, but a tiny smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. The land merchant atop the table with her gave her a lopsided grin, his eyes fogging with the ale he had drunk. She giggled when he reached for her hands and missed one of them, then laughed when he kept groping for it even as she was trying to meet him halfway and grasp his hand instead.

The other merchants roared. "Hope ye don't have problems findin' other parts of her, lad!"

Now the merchant blushed, but managed to grip both the barmaid's hands. They stepped back and stretched their arms, and the words rose with a slight fuzziness to the merchant's mouth: "A merchant of the sea be not fair or pure."

The barmaid opened her mouth to respond, only to yelp when he suddenly yanked her arms and pulled her close. "A-A merchant of the sea has little allure," she sang with a slight quaver to her voice but a growing smile on her lips.

"With salt in his teeth, and brine in his beard..."

The barmaid smirked. "And any lass would slap him if at her he leered!"

She drew back and let go of his hands, raising one of hers and swinging it before his face in a mock slap. The merchants roared again, banging their tankards on the table. Tarras set down his own and stared in fascination.

"The sea is a mistress both cruel and kind," sang the barmaid.

"The sea is a mistress of both beauty and mind," sang the merchant, his voice louder as the warmth of alcohol spread over him.

"With the lure of a harlot, and the bent of a tempest," the barmaid sang in a heartier voice.

"And now that slap from the pretty lass seems best-est!" the merchant sang, snatching her hand and pulling her towards him.

"Oh, that's not even a word!" the barmaid laughed, but her words were drowned out as the other merchants joined on the next verse.

"We honor her no matter what tide or location,

"We honor her with great drinking and fornication!"

A beefy hand slapped the barmaid on the ass. She gave a high-pitched squawk and stumbled forward into the land merchant's arms. "Oh, hang on, none of that now!" she called out, only to let out a short shriek as the land merchant groped one of her breasts through her dress.

"With an ale in hand, and a pretty lass for good measure,

"And later we'll show her our other great treasure!"

The barmaid pushed herself away from the land merchant, the top of her dress askew. A sliver of areola peeked above the hem on one side. She slapped her hands against her hips. "You ain't gettin' no treasure from--"

The merchants' voices rose, a single great roar which filled the tavern like thunder from the storm. They raised their tankards and swung them in time to the music as it crescendoed.

"We brave the sea for fame, fortune, and profit,

"We brave the sea so the landers CAN GO STUFF IT!"

The barmaid had retreated from the sea of groping hands and stood in the middle of the table. The now inebriated land merchant gave her a sloppy leer. She raised a hand and pressed it into his chest when he tried to approach her. She smirked and her voice once again rose with the others.

"With a keen eye for goods, and an ear for gossip,

"And fun in good taste? Well, that's a tossup!"

"I'd agree with that part!" the barmaid declared, pushing away the drunk merchant's now feeble attempt to grope her breasts again. Her grin widened, and she loosened her arm, as if enticing him to try harder. He leered and joined the next chorus, his voice faltering and missing every other word.

"The sea is rough and taxes even the strongest,

"The sea is rough and harbors grudges the longest,"

The combined voice of the merchants was no less thunderous, but the words were sung with more clarity, with hardened faces and saddened eyes, tankards rising higher in tribute rather than swaying in raucous celebration.

The barmaid stopped singing. She did not know the words as well past this point. Her arm slowly dropped as the merchant ceased his advances, his own emotions having caught up with the others.

"With a grit of teeth, and a tear for the fallen,

"And for a respite from the sea we go longin'."

A tiny smile curled the barmaid's lips, and she stepped forward to grasp the fading merchant's hands, drawing him towards her.

She did not notice at first when a wall of broad shoulders and barrel chests closed around her, several sea merchants having climbed onto the table with her. Only when the merchants' voice rose once more in rousing verse did she suddenly glance about her and gasp.

"To land we go to escape the foam and spray,

"To land we go to drink and have a good lay!"

"Oh, hang on, not with me you -- mmmph!"

Her erstwhile singing partner's lips crushed against hers, his hands suddenly steel bands around her arms. She flailed for purchase against his chest, but large hands were sliding up her thighs and under her dress.

"With thoughts of dry beddings and rooms not musty,

"And the only damp that of a barmaid's wet pussy!"

To a cheer which shook the walls and rattled the windows, a dozen hands under her dress yanked downward. The ragged-edged bottom of the barmaid's underthings fell down her legs and pooled around her feet.

The barmaid cried out into the drunken merchant's mouth as he lifted her dress. She pulled back and spun away from him, flashing the bare flesh of her buttocks and a lightly-furred nether region to everyone around her before her dress settled back into place. Another cheer rose, accompanied by whistles and lewd proposals.

"Of all the childish, tasteless -- oh!"

The barmaid stumbled on her ragged underthings as she tried to round on the thickest knot of merchants. She shrieked as she fell backwards and tumbled from the table. Several merchants made a delayed grab for her, but someone from behind broke her fall to the floor.

She gasped and clutched at her rescuer, leaning into him hard. She nearly took him down with her, but he recovered, helped by a much larger man behind him.

The barmaid's head spun around, eyes flashing anger even as her cheeks glowed. She subsided when she looked into a kindly older face. "Thank you," she gushed, a tiny, quavering smile coming to her lips.

Tarras returned the smile. "Not at all. Are you hurt?"

The barmaid snorted and righted herself. She stepped out of her torn underthings and kicked them aside. "From these louts? Not at all. Only good thing about that blazin' song is if they're singin' that, they're too drunk to follow up with anything else." She grinned. "Not that I wouldn't be up to some, ah, treasure hunting with some of them later once they've sobered up. To help 'em pay honor to the sea, y'understand." Her gaze drifted back to the merchants. "But ... hmm ..."

"Something the matter?"

The barmaid grinned. "Not really. Just ... well, they're actin' more lively than usual, y'know? I mean, yeah, they do this sorta thing now and then, but this is like the third time in a half moon. Huh, funny that. Oh well, who'm I to argue, eh?"

She winked at Tarras and sauntered back to the bar.

"Interesting," Tarras murmured.

A yank of his arm lurched him out of his reverie. "We best be going," Frenon said in a stiff voice. "It may not have been very wise to involve yourself."

Tarras withheld his protest, as Frenon had already turned away, his hand still curled around Tarras' arm. Outside, Tarras wrenched his arm from his protector's grip. "Really, Frenon, there is a point where caution crosses the line into paranoia."

Frenon sighed. "My Lord, I must admit I agree with Rennis on one matter. Neither one of us can understand your fascination with the peasantry."

"The merchants are hardly--"

"You know them only from their visits to your Palace, where their interest in profit forced them to act properly. Here you see them as they really are, barely a step above the common rabble."

"This is very odd to hear coming from someone not far removed from them himself."

A heavy silence settled over them, Frenon's eyes hard and unwavering. "Perhaps that is the reason I wish for a return to the days of proper Nobility," said Frenon in a lower voice. "In that world, I had a chance to remove myself from this. Please, my Lord, let us move on while there are no Inonni about."

He did not wait for a response. He simply let go of Tarras' arm and began walking with long, brisk strides.

Tarras almost remained where he was, content to let his supposed protector leave without him. As Frenon retreated without a backwards glance, he wondered if perhaps that would have suited the man well. After all, Tarras was not a "proper" Lord anymore. Frenon had never said as such, but Tarras could see it in everything from the man's gaze to his mannerisms. Whatever respect Frenon had had for Tarras had eroded, and his sense of duty had become a chore.

Tarras sighed and rushed to catch up. His own thoughts about what a Lord can and should be were changing. Perhaps he needed this continued insight. Or perhaps he was starting to worry about his own safety. Either way, he was convinced his reasons for remaining with Frenon were entirely self-serving.

So be it. That was expected of a proper Noble Lord.

Uroddus sat pensive and motionless long enough to make both the Farview image of Marlon and his two primary advisers fidget. Even Q'kollan, who could stand still and alert through both boring and tense situations alike, flexed his knitted fingers as if needing something to do.

Finally, the Guildmaster let out a small sigh. "This is most unfortunate."

"You have an incredible gift for understatement," said Marlon at the same time Katla rolled her eyes and Q'kollan let his hands drop to his sides with a small but exasperated sigh.

"But perhaps this is for the best."

"What?!" cried Katla.

Marlon frowned. "Are you sure you heard me correctly, Guildmaster? Many of my fellow expatriates are about to be scattered to the winds! Jothan overestimated both his support and their desire to follow me or anyone else for that matter. Barely a third are coming to the new site. The rest are going to disappear once more."

"But you do not believe they will turn towards the Inonni."

"No, I don't, but then again, what in hellfire do I know anymore?"

Uroddus slipped off his spectacles and tapped them against his open palm. "I have considered this. Having all of them in one place will invite this sort of trouble once more. Scattering them will make it harder for them to be found by the Inonni."

"But they are no longer available to assist!"

"This, again, is unfortunate, but will have to be accepted. We will work with whom we do have. And Jothan is now in a key position to obtain the readings we want."

"Yes, if he can find a way to get that information to us."

"We will have to trust his ingenuity."

Marlon sighed and shook his head. "I wish I had your confidence."

"Nevertheless, this is all we can do at this point." Uroddus put his spectacles back on. "How secure is this new site?"

Marlon smirked. "We kept the old one a secret for long enough, didn't we? And even now they'll know only because we're telling them."

"Point taken." Uroddus paused. "Please feel free not to answer this, Marlon, but I confess to much curiosity. Can you divulge your old location?"

Marlon hesitated only a moment. "Virgia Point."

Q'kollan raised an eyebrow. Katla shrugged and shook her head, as geography was never her strong point.

"Interesting," Uroddus said. "And quite clever. I commend you and your compatriots."

"Don't thank me, lot of that stuff was in place long before I ever knew about it. Do you want to know the location of the new--?"

"No. The fewer people who know about it, the better. Your fellow expatriates may trust the Guild more if they feel they can hide from it."

Marlon nodded. His face took on a somber look. "I haven't been a very good leader, Guildmaster. A good leader would never have let Jothan get away with this regardless of the greater good." He glanced to the side. "The last of the camp has been broken down, and now the wards are about to be lifted. I have to go."

"Understood."

"I'm not sure when I'll be contacting you again."

"I know. I wish you and your compatriots a safe journey."

Marlon nodded once, and his image faded out.

"Most unfortunate," Katla mocked as she stepped forward. "Yeah, that was an understatement."

"Virgia Point," Q'kollan mused. "Fascinating."

"What's so amazing about it?" Katla said.

"It was a location I was sure I remembered Q'ixanna having searched very soon after his formal condemnation of the expatriate Mages. One would think that would have been the best time to find them, when they had yet to fully establish themselves."

"I suspect they found a way to modify the archives to make it look like the area had been searched," said Uroddus.

"You're not serious," Katla declared.

"I am a frequent peruser of the archives. I performed an extensive statistical analysis of the magic exuded by the scrolls. I found an anomaly which could be explained only by illicit modification."

Katla's eyes widened. "Please tell me you wrote down your equations!"

Uroddus offered a tiny smile. The scroll he produced from his robes did not make it to the top of his desk before Katla snatched it from him.

"Is there anything else you need to discuss?" asked Q'kollan.

"Yes," Uroddus replied. "I need a means to contact Lord Tarras' resistance group."

Katla tilted her head. "Is this about what we discussed the other night?"

"What was discussed?" Q'kollan asked. "Why was I not in attendance?"

Katla's cheeks colored.

"Ah," Q'kollan said.

"I will fill you in later, Master Q'kollan," said Uroddus. "I needed it to gel in my own mind first, and I believe this conversation has served to do so."

"They didn't give you a Farviewing pearl?"

"No. They have one to me but have not used it since asking me to deliver the message to the Urisi Ambassador. Try contacting them through Uridon, the head of the Ne'land clan of merchants."

"I'll see what I can do, Guildmaster," said Q'kollan. He rushed out of the room in a sweep of Mage robe.

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