Kent sat on the balcony, overlooking the courtyard at the Red Jester. The heat of the midday sun didn't reach him through the loose awning that covered the majority of the balcony. A faint breeze, carrying both the scent of the sea to the south and the stench of the multitudes of humanity within Hadrapole, ran across his skin, cooling him at the same time it repelled him. He drank a watery concoction with a base of wine. It tasted fruity and refreshing.

"The word is that there are five of them." Kent didn't look at Maeve as he spoke. He cultivated an air of indifference toward the game of Vines they played.

While Kent enjoyed most games, he hated losing. He didn't mind it so much when it happened infrequently. Playing Kingdoms with Fattah usually meant losing as much as winning, but Fattah couldn't simply overwhelm him. Maeve, while playing Vines, did. He had never really bothered with the game previously, but Maeve enjoyed it, so he suggested they played. Four games to her, and Kent began to lose interest.

"Witch-finders?" Maeve queried, looking over the board. "Tell me of them, Kent. You know how they worry me."

Sipping his drink, he watched pale clouds in the distance, his eyes studiously averted from the game halted midway due to his indifference. "They've each got a taboo of some sort, these Kingdomer witch-finders. I heard one won't cut his hair. He's got a tremendous, disgusting beard, which probably hasn't seen soap and water since the last crusade. Another won't eat meat. I suppose a certain amount of craziness is mandatory to become a witch-finder."

"Right now they're staying with some of the Kingdomer merchants. They've got friends in this city, and maybe even in the council. The talk is that the Guild Arcana may offer a deal. They'll sell out the non-members, maybe even help find them, if members of the Guild are ignored. I imagine the council will accept that. I wonder if the witch-finders will?"

"They are driven by fanaticism, not reason", Maeve pointed out. "I doubt they will side with heathens. Even those who are more worldly might be loathe to risk being branded as heretics. I do not think they will agree, or if they do, it shall not last." She chuckled and waved at the board. "And they shall not play in your stead, Kent. Truly, you learn quickly but you must remember that in Vines not all battles are fought next to the foe. Learn to consolidate your gains rather than always strive to react to my attacks. Giving me a node or two will not lose you the game if it means you save this wide swathe."

Kent glanced at the board. "I still think in terms of Kingdoms, where each piece is more or less precious, and sacrifice is only an option when a powerful piece is in your grasp." Kent made his move, knowing, almost as soon as he did so, he had made a mistake. "Speaking of power, I spoke with Fattah and he's said he knows who sent the assassins, but for now, he's leaving the vendetta. He won't say it, but the witch-finders worry him. I could easily see the council feeding him and his countrymen to these Kingdomers, especially if it means easier times for Hadrope wizards. He had mentioned something before about the Guild Arcana and the coming crusade. I couldn't figure what he meant then. It makes a lot more sense now."

"I do not fault him for being discreet", Maeve said. "As one of the 'devil elves' I know full well how a foreign wizard might feel in these times. But I am noble and cousin to the Blessed Emperor, and this may yet save me. Even the Kingdoms cannot afford to anger Andrave overmuch. Fattah's protections are less public."

Kent's heart fell as Maeve moved. She had him in two moves, maybe more if he played defensively. Of course, he had played defensively the last four games as well. "His protections are much less public than I had expected. He's disappeared. He hasn't left the city, but he isn't as visible as he used to be. I wouldn't say he's scared, just cautious. He's always been cautious. He believes the Guild Arcana won't help when the crusade comes. I'm starting to believe him."

"Perhaps, or perhaps the Guild is merely biding its time", Maeve offered. "They should not like overmuch finding themselves under the Kingdoms' yoke and beset by more witch-finders, and with official sanction. They will act, but they will do so at the moment where it will gain them the most benefit and the most recognition." Maeve giggled. "Know this of magic-workers, Kent--to practice their arts and live, all have had to learn patience well, and know well the importance of selecting the right moment. And they are used to dealing and wheedling with otherworldly forces--many shall think nothing of doing the same with folk."

Gram didn't like torture. It usually didn't work as well as other methods, like a lack of food and sleep. Fear Gram used frequently, actually torturing somebody pulled at something deep inside him. It wasn't just that Gram didn't like torture, it revolted him.

In this particular case, Gram's like and dislikes had been overruled. Tyrrdin and the man Gram knew as Jae Kal, but who also went by Chang, had dragged in a prisoner. They insisted the woman was one of the murderers, though the Whites were sceptical. When Philotos told Gram to take it seriously, he did. Philotos sent one of his own men, a man he used on special occasions, to perform the questioning. The screams had kept Gram awake for three nights. He had nightmares that followed him into his waking moments.

Chang and Tyrrdin had stayed in the Shipwrights' Tower while the questioning had been performed. While Tyrrdin looked pale and tired, Change didn't appear effected in any way. Gram knew the man had a reputation for coldness, but he could barely believe any human could sleep through the cacophony of pain.

"We've learned that she's part of a small group, five people." Tedorius, a young, tough White, had overseen the questioning. He looked pale, his face drawn, like he had aged a decade. "She doesn't know much, but one of those five must have contact with the other cells. She thinks the man who passes on the orders is named Uellic, and lives in the Twelve Shadow Walk."

Gram noted that Chang sat up straight at the mention of that, but then settled back into his chair. Gram filed that away for later reference.

"They worshippers of a dark god, one they call the Keeper of the Dead. She calls her group the Faithful and the Children of the Grave. She was pretty incoherent near the end, but it sounds like some kind of death cult trying to resurrect or somehow call this god of theirs into being. She thinks when this Keeper of the Dead arrives, a time called the Long Night will come and the Faithful will find a place without pain or suffering, but also without passion or desire." Tedorius shrugged. "She seemed to think that was the perfect place. I don't know."

Gram nodded as he listened to the report, absently tapping his finger on his knee. The dog Hammer sat at his feet, sleeping soundly.

"Get some sleep, Tedorius," Gram said. "I'm taking you off shift for a few days. Go out on the town if you like."

Tedorius ducked his head in a shallow bow. "Thanks, sergeant."

Usually Whites didn't appreciate being taken off the street. No one, though, could fault Tedorius for wanting some time away. Gram knew, though, that a few days wouldn't help to erase what he had seen from Tedorius' mind. Gram had dealt with the same himself, and he had never forgotten. Tedorius sat at the table, a few chairs to Gram's left. Hammer got up and moved to stand beside him. Maybe the dog, like Gram, understood Tedorius' need for support.

"So, we have a choice." Gram leaned back and put his booted feet on the table. "We can grab this Uellic out of Twelve Shadow or we can try to follow him and move up the chain. I'm certain Philotos' people can make Uellic talk, no matter who he is. We grab him, though, and someone might notice. Somebody might have already noticed about this one we've got visiting."

Stivius crossed his arms. "I'm worried we might be spreading ourselves a little thin. With people watching that Vile Mistress hole and the encampment of those Kingdomer Witch-Finders, I don't know if we've got enough crew to keep a close watch on this Uellic."

Gram scratched his cheek. Stivius had a point. He only had so many men. Philotos, though, had been quite clear that he wanted the murders stopped. They had more information, were farther ahead, than he had expected they could get, but they hadn't done what they needed to do.

"We'll stretch ourselves," Gram said. "Maybe some of us will pull double duty, maybe we'll get tired and maybe there'll be a bunch of grumbling, but I'm not willing to leave any of these things to chance. Do you want Kingdomer Witch-Finders wandering into Hadrapole without someone to watch over them? Do you want to risk losing this Uellic? As for Andru, that tavern of his draws as many criminals as drunks."

Auseius, a tall, brawny Hadrope, snorted. "The two aren't mutually exclusive."

A few chuckles rippled through the group. Gram appreciated that. The tensions needed cutting.

"We're getting information from the Mistress, so I want the watch kept there." Gram slid his feet to the floor. "Maybe I'll even pay a visit."

Viccius, a short, dark Imperial, stepped forward. "If you're there, maybe you can relay some bad news."

Gram leaned forward. "What news?"

Viccius sighed and rubbed his forehead. "There's a little pickpocket, a kid, who works out of the Mistress. He pretty much works for Andru. Gets called Weasel. He turned up this morning. It was pretty gruesome. I think the kid might have been awake while they were doing what they do. Looks like he struggled."

Gram frowned. Yeah, the kid was . . . had been a criminal, a little thief, but he had been a kid. Nobody deserved to die like that, even those who deserved to die. "I'll tell him. He's not the kind that I'd expect to get attached to street-trash."

Viccius shrugged. "All he's got is street-trash. He didn't exactly treat the kid like a son, but he gave him a roof and food. That's something in the Docks."

"That is something," Gram said. "All right, I'll tell him. Stivius, get a team together and find Uellic. Be discreet. Maybe leave the uniforms here, but not the swords. Just in case."

Stivius nodded.

"I'll head to the Docks after sunset," Gram said. "Before that, I want reports on the Witch-Finders. Send a squad to relieve Ahkamar and his group. Have them report to me."

Ahkamar--a dark-skinned soldier from the Aliterios--sipped his tea. His eyes never left the five men in dark robes who sat with Hatetant, one of the Kingdomers who had power in the Merchants' Guild. Ahkamar had never liked Hatetant, had never really liked merchants at all. Seeing that Kingdomer bastard, slobbering over these so-called Witch-Finders, just begging for the chance to sell out others, made Ahkamar absolutely hate Hatetant. Given half a reason, he bust the snivelling little rat wide open. Gram didn't like mindless violence, or punishment without cause. Given a good enough reason, though, and the Whites could break bone and spill blood with relative impunity.

Like all the Whites, Ahkamar understood the need to adhere as closely to the laws of Hadrapole as they demanded others did. As such, while Ahkamar allowed himself to consider beating Hatetant into a bruised, bloody and crying mess, he would never actually do that.

Oh, but if he caught the merchant at something illegal, something putting other citizens at risk, then he might just inflict some pain. Not a lot, just enough to make the little realize who the real power in Hadrapole was. The Merchants' Guild had the gold, but they couldn't buy off the Whites.

No one could.

In the distance, passing through the gate, Ahkamar saw five Whites. He smiled as individuals and groups quickly moved out of their way. Few offered them greetings or any show of respect, but none offered them any form of disrespect, either in their sight or once they had passed. Ahkamar watched for it, but it never occurred. He expected few would be brave or stupid enough to anger a White, even to the slightest degree.

At the head of the Whites strode a tall, dark complexioned man, with his dark hair in a single braid. Ahkamar easily recognized Esteban, towering as he did above the crowd. Ahkamar rose and left the cover of the small stall's awning. The sun beat down on him. He had spent his childhood in the deserts of the Aliterion. The Hadrapole sun offered him no discomfort. The four Whites of his squad, standing aloof but watchful of the Witch-Finders, glanced at him. He waved to Esteban, one of his closer friends in the Whites.

The Whites, while completely united against the outside--which constituted all non-Whites--didn't all completely get along. Tensions and personality conflicts, though, never cracked the unity, never flew above the surface. Gram would never accept anything that might compromise the public face of the Whites.

Ahkamar had no problems with any of the other Whites, but he numbered few in his circle of friends. Esteban was one of that few.

When they met, they clasped hands.

Esteban gestured to the tea stall with its few chairs and awning casting shade. "I see you've been suffering."

Ahkamar let out a low snarl. "Watching those damn butchers and that greedy pig who dances with them."

Esteban raised an eyebrow. "I don't see much dancing going on."

"You have no poetry at all in your blood," Ahkamar said. "We've only been here since the sun rose. You're not here to relieve us soon."

Esteban grimaced and nodded. "Gram wants to talk to you before he heads into the Docks."

"The Docks?"

"That fat barkeep we're riding, the one that likes to be called Vile Eye?" Esteban paused until Ahkamar nodded. "Gram's got some news to break him. Seems one of his urchins got croaked."

Ahkamar sucked in air through his teeth. "Gram's going to tell him that? Does he think the barkeep will still play his role."

Esteban shrugged. "I guess if I was faced with a pissed of Lefthand, I'd pretty much promise him whatever he wanted."

"Gram is angry?"

"This barkeep tried to wiggle out of it, I imagine Gram's about ready to burn down the Docks around him. We're getting close to those murderous bastards, but not close enough. Gram's getting impatient."

Ahkamar offered a mirthless chuckle. "I can't blame him."

"So you better get your squad on back to the Shipwright Tower and make your report. Gram's waiting."

Ahkamar waved to his men, who stood chatting with Esteban's men. Ahkamar gestured to the gate and they started off for it. Esteban and Ahkamar shook hands.

Esteban leaned close. "Just to let you know, Gram's in a mood."

Ahkamar gestured to the Witch-Finders with his head. "I'd rather deal with Gram in his mood than with those spooks. You have fun."

Esteban grinned and patted Ahkamar's shoulder. "You think I'm going to let some Kingdomer madmen bother me?"

"They're cooking up something with Hatetant, and I'm a little worried," Ahkamar said. "He's a snake, but these Kingdomers, they're colder than snakes. When you catch their eyes, you'll see. There's nothing there human, if you take my meaning."

Esteban glanced over at the knot of Kingdomers, Hatetant in the middle. "We've dealt with some cold bastards before."

Ahkamar shook his head. "Not like these. Keep a good watch on them. I have a sense that when I talk to Gram, we might have another squad nearby, for support."

Esteban rubbed his chin. "Maybe we need a wizard or two in the Whites."

"Oh, I figure we'll make out all right, as long as we stick them before they stick us." Ahkamar set off toward the gate, following his men. "Be seeing you."

Andru sat near the fire. He had Petra tending the bar. She wasn't the brightest candle, but she had a fair head of hair, didn't look starved nor stuffed, and probably wouldn't try to rob him. Just in case, he never allowed himself to doze off. He drank from a cup of the wine he kept separate from the swill he served his usual patrons. He had polished off almost an entire cask. His vision blurred as he tried to focus on the door.

He had begun to actually feel frightened in his own establishment. The talk of the Witch-Finders, along with the regular rumours about the murders, had led to bad dreams and poor sleep. Andru didn't want to admit it to himself, but after the disappearance of Piedmond and then Weasel, he actually felt comforted by the Whites who watched him and his establishment.

Korun, a young, dark-skinned White with a crooked nose, stood at the bar chatting with Petra. She thought the young man who arrived every other day with his friend had his eyes on here. It only reinforced Andru's opinion of her as a naïve dunce. Under his dark cloak, Korun didn't wear the tunic and scabbard of a White, but Andru knew he carried weapons. In a bar fight three nights previous, Korun hobbled five men who had been speaking ill--speaking ill, that was a horrendous understatement--of the Whites and especially of Gram Lefthand. Andru had seen the long knife with the wavy blade Korun had used in his left hand and the slim dirk the length of his forearm he had used in his right.

The other White that day was named Herrevik, an older man with long, blonde hair in two braids and a thick beard. That one always wore a hauberk and had a stout axe with him, as well as a staff equal to his own, considerable height.

Andru again reminded himself that those men were his enemies. They had forced him, black-mailed him into becoming an informant, into allowing them to use the Mistress for their own designs.

They were the only ones hunting the murderers. They were the only ones who gave a cursed crap about the Docks and the people who lived in them. They were the only ones not on the graft, not extorting, not beating down people already broken.

He didn't like them, but he couldn't say that he hated them.

And he hated himself for admitting as much. Even to himself.

"So they're going to sell out the other wizards." A short, dark, pimply-faced man sat at the table near Andru, a Ghost of little importance, but connected none the less. "They want to protect their own people so they'll sell out the foreigner and Imperial wizards."

The other man, a squint-eyed old pervert known to lust after, and occasionally purchase, girls not old enough to bleed, smiled. He had as few teeth as he had morals. "Good to get rid of them. Without their damned sorcerers, the Masham wouldn't last so long."

"And they say the leader of the Masham, the one they call the Pearl, has gone into hiding."

Andru's ears perked up. He had never heard any kind of rumour about the leader of the Masham. He had always thought it was a merchant named Fattah. None of the Ghosts knew, though most of them boasted that they did. Whenever pushed, their puffed up chests would deflate, their straight backs would crook, and they'd just mention Fattah's name.

Was this Fattah and the Pearl the same person?

Did he have something to tell the Whites?

Wait a minute: tell? Did he have anything to sell to the Whites?

At that point, the door opened. The fire faltered for a moment. The Mistress went quiet, more quiet than Andru could ever remember it being. He looked up, suddenly aware that he stared into his cup. Had he drifted off to sleep?

If he had felt exhausted before, if he had sat on the edge of sleep, perhaps even slipped over into it, it all fell from him. He stood up, spilling his wine in his haste to rise.

There, just inside the door, flanked by six of the biggest, meanest looking bastards Andru had ever laid eyes on, stood Gram Lefthand. Tunic, scabbard, sword and mean cold eyes all there, silencing the bar of assassins, cut-throats, thugs and enforcers with a glare. Andru had seen him before, had been close enough to touch him, but never had he understood the fear the people in the Docks attached to him.

Seeing him standing in the Mistress, confident, unafraid, daring--with his eyes--any person around him to even send a wisp of bad breath in his direction, Andru came to the realization that all the Ghosts, all the Masham, all of the trash, braggarts and bravoes that infested the Docks, were less than yipping mutts in the street when compared to this man. Gram felt afraid. More than that, he felt awe.

The six Whites stayed by the door, four of them cradling loaded crossbows. Andru noticed that Korun and Herrevik played their parts perfectly. Their eyes held the same fear as every other pair in the bar save their fellow Whites and the man who inspired it. They played at hiding their false fear with a show of disinterest or outright contempt, which Andru noticed faded from the faces of all the other patrons when one of the uniformed Whites glanced at them.

But Gram didn't notice anyone else in the bar. Gram focussed on Andru. He walked straight up to him.

"You would be the proprietor of this establishment?" Gram asked, his tone polite, no hint of derision or challenge. "You're the one they call Vile-Eye Andru?"

Andru nodded. He didn't trust himself to speak.

"You knew a young man, maybe fifteen or sixteen summers of age?" Gram glanced about the room with cold eyes. "The name I've heard is Weasel."

Andru's stomach lurched. Bile rose into his throat. He felt his legs go weak. He refused to sit, refused to make any show of sadness or despair. He just nodded again.

"I'm sorry to be the one to tell you this . . ." Gram's voice faltered. Andru saw real emotion in those eyes. He saw something he guessed to be sympathy. He couldn't say for certain because he didn't believe he had ever seen it before. "The young man was found dead. His body was found near the Divine Tower, where the Main South and Flanking West Walls meet."

Andru nodded yet again. He knew the Divine Tower, a larger watch tower, almost a castle in itself, near a junction of walls. What Weasel would be doing there?

Something for the Ghosts. Something to get some coin so he wouldn't have to sleep in the cellar or wherever Andru let him sleep. Something a kid shouldn't have been doing in the dead of night when murderers and Witch-Finders stalked the streets.

"There isn't much . . ." Again, Gram paused. He rubbed his chin. "We can see he's given a proper burial, unless you . . . ?"

The question hung there. Andru cleared his throat. "He wasn't religious. I don't even know if he could name any of the gods of any of the religions. Do whatever you do."

Gram inhaled through his nose, his brow furrowed, his mouth screwed up in a tight frown. "You knew him."

"I knew him. I used him. It's what happens to kids in the Docks."

Gram rested his fists on his hips. "I know. It's one of the reasons I'd like to burn this whole place down along with all the fatherless curs and swaggering pimps in it."

Andru surprised himself by letting out a bark of laughter. "Best of luck." He gestured behind him. "I've got just the fire for it."

"You don't have any fire." Gram spat on the floor. "You don't have any real fire. That's the problem."

Gram turned and allowed his gaze to wander over the rest of the bar. No sound came from the patrons. No one drank, even if they held a cup or tankard. No one ate, even if food was in reach.

"But trust me, there's a fire coming," Gram said, as he strode toward the door. "You better be ready for it. These Witch-Finders are just the start." Gram reached the door and stopped. He turned. His eyes rested on Andru. "I'd like to say I'm sorry for your loss, but you don't even understand you've lost something important." Gram hooked his thumbs in his belt as he glared at the patrons of the Mistress. "When the Witch-Finders are done, whether they're pacified or not, the Kingdomers are going to come. They're not going to care if you're Ghost or Masham, if you speak a Kingdomer dialect, something out of the Aliterios or High Imperial. All the Kingdomers know is that you live in the shadow of Hadrapole's walls. That makes you Hadropes, and that makes you their enemies. I won't have to burn this place down. They'll do it for me." Gram smiled, and it only made Andru fear him more. Gram offered the room the grin of a devil, welcoming a soul into an icy eternity. "And you'll jump right up to help them."

He spun, and left. The six Whites actually offered their backs, leaving the tavern at a leisurely pace. No one tried to take advantage of the Whites' vulnerability as they left. No one was that stupid.

Andru fell back in his chair, his heart beating, his face feeling hot, his breath coming in short gulps. He saw Herrevik watching him. The blonde White took a step toward him. Andru shook his head slightly. The last thing he needed was a White around him right now.

Andru had guessed Weasel had died. He had all but buried the kid in his mind. Still, somewhere, in that area of his heart not calloused over, Andru had hoped the kid would wander back in with a few coins and a story that would grow with its retelling. He had never really believed Weasel was dead.

He believed it now. He knew, without anyone telling him, that Gram Lefthand wouldn't lie to him about something like that. Gram Lefthand wouldn't have to. That man could have anything he wanted, when he wanted it, and who in the Mistress could say no?

Pervert and Pimples had picked up their conversation.

"Wouldn't talk so proud if he knew who really ran this bar," Pimples said.

"Lucky for him the Ghosts want to maintain a low profile, or him and his Whites would be doing the sink in the harbour right now," Pervert said.

Andru wanted to walk over and drive both their faces into the table at which they sat. He wanted to keep doing that until they bled, until the few remaining teeth they had lay scattered on the floor, until their noses cracked and flattened. He wanted to beat them until they screamed and cried and begged for mercy, a mercy he wouldn't show.

Then he realized he didn't want to beat them; he wanted to punish all the Ghosts, and all the Masham, and all the other gutter-trash that floated around the Docks. He wanted to strike back at the people who let a kid go to his death. Who had allowed so many kids to go to their deaths. Who had beaten, raped, sold, abused and killed so many children, so many kids who deserved better.

Andru wanted to punish himself. He wanted Gram to burn down the Docks, and Vile-Eye Andru along with the rest of them. He deserved no better.

Getting up, Andru smashed his cup into Pervert's head.

"Stinking baby-poker." Andru's voice was the barely contained hiss of rage. His eyes burned with it. His guts knotted with it. "You come in here again, and I'll cut off both your hands and then your balls, you got it?"

Pimples got up. "Hey, Vile-Eye, he's okay with the Ghosts."

Andru took a swing at Pimples, who ducked out of the way. "He ain't okay with me. This is still my place. You keep this sick bastard out of here, or I'll cut your throat right after I make a bleeding eunuch out of him."

Pervert, cradling his head, stumbled out of the bar, followed by a visibly shaken Pimples. The other patrons laughed and a few cheered. A couple congratulated as Andru passed them on his way to the bar. Andru ignored them all.

Petra looked slightly perplexed, but she always seemed to look that way.

"Take care of those hungry buggerers by the door." Andru waited for her to leave, then he leaned close to Korun. "We have things we need to talk about."

Korun didn't smile, he didn't nod, he just stared straight into Andru's eyes. He was one of two men in the tavern Andru didn't want twisted and bleeding right at that moment.