The Trefoil Manuscripts

1: A Duel At Dawn

The faithful servant -- The proxy -- The injured party? -- Anticipation
The observer -- A lady's token -- A rude interruption -- A narrow escape?
Out of the frying pan... The price of heroism -- Monster! -- A case of mistaken identity?
Mortal remains -- The enemy of my enemy -- Prophecy and rhyme -- Exit stage left?

~oOo~

Salfard is troubled.

His master has - unexpectedly and rather inconvenently - been challenged to a duel, apparently by the aggrieved husband of one of the young nobleman's numerous romantic entanglements. This is by no means the first time that Salfard has been called upon to deal with a delicate situation of this kind, but there is something suspicious about this one. He felt it wisest, under the circumstances, to take precautions, so has secured the services of a professional duellist. This rather unsavoury individual will, he hopes, stand in for his master in the proposed trial by combat.

Thus far, however, the unfolding drama has not gone according to plan. First his young master, upon being informed of his servant's precautionary arrangements, made it very plain that he intended to fight his own battles, and demanded that Salfard dismiss the proxy forthwith. Some time later, having had the inadequacy of his judgement in this regard painstakingly explained to him, he instead demanded to attend the duel incognito in order to "witness the defence of his honour". Again, his servant tried to divert him from this course of action, but on this point the Lazaran heir proved immovable. Thus it is that Salfard finds himself accompanying both master and hired duellist to the appointed venue.

The sun has yet to rise, and the bare trees of Newmarket Park are still wreathed in mist. As they approach their destination - a level and partially enclosed area of grass near the water-course that forms the park's eastern perimeter - Salfard sees two figures awaiting them. Warily noting the dark trees and other places of concealment that surround this spot, he fingers the whistle in his pocket. How long will it take for the Lazaran guards to reach them if he has to resort to this final precautionary device? Too long he thinks, grimly; he should have asked them to wait closer. Or, better still, commanded them to lock their foolish master in his bedroom.

It is too late for regrets now, though: they have arrived and the waiting figures are turning to meet them. The face of the first is rough and unfamiliar, but this is not unexpected; he is clearly a lackey, and most probably another proxy. When Salfard sees the face of the second man, however, he cannot hide his astonishment. His master wastes no time in expressing the same sentiment.

"But... you! What are you doing here? I don't understand..."

~oOo~

Rotheric normally favours evening appointments, but the duelling business has been disappointingly slow of late and at least this time the venue is a familiar one. He was a little surprised when his employer insisted on accompanying them to the actual event; his clients didn't usually have the stomach for witnessing the dirty work first hand. He had thought that servant fellow had everything under control, but now he seems rather edgy. Perhaps this isn't going to be just a walk in the park after all.

He is as surprised as his two companions when he catches sight of the other party, but not for the same reasons. For an awful moment he thinks that this is all a fiendish ruse, that the servant and his master have conspired with this fellow for the express purpose of luring him here under false pretenses. Their confusion seems genuine, however, and the man that they are staring at seems just as bewildered. He also shows no sign of recognising Rotheric, which is quite a relief.

Evidently something is awry here, but Rotheric isn't sure exactly what. He resolves to keep his mouth shut and his eyes open. Then he notices that the other party's second is staring at him with narrowed eyes. This chap looks like trouble, and apparently he does recognise Rotheric, even if his companion doesn't. From the look on his face, he isn't exactly thrilled to see him here, but he doesn't seem eager to make an issue of it.

Not yet, at any rate.

~oOo~

Tiago has no idea what this duel business is really about, nor why any noble should want to cross swords with a social inferior, even if it is just for show. Gabriela had seemed genuinely distraught, however, and refused to even look at him until he promised to play along with this charade. The reasons she gave for asking him to do so were an obvious lie, but he could see that she believed them - or at least believed that Tiago would come to no harm as a result. The hint of fear in her eyes finally convinced him, but he made it clear that he'd be bringing Mendrik along as a second, just in case.

The Lazaran heir is the last person he'd been expecting to meet, and for a moment he is at a loss to know what to say. He's come here expecting to fight a duel for show, to make some spoilt noble brat look good in front of his friends. Gabriela told him that it was to help her little brother, who is an apprentice at the Imperial College. The way she had told it, her brother needs to curry favour with a fellow student so that he can avoid being expelled. Tiago is supposed to let the rich boy humble him in front of a select audience, and has dressed in his finest clothes to give a better impression. To complete the illusion he has borrowed a rapier and Mendrik has coached him in its rudiments.

Gabriela had told him that his opponent would be a nobleman, but she'd indicated that he was little more than a boy. Young Lazaran has a reputation for immaturity, but there is no disputing that he is a fully-grown man. He's certainly no student, and is clearly taking this very seriously; he seems to have brought a duellist along with him, presumably to fight in his stead.

Perhaps there has been a mistake, Tiago thinks. Has he confused the date? Or is there something more sinister at work here?

~oOo~

Rotheric quickly gathers his wits. He glares back at the lackey and, pretending to adjust his scarf, draws his finger across his throat...

"So," he says, "Shall we get this business over with? I have not had breakfast yet and this damp weather is not suitable for a gentleman's clothes."

He turns to Salfard. "It is your duty to arrange terms with the other 'second'. Get on with it, man!"

Rotheric removes his cloak and carefully rolls up his ruffled sleeves. It would never do to get blood on this fine suit.

Salfard trys to retain a semblance of calm, like a duck on a pond; serene on the surface but paddling like a devil under the surface.

"Remain calm, sire." he says. "This is not exactly what I had been led to expect. We may need to remember that there are rogues in the city, who live in ways so far distant from how they ought that he who neglects what is done for what ought to be done sooner effects his ruin than his preservation."

"Eh? Salfard, you baffle me, old chap."

"What I mean, sire, is that we must need how to do wrong and to make use of it or not according to necessity. Let me speak to this iconographer before any bloodletting is called for."

~oOo~

Tiago's knees go weak as he looks at his opponent and thinks on how perfunctory his own knowledge of swordplay is. Trying but failing to hold the man's eye for long enough to get his measure, he catches the gesture and finds he has learned enough. This man is of the same sort as Mendrik, and Tiago has worked hard enough (and spent enough), to keep on the right side of that man. Wondering now how he ever got himself involved in such a dreadful scheme, he reaches under his cloak to his glass dagger at his side but finds no comfort in the cold hilt.

He briefly considers flight, but his mind turns to his wife. If he were to flee, then the entire city would know his ignomony by the time the sun reached its zenith. He would not just have to explain himself to her, but also to his patrons. He can just picture them now, receiving him coldly and telling him they had no work for him at present. The work would dry up and he would surely have been responsible for his wife's death by the end of the year. Those tonics are costly but they are all that keeps her from death's door. No, he thinks to himself, if anything then the best course for him would be to fight and die, for then at the very least the Guild would provide a pension for Iracema.

Fighting the chill which has crept down his spine, he fumbles nervously at the belt holding the accursed rapier and looks questioningly at Mendrik, his eyes pleading with the man to tell him he has a chance. The slight shake of the head is enough to tell him that this will be his last morning unless something highly unusual occurs. He briefly considers asking Mendrik to act as his proxy, but all those present have plainly seen that the blade is at his side. He doesn't know the protocol in these situations but he does know that to ask his lackey to perform the task at this stage would be almost as bad as turning tail, even if Mendrik were willing, which he doubts.

He has but one hope, he thinks. If that fellow, a professional duellist by the look of him, is as easily swayed by a bag of silvers as is Mendrik, then he might have a chance, even if it puts Tiago into even greater debt than he is already in. He'll have to rely on Salfard to get the message through, though. He knows the man to be astute enough when it comes to dealing in pigments, in carriers or in hardwares, but this sort of thing...

Turning to Mendrik, Tiago can feel his opponents waiting expectantly for him, but fortunately the rogue seems to know better than he himself how to proceed. "Rotheric, that's the name", he says, calming Tiago a little. "He's a bloody one all right, but he's a nose for profit. Salfard? Let me deal with him, boss."

Tiago feels ever so slightly restored as Mendrik saunters towards Salfard. This man has yet to fail him...

~oOo~

While waiting for the two 'seconds' to decide on terms and conditions, Rotheric draws his rapier and starts a warming-up exercise, dancing back and forth, dueling an imaginary enemy.

All the time he is busy thinking. What would happen if he killed Iracema's husband now? Would she inherit his money? Or would she (in her usually dramatic way) decide to end her own life - and thus a very lucrative little income? Sigeric was getting worse lately and Rotheric needed all the money he could lay his hands on for Damplestone's latest elixir. This one was guaranteed to show results, the alchemist had promised.

Still, a chance to skewer the Iconographer would make his day - and give him a nice payment as well.

Rotheric dances on, losing himself in the intricate movements of the sword dance. Let God decide, he thinks. If the 'second' asks me for a duel to first blood, that is what he will get. On the other hand....

~oOo~

As Touchstone watches this odd confrontation from the shadows nearby, he can't help wondering what he is doing here. The first part of his instructions had been unexceptional: he was to observe a duel that would take place at dawn in the south-eastern corner of Newmarket Park. It was the next part that gave him pause for thought: he was permitted to intervene if the lives of the iconographer, the servant or the duellist were threatened.

This was not the first time that his remit as an Eye had extended beyond mere observation, but all of his previous tasks had been fairly trivial: placing or retrieving and item, locking or unlocking a door. That had all been Finger-work, whereas this was the kind of thing that was normally only entrusted to Hands.

He guesses that this has something to do with the Opert Prophecy, but he only knows the small part of this notorious text, having overheard it being discussed, memorized it and reported it to his Ear. That portion had concerned the important role that would be played by the "spreading tree" in governing the fate of the "glass city". The speaker interpreted these oblique references as House Heligan (whose arms feature an oak tree) and Syran respectively. Touchstone knows that other portions of the prophecy refer to individuals as well, and wonders if this might explain the importance of these three.

He chides himself for losing himself in thought. See? The iconographer is doing something else now...

~oOo~

Seeing his opponent, this Rotheric, swinging his weapon about as if it is an extension of himself, Tiago grows calmer, He can see now that there will be little point even to try and resist this man with feat of arms and, frankly, he harbours a slight feeling of disgust that brutes such as this should have the better of a man such as himself, one who at least tries to contribute to society.

Duelling be damned, he thinks to himself as he sits himself unceremoniously down on the ground and pulls out a scrap of parchment and a charcoal. Let this man at least realize he will gain no honour from a fight such as this. It might even do him a disservice to defeat a mere artist in combat. As Mendrik lazily steps towards the other second, Tiago takes a moment to examine Rotheric and to commit what he sees to a record. He even smirks to himself as, with a few lines and the slightest touch of shading, he brings to life on the sheet a grotesque popinjay, the dull look on the face that of one who sees no beauty in the world, just opportunities for profit.

It is but an instant for Tiago to render this fellow. Looking to Mendrik again, he sees he is talking with Salfard, but chooses not to pay attention. Filling in the neckline of Rotheric, he looks up to see what he has to work with, his eyes drawn to the kerchief about his neck. With horror, he sees the green silk of an item he had bought at great expense for his wife when he had completed a job for some petty noblewoman. It cannot be the same one, he thinks, trying to reassure himself, for that little scarf carried with it a burden of guilt - he had spent too many nights with his mistress and the look of delight on his wife's face when she saw this gaudy item had been at once satisfying and horrifying. How easy it had been to deceive her!

But if this is the same object as he gave his wife, then there is only one way it could be before him now, about the neck of this piece of filth! Despite himself, Tiago feels his ire rising and stands up, drawing the rapier and waving it about as best he can, to try and get used to it.

Mendrik, meanwhile, has followed some of the initial perfunctory steps with Salfard and has brought the matter to a head. "Tell your stooge", he says, careful to let Rotheric hear. "That there'll be a silver lining to this day if he doesn't turn the clouds too red. And as for you," he says, bending uncomfortably close to Salfard so the man can appreciate their relative disparity in physical prowess and smell last night's excesses on his breath.

"I will not take kindly to losing my employment," he gestures at his master behind him. "So see you keep your dog on a tight leash." Pausing to ensure that Salfard has understood him very clearly, he states quietly. "First blood and no more, and if your master tries to sway you", he indicates the hooded figure who accompanies Salfard and Rotheric. "Then I'll not be best pleased with him either."

~oOo~

Rotheric smirks to himself as he sees Tiago plopping himself down on the ground and starting to draw! Did the fool think that this is what seconds meant when they said "Gentlemen, draw your swords!"...?

Performing a perfect lunge against his imaginary enemy, Rotheric sees Tiago's eyes widen as they are drawn to the green scarf he wears. He remembers the night Iracema tied it around his neck, her slim hands shaking after their bout of lovemaking. "I want you to wear this always, my bright treasure. To remind you of me."

He was a bit touched, he must admit. Despite the fact that it clashed with his shirt, he still chose to wear it, instead of pawning it off immediately as he did so many of her other 'small gifts'.

So... the Iconographer finally figured it out! Good for him. Rotheric sees the anger in the man's face and tries not to laugh out loud as Tiago rises to his feet and clumsily draws his rapier. By Arkat's Balls, that looks funny!

~oOo~

Seeing the grin on his opponent's face, Tiago feels an uncontrollable fury creeping up on him. He slashes at a nettle with the rapier, disappointed to learn that if it has a blade, it is far from sharp. Oh if he had only paid attention to Mendrik's dull talk of slashes and parries, ripostes and whatever the other move was. It had all seemed so tiresome at the time and he had eventually worn Mendrik down with his lack of interest and his almost adolescent pleas for another quart of ale. It had even become a little joke among his drinking companions last night, Mendrik acting out a mock funeral, wailing at the loss of his oh-so-noble master.

It had seemed so simple a few short hours ago and he had had no qualms about spending an extra hour or two more in the arms of some harlot - it had been too late to rouse Gabriela of course. He had considered running off a quick portrait of himself, defeated but hale and hearty, but this safety measure had seemed unnecessary, so much had he been taken in by Gabriela's assurances.

And Iracema - well it was unthinkable of course that she had been consorting with this man. She was too delicate and honest a creature to engage in such subterfuge, or to see anything in a pig-eyed and unperceptive dullard such as this. Besides, bedridden as she was, there would have been little opportunity. There was that time when Tiago had come home in the afternoon and had thought there was a thief in the house, but by crashing about and raising the neighbours he had driven the scoundrel off. He and his wife had gone through their possessions and found nothing, but of course, his wife in her state could easily have missed a scarf.

And it had somehow fallen into the hands of this popinjay! Well, if that wasn't an insult to his poor wife, in her enfeebled state, then what was? And that House Lazaran should have any dealings with such a low criminal, whatever his airs and graces, well that just showed what a parlous state the nobility was in!

With renewed resolve, Tiago examines the rapier, trying to rationalise this object. He knows all about drawing lines and angles on canvas or in the air, bringing perspective into his craft, and subverting it with the slightest twist of a line or an angle ever-so-slightly off, but he is far from accustomed to having someone actively resist his efforts. And this tool is so clumsy, the point a good yard away from the hand. He experiments briefly with drawing the point through the air to draw his opponent lying bleeding on the ground, but he is unused to such arts and his efforts take no hold. Frustrated with this activity, he plants the blade in the soft earth, aware of Rotheric's incredulous look that he should treat a weapon thus.

Momentarily pleased that he seems to have understood something of this fellow, he looks again at the caricature and takes out his glass dagger, swiftly drawing a rectangle in the air with this much more familiar tool. Satisfied to feel he is cutting through the very essence of the world, he quickly redraws Rotheric within the rectangle, looking back at the man and hoping to unsettle him, and then finally, with two short jabs, he takes out the pupils of the piggy little eyes, replacing them, in a few swift strokes with, the noble, caring eyes of a man of peace.

~oOo~

Rotheric pauses in his exercise as Tiago pulls a small glass dagger out and starts to sketch in the air. What is he up to now?

Suddenly he feels a pain in his eyes as they are being pricked with needles. Seeing stars, the dueLlist can feel something manipulating his face. He feels his eyebrows thinning, his flaring nose shortening, his furrowed brow smoothing...

He grits his teeth. That scum is trying to cast a spell on him, turning his mood from a lion into a mewling kitty! He fights back, revelling in his evil deeds...

Then his rapier falls from his nerveless fingers and he hides his face in his hands. When he looks up a few moments later, the onlookers are surprised to see a look of peace and calm on his normally sneering and arrogant face. The swordsman shakes his head and looks about him as if this is the first time he has seen this place. Spotting the rapier embedded in the grass, he gently picks it up and sheathes it. He looks at Tiago and is about to speak when he is interrupted by a sudden eruption of noise from the nearby water channel.

Potential combatants, threatening negotiators and unseen observers alike all turn their attention to the source of this intrusion, and witness the emergence of a massive shape from the murky depths. Although mercifully indistinct in the half-light, the size and malevolent intent of the monstrous form is apparent to all, and as it swims or wades towards them its various throats emit a chorus of bloodcurdling shrieks.

~oOo~

"Discretion sire, discretion...." Salfard is muttering.

"What? What?"

"...The better part of valour sire, let us get out of here, to coin a phrase. After you sire..."

Salfard indicates where his master should proceed - away from the monster with some haste.

"Trust no one sire... trust no one," he whispers under his breath.

~oOo~

As Touchstone watches the thing drag itself from the water, his remit to protect the lives of those involved in the duel suddenly becomes clear. Quickly he signals to Sheri to Dart the emerging monster with her blowpipe. Though he now regrets telling her to tip the darts with knockout rather that her usual poison.

He boldly steps into the open and lets his shadow drop so he is plainly in view to all. "Sorry to interrupt your morning exercises Gentlemen but you may find this way a safe exit from this vile creature."

~oOo~

Tiago in his turn is a little dismayed to have had to reveal his talents in this fashion. He prefers to reserve them for his work and is always worried what the School might have to say should they hear of uses beyond the professional. However, if this Rotheric has calmed down a little, that's all to the good.

It takes a few moments for Tiago even to realise what is going on in the water nearby. It is only when he sees Mendrik stepping away that he spies a greater terror than the duellist. He finds himself calm, however, and, having the dagger in his hand, pauses to slice into the air the Flaming Sword of Gerlant, hopefully to give whatever this new monstrosity is pause for thought.

Seeing the air before him erupt with flame, he follows Mendrik's lead and starts to hasten southwest, away from the waterway and towards the buildings and alleys of Newmarket. In a fleeting moment, he finds it odd that Mendrik has taken charge in this way, chivvying all present, but the fellow has always had a cool head in pressing situations, and is probably thinking that Lazaran might be minded to offer a reward if his life is preserved. But then another figure steps out of the shadows, beckoning Tiago towards him. When Mendrik gives the slightest of nods, Tiago, bemused and confused, follows.

~oOo~

Rotheric is still befuddled and stares at the monster in confusion. Is he supposed to duel that?

He then notices the others starting to run away in panic and realizes that this is not part of the arranged meeting. He hesitates... slaying a monster this size would certainly increase his reputation (and mayhaps give him a handsome bounty), but then again - look at the size of the thing!

It is huge, bigger than any creature he has encountered before. He is obscurely reminded of a picture he once saw in a book, which depicted a curious shaggy beast in snowy climes. It had a ludicrously long nose and great tusks, and was surrounded by tiny hunters with twig- like spears. This creature dwarfs Rotheric and his companions just as that one dwarfed the hunters in the picture. Fortunately, however, its lumbering pursuit is relatively slow; with a bit of luck they should be able to outpace it.

As the duelist stands there, unsure, suddenly a man steps from the shadows and gestures to Rotheric and the others. Choosing discretion as the better part of valour (not for the first time), Rotheric nods and quickly follows the man.

~oOo~

As it slithers onto the bank and encounters Tiago's fiery portrayal, the creature squeals, uselessly spitting in fury at the potent icon before it. At first the iconographer's magic seems to be a futile gesture against this horror, but as the creature passes through the image its fouls substance is seared by the Saint's sword, and a piteous wail briefly accompanies the ceaseless shrieking.

Sheri's soporific dart cannot really fail to find its home in the creature's collossal bulk, but either the dart fails to penetrate, or the drug has no power over the monster, for it seems to have no more effect than a pinprick on a giant. Sheri, her courage sorely tested by the terrifying form rushing towards her, immediately turns to flee and drops the blowpipe in her haste. She makes no attempt to retrieve her weapon.

~oOo~

The assembled worthies - together with their assorted servants, hirelings and accomplices - all attempt to flee the rapidly approaching monstrosity, unthinkingly following the advice of the newly-revealed stranger. He seems to be directing them to a narrow alleyway - a welcome escape route, perhaps, but malodorous and rather dubious-looking one. The sound of the slavering and shrieking thing hard on their heels forces a swift decision.

Tiago and Mendrik approach the alleyway cautiously, lingering long enough to hear their pursuer's brief moment of pain as it passes through the fiery obstacle. The shadowy stranger is moving confidently towards his proposed escape route, but Mendrik pauses to reassure himself that this is their best option. This costs the two men an heartbeat of valuable time, but Tiago trusts in his comrade's instincts, and does not begrudge him this momentary hesitation.

Salfard, focussing his attention upon his master (if only to avoid contemplating the hideous thing that pursues them), is also reluctant to trust the stranger and his escape route. Tiago's magic seems to have given the creature momentary pause, but there is still no time to waste, and Salfard is conscious of the need for action. Finally, seeing the others heading purposefully for the alley and not wanting to face this peril alone, he takes his master firmly by the arm and moves to follow them.

Touchstone, therefore, is the first to commit himself, confident of his choice of escape route and certain that it will both help to slow their pursuer and bring them out in a place of relative safety. Glancing back occasionally to make sure that the others are following him, he moves ahead swiftly through the narrow confines of the alley, which are still filled with a fine haze of airborne dew. Rotheric does not hesitate to follow him, and easily matches pace with the dark stranger.

Suddenly a dark form looms out of the mist before them, and Touchstone, his attention upon those following him, blunders straight into it. Only Rotheric's finely-honed duelling reflexes and preternatural survival instinct preserve him from the same fate. Skidding to a halt and quickly regaining his balance, he sees a tall figure in long robes, its face concealed by a voluminous hood.

At this moment the misshapen horror decides to redouble its chorus of hideous shrieking and wailing, evoking feelings of unnameable terror in the hearts of all that hear it.

Backing cautiously away from the robed figure, Touchstone tries to recover his composure. He has faced peril before and is determined not to quail now. Reminding himself of his sworn duty to protect society from evil such as this, he grasps the Shadow Strength talisman in his pocket and mutters the incantation that he has been taught, drawing much-needed succour from it. The sound of the monster's renewed cries are a sore test of his courage, however, and he is badly shaken in spite of his efforts.

Still focussed upon the better aspects of his otherwise reprehensible nature by the iconographer's earlier spell, Rotheric can think of only one thing: his brother. What will happen to the poor demon-cursed Sigeric if his only kin is devoured by a horrible monster? The fear that is threatening to overwhelm him is kept at bay by this magically-enhanced compassion, but its grim import cannot be completely neutrailsed, and Rotheric is still at a loss to know how he can escape from this predicament.

Holding his hands to his ears as he flees, Tiago tries to drown out the shrieks by thinking of something altogether more beautiful. Conjuring up the images of the apparitions he has seen in Syran's walls, he recalls how inspiring these have been to him, blanking out the hideous thing which seems intent on his destruction and thinking of how this beautiful city has cared for him, in one way or another, from cradle to... well...

In spite of these compelling positive images, Tiago cannot completely exclude the insidious menace of the malevolent entity's auditory assault from his mind. Even his unshakeable faith in Mendrik takes a knock, when he sees the tall dark figure blocking the alleyway ahead...

~oOo~

Salfard urges his master on, hoping that the young Lazaran's love of the hunt can help him appreciate the role of the hunted - to try to escape. Meanwhile, he considers what he should do - blowing a whistle to summon soldiers might be ineffectual at this stage.

He knows he could save himself - his green legs go faster than his masters, and surely the shrieking beast would stop to eat the slower noble meat. But he is loyal, he knows no other life than serving the House Lazaran, and it is more important to him than anything else. Perhaps this is his moment of greatness.

Rather than pelt down the alleyway he slinks into a shadow and says a prayer to the Dark Lords Temporal, unsheathing his dagger and preparing for his moment of greatness. With all of his heart and mind focussed upon this somewhat immodest but unquestionably unselfish purpose, Salfard has no time for the luxury of terror and pays the slithering behemoth's irritating caterwauls little heed.

The monster, in turn, is too intent upon the fleeing forms that it can see disappearing down their narrow escape route to notice the lurker in the shadows. The intrepid servant watches in disgust as the loathsome thing moulds its foul conglomerate form into a new and sinuous shape, oozing into the confines of the alleyway in determined pursuit of its prey. Summoning all of the dark magics at his disposal, he is just about to follow it when he notices another form - this one thankfully human in appearance - following purposefully in the creature's wake.

~oOo~

The tall figure raised its arms, and the robe's deep sleeves fall away to reveal pale, slender forearms and hands adorned with gem-encrusted rings. Touchstone and Rotheric back away warily, just as Tiago and Mendrik arrive, closely followed by the young Lazaran. Muttering dire incantations, their new opponent holds out a long bony finger, which wavers momentarily as the figure selects its target. Abruptly, it spits out a final sibilant syllable and gestures at Tiago, sending an inky jet of indeterminate substance in the iconographer's direction.

Driven by panic, Tiago waves his arm frantically in the air before him to ward off this magic. Finding he still has his glass dagger in his hand, he catches a reflection of himself in its blade. Thinking on his feet, a skill he is having to learn fast, so it seems, he holds the dagger before him, eyeing carefully the trajectory of the inky substance coming towards him so, he hopes, as to send it back where it came.

The dagger's translucent blade refracts the wan light of the rising sun into a coruscating burst of coloured light, which seems to shred the stream of black substance into ever-diminishing particles. Tiago's original plan to reflect the stream back at its source seems foolish now; the inky stuff has too much substance to be repelled in this way. Fortunately, however, the action of light upon it seems to have rendered it inert, and tiny globules of the viscous black liquid now shower harmlessly over the inconographer and his companions.

Although he has not come up against people of this ilk before, Tiago has been in similar predicaments in similar alleys and has survived so far. In the past he has had to rely on Mendrik to save him, but it seems this time he must do the job himself. If this foe has to prepare for another assault, Tiago might just have time.

Following Mendrik's gesture, he ducks behind a crate and, not for the first time this morning, slices a rectangle through the air with his knife. Satisfied to see the air blurring within, he swiftly cuts the flaming sword of Gerlant once again, this time bringing the broken up light from the blade into the image, then with a final prayer, kicks the crate away, hoping to stun his opponent with the burning light.

As the Sword of Gerlant once more flickers into life, Tiago is dismayed to see he has only lit the alley up a little, the figure before him seeming innured to its effect. Cursing, Tiago puts his hand on hilt of the burning blade, biting back the pain, and hurls it towards the figure in a blazing trail of flame.

The dark magician is caught off guard by this action, and is forced to deflect the impromptu missile with a hastily raised arm. Tiago hears a sudden gasp from his opponent as the fire sears through the thick material of the robe and into the tender flesh beneath. He smiles in grim satisfaction at this, barely noticing the throbbing pain in his own hand.

~oOo~

Leaping without hesitation at his distracted opponent, Sir Rotheric lunges powerfully with his rapier. Undismayed, the magician whirls to one side and and raises a claw-like hand. The duellist catches a glimpse of a ring with an ebon stone on a long finger, then a curtain of dark descends and he can see nothing of his foe.

Furiously countering with magics of his own, Rotheric slices through the barrier with his sparkling blade, relying upon his finely honed instincts to tell him the position of his opponent. Passing through the curtain, however, he realises his mistake and narrowly avoids blunting his rapier on the wall of the alley. Turning to take the impact to his shoulder, he curses his luck and struggles to keep his balance, wary of a counter-attack.

Touchstone, meanwhile, is canny enough and streetwise enough to know it is best to attack magic user physically by preference. Hoping that the actions of others more potent than himself helps him to avoid being noticed by the fiend's master, he has slipped a shadow cloak around his back, intending ruthlessly knife their assailant in the ribs at the first opportunity.

Watching the robed figure repel first the iconographer's brave assault and then the rapier-wielding bastard's incautious one, Touchstone creeps cautiously forwards under cover of shadow. Seeing Rotheric crash into the wall and the hood-shrouded face now turning towards him, he suddenly realises his error: he should never have trusted Stygian magics to conceal him from an obvious master of the dark arts.

Determined to make the most of his opportunity regardless, Touchstone lunges clumsily at his target, and watches in horror as the magician prepares yet another arcane defence. The effort of dealing with so many assailants at once has clearly been too taxing, however, and the anticipated magic fails to materialise. Grateful for this piece of luck, Touchstone pierces the folds of the robe with his knife and grazes the tall adept's ribs, eliciting a spiteful hiss of pain.

In the end Touchstone's diversionary attack works better than he had hoped. Gratefully he watches Sheri drop down, cat-like, from the wall to land behind the cloaked figure. His cohort, in turn, wastes no time and hurls one of her throwing knives at the now surrounded assailant. She is rewarded by another gasp of surprise and pain from within the cloak.

~oOo~

Salfard, who thinks himself a good judge of character, or at least a good judge of purpose, quickly assesses what he thinks this human aims to do - attack the monster, control it with foul sorcery or send it back to whichever damnable place it emerged from.

His first impression is that he, and he thinks it a he, is in control of this abomination and therefore slaying him might release the beast. With a lunge from the shadows, and in an altogether desperate bid to save the city from chaotic enslimement he leaps at the human and attempts to slice his windpipe in an act of gruesome murder.

The servant's victim is no more aware of his impending doom than he is of the thick mud that covers his sodden robes. His attention is wholly focussed upon the screeching monstrosity, in whose trail of foul-smelling slime he cautiously follows. Salfard is upon him in an instant, and does not hesitate in his desperate and terrible act of bitter heroism. His knife is mercifully sharp and his unambiguous sense of purpose grants him the calm detachment that this grisly job requires.

Pulling back the man's head, he opens his exposed throat with a single rapid motion and then backs away, knife at the ready. Blood sprays in a wide arc, its vivid colour seeming shockingly bright in the pale light of morning. The stricken man chokes and makes an odd gurgling noise in his throat, then drops heavily to his knees in the mud.

Shaking violently and gulping like a fish out of water, the kneeling figure turns with a tremendous effort to look up at Salfard. At the sight of his victim's anguished face - the face of a young man, surely little more than a boy - the servant's desperation-fuelled focus is instantly dispelled. A wave of sick horror washes over him as he realizes what a terrible mistake he might have just made...

Then the monster's hideous shrieking falls suddenly silent, and Salfard feels a surge of guilty triumph. His suspicions were correct: this... this... boy had been controlling the monster somehow! Still shaken, and unable to drag his eyes away from the pallid face before him, he watches as the young man slowly collapses into a pathetic heap.

Cries of alarm from the alley bring him abruptly back to the continuing peril of their situation...

~oOo~

In the alley, the sudden arrival of the colossal monstrosity interrupts the frantic melee. Young Lazaran, who had been cowering aganst a wall, alerts everyone to this resurgent peril with a cry of terror. The assorted combatants turn away from their purposes and stare aghast at the approaching thing. The hooded figure seems to be as alarmed by this development as the rest, and utters a curious and unexpected whimper of fear.

The creature, still chorusing a dreadful cacophony of screams and wails from its numerous throats, is now revealed in all of it's gruesome glory. It is a sickening visceral mass of flesh, bone and sinew, with countless distorted animal mouths, limbs, snouts and other indistinguishable bulges and extrusions. All of these elements are married together into a quivering amorphous form, which is dragging itself along the ground with malevolent purpose. The horrified humans note that it is dripping with mud and slime from the waterway, and catch a whiff of its foul stench.

Abruptly, it halts its determined advance and the hideous noise-making ceases. The sudden hush is eerie, and for several moments Tiago, Touchstone, Rotheric and their associates can hear only the dripping of slime from the motionless creature, and the sound of their own hearbeats. Then a whirl of shifting fabric and running footsteps draws their attention back to their robed assailant, who is now fleeing along the alley away from them.

Blanking the horrible vision from his mind, Tiago nods to Mendrik and then follows his man down the alley after the departing figure. As Mendrik gains on his mark, he rumbles threateningly: "Best settle down, sweetie, if you want to live that is".

Hearing both the note of confident menace in that voice and its proximity, the figure halts, seemingly resigned to defeat. Still a fair distance ahead, it turns to face them and holds out a hand, palm outwards. This time, however, the gesture is merely that, and not part of some arcane working.

~oOo~

"Please, come no closer." The female voice from within the hood is hoarse, but strong. "I shall not attempt to harm you or to flee - unless that... thing comes after us again."

With wary glances over their shoulders at the still-motionless monster, Rotheric, Touchstone, Sheri and the trembling Lazaran heir also arrive on the scene. Only the young lord's servant, Salfard, is missing, whether devoured by the monster or fled by some other route, the strange group of companions cannot say.

"It will be difficult for me to convince you of this now," continues the robed woman. "But I shall say it anyway: I am not your enemy. Whatever that thing is back there, it is not my doing, and I can see now that my attack on you was a mistake."

Holding back, but making sure the physical threat is obvious to the woman, Mendrik asks, "And the attack was motivated by...?"

"It seems I was misinformed," she replies, tartly. "Or rather, that I leapt to the wrong conclusion. I anticipated an encounter with an anonymous enemy, whom I knew to be an adept. When I encountered your master, reeking of fresh sorcery, I assumed that he was my expected opponent."

She pauses and regards Tiago boldly for a moment, her face barely visible in the shadows of the hood. Her expression is unreadable.

"I soon realised that I was wrong," she continues. "And the victim of a carefully laid trap; the appearance of the hell-beast confirmed that. But I suspect that I am not the only one who has been deceived in this..."

"And why ambush adepts, or anyone at all, in dark alleys? Hardly seemly behaviour for one so fair", says mendrik with a roguish grin.

"Hold your tongue, lackwit!" she spits back at him, her animated face emerging briefly from the shadows. "I do not answer to the likes of you and tolerate facile flattery from no man!"

She is fair indeed, the onlookers note, but her finely-formed features are pale and presently distorted with rage. Her dark eyes flash furiously, and her dark brows are twisted into a scowl. As Mendrik engages their recent opponent in dialogue, his master eyes her up carefully, and then quickly sketches her to see what he can see.

Noting the iconographer's intense regard, the robed woman sees the artist at work on his pad. "Never!" she cries and makes a swift arcane gesture that Tiago feels as a prickle on the back of his hands. Her incautious action draws an equally swift response from Mendrik, who moves blade-first towards her with frightening speed. Remembering her position of disadvantage, or perhaps her promise, the woman makes an angry gesture of negation and lets her hands fall to her sides. Seeing this, Mendrik stops short of her, eyeing her suspiciously.

"Cease your scribbling!" she screams at Tiago, backing away again and pulling her hood closely about her face again. "And call off your attack dog. Am I not humiliated enough, without having to humble myself before you like this? I have said that I'll not try to harm you, but I would ask that you grant me the same respect. Have you no honour at all?"

Tiago is left with only a fleeting impression of his erstwhile assailant, and not nearly enough to work with. Whether she speaks the truth about not wishing them ill, and whether she refrains from spell-working now out of fear alone, he cannot tell. Her anger and consternation are unfeigned, however, and he is half-inclined to believe her story about being deceived. After all, he too has been lured here by deception.

Tiago breaks off from his task with a disappointed sigh. Speaking calmly and he hopes with a simple logic, he points out to the woman, "You attacked us from ambush yet tell us to treat you honourably. We have the advantage of you and have no reason to do you harm, except", and here he speaks more sternly, "to prevent you assailing us from the shadows in the future. Most would simply slit your throat and be done. Now, explain yourself. Fully."

The woman opens her mouth to respond, but she is interrupted by a sudden loud noise. The sound is difficult to identify, but clearly originates from the direction of the monster. Instantly ready for flight, the occupants of the alley turn fearfully to look back the way they came - all except Mendrik, that is, who keeps a watchful eye on the woman in case she tries to flee again.

The noise peters out quickly, and a few tense minutes pass as everyone listens for the sound of the monster's approach. Just as they are beginning to relax, the sound of approaching footsteps sets their hearts racing once more. The figure that appears around the corner is Salfard, however, holding a bloody knife and covered in gore and ichor. He seems to be grinning and looks strangely flushed.

~oOo~

Anxious for his master, the servant had followed the monster's slimey trail into the alley. Sighting its motionless bulk completely filling the alley ahead, he felt the knot of fear return in his belly, and began to wonder how he could ever have imagined fighting this thing. Then, with a sound like a host of sighs, the massive form had simply collapsed before his eyes with a nauseating wet sound.

Approaching nervously, Salfard had seen something like a scene from a hellish slaughter-house: a pile of skinned and variously dismembered carcasses - sheep, cattle, pigs - all piled together and oozing with foul-smelling slime. Picking his way gingerly over the gruesome remains and trying not to vomit, the servant had continued down the alley in search of his master.

Finding him whole and apparently unharmed - albeit still in the company of the others and now a strange robed figure as well - Salfard feels a sudden surge of relief and cannot keep a smile of triumph from his face.

~oOo~

"Don't mind them" says Mendrik as if he has seen this sort of thing a thousand times before. "Your explanation please?" he says.

"I shall give no account of my actions to an impudent rogue!" the woman insists angrily. Then, with a glance at Tiago, her tone softens a little as she adds: "But your master makes a persuasive case for some kind of explanation, and I am not in a position to argue, it seems."

She pauses, adjusting her hood once more to ensure that her face is concealed. As she does so, Tiago's sharp eyes catch sight of one of the rings on her long fingers. It is a seal ring, bearing a distinctive tree symbol that he half-recognises.

"You ask for a full explanation," she continues. "But I shall be brief, nevertheless, for my private affairs are really not your concern. I received information from a trusted source that an enemy of my... cause would be here at dawn today. I have been trying to identify this enemy for many months, but of one thing I am certain: he is a sorcerer of some accomplishment and few scruples."

"My source assured me that this man - and I am certain that my enemy is a man - would flee from the scene of a duel along this alley. I was expecting him to be alone, so your arrival with these... accomplices filled me with doubt at first. But the stench of sorcery hung about you like a cheap perfume and this restored my conviction."

"The way you shrugged off my binding spell confirmed your power, but the sanctified nature of your response immediately revealed my mistake. By that time it was too late and I found myself fighting for my life against your bloodthirsty cohorts. Tell me, sir rogue," she says, bitterly, her comment now directed at Mendrik. "Is it seemly to knife an unarmed woman in the back, as did your friends here?" She indicates Touchstone and Sheri. She turns her attention to Rotheric. "Or to attempt to run her through, like this sword-for-hire?"

She is shaking with anger now as she turns back to Tiago. "And what shall we do now, my fine sir? I throw myself upon your mercy," she says, her voice dripping with undisguised sarcasm. "I have give you my explanation. Will you do the same? If I do not miss my guess, then that hell-fiend was sent to dispatch you. What prevented it? Who set it upon you? I'll warrant our enemy in this is one and the same! What is his identity? Speak, man!" she snaps impatiently, reaching her hands out towards Tiago. She falters as she catches Mendrik's eye once more. "Or... or have your man here finish me, as you will. But do it quickly. I am tired of this foul place."

She falls silent, still trembling slightly.

"Your private concerns become my concern when they move you to threaten my person, Lady." Tiago too is now shaking as he perceives the situation is defusing somewhat, but he tries to hide the tremor in his voice. "You are mistaken if you think these...fellows are accomplices of mine, or that I would associate myself with their actions."

This woman no longer seems a suitable target for Tiago's anger. Indeed, her confidence and her efforts to retain her dignity move him somewhat, and he finds himself desperately curious to see the rest of her face. Appalled to find that he is attracted to the mystery of this woman, and the possible entanglements this might lead him into, he seeks an escape.

"Tell me where I may find you. I..." His mind wanders as he finds the true target of his anger. "I must make my own enquiries and I would not like to tarry in this alley. Your person is safe from me and my man, but I would like to see what you discover."

~oOo~

Touchstone has also noticed the seal ring on the woman's finger, but unlike Tiago he recognises the insignia immediately. It is the symbol of House Heligan, and its presence on this lady's hand suggests the nature of the 'cause' that she refers to obliquely. Closing his eyes and falling easily into the memory trance, he brings to mind the two lines from the Opert Prophecy that have been imprinted upon his memory since he heard them:

"Along a slender thread of fate shall walk the heirs of the spreading tree, and after them shall follow the destiny of the glass city, and its twin. Those who watch shall guard them, and keep them from harm."

When he opens his eyes, he sees several inquisitive faces staring at him, and realises that he has unconsciously spoken the words out loud.

"What was that all about?" someone asks. "And who is..."

Then another voice rings out, first repeating Touchstone's last line and then continuing with further lines that are completely unfamiliar to him.

"Those who watch shall guard them, and keep them from harm. The twelve seekers shall aid them, and find in this their fate. If, through war and strife, through fire and ice, through plague and famine, through lies and betrayal, the tree endures, then the glass city shall prosper; if it fails, then the serpent shall prevail."

Now all eyes turn to the the hooded woman.

"The Opert Prophecy," she says, her eyes on Touchstone. "I'm curious to know where you heard it, master shadow, but I think I can guess. I don't know any more of it," she adds quickly. "So much of it is vague metaphorical nonsense anyway, and most probably mis-translated to boot. Once I was obsessed with finding 'those who watch' and 'the twelve seekers', but..."

Rotheric interrupts her.

"The seer seeks inspiration in a blank stone wall
The knight seeks for honour in a blind man's oath
The scholar seeks the world in an orb of blue
The orphan seeks for power from the shadows obscure
The rake seeks a cure for his conscience cursed
The watcher seeks for meaning in a world of lies
The shadow seeks for profit in a secret told
The..."

He breaks off, looking faintly embarassed. "I can't remember the rest - my na... I learnt it as a child. It's called 'The Twelve Seekers'," he adds, needlessly. "There are um... five more lines I think..."

"Are there really?" the hooded woman comments in a deadpan tone. "You do astonish me. Well now, gentlemen: you are all full of surprises, it seems. I took you for a gang of thieves and cut-throats, but your unexpected erudition forces me to revise my opinion. I would hear more of your verse, master rapier, - and more of your prophecy too, master shadow - but perhaps those matters can wait for the moment."

"You sir," she continues, turning to the young Lazaran, who has himself remained hooded throughout the morning's dramatic events. "I now perceive, from the quality of your mantle, that you are a man of substance. I shall respect your evident desire to remain incognito, but perhaps you - or your man here - could give me an account of what transpired?"

Without waiting for a response she goes on to address Salfard, speaking rapidly and in increasingly animated tones. "I only heard a part of your earlier account, but am I to understand that you have dispatched the monster's master? I dare not hope that it is my enemy that you have slain, but if it was one of his minions then his identity may still be of some interest. What manner of man was he? Was he known to you? Are you confident that he is truly dead?"

She snaps her fingers. "Ah, but of course! The hell-beast dissolved when its summoner's life was spent. Foul magic indeed! Come, all of you: let us inspect the good servant's handiwork and learn what we can of the nature of our common foe..."

She starts to head back towards the park.

~oOo~

Tiago listens to all this with horror. Itching to get away from all this, especially from the duellist, the backstabber and the throatslitter, he presses the woman again. "Where to find you, if you please?"

"Eager to be gone, master adept? Very well." She produces a small rectangle of card from within her robes and hands it to Mendrik. He stares at it blankly. "Give it to your master, idiot," the woman comments in an acid tone. "I'm sure he can read it."

Numbly, Tiago glances at the card as his man hands it over. There is a tree emblem on one side and neat inscription on the other, which indicates an address in Hightown.

Rotheric shakes his head. He is still addled from the spell and events have unfolded rapidly in unexpected directions.

As the woman starts to head back towards the park, he instinctively follows her. She is quite the tasty tidbit and surely she would easily succumb to his rough charms. Also, he recalls a discussion he had with Damplestone recently - how the alchemist needed a portion of a chaos monster in order to brew a particularly effective potion. This might be a chance for a sizeable discount!

Touchstone follows on, to see what else he can learn from these people.

After negotiating their way through the noisome former constituents of the demon (Rotheric pausing to scoop up a sample of its foul ichor), the uneasy group eventually emerge into the park, where another grisly scene awaits them. What seems at first to be a pile of rags resolves itself as they approach into the lifeless body of a young man. Before expiring, he seems to have dragged himself along in the odious path of the monster, leaving a dark wet trail of his life-blood.

At this pitful sight the woman makes a small sound that might be either dismay or digust. Crouching down beside the corpse, she lifts the head gently to reveal the face. The wound in his neck gapes open, still oozing blood. The youth of the dead man is evident, and the horror of his passing is clearly written upon his features.

"A mere boy," she mutters, emotion choking her voice. "And an Imperial apprentice, by the looks of his robes. What a waste..."

Noticing something, she bends once more over the young man's sorry remains, and frees a small object from the slack grasp of his right hand. Holding it up for the others to see, she regards them silently. The object is a carved figurine, apparently made from bone and depicting a distorted form. The sense of malevolent wrongness emanating from it is palpable.

"As I thought," the woman observes. "A talisman of some sort. I'm loath to speculate as to the exact nature of this unpleasant object, but it does seem likely that the boy used it to summon and control the demon. I'm also certain that he did not do so unaided."

"What I don't understand is why you were its target, sir," she continues, her comment directed at young Lazaran. "Or our hurriedly-departing artist friend. If the malefactor behind this wanted either - or indeed both - of you dead, why go to these lengths when a simple assassin would serve? Was the duel that it interrupted in earnest, may I ask, or might it have been a ruse to lure you here?"

"And you, master shadow?" she says, turning to Touchstone. "How did you become involved in this? You were not here on behalf of either party in the duel, I think..."

"Well in a sense I was sent on behalf of both gentlemen," Touchstone replies carefully. "I was here to make sure things did not go beyond a morning's exercise. For either side."

"Indeed?" the woman comments. "Sent by whom, I wonder? An... interested third party, perhaps?"

"No matter," she continues, noting Touchstone's determinely impassive expression. "I can see that you are not one to break a confidence. Nevertheless: how do we know that you are not some catspaw of our common enemy, sent here to win our confidence after gallantly saving the two gentlemen from their unexpected doom?"

"Although," she says, turning to glance at Rotheric. "One of those gentlemen had employed a proxy, it seems. I wonder if your... ah, instructions anticipated his presence? And what about you, master rapier? Did you have any additional motive here this morning? Were you sent to take part in this, and perhaps to execute your office with rather more gusto than absolutely necessary?"

"But enough of this suspicion and speculation! Master shadow: I would speak with you in private, regarding the Prophecy. I imagine that you already know where I might be found? Yes? Good. Master rapier, I am also interested in your verse. Where might I contact you?"

Turning to Lazaran, she inclines her head politely. "Sir, I should also be grateful for a few words with you, if you are willing. Perhaps we can arrange for a more seemly conference at your convenience, where we might discuss our common foe unencumbered by these veils of anonymity? Or, if you prefer, I can treat with your man here. A doughty servant, indeed. Here is my card," she adds, passing Salfard a pale rectangle.

Rotheric reaches into a pocket and produces a small visiting card as well. These are all the rage with young fops these days and a cause of envy and resentment at many a dinner table. This one has golden lettering on a cream background. A handful of these cost Rotheric a small fortune, but then again - they do look good, don't they?

With a click of his heels, Rotheric hands his card to the lady. "M'lady. Your humble servant at your service." He gives her a cheeky wink as he hands over the card.

He then turns to Salfard. "Now, about my payment...."

Barely a glimmer of reaction from Salfard. His eyes betraying for a moment that he has even heard the question.

"I do not consider the terms, as we agreed upon them, to have been adequately met. You must remember that it is not I that controls the purse strings of the House Lazaran, but those more noble and, to be frank, more careful with their noble inheritance than I who instruct whether claims be met or denied. However, I have some influence and will do my best to persuade his noble mastership that yours would be a worthy reward and that your motives were in accordance with the spirit, if not the exact terms of our agreement."

Rotheric sneers at this. "The purse of House Lazaran must be small indeed, if your 'mastership' cannot afford to pay his due bills. You have one day in which to obtain my payment. After that, I will have to pursue other means of collecting..."

The duellist fingers the hilt of his rapier meaningfully.

"Oh please!" the woman interjects. "Save these postures and idle threats for a more appreciative audience, and spare me the sordid details of your little transaction. If silver is really all that you desire, master rapier, then you might at least try to earn it, instead of merely extorting it."

Rotheric glances at the woman, slowly and insolently.

"This is private business, m'lady. But if you have any future jobs to do, please bear me in mind. You have my card. Gentlemen, I bid you good day."

Rotheric nods to the assembled group and strides off into the awakening city.

"Very well. Now, how to proceed?" She glances at the corpse, and then back at the alley. "Naught more to be done here, I fear. I shall take this child's toy," she says, holding up the grisly talisman, "And make enquiries. Unless you have any objections, however, I suggest that we leave all else as it lies. This shall leave a pretty puzzle for the Watch to muse over, don't you think?"