The World Within the Web

by Lord Max

Chapter XXXVI: Mother Changeling

        Proximo’s first difficulty in his mission was finding a team. It was not so much for his own protection—the city had been quiet since the riot, and he felt as confident as he could—but he felt far more of a duty in keeping Imelia safe. The journey from her home to the Palace was a short one, but he did not intend to let any other friends be taken by whomever it was that preyed on Dabrius. So, he set about locating his friends.

        His second difficulty came when he found them. There was a gaggle of people not far from Lady Violet’s chambers, clustered and silent. Proximo thought little of it when he approached, until he realized how quiet the six people ahead of him were. He could see Daria Faust alongside Red Autumn, Donnet with his arms crossed, Kriseroff standing awkwardly and tugging at his beard. Nearest to Proximo in his approach was portly Caleb, dabbing at his sweaty forehead, and looking off at someone else. In fact, they were all staring at someone, or pretending not to without success. Curious, Proximo drew up to speak with them.

        “Hello all,” he said, hoping to break whatever tension had fallen. “I wonder if—”

It was only upon moving past Caleb that Proximo saw who they spoke to. He might have been afraid that the Mods or Martes might have been skulking after his friends, but the man wore the colors of the Honest Friend, save for the bandages covering half his face.

Dustario was standing alongside the group, but not with them, leaning himself against a wall only a few feet away. Proximo swallowed: the last time he had seen Dustario, he had been drunk and deranged and filled with grief. Proximo shared that grief, and had hoped to see Dustario, but he was not sure if this was another escape from Skylark’s care or not. Everyone around him seemed uncomfortable—Red and Donnet tense, Kris and Caleb nervous, and Daria’s eyes locked on Proximo with wide, mute pleading.

Proximo tried to not let the surprise show. “Dustario,” he said carefully, “it’s good to see you again. Are you well?”

Dustario spared a glance, but little else. “As well as I’m like to be. What do you need done?”

Proximo shifted in place. “That can wait a moment, it’s—”

“You wouldn’t have come out looking for people if there wasn’t work to be done,” Dustario cut in. His voice was as flat as his stare. “Where?”

“In the city, I—”

“Let’s go.” Dustario shoved off the wall, and began the way to the Palace’s gates, hands in his pockets. Proximo exchanged concerned looks with everyone else, and bid them to follow.

As they walked, Proximo drew himself up to Dustario’s side. “My friend,” he asked, “does Skylark know you’re about?”

Dustario continued to walk, and for a moment did not speak. “If she doesn’t, she’ll know soon enough.”

As I feared. “Dustario, are you certain that you’re well enough t—”

“What is that meant to ask?” Dustario scowled, but did not slacken his pace. “If I’m drunk?”

“Yes,” cut in Red, unabashedly blunt.

The curl in Dustario’s lip did not change. “I’m not, if you’re so concerned about it. There’s no point in talking about this. There’s work to be done.”

Daria did not seem at all convinced. “Dusty . . .” she began, reaching for him.

He shrugged away. “I don’t want to talk, and I don’t want to be down in some damned bed where I’m no use to anyone.” His tone was angry, but not at anyone in particular. He took a long breath, and offered a downcast look to Daria. “Do we need to say more? Let’s just go.”

Proximo was ready to protest when Dustario started walking off again, but a hand on his shoulder dissuaded him. Donnet gripped Proximo, and shook then his head. Donnet’s eyes were hidden behind his spectacles—the color changed now to twin discs of glossy black—but Proximo could reach what his friend’s face was saying: ‘Let it pass.’ He might have objected to that as well, if not for one added note, one that he knew Donnet was saying as well: ‘For now.’

Sighing, Proximo let it pass. For now.

As they walked through the Palace, to the entrance hall, Proximo set himself to thinking. About Dustario, more than anything, though every other trouble and doubt of the last few hours and days and months bubbled up as well. What are we going to do? It almost amused him, thinking those words. About what? So many choices.

About Dustario? He knew his honest friend better than most—long had they served together, through trial and triumph—and yet even he was not certain how to handle this. About Dabrius? That damned stubborn man—the Six protect him—was long gone, blown off like the wind and having upset everything in his mysterious departure. About who took him? If only they knew who it was. Every answer only raised more questions. That’s not even to touch on the furious Mods, or the daggers at our backs. Troubles, troubles, troubles. When they reached the main hall, Proximo caught the eyes of the portrait that adorned the room’s front, the one displaying the proud face of Aureliano the First. The man who had built the Dreamweave. If only he knew. This city of yours has much to answer for, my lord. Those painted eyes seemed almost to linger on Proximo as he turned and walked out the door.

As they stepped out of the Palace and into the crisp, still-morning light of an early day, Proximo stole more glances at Dustario, his friend, as they marched. It was hard to recognize him. Not even in his face, not even from the scars, but in his whole person. Before, Dustario had been always the charmer, the smiler, quick with a joke, everyone’s friend. Now . . . now he was leaner, sharper. It was as though a smooth polish had been scraped away when that broken glass had dug into his cheek. His hair was looser, more shaggy, his face covered in rough stubble, his mouth pressed firm. He seemed paler, yet not bright. Even his fine clothes had lost a certain luster.

He says he wants to work, Proximo thought, as he watched Dustario walk so stiffly downward. Work, and that alone. Yet Proximo knew, more than anything else, that the last thing Dustario needed was silence. He needed his friends—if he didn’t, then he would not have left Skylark’s care and sought them out—yet did not want to talk to them. What will we say? As he thought about it, plotting out words, they all seemed hollow, or worse, pitying. Lady Violet will know. She always does.

Before long, they had arrived on Imelia’s street, and then Imelia’s building, and then Imelia’s door. After a few knocks, it did not take her long to appear. “Proximo!” she exclaimed, drawing him into a hug. “I heard there was trouble at the Palace—I was about to go there myself. What’s happening?”

“Conspiracy, peril, and imminent disaster,” Proximo admitted.

“Hm,” Imelia replied, “not so different from usual, then. I don’t suppose we have time for more details, do we? Over tea?”

“Certainly, though we might need to heat the kettle at the Palace. If you’ve the time, we have an urgent matter you might be perfect for.”

“Perfect?” Imelia repeated with a light laugh. “Now there’s one compliment I have been missing recently. Well, lead the way!”

        Proximo held the door and laughed with her. It was extraordinary, how much Imelia had changed of late. Gone was much of the hesitancy and sadness she’d held when they first met, and laughter seemed to come more easily than ever. A smile suited her—more than once, Proximo wondered if he was seeing shades of the Imelia from before, from a time when she had fewer cares and fewer griefs.

It was not the only noticeable change about her, though. Proximo noticed her hand go to her stomach as she bid farewell to her grandmother and stepped out. Is the baby starting to show? It was hard to tell, with the loose dress she was wearing. But then, perhaps wearing that was a sign in itself.

Imelia stepped out the door after a brief goodbye. She smiled at the rest of the party assembled outside her door . . . and paled when she saw Dustario. It took only half a moment to recover her composure, but Proximo could see that Dustario had noticed: he turned his bandaged face aside in a scowl. Proximo suppressed a sigh, and led them down the stairs to the street.

Imelia began chatting with the others behind Proximo as they walked back down to the street, though he only caught the tail-end of what they said. “. . . and they just disappeared? Just like that?”

“Like a thief in the night,” he heard Donnet say. There was no mistaking such a rough accent. “Which, o’ course, they were.”

“And Sir Coin was terribly hurt trying to stop them,” said Daria, voice laced with concern. “I certainly hope he’s well.”

“Skylark’ll prob’ly nail ‘im to a sick bed this time,” Donnet remarked.

“This is likely true,” chimed in Kriseroff. “All that bandaging and sewing and scolding. Kriseroff barely had scratch, but almost had to chew off own arm to escape. But this is expected. Women never can let this man go.” He gave a bellowing laugh.

Proximo could practically hear the eyes rolling behind him, but before much else could be said they reached the ground floor and the street. The Dreamweave opened back up to them, and they began on their way to the Palace for the business still ahead of them. Let’s hope it goes better, Proximo thought wearily. Seeing Imelia improved his spirits, but the days and nights had been grinding away at him, lately more than ever. Catastrophes continued to pile up, and lack of sleep did not improve things. It was all he could do to avoid thinking on just how tired he truly was.

It was Donnet sidling up to him that woke Proximo from his fatigue. Around them, the Dreamweavers moved in crowds, many talking, some shouting. Behind Proximo, Imelia and the others continued to chat as one ordinarily might. Donnet, however, leaned in towards Proximo and spoke soft enough to only just be heard. “So,” he murmured, adjusting his spectacles, “Dustario.”

Proximo glanced at Donnet, and saw a stoic expression. But beneath that, Proximo could see the same concern that he shared. “We ought to go to Lady Violet first.”

“Aye, she’s a mind for such things.” Donnet flipped the lenses in his glasses to purple. “This whole thing’s not unusual t’ me, least. The underside of Central isn’t a place for happy folk. I’ve some experience wit’ this.”

“As do I,” Proximo whispered. Unwittingly, his hand went to the scar across his chest. They walked past the fountain at the foot of the Palace, paying little mind to those around them, save for some idle glances from Proximo. “At any rate, we’ll need to—”

When Proximo stopped, Donnet shot him a look. “What?”

“Option one,” Proximo murmured, looking off into the crowd.

“Huh?”

“The anonymites. I just saw them.”

And so he had. Straining his neck, Proximo caught a glimpse of them again, skulking around near an alleyway. They were moving out of the square and into the city proper, a trio of oily clothes and wooden faces much at odds with the civilized airs of the Dreamweave, as hollow as those airs might be. Proximo could see only their backs, but he could be certain it was them: no sane people would be wearing sea-lion skin hoods and retractables at their belts.

“Well there’s somethin’ yah don’t see every day.” Donnet squinted at them, flipping his glasses to black. “I’m not as up t’brim on the word-around reports as some, true, but have that bunch been seen out-’n-at-’em before?”

“They have not.” Until that very moment, neither Proximo nor anyone else had glimpsed the anonymites outside the walls and halls of Aureliano’s manse. Yet there they were, in broad daylight. And on this day, after what so recently happened, in particular. “Now doesn’t that seem like just an extraordinary coincidence?”

“If yah believe in such.”

“Do we?”

“Not bloody likely.”

Proximo turned to the others. “I regret to say, Imelia, that I may need to hold on that tea. Red Autumn, could you lead the escort back to Lady Violet? There’s something I wish to look into.”

“The masked men,” Red grunted. “You can’t go alone.”

“The fewer tailing them, the less likely they are to notice. I can handle myself.”

“No, you can’t.”

“No, I can’t,” Proximo had to admit. “But I do have experience in making myself scarce and finding out things that others would rather I didn’t. Donnet?” He turned to his bald friend. “If I’m not to be alone, I’d prefer someone with similar talents. Care to compare the lower dregs of Central to the upper dregs of the Dreamweave?”

A flick of his finger set his spectacles to yellow. “I’m not like to say no.” A smile crossed his face.

“Then we’ve little time.” The Channic were still in sight, but only barely. The parting Dreamweavers gave them away, even at a distance. “We shall see you all back at the Palace in good time. If there’s any sign of danger, I swear that we shall run back with all haste and leave any other sleuthing behind.”

Red grunted something under his breath, while Imelia prepared to leave with the others. “Stay safe, Proxi. I never liked the looks of those Channic.”

“The smell is not better. I shall see you soon.”

With that, they went apart, and Proximo and Donnet began on their own, new mission. The Channic were far ahead, only barely still in-view. “Still remember your old tricks, Donnet?”

He laughed. “Folk keep askin’ me that. Don’t seem to guess that I never stopped usin’ ‘em.”

They followed the bobbing, slouching heads of the anonymites through the streets. Carefully, quietly, but not closely, they followed. There were crowds in their path—at midday, even a wretched hole like the Dreamweave was bustling—but that was all the better for hiding in plain sight. Proximo and Donnet used the skills they’d earned over a career of diplomacy or skullduggery, respectively.

Proximo had always known better than to ask Donnet what exactly his profession had been prior to taking up the white-and-purple of the Generous Friends, but the things he spoke of and the way he moved gave hints. Donnet passed leisurely through crowds and darted past shadowed alleys in the same manner, with light feet and observant looks. It was a grace that bespoke no formal training, save for things learned through the brutal trial-and-error of the slums. Yet it was grace, a kind of rough and stealthy pace not unlike a feral cat. They were the motions of a man who’d lived with a strong reason to not be seen or heard or spotted, and one that had grown very good at it. Proximo had known of Donnet’s talents, but the way that he padded and crept at one moment but then blended seamlessly with the crowd at another told Proximo that Donnet spoke the truth: he had not forgotten a thing.

Proximo kept up at his own pace. Sometimes the two men would travel side-by-side; more often, they would go separate, though usually within eyeshot. And always within close enough sight of the three anonymites. They kept themselves scarce, but only just so, using wynds or packs of people or vendor stalls to remain aloof but observant. It was working, as well—the anonymites made no sign of having seen them. For the most part, the Channic walked in sullen silence, only occasionally talking time to bark at someone passing by, or more often at one another. Not for the first time, it occurred to Proximo that their common cause must be strong indeed to keep them together, seeing how they seemed to barely stand being around one another.

After several streets and some time, the anonymites came to an unexpected place. A large, rounded building, whose columned facade gave a civilized elegance to a city often lacking in such. That antique sense was betrayed by the trash around it, though, and the suspicious characters lurking not far away. They were not in Nightside, but this place had come under the same spell of disuse and decay as the rest of Aureliano’s city. It was large, though, perhaps one of the largest buildings in the city outside the Palace itself. And the anonymites stopped close to it.

“The opera house,” Proximo muttered to Donnet. They’d caught up to one another when the anonymites halted, Donnet watching carefully with a fixed stare. “Odd venue for three anonymites of the Chan. Is that place even open?”

“Look ‘n see.” Donnet pointed to signs at the front. “There’s a playin’ company in town. Hailin’ from Yutu or Neflik, most like.”

But why would a Channic care about that? Oh, the Channic were as human as anyone else, and as a people might share a fondness for the same stories as the rest of a Web. But that did not explain why recluses like those three suddenly gained an interest in the theater-house. At that moment, the three Channic seemed to be bickering again—after some raised fists but no blows, they made for an alley beside the building.

“They’re goin’ in,” Donnet pointed out. “Do fall it, or call it?”

Proximo examined the building as best he could. “We should try to get closer, at the least. It might be harder to hide ourselves in there, though.” He pushed off from the wall he spied from, and walked across the street.

“What then?” Donnet asked as he followed. “Could have a team spy it out laters on, see what’s what.”

“That might be best.” Hardly ideal, but hopefully some clues might be discovered, or an eager witness found. Assuming there was any nefarious happening at all, that is. With those three? It seems likely. “Either way, let’s just see if we cannot—”

        Proximo fell to the ground. Not because he had tripped over something; it was as he had taken a step, only for the ground beneath him to vanish. He began a curse, but a sudden sensation washed over him, a feeling like every muscle and sinew in his body had been worn down to nothing. And when he looked up . . .

        When he looked up, he was not in the Dreamweave.

        His hands did not touch the cobbles of a city street. Instead, he found himself immersed to his elbows in still, murky water, freezing cold. A terrible wind was howling, strong enough to strip the flesh from bone, and yet it did not make a single ripple on the water’s surface. Around him, the buildings were the same as the Dreamweave, but crumbling away, covered in long, creeping vines that sprouted leaves, black and midnight blue like the color of a bruise. Proximo stumbled up, splashing the stagnant water around him as he turned.

The Palace of Aureliano was burning, consumed by the turning of a tall pillar of black flame that arched into the sky. And above that, the sky had become an immense darkness, one of ribbed and striated clouds so dark and stretched as to look like a vast ocean of black water. There were pale shapes, barely glimpsed, pulsating and coiling amid the mists above.

        There was no breath in Proximo’s body, no warmth. Around him, the shapes appeared. Grey wraiths in pallid masks, surrounding him in a circle, as though to watch a duel. His duel. The yellow eyes of each shadow watched in cold regard. But it was only when Proximo saw his opponent that he collapsed into a noiseless scream—

        Proximo gasped, and felt stone against his face. Wrenching up, he darted his head around, looking for the shadowed watchers, for the black fire and dark-sea sky. But they were gone. Around him was the familiar street, the same city, that he’d known for weeks. He rubbed his eyes, but there it was still: not a mote of difference. Not a hint of what he’d seen. It was here. No, I was there.

        He saw Donnet next to him, down on his hands and knees and retching. “What . . .” he muttered, wiping his mouth, “what . . .” He froze, and looked beside Proximo.

        At first, Proximo felt a panic as his vision seemed to darken again. But he realized immediately that it was from someone’s shadow passing over him. He turned to find, looming over him, the anonymite Vaath.

        The sea-foam spiraled eyes of Vaath’s mask looked down at Proximo. The Channic tilted his head. “I had felt a shifting,” he said nonchalantly, “yet I did not expect to find you possessed by it. This is a strange thing. Nearly as strange is finding you here, of all places.”

        The cloaked Syll appeared beside him. “A spy. What have you done, Vaath? Why did you not say that I was followed?”

        “Because, fool, I did not know myself until now.” Vaath’s voice was dry, with the hint of a smirk crossing his lips. “You are to be commended for that at least, horse-lover.”

        Proximo tried his best to stand—his legs felt like jelly. Donnet did not seem to be faring better, drawing to his feet with an ill expression. There were people around them, most of them trying to avoid the anonymites and whoever their prey might be. It was only at that time that Proximo noticed something that had changed: the sun had moved down in the sky. He gaped at the sight of it—it had been not long past noon what seemed like an instant ago, but now . . . Six save me, how long was I out?

        Donnet swayed as he stood, and seemed ready to keel over before Boar drew up, grabbing his shoulder with a huge hand and forcing him in place. The look Proximo got from Vaath was nearly as forceful. “Odd indeed. A moment, I saw nothing but cobbles. Then, you flicker into the spot you were lying upon. Are the datalines so threadbare, so soon?” He leaned in towards Proximo’s eyes. “What is it you saw, hmm? No good things, I think.”

        “What . . .” Proximo shook his head, straightening himself. “What happened?”

        “Did I not say this thing? A shifting.” The twisting of Vaath’s mouth seemed somewhere between anger and amusement. For a moment, he merely considered Proximo. Then, he spoke again. “Listen more closely now. I and these and you will go to your master. The one you call ‘Warden.’ ”

        Syll hissed. “More time wasted, Vaath? More? This thread is pointless, end this stupidit—”

        “Can Syll not see?” Vaath shot back. “Eyes are watching this place more closely than I thought. A hand reaches through. I will know what this creature in the Palace is, and you will follow.”

        Proximo tried to project as much dignity as he could. “We are not going anywhere with you.” There was nothing to back such a statement up—Donnet still seemed dazed, and Proximo was little use in a brawl even at the best of times. But occasionally, seeming confident that one would win was enough to convince others to not try.

This was not one of those times. Vaath’s expression was nothing but grim amusement now. “Oh, truly? I believe you will. Perhaps you might be more gracious. I might have left you to bleed out in the mud.”

“Bleed out?” Proximo asked. After getting to his feet, he felt oddly light-headed.

Vaath gestured down at Proximo. And when Proximo looked down, he saw something rather strange. Little red roses had blossomed on his white shirt, in a line across his chest. Still groggy, Proximo did not understand it, until he realized it was blood. Blood, leaving a trail from his shoulder down to his navel. Blood, coming from his scar.

“Oh,” Proximo muttered, then collapsed.

Only half-aware, Proximo felt Vaath catch his fall, then gag in disgust and shove Proximo toward Boar. The huge anonymite growled, but grabbed Proximo by the arm regardless. Before they knew it, both Proximo and Donnet were being yanked along like dolls, with Vaath leading them back to the Palace.

Proximo’s head was swimming too much to laugh at the absurdity of it. Through the haze, he could feel them on his chest; little droplets of blood, running down his stomach. They almost tickled, even as he felt . . . felt something, some pain, over his scar. It was impossible, of course. That wound was years old, closed up long ago by stitches and poultices and time. As impossible as seeing sights that are not there. As impossible as vanishing and flickering back, hours apart. Proximo looked vacantly around him, trying to recollect his thoughts. Six save me, what is happening?

It was difficult, at first, to keep track of where they were or how much time had passed. As he started to regain his wits, Proximo heard a familiar groan. “Donnet?” Proximo murmured. He began to feel a little strength return. Whatever had happened, it had sapped him considerably, but he started feeling able to take two steps on his own. Not that Boar was like to let him, of course.

The groan intensified. “Proximo. Deepenin’ Hells, my head.”

Proximo nodded, though he wasn’t sure Donnet could see. He felt like he hadn’t slept in a week, and that someone had been using his skull for a kettle drum in the meantime.

“Proximo,” Donnet continued, his voice soft and grim. “Proximo, I saw something.”

“So did I.” A dark city, a dark sky over dark water. Evil things lurking in fog. Like the Deep, but right before his eyes. And, in front of him, the shadows from his worst dreams. Dreams of the day I earned a scar across my chest. He looked down, and saw that the blood had dripped down enough to make little red rivulets across his stomach.

“My old neighborhood,” Donnet said, voice quivering. “The people there. My people, but . . . but all wrong.” He heard a shudder. “Never wanted t’ see that, or them, again. But I was there, Proximo. Six save me, I was right there.”

It wasn’t the same. He saw something different. But something equally horrible. Whatever it was, this experience was not made for Proximo alone. Whatever it was. He hadn’t a clue. Hallucination explained nothing. No other sane explanation crossed his mind.

In time, Proximo and Donnet had recovered enough to walk unsupported, but they could still feel Channic breath on their backs. Proximo had the idle thought to try and run, but a comparison of how weak he felt to how large Boar was dashed that ‘plan’ immediately. At any rate, it wouldn’t do to leave Donnet, who seemed as weak as Proximo, on an action so foolhardy. And pointless, as well, seeing that he’d likely run to the Palace anyways. He felt idiotic just considering it, but wondered if perhaps such thoughts were a natural thing to a man captured. He wouldn’t know—this would have been the first.

The strange party received their share of odd looks ascending the entrance stairs, and more when entering the main hall. Especially from a pair of Honest Friends who happened to be there, whose eyes went wide upon seeing their entrance.

“You, orange ones,” barked Vaath. “Be dogs and fetch your master. I will wait for him.”

The Honest Friends looked to Vaath, then to the blood on Proximo’s chest, and sprinted to get help immediately. It did not take long for it to arrive.

“What is the meaning of this?”

Proximo looked up, to see Lady Violet, the Warden of Honesty at her side, both looking at the anonymites with fury. The Warden of Honesty seemed ready to rip off someone’s head, and Violet’s eyes had a dangerous cast to them that Proximo rarely saw. Around them, a squad of Honest Eyes, all armed, and daffodil-and-pink robed Rosesoul as well. Against them, Vaath led the anonymites, while Syll remained close behind, back clouched and cloaked head tilted. Boar was further back, arms crossed, observing the Bronies opposite him silently. As a whole, none of them seemed happy.

Vaath shrugged. “Your slave is injured.” When Honesty’s hand darted to his sword, the anonymite raised his hands. “Not by my doing, I should say.”

        Violet looked to Proximo, for confirmation. He sighed. “That much is true, my lady.” With his hand, he made a quick sign with his fingers, one that Violet immediately recognized. A cipher-speech, not unlike the secret one the Mods were said to have, known only between members of the Generous Friends—a useful thing, in delicate situations.

Seeing the gesture, Violet could be assured that he was speaking the truth, rather than what the Channic demanded. Still, her expression did not soften in the least. “I am curious, then, as to who did do this thing.”

Proximo hesitated. “I am not sure myself, my lady.”

“It is from a weakening of the world,” Vaath said plainly. “As dark things move through the datalines, they erode. The real is more fragile than you realize.”

“How cryptic,” Lady Violet replied. “My sincere thanks, in aiding Proximo and Donnet in their return. I believe that we can take them from here.”

“You will remain. I have words to be said.” The eyes of his mask turned to the Warden of Honesty. “Words with you, ‘warden.’ ”

Syll scoffed. “You waste time, Vaath. Let the warblers fly, it is nothing to me now. What do you think this creature is?”

Vaath’s lip curled. “I think he is the creature. Do you see that eye? Have you ever seen an eye so yellow?”

That eye, the one possessed by the Warden of Honesty not covered by a patch, narrowed at Vaath. The rest of the Bronies seemed prepared for a fight, but the Warden looked like a coiled spring, tension waiting to be unleashed at any moment. Syll either did not notice or did not care; she waved a dismissive hand. “His eye is gold.”

“Is gold so far from yellow?” Casually, Vaath’s hand went down to the hilt of the retractable on his hip, his fingers gently tracing a spiral on it. The anonymite watched carefully as the Warden mirrored the gesture on his own blade, ready to whip it forth in an instant. Proximo could not tell if that gave the Channic pause, or merely amused him.

Vaath’s hand rested on the hilt. “You do not wear your true name, ‘Honesty.’ I had thought perhaps you were Channic yourself, after learning. I did not realize how correct I was. Do they know your true nature?” He made a sweeping gesture at the rest of the Bronies. “I think not. Whatever face you possess, called ‘Honesty’ or not, you have always been the fount of lies.”

“You are confused, Vaath,” Lady Violet replied calmly. “Release my friends immediately.”

“That animal has only one eye,” Vaath sneered, “and yet I think it is you who is blind. Do you not remember the legends? Have you not seen the signs? I told you, some time ago, that its return was nigh, spurred on by Halforth. And now the living avatar stands here, before you. Do you know why your slaves were taken beyond the bounds of the real? Because that,” he pointed to Honesty, “is a conduit to darkness.”

Proximo looked to Vaath, then to the Warden. Honesty had not shifted an inch, scowling at the anonymites. But he did not answer. Proximo had no Sight for himself, but he knew that Vaath believed every word was true. No, it couldn’t be. It couldn’t.

The Warden of Honesty merely stared, and said nothing. Lady Violet spoke for him. “Enough of this. Vaath, move or be moved.”

“I will have my answer,” Vaath spat back. With a flick of his finger, the blade of his retractable sprang out. Spinning the knife in his hand, he spoke with his arms outstretched. Proximo watched, nervously, as Vaath drew slightly closer. “I will wait no longer, for Halforth or you or any other. Creature, you will tell me what you are, or—”

For a second, the knife in Vaath’s hand pointed at Proximo. Whether it was intentional or not, he could not say. But then, in an instant, it did not matter.

The Warden of Honesty sprang forward, and before Proximo could blink he had Vaath’s throat in the vice-grip of his massive hand. The surprise was enough to make Vaath drop his knife, but that did not stop his fellows. Syl and Boar screeched and threw themselves forward, but not before Honesty had wrenched the blade from his scabbard with his free hand. Boar halted when he saw the ugly sword now at his throat. Syl did the same, when the Warden tightened his grip on Vaath’s neck just slightly. Hands trying uselessly to pry himself free, Vaath gagged and kicked his legs as the Warden hefted him in the air like a child holding a doll.

Proximo and Donnet needed no further signal to run back to their peers. But the Warden did not move further. His eye was squarely on Vaath, the rest of his face neutral. Syl and Boar rotated around him slowly, on the balls of their feet, but the point of the Warden’s sword followed and Vaath’s choking only worsened. For a moment, no one dared make a sudden move.

It was Lady Violet who stepped forward. “Honesty,” she merely said.

The Warden did not look back. “Will we kill him, my lady?” Vaath’s struggled grew more frantic, mouth moving as though to speak. Only gagging came out.

Lady Violet folded her hands behind her placidly. “Release him. Gently.”

Gentleness was something the Warden still lacked. He dropped Vaath to the ground and turned back without a second look, leaving the Channic gasping on the floor. Boar and Syl rushed to his side, but Vaath cursed and threw their hands aside. “Fool,” he choked out. “Fool!”

Lady Violet did not react. “By bringing my injured friends back, you had my thanks. By not releasing them, you lost that. By threatening them, you gained something else.” She sighed. “With due respect, Vaath, this situation seems to me like a failure to communicate. So let me be clear.” She fixed the anonymites with an icy look. “Do not accost any of my friends a second time, or you will not survive to try a third. Good day.”

Vaath spat another curse, but he turned and fled regardless, Syl and Boar giving a final hiss at the Bronies and then following. It was over. For now.

Proximo let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. He caught a look from Violet right away. “I am starting to wonder, Proximo, if you do not cause too much trouble when I am not around.”

Proximo rubbed the back of his neck, embarrassed. “I have always considered you a restraining influence, my lady. My sincere apologies for the mess. And my thanks, my lord, for the rescue.”

“Would that we had won it without making another enemy,” Lady Violet sighed. Her eyes went immediately to the blood on Proximo’s shirt. “Proximo, Donnet. What happened?”

He had no idea where to start. Donnet took the lead instead. “Haven’t gotta a goddamn clue, beggin’ yer pardon m’lady.”

It took a few minutes of explaining, sitting down, and fussing from Skylark before the two got out the whole story. Proximo would have been more embarrassed by Skylark ripping his shirt open and sniffing at the wound had he not felt so awful—he still felt like a grape with all the juice pressed out. His strength was returning, but slowly.

Violet considered what she was told carefully. “These . . . visions. They appeared real?”

“Like I was there, m’lady.” Donnet shivered. “In flesh n’ blood. Seen fever dreams n’ drug-trances b’fore. This weren’t it.”

“And what Vaath said, my lady, made it sound much the same.” Proximo wondered if they would believe it. He hardly did himself. “The way he described it, we just . . . appeared there, on the street. Like we were conjured up, somehow, and hours after we arrived. I do not understand it.”

“Nor do I,” Violet admitted. “My honest friend?”

Honesty had seemed uncomfortable since the meeting with Vaath. He answered readily, but not with certainty. “This one is unsure. We have encountered theories previously. Speak of thinning of world. Natural law undermined. But only theory. The Channic believed they were true, though.”

Proximo saw that people were avoiding putting any further question to Honesty regarding what the anonymites believed. Then again, Proximo could not imagine a more serious accusation. He knew Honesty far better than Vaath ever could, as a leader and friend, and as a man who had saved his life twice now. Still, there was something about Vaath’s conviction that troubled Proximo.

Whatever doubts anyone else had, they did not voice them. “I will need to consult with the Magic Friends. Our theologians might understand this problem better, and Mars better than most. What has happened to you, though—the fatigue, the injury—troubles me even more. A mirage alone could never do that. Skylark?”

The Kind Friend frowned. She’d been doing that since first looking at the wound. “I am a medical professional. I am not one to deal in impossibilities. Now I have seen two in one day. This cut on Mister Hart’s chest appears like a sword-stroke. But, my lady, it is done exactly atop his existing scar.” She traced a finger softly down the new bandage on Proximo’s chest. “No deviation. No alteration. It’s as though the scar has merely opened up again, like it was new, but that cannot be.” Skylark rose, and shook her head. “There was a cut on Donnet that was the same, atop an existing scar. Thankfully, neither were as deep as the actual scarring wound, only just enough to call up blood. They’re dressed now, and with the poultices there’s little to no chance of infection. But I am disturbed nonetheless.”

“You are not alone, Skylark. Thank you.” That Lady Violet shared her concerns was evident from her expression. “You both rest and recover. Unfortunately, there’s another matter that needs my attention immediately. This is proving to be a busy night.”

“The masks?” Donnet ventured, sitting up in his seat.

“Partly. I am sending out eyes to keep watch for them, and to investigate that opera house as well. The Six only know what they are up to, though. But a more immediate issue is in the Palace.”

“Halforth. The red rinse.” Proximo could not suppress a shudder. He could still hardly believe it, even after Lady Violet assured him of its truth, but it seemed that Lord Halforth was planning out their worst fears. As if things weren’t bad enough.

Violet nodded. “Imelia has been hard at work, and I think we have our lead. I am off to regroup with her and Sir Coin now.”

“Sir Coin?” Proximo asked, surprised. He would have assumed that the man would still be in bed, nursing the damage those kidnappers had done to him.

Despite it all, Lady Violet allowed a grim smile as she departed. “Ah yes, have you not heard? Skylark said it first—yours is not the only impossibility we have met with today.”

        “That’s him,” whispered Imelia.

        Coin perked up after hearing her. He was glad to be on assignment, rather than resting a wound, but he had some trouble concentrating on the task at hand. Given what had just happened to him, perhaps he could be forgiven for having his mind elsewhere.

        He approached the balcony, and peeked his head out just slightly. Being seen was not an option at the moment. Down below were a group of courtiers in bright colors. “Which one?”

        “Towards the east door, by the statue. Green necktie, gold chain. And grey hair.”

        Coin found the man quickly. The very old man. He frowned. “He hardly seems spry enough to have been the one that ran from us yesterday.”

        “You’re right,” Imelia said with a smile. “But he is the one you want.”

        Coin opened his mouth to ask more, but was interrupted. The sight of purple hair told him all he needed. “A new development?” Lady Violet asked.

        He drew himself up into attention and stepped back around the corner—no one below would see or hear them from there. “Hopefully so, my lady, though Lady Koburn may need to explain it.”

“Then I shall be sure to listen. First, though: is your condition stable?”

Rosesoul bowed her pink-hooded head. “I’ve seen no change in him, my lady. Were it not for what we know, I’d assume he was the picture of health.

For once, Coin could not complain about people worrying over his health. Things as bizarre as the . . . incident earlier that day demanded study. He was just glad that, after much poking and examining by the baffled Kind Friends, they’d allowed him to continue working. That they only demanded one of their own to watch over him was as generous an offer as he was ever like to get. That it was Rosesoul, the far less ‘eager’ of the three Kind Friends in the Dreamweave made it all the better.

“Curiouser and curiouser,” the lady mused. “For the interest of safety, I should tell you there’s been an incident. Proximo returned—” Coin noticed a flash of concern cross Imelia’s face “—and with the anonymites in tow. We scared them off, but not without some harsh words and a few other things. He and Donnet are fine, but they seemed to have stumbled into something altogether odd. Odd like what happened to you, Sir Coin.”

Coin swallowed. Had it not been for the miraculous healing, he would have never thought his bizarre episode was anything more than imagined. But if it was happening to others . . . “He saw things.” Coin felt himself go tense, unwillingly. “Was he healed as well?”

“In a word? No. He and Donnet are being cared to now.” When she saw Imelia’s expression, Lady Violet raised a placating hand. “With nothing serious, I should add. At the moment, we have more tangible problems to which we must attend.” She craned her neck to look towards the balcony. “I think I heard that you had a development, Imelia. Is it our man from the tunnels? The sprinter?”

“No, but that’s to be expected. I have the next best thing.” Imelia smiled. “Haxtoll.”

Lady Violet had a look of delight. “Imelia, you are as superb as always.”

Coin, on the other hand, had no idea who they were talking about. “Who is Haxtoll?”

“Oh, forgive me, Sir Coin. I forget that Imelia was born to the this place, and that most people had better things to do than read reports about every courtier in the Palace. Haxtoll is one of the nobles of the Dreamweave, and one that I had a particular hunch about. One that Imelia has just confirmed.”

Still, Coin was lost. “But he’s not the Changeling we wanted, lady? Someone’s going to have to explain this.”

“He isn’t the man from the tunnels, the one that fled from you,” Imelia admitted. “But you were never going to see him around here anyways. If the Changelings have any sense, he’s hiding somewhere and lying low—if he’s seen in public at all, he’d never be foolish enough to meet with the rest of them. But what you told me about this mystery man,” she continued, “was enough. He’s clearly athletic, and he had a foreign accent. A Sajlic accent, if Jorama was right. That means one man in the court: Johastoff. He’s a trader from Faircraft, in Etsi.”

Coin frowned. “But surely there are other Sajlic men in the Dreamweave. Dozens, at least, if not hundreds.”

“But how many,” Lady Violet added with a satisfied look, “would mention someone named ‘Pen’? That was the name that your man mentioned, no? Another Changeling he expected to see? Because it just so happens that Johastoff is an inseparable friend to one Haxtoll. And Haxtoll’s first name is . . .”

“Pendros,” Imelia finished.

Coin sidled up to the balcony and peeked around again. Pendros Haxtoll was still there, chatting with a few others. It occurred to Coin that he had seen this man before. He was stooped slightly, but his grey, pointed beard and solemn eyes still projected a certain refined dignity. But when Coin had seen him last, Pendros Haxtoll had been yelling to have him thrown out of the room. “Yes, I recognize him. He was one of the men with Byrios Amberten and Heylen Ott. A Changeling.”

“Thanks to your investigation, we have suspected him for some time. Now, we know that he has access to the tunnels, and that the other Changelings at least expect him to be down there to meet with them. If Johastoff’s comments from the prior night are to be taken at face value, at least.”

“So,” Rosesoul said, “if he is followed, he may lead us to him.”

“But how can we know that he will go to them?” It would hardly do to follow an old man around, only to catch him in the diabolical act of buying clothes or getting food. He might have asked Ott for advice on when the Changelings might meet, but that would assume that Ott could even give such information without blowing himself up. And that Coin could even find him: the cybramancer hadn’t been seen since Dabrius disappeared. Which is troubling in itself.

“I am afraid that we cannot be certain. But consider this,” said Lady Violet. “There is a chance—however unlikely—that the Changelings have Dabrius. Even if they do not, we know that he was an associate of theirs. Either way, his kidnapping will undoubtedly cause a stir within the Society. Were I in their position, it might assuage my paranoid mind greatly to meet with my peers and decide what to do.”

“I suppose that would make sense,” Rosesoul nodded. “If you have a secret society that doesn’t meet for this, what’s the point? But there’s no guarantee.”

“No, there is not. But it is the best chance we are like to have.”

“And he’s leaving now,” Coin said.

Pendros Haxtoll was drawing towards the door, bidding farewell to his fellows and leaving alone. Based on the door, Coin guessed he was heading towards the main entrance of the Palace of Aureliano.

“Then we follow,” said Lady Violet. “This will not be my first tailing. One lone person takes point and keeps him in sight, the rest will remain back and move on his signal. If all goes as planned, he will not know he is being followed.” She turned to Lady Koburn and bowed. “My thanks again, Imelia. You might have saved us yet. It seems I might owe you two giant hats.”

Imelia returned a bow of her own. “My pleasure, my lady. I’ll just go and check on Proximo. Happy hunting.”

Lady Violet nodded, and turned to Coin and the rest. “We move now. If all goes well, we might end this tonight.”

Coin bowed. “Ready, my lady.”

“You are certain you are well?”

Coin hesitated, but only for a moment. “I can’t claim to know what happened, but I feel fine, my lady.” As though I was never injured. Convenient as that was, it still made him uneasy.

        “As you say. My friends, the crisis has reached its peak. There is danger on all sides. Be wary, be alert, be aware. But if we succeed tonight, we might have a fighting chance. I intend to succeed. Let’s move.”

        The group all bowed or saluted, and filed out. Coin went with them. He took a long breath to calm his nerves, and followed them down to where Haxtoll likely was. This is it, Coin thought, tonight. Do or die. Hopefully the former. Whether the Changelings had Dabrius or not, the Bronies had to find the Society and end this trial as soon as they could. But will we find them, he wondered, or will they find us?

        “While the actions of Lady Wright and the Warden of Honesty took the forefront during much of the First Rise, they were by no means the only actors involved. Far from it: had it not been for the actions of several others in a less martial capacity, the war would have likely been lost. Each of these persons are now household names among the Collective, but their origins nevertheless bear repeating.

        “Amid the tumult of warring and raiding that took place during the First Rise, it is often overlooked that the conflict was only one aspect of what occurred in the Chan. While the nascent Loyal and Honest Friends fought to ensure the fandom’s safety, two other movements were taking place to better secure the Collective, and see that it survived the war. The first among these was a process of community building. The fandom was still brand new, barely organized and lightly trained. Numerous small factions rose, each with common goals but also distinctions that sometimes hindered cooperation. Even the armies of Lady Wright and the Warden of Honesty were barely in contact during the war’s earliest days, let alone with the innumerable smaller groups that cropped up. It fell to some to organize these disparate fandom-followers.

        “Much of this work was accomplished thanks to the indomitable will of a single man: Feylen Mars. Hailing from the far north, this scion of an ancient blood-fief of the cybrahakar arrived in the Chan on the wings of prophecy, working to preach, convert, and unite the Bronies wherever they could be find. That work was centered on Comchan, but over time he would be known far and wide due to a series of lectures and pamphlets that elaborated on fandom theology and theory, explaining the moral lessons of the Six and their expectations of their new followers. Lord Mars’ pace of work was near unthinkable to his contemporaries: even amid the myriad of negotiation and organization he embarked upon, he wrote 54 such tracts in the span of six months, in addition to other fragmentary pieces completed later. Such was his reputation that he rapidly became known as ‘The Proof of Six,’ even despite his young age.

        “His work was not done alone, however. At his side during this formative phase was an old friend who had taken up the same fandom, Lillian Semmer. A Blurrite educated in the medical arts, the two had been acquainted during Semmer’s pilgrimage to the north, studying the effects of magic in the lands of the cybrahakar. They became friends and correspondents during her studies, and she joined him upon learning of his presence in the yet-unvisited Chan. Shortly after, she converted to the Collective and swore a vow to the Kind Friend.

“While Mars preached to large crowds and tried to bind the Bronies together through force of ideas, Lady Semmer quietly gathered a society of ascetics and mystics, attracting all manner of esoteric types to the Brony cause. With a growing team of healers, her work focused on tending to the large refugee population the war had created, actions that helped spearhead a wave of conversion among the population. Between both ideals and actions, the Brony movement was growing at an alarming pace.

“While Lady Wright and Lord Honesty led what armed forces could be mustered, Lord Mars and Lady Semmer rallied the civilian population, the many converts who had no skill in arms. After the Fall of Baysmouth, it became clear that their presence in the Chan was untenable—the invasion of the Moderators and the renewed Channic offensive put all of them at grave risk. Neither had a chance to meet with their military counterparts in-person, being on opposite sides of Comchan, but their respective reputation grew such that they began correspondence between one another. It was soon determined that the path of the unarmed converts was clear: evacuation.

“Calling on all resources available, Lord Mars and Lady Semmer organized a mass withdrawal of Brony civilians from the Chan. While not all could or would join, the largest share managed to escape the isles to land on a sparsely inhabited island to the east. The landing site of the Exodus would bear a new name: Sixchan-in-the-Sea. The civilians were secure, more or less, and the fandoms contacts abroad growing. Soon, this would draw in the last of the fandoms six leaders, the two who would embark on a more treacherous mission: the negotiations in Central.”