//------------------------------//
// Chapter XXIX: The Best of Intentions 
// Story: The World Within the Web 
// by Lord Max 
//------------------------------//


Chapter XXIX: The Best of Intentions





* * * * * *





I

The work proceeds on schedule. With Providence on our side, we shall all be free of this assignment before much longer. I cannot imagine why Lord Makepeace needed us to return so soon after having given such a thorough report last time, but it hardly matters now. Such is life of a Web Crawler, it seems: travel, gather census data, depart, and leave again. We shall soon be departing from the Chan, it seems. 

It is not a day too early, either. Barely a night goes by without some of the Channic harassing us. Just yesterday, a group of them crowded outside Sir Conscience’s window to jeer at her. One of them threw something inside, but I could not compel her to tell me what exactly it was or what they had said. I had guards posted outside to deter anyone else that might try, but she insisted on switching rooms regardless.


II

I was passing by one of the rooms today by chance, when I thought for sure that I heard someone crying inside. I am certain it was Conscience—this assignment is getting under her skin. She always hated being away from her husband for long, but she could hardly expect to bring Ryver with her on an assignment like this. It is either that, or whatever the Channic said to her that night got to her more deeply than she let on.

The waterfront was quieter today than usual. I find myself walking along the shore more often than not. I always did care for the sea. At any rate, there were not as many anonymites milling about as there sometimes were. I saw that there were dark clouds building over the bay, so perhaps the storm scared them off.

Just an hour ago, I ran into Sir Conscience. I told her that when we returned, I would ask Lord Makepeace to exempt her from more assignments like this one in the future, so she might spend more time with Ryver. She thanked me for it, but I could tell she was more relieved than she wanted to say.


III

When I was walking along the bay early this morning, I saw that one of the ugly buildings on the waterfront was on fire. It was a salt-stained heap, but the place was blazing down, and no one seemed to care at all. What few people were around just walked by as though nothing was happening.

Of course, there was hardly anyone there anyway. I cannot figure out why, but these past few days it seems like there have been fewer and fewer Channic on the streets, at least on my route. I tried to ask one man where everyone had gone, but he hissed at me like some kind of animal and ran off.

Regardless, we leave in a few days time. Let the Channic have their games.


IV

Where in life’s light are they all? The streets were practically deserted for blocks all around where I and the rest of the team were stationed, and one could be forgiven for thinking that the waterfront was completely abandoned. Walcroft supposes that the Channic are trying to unnerve us, but Ether is certain that the locals have removed themselves so they could make war on some other part of the isles, or perhaps raid out in the Saying Sea. I have heard no word of that, but it seems as likely as anything. 

Whatever it is, it has Sir Conscience on-edge. She advised that we clear the area immediately, head to the docks, and wait for our ship to arrive. It would be pure folly: the ship does not come until tomorrow afternoon, and we can hardly just sleep on the docks until then. We stay put for now.


V

There is something in the sea. I saw it last night. I have no idea what it might have been, but I saw it. 

I honestly do not know why I was even out. Did I even have a reason? I had told everyone to stay indoors, but I found myself out at the shore, and I cannot remember why. I was just standing in front of the water.

There was no moon out, and the water was dark enough that I could not tell where the sea ended and the sky began. I could only hear the breakers when they hit the shore, but suddenly the noise ceased. It was as though the waves just stopped in their tracks.

There was something out in the water. I could see the lights, like lamps under the surface. Yellow, dying lamps. It was touching me, I could feel it on my skin even when I was a dozen paces from the water’s edge. It was like something crawling inside my mind. Then, in an instant, it was gone.


— Journal entries of Ira Ahzred, named ‘Apostate One’ by the Moderator Authority prior to his execution by hanging twelve years ago.





* * * * * *




The smile of Arcadio Martes was a twisted thing, devious and insincere. It was the smile of a man who was getting away with something.

“Of course, the watch is doing its best to find any of the rabble-rousers,” Arcadio said, that smile of his filled to the brim with false courtesies. “The fools have melted away since my men came upon them—you’ll find no more rioters in the streets now.”

Lord Halforth paid him little mind. “That is fortunate,” the Moderator said flatly, “seeing that the riot was some three days ago.”

“And it has taken us each of those days to restore order,” Lord Aureliano protested, craning his neck over the table. “That filth in the undercity saw fit to set half my home aflame, if you have not forgotten. If they would only show their necks, I would see all of them hang. We’re lucky my brother was able to bring the unrest down as quick as he did.”

His wife, Lady Pilara, rested her hand on Aureliano’s. “Of course,” she demurred, “it was also the bravery of our protectors, the Lord Moderator and his staff, that aided in ending the crisis. Is that not so, my love?”

Aureliano blinked, then bobbed his head. “Yes, yes without a doubt. Truly, we’re lucky to have a man of your talents, Lord Halforth.”

From where Proximo sat, he did not see the Lord Moderator taking any pleasure from the obsequious praise. The thin line that was Halforth’s mouth tightened just slightly.

Sitting in Halforth’s bare and unadorned quarters, Lady Violet was at Proximo’s side. “I find it strange,” she said with a look directed at the Martes, “that none of the men that accosted my friends seem to have been caught.”

“That ugly brute that follows you around killed the ones that threatened your delicate person, if you remember,” Arcadio scowled.

Lady Pilara gave her usual, sleepy look at Violet. “Dead men tell few tales. If your hope was to have men captured, perhaps you might tell your manservant to contain his bloodlust. I certainly hope he is not a danger to others—your people have already assassinated two upstanding men, and my lord husband would not wish for more.”

Lady Violet’s temper flared. “If we’re to speak of assassination,” she answered boldly, “then perhaps we should ask why roving gangs were able to track down two separate parties of my friends in the city. One might also wonder,” she said with a pleading look to Lord Halforth, “why they were in possession of Authority repeaters.”

Aureliano gave a shocked look to Lady Violet. “I hope you are not suggesting, horse-lover, that the Authority had anything to do with this riot. Are you mad?”

Lady Violet looked at Aureliano in disbelief, and Proximo could not help but share her distress. It was very difficult to tell if the Lord of the Dreamweave was merely playing dumb, or if he had actually misconstrued what Violet was implying. To his credit, Lord Halforth did not seem to rise to the bait either way, merely closing his grey eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose.

“My men have recovered no repeaters,” Arcadio answered with a sneer. “Outside of whatever dream-land you live in, where are these weapons, hmm?”

In your men’s hands, Proximo thought angrily.

“One of my friends was shot with a crossbow bolt,” Lady Violet said with narrowed eyes. “Unless you suggest that it was conjured out of thin air, someone shot him.”

“Do you imagine that your little pervert-parade were the only ones caught out in the city?” Arcadio asked. “The city watch fought them bravely while you and yours fled like cowards back to the Palace. If someone in the riot had such a thing, they no doubt stole it off of one of my guards. Personally, I wonder why you don’t thank us for protecting you all. It was your presence, after all, that caused this mess.”

Lady Violet seemed ready to declare exactly what kind of ‘thanks’ she was prepared to give Arcadio, when Lord Halforth interrupted. “Whatever your interest in juvenile works, horse-lover,” he snapped at Violet, “I have no interest in watching the five of you bicker like children. Martes, take your wife and brother and leave us.”

Aureliano gave an insulted look. “I must insist—”

“You will insist upon leaving. We shall continue this conversation later, in private or not at all. Good day.”

The three Martes scowled, but did as they were bid and left. After they did so, another man poked his head inside. “They did not seem pleased, your honor,” said Sir Depravity Blair, who had been outside the room. “You must have done something right.”

Lord Halforth shook his head. Seated at the bare table, the Lord Moderator carefully pulled upon one of the black gloves he wore, removing it from his hand. He flexed the bony, hairless fingers that emerged, but Proximo noticed him paying attention to something that rested upon one of them. A ring on his second finger, plain and unadorned and cast from black iron. Lord Halforth was looking at the wedding band with a plaintive expression, lips pressed together firmly. “Attend to me, sir. I am sick to death of being among fools.”

“Then you will want to send these two away,” Sir Depravity remarked, casting a sour look to Proximo and Violet.

The lady tactfully ignored him. “My lord,” she said instead, “if you wished t—”

“Just because Aureliano is too witless to realize what you imply,” Lord Halforth interrupted coolly, “does not mean that I am. You would do well to take a page from your Warden of Honesty’s overlarge book. Speak openly or not at all.”

Lady Violet leaned back in her chair. “Very well, my lord. Is it not obvious? The others and I were cornered by men with repeaters, the same that Arcadio’s men carry.”

“We carry those as well,” Sir Depravity pointed out. “My team and I use the same bows. Is that the only evidence you can provide?”

“You do not carry a motive, sir. Or at least I pray you do not. The Martes on the other hand—”

Lord Halforth waved a hand, irritated. “I would have you conjure fewer ‘other hands’ and furnish us with something to actually back your claims instead.”

Proximo could already see that they were losing the Lord Moderator. “If we have offended my lord, then—”

“I care nothing about offense or people being offended. You have no proof. That and that alone is my concern, horse-lover. Can you provide some to me, or can you not? You give me hearsay, and I value that less than your fine, fine clothes, and those I value little enough as it is. I will hear no more about it.”

To Lady Violet’s credit, she did not allow the displeasure Proximo recognized to be shown on her face. “Very well, my lord,” she answered mildly. “I did have one other matter to bring before you, however.”

Sir Depravity crossed his arms. “That being?”

“Have you heard much in the way of news from the Chan, of late?”

Lord Halforth fixed her with an odd look. “I am chair of the Channic Relations Committee—of course I have. Is there something you wish to know?”

“I only ask,” Violet said, “because I had some unusual guests some time ago. Three anonymites of the Chan, masks and all, showing up in my quarters.”

Sir Depravity groaned. “Them again.”

“I take it that you’ve encountered these characters already?” Lady Violet remarked.

Lord Halforth frowned. “In a manner of speaking. They spent at least a week harassing my staff to attempt some seizure of my attention. Typical Channic entitlement—they wax on a great deal about their intellectual superiority, but have a hard enough time grasping the concept of an appointment. I suppose them coming after you makes them equal-opportunity annoyers, however. What was their aim?”

“Forgive me, my lord, but it appears to have been you. They seemed utterly desperate to speak with you, and frankly,” Violet said with a raised eyebrow, “I must admit that some of their claims were… unsettling.”

The Lord Moderator steepled his hands, looking intently at Violet. “Such as?”

        “Strange as it may sound, they seem to be under the impression that you are ending the world.”

Halforth gave a very thin smile. “One would think I might have noticed.”

Lady Violet shrugged. “I would guess so as well. And yet they were all abuzz with talk of their Beast in the Bay, and of some coming apocalypse.”

“A man cannot take a breath in the Chan without it being heralded as the end times. I would not read into their claims too closely, my lady. If these three expect an answer from you, tell them that I will speak to them when they schedule an appropriate time to meet within the next month, and not before. I have little time for petitioners at the moment, and little interest in them besides. And if they should be harassing you as well,” Halforth said with a fixed look, “bring it to my attention. I will not have them stalking after people under my watch.”

“I thank you for the offer, my lord, though I hope it shall not be needed. I do wonder, however, if it might not be better to simply hear them out, even if they are wrong. At least then their concerns would be addressed.”

Sir Depravity rolled his eyes. “If his honor sat and listened to every half-wit and profligate conspiracy theorist that knocked upon his office door, none of us would have a moment for our work. They can wait in line like everyone else.”

“I am inclined to agree,” said Halforth. “My lady, the Channic are a difficult people to classify. Broad labels fail, more often than not, simply because they are by nature so fractious, so ornery. They loath groups and communities, and whatever ethos come with them. Still, there is one thing you might be sure of—a man from Veechan and a man from Baysmouth might be at one another's throats over most anything, but they share a certain robust egotism. An anonymite thinks himself a god and king alone, and expects all the world to bow and pay homage. They talk a great deal about being ‘free men,’ but in truth they are slaves—slaves to themselves. They aspire to nothing greater, and one finds little fortune in trying to bargain with them.”

Lady Violet considered that. “And so they wait?”

“And so they wait,” Halforth replied. “I have no interest in feeding their delusions of grandeur, or their idea that the world ends with them. Perhaps the experience of limiting themselves for a few weeks will disabuse them of such notions.”

Lady Violet chuckled. “If that is your hope, my lord, you will need to keep them waiting for a very, very long time.”

Another thin smile crossed Halforth’s face. “Perhaps. Good day to you, my lady.”

Following their dismissal, the two Bronies took their leave, departing from the Lord Moderator’s presence. Violet was the first to speak as they walked away. “Why is it,” she asked, “that I never leave one of these meetings happy?”

“They’re being intransigent, my lady,” Proximo replied, putting a hand on her arm. “You cannot blame yourself for that.”

“I can certainly make an effort at it. I fear for our friends’ safety if we stay here much longer, Proxi. I see Arcadio’s oily fingerprints upon all of this, and those Channic make me nervous, despite myself.”

“The Channic,” Proximo repeated, recalling the night they had met the anonymites. Vaath, their secretive leader, Syll the resenting follower, and Boar the brutish stranger. The strange, twisted masks, and the strange, twisted words they shared. If Proximo were to judge them on appearance alone, he would say that they dressed like vagabonds and were up to no good. If he were to judge them on some more objective criteria… he would probably still say they were up to no good. “Have we learned anything more about those three?”

“Little enough. Like Withins-Bei said, they appeared just before we arrived, though who it was that thought it a good idea to let them into the Palace is anyone’s guess. Most seem to think that they offered a bribe, but no one can agree on who received it.” Violet walked forward purposefully, such that Proximo could practically see the theories dancing in her mind. “Of course, it is hard enough to learn any useful information about obscure people from half the Web away, made only harder when they only use pseudonyms. Our eyes in the Saying Sea knew nothing about anyone who called themselves ‘Syll’ or ‘Boar,’ but their was some vague talk from Polchan of an anonymite named ‘Vaath.’ The Six only know if it’s even the same person, but one source seemed to think he was a member of the Red Pillar.”

“That hardly bodes well.” 

“Indeed. The Web could not have conjured three more unlikely sorts, and yet here they are, in the Dreamweave with us. Logically, I know that there are plenty of people that may travel through this island in a given time. But I still cannot shake the idea that none of this is coincidence… particularly not with what Mars has sent us.”

Proximo gave a look of concern. “News from the Citadel?”

“Of a certain sort. It came in not long after the riot, and I’ve been consulting with Caymen and Skylark about it since then. We’ll need some tea for this one, I think.”

Back in Violet’s quarters, Proximo held the teacup closely as he read through the strange report. From the first words, a certain unease came over him as he realized exactly what it was.

Proximo knew, of course, about Lord Feylen Mars’... talents. One could not dwell long in the Collective’s inner circle without picking up on exactly what the Warden of Magic was capable of. That did not make Proximo any more comfortable with the details of it, however, even with the knowledge that it was done for the best. Odd tidings, Proximo thought as he read about the symbols and signs of the distant dreams, from times that haven’t come yet.

“When I told you that I did not want to know about when Lord Mars produced this sort of thing, save for when it might directly relate to our work,” Proximo remarked once he had finished, “I did it with the hope that it would never relate to our work.”

Violet smiled wanly. “Sorry to disappoint, Proxi. I’ve been writing to Lilly, so as to make sure that Mars doesn’t go overboard with this again, but the more I read the more certain I am that some of this pertains to us.”

Proximo had to admit to parallels, but could not entirely share that confidence. He had met few cybramancers in his life, and of those few only Feylen Mars possessed the powers of prophecy, but Proximo had learned over time that the things could not always be trusted. They never lied, per se, but it was hard to tell what things were true to a given time or place—one image might appear to be about their mission in the Dreamweave, but in actuality be about something else entirely, happening to someone else at some other time in some far distant place. There was a logic and pattern to it all, but it was not one that men picked up upon easily.

Still, some things were close enough that Proximo had to wonder. “Three masks,” he said, “which are rage and fear and vengeance. This dream of Lord Mars points to them specifically. They certainly bring to mind a certain three individuals on this site, my lady.” 

“That was my thought as well,” admitted Violet grimly. “I have been suspicious of Vaath and his crew since they appeared, and now I think they deserve even more attention.”

“Do you think they might have been involved with…”

“The murder?” Violet finished for him. “That I cannot know. By all accounts, they were not in the city during the assassination of Sir Harald and his squire, and yet my instincts tell me that they cannot be ignored. Those three have an agenda all of their own, and the will to carry it out.” She gave a grave look out the window, where the yellow sun was high in the sky. “We must be careful.”

“As always, my lady.” Despite himself, Proximo yawned, and rubbed his tired eyes.

Lady Violet caught the gesture immediately. “Are you well, Proximo?” she said with concern. “You seemed exhausted.”

Proximo shrugged it off. “I missed a bit of sleep last night, my lady. Nothing to be concerned with.” Truthfully, he had been missing quite a bit of sleep recently. His mind had been ill-at-ease since the riot, since his sister returned, since he’d spoken with Imelia. Resting was hard, with such things weighing down on him.

“You haven’t been the only with ill dreams, apparently,” Violet said wryly. She had a look of close contemplation, one that told him that she had been considering these tidings from the Warden of Magic carefully. “Mars talks of men in black-and-white—certainly those are our Mods. Ships with blue sails, I suppose that must be the Loyal Friends that bore us here upon the Wonderbolt and the others. But one of them… what was it? ‘A changeling stamped with a mark upon his wrist?’ There is only one man that could be.”

Proximo knew immediately who she spoke of. “You suspect the cybramancer? This man, Heylen Ott?”

“Before, I suspected him. Now, I am absolutely certain of him. We must track him down and find out what he knows, as soon as we can. That man is our lead to finally finding this Society that people speak of, and if we should do that then we can finally provide Dabrius with an alibi.” Violet sighed, and looked distantly out the window again. “Besides,” she said, “there is reason for us to be careful about these Changelings as well.”

Proximo picked up something in her voice, and tilted his head. “How so?”

“Mars claimed to have picked up certain symbols in his vision. One in particular, near the end of that dream—the Smiling Skull.” Violet fixed Proximo with a grim stare. “He suspects it points to Oathbreakers.”

Proximo paled. Traitors and torturers, he thought, dread churning his stomach. He had hoped that the Oathbreakers had gone extinct, after all this time. Now, he could only pray that was true. “Six save us,” he murmured. “Do you think the Changelings might be connected with them?”

“I truly don’t know,” Violet said, shaking her head. “But we must find out, and soon.”

They were interrupted by the door flying open, slamming into the wall with a sound that made Proximo jump from his chair in surprise. He looked up to see the Warden of Honesty looming in the doorway, a grim look carved into his face.

Proximo grimaced and sat himself back down. “My lord,” he said in as kind a way as he could manage, “could you perhaps knock in the future?”

Violet chuckled. “He has a point, Honesty. We did discuss the knocking issue.”

“It was mentioned,” replied the Warden offhandedly. “We have problems.”

“Problems?” Violet repeated with a raised eyebrow. “I have never known you to misuse the letter ‘S’ before, my honest friend, so that tells me that we are indeed dealing with a plural here. Exactly how many problems do we have?”

The Warden of Honesty wordlessly raised three fingers.

Violet groaned. “Speak of devils, and lo, they appear.”

The Warden looked at her with confusion. “Not devils. Anonymites. Found this one, demanded to see you. Will we drive them away?”

Violet tapped her chin with a finger. “How many guards do we have outside the room?”

“Five. And this one is inside the room.”

“I can see that, my honest friend. I’ll go out and meet them.”

They found the anonymites lurking outside the room, milling about in the hallway while the Brony guards looked on. The white spiral-eyes of Vaath’s mask turned to greet Lady Violet first. “So, you still live, flower,” he said with a half-bow of the head. “I and these are pleased to see that much.”

They did not seem terribly pleased. Sylla was grumbling something under her breath in the manner she usually was, whilst Boar stood on the opposite side of Vaath. In front of Boar was Crispin Peck, who was looking curiously at the anonymite before him. Boar returned the stare, with the ugly snarling face of his mask locked onto Crispin, and folded his arms plaintively. Crispin mimicked the gesture, and the silent staring continued. After a moment however, the two of them nodded to one another, as though some mute conversation had taken place.

“ ‘Ey, m’lady!” called one of the Honest Friends who had been guarding the room. Proximo saw that it was Apple Orange, scratching his black beard and grinning widely. “Glad you came out here, what with these three stinkin’ up the area,” he said as though the Channic were not immediately in front of him. “I figure you’re out here to tell ‘em to get lost, and good thing too. That one with the spooky screaming mask smells like a sweaty ashtray, har!”

“She does not!” Syll screeched, making a motion to lunge herself at Apple Orange, until Vaath laughed and put a restraining hand on her shoulder to hold her back.

Apple Orange, apparently oblivious, seemed eager to continue. “Yeah, I bet she— oof!” he grunted, after the guard next to him, Apple Blossom, gave him a sharp punch to the side. Blossom gave him a withering look, and mouthed the word ‘quiet.’ 

“Maybe stop talking for a moment, Orange,” said Lady Violet, visibly struggling to not be amused.

Apple Orange coughed, and gave a thumbs up while fighting for breath.

“While it is good fun to insult Syll,” Vaath said with a smile, ignoring the angry ranting from his aforementioned companion, “I did hope to speak, flower. Perhaps alone?”

“I would prefer to stay in my friend’s company, if you do not mind,” Violet responded politely.

Vaath smirked. “Very cautious. You are smarter than you look, Brony.”

“I’m glad you noticed,” Violet responded nonchalantly. “But you say that there is something about which you wish to speak? How might I help you?”

“Oh, you already know that,” Vaath replied. “Some time has passed, and such eventful days, no? You’ve had long words with the Lord Moderator, plenty of time to tell him what I asked of you. Did you act as I commanded?”

“I do not remember feeling ‘commanded’ to do anything,” Lady Violet replied sternly. “If you happen to mean the subject I very kindly offered to broach on your behalf, I can tell you that I chose to inform the Lord Moderator.”

“And?” asked Syll, with a tilt of her large head.

“And it was as I warned you. He did not believe your claims, I’m afraid.”

Vaath’s smile curdled quickly, while Syll hissed audibly under her mask. “Syll told you so, Vaath, I told you a hundred times!” she cried in her scratchy voice. “The horse-lover cannot speak well enough for us—she has a clumsy tongue, and half-hearted words without Channic talent. We must break down this Moderator fool’s door, so our better words are heard!”

“You are, of course, welcome,” Violet sighed. “As to your second point, I sincerely doubt that Lord Halforth would appreciate such a move.”

“Experience suggests Moderators respond poorly to threats or—” the Warden of Honesty said before a sharp look from Violet caused him to stop talking.

Vaath’s mouth was clamped tight. “You told him everything I had said to you?”

“As fully as I could, given my apparent lack of ‘Channic talents’ when it comes to stating a case,” Violet said sardonically. “He did not, it seems, share your concern about the imminent doom approaching.”

The spiral eyes of Vaath’s mask were fixed on Violet. “Ah, you still do not believe what I tell you, flower.”

“I am not certain I said that, Vaath.”

“Yet I can see it in your eyes, in the way you speak. Foreigners think themselves subtle, because they do not speak their minds, but you show your soul on your faces. Why do you think real people cover them, hmm?” The anonymite smiled that unsettling smile of his, and folded his hands behind his back. “Whatever you believe, this news must still reach that face of Halforth.”

“Good fortune to all three of you, then. The Lord Moderator seems determined to face you in a month’s time, and not before.”

“A month?” Syll cried. “The Beast does not wait, horse-lover, and neither must I!”

“May I be perfectly frank with you, Vaath?” Violet said.

Vaath laughed. “I would have nothing else.”

“Even if you were to find yourself an audience with Halforth, I am not certain he would believe your claims,” she replied pointedly. “Without proof, we haven’t been able to sway his mind to a single thing we have claimed since coming here, and our own theories were still more… grounded than yours.”

Vaath was silent for a moment, then spoke in a measured tone. “That may be, flower. To be true, it has come to me that slaves might not hear what I say. Halforth is not the man to listen easily. That one suffers from a disease of the mind, which is what made him dangerous to my people. Halforth is pure, you see.”

Proximo cast the Channic a strange look. “You say that as though it is a bad thing.”

“Oh, but it is, horse-lover. There is no man within this Web so dangerous as one that is pure. He has no vice, no distraction, no pleasure. His cause does not allow for it. Would you ever see him weep, or laugh, or fear? Never.” Vaath scowled. “There is a legend among my people. They say that when the Beast in the Bay waxes strong, it raises corpses from the dead, infesting them with yellow light and sending them out as thralls. They might writhe with graveworms and feel no pain, and yet they obey. A pure man is much like that. Halforth is much like that. He is not even alive, not really. Halforth cares nothing for himself—he is already dead, just as his precious code demands. He would never see that code challenged, by me or you or any other. You think he will save you?” Vaath chuckled ruefully. “I and my people know his kind well, and they are no man’s savior. There was one like him, before. You know his name, don’t you?”

When Violet offered a confused look, Vaath continued. “The white knights would call him Apostate One.”

“The Mad Mod,” Syll added.

“The Dark Ally,” rumbled Boar, stirring to speech at last.

“You speak of Lord Ira Ahzred,” Lady Violet finished for them. 

All three of the Channic nodded silently.

The name alone was enough to make Proximo uneasy, though it had been twelve years since that infamous man had betrayed Central and led a bloody rebellion the name of a demon-god he claimed spoke to him. The only trace of the Mad Mod in these days were rumors and tales, and the blood-soaked tome that Ahzred had written which chronicled his madness. Yet still, that name still had a certain power to it.

“Ahzred is many things,” Vaath continued, even though he too seemed uncomfortable to speak of the Mad Mod. “You heard the tales of him? The streets run red in the villages he raids, and men who cared nothing for gods will pray at first sight of yellow sails. The last thing they see might be the Dark Tomorrow, a ghost ship manned by thralls, strung up with whichever fools had let themselves be taken alive.” 

Syll’s voice was low and choked. “Men dangling legless from masts, the meat hanging down in tatters. Women’s skins sewn into the sails even while they still lived. Children fastened to the bow with their throats open, all as blood-tribute to the Dark Ally’s master below the water.”

“There is your pure man, flower,” said Vaath. “Pray you do not meet him. Or perhaps you have already met just such a one?” He fixed his eyes on the Warden of Honesty. “Your slave who calls himself ‘we’ is peculiar, no?” Vaath looked up and down the giant intently. “Where did he come from?”

“If you have a question about my friend,” Violet answered firmly, “then you may direct it to him.”

“The Chan,” the Warden replied simply.

“Oh, truly?” Vaath said with a tilt of the head. “You have lost an eye. And yet you still think you see, don’t you? Are you really a man, giant?” The Channic’s smile peeled back, showing off yellowed teeth. “I would watch this creature carefully, flower. Ira Ahzred is a pure man, and so is this one. No dreams, no thoughts. Just a weapon used to kill. A corpse that walks.”

Violet seemed ready to defend her friend, before catching herself. A moment’s flash of confusion crossed her face as she looked at Vaath. “You speak of Lord Ira as though he is still living. The Mad Mod was hanged twelve years ago.”

Vaath simply smiled. 

The masked man turned around to depart, waving for the others to follow him out. Syll sulked behind him, while Boar carried on at a slower pace. Before he disappeared around a corner, Boar looked back at Crispin Peck. Noticing the stare, Crispin smiled and gave a little wave as the burly Channic left.

Apple Orange, apparently having recovered, snorted after the anonymites departed. “What a bunch of weirdos. Guess we should be glad that they di— oof!” He grunted as Apple Blossom punched him in the stomach a second time. “Alright AB,” he struggled to say, “was that ‘cause I said something stupid, or just ‘cause you think it’s funny?”

“Yes,” Apple Blossom said with a little smile, patting Orange lightly on the back as he doubled over.

Proximo turned to Violet, still feeling ill-at-ease. “My lady,” he asked expectantly, “what do you make of what they said?”

Violet’s eyes were fixed on corner around which the Channic had walked, her face a mask that betrayed no thoughts. “I am not certain,” she replied, “but we have other business to attend to. I believe there was someone else we were meeting today?” 

“Yes, my lady,” Proximo answered, already dreading the thought in his mind. He had not been looking forward to this one.

“Then perhaps we should take our leave. Honesty, I’ll speak to you about all this later today. Oh, and Apple Orange?”

“Yeah, m’lady?” the bearded guard managed to say.

“I wish it were not so, but I’m afraid that your speaking out of turn means that you’ll be cleaning the lavatories tonight,” Violet said pointedly. “Don’t do it again, and all that.”

Orange grinned. “This day just keeps on improving.”

“Mmm-hmm. Well, let’s go.”

As they walked through the halls on their way to their destination, Violet turned to Proximo. “Did you give it any more thought?” she asked quietly. They both knew exactly what issue ‘it’ was, even left unsaid.

Only every day, Proximo thought ruefully. Now there was a cause for sleepless nights, not that all that thinking had made conjuring a solution any easier. Proximo sighed heavily. “I don’t know what to think, my lady.”

Violet placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder, though her words were firm. “I confess that I’ve never been in a situation quite like your own,” she said, not unkindly, “but this is not a problem that will improve given time.”

Proximo produced a bitter smile. “That I do know, my lady.” Every moment’s delay only makes the knife twist a little more, he thought, a painful twisting of his own setting his heart and stomach in knots. Six save me, I only wish I knew what to say. The Generous Friend was the aspect of creativity, but all of Proximo’s prayers had not yet given him the words he needed.

The way forward through the Palace halls felt thin and stretched and far too long. By the time they’d reached their door, Proximo felt as though his own mind was strapped to a rack, every doubting thought being torturously prolonged. When they at last reached the door to Lady Violet’s quarters, he tensed up and took a deep breath. Stop being a child and do your job, he chided himself. He pushed his way inside.

Imelia was exactly where she had promised to be, having seated herself in the small room set aside for Violet. Proximo saw her expression turn from discomforted to hopeful when she saw Proximo enter. What was not expected however, was who she sat with.

“Gallia,” Proximo muttered when they locked eyes.

Imelia was dressed in light green, but Gallia was in a darker verdant shade, and seemed to have been talking with her counterpart when the Bronies entered. His sister offered a lazy smile when she saw Proximo. “Afternoon, brother,” Gallia said with a yawn. “I was just having the most fascinating chat with Lady Kohburn here, all about you. Nice to know that you’ve been hard at work here in the Dreamweave.” She raised an eyebrow in a way that implied a great deal about exactly the kind of ‘work’ he’d been doing with Imelia.

Proximo had to suppress a groan. “How did you even know that these were Lady Violet’s chambers?”

“A little drunken birdy told me, of course. Keep up, Proxi.”

“Don’t call me that. Also, get out.”

Gallia sighed. “Throwing aside family won’t save you, Proxi. I’ll let you pass the time.” She slowly stirred herself and walked out, hips swaying as she walked.

After his sister had finally left, Proximo offered an apologetic look to Imelia and Violet. “My apologies, my lady. And to you as well, Imelia—being trapped in a talk with my sister is not a healthy way to pass time.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Imelia said with a small smile. “She really just wanted to talk about you, actually.” Imelia looked opened her mouth as though to ask something, then halted and bit her lip. “Is she always so… ah, so…”

“Whatever adjective you’re hesitant to use, the answer is probably yes,” Proximo smiled.

Imelia giggled. “Well, if you say so.” She looked between him and Lady Violet. “I know that you wanted to touch base on how my source is getting along, so should we get started?” Imelia gave a particularly hopeful look to Proximo. He noticed that the seat next to her was left conspicuously open.

Proximo doubted that the gesture escaped Lady Violet, who said, “By all means,” and then took that open seat. Proximo repressed breathing a sigh of relief that Violet had preempted that chance to embarrass himself, and sat down across the table instead, to Imelia’s mild disappointment. They got to talking soon after.

Imelia and Lady Violet chatted both seriously and idly, first on the details of the case at hand, but after about fashion, art, life in the Dreamweave, and all manner of other things. Proximo added in his own word when it was appropriate, but for the most part he found it hard to speak up, with his mind ill-at-ease.

There was a question that Proximo had to answer, sooner rather than later. He could put on a pleasant face as long as he liked, but it gnawed at him nonetheless. How do I tell her? Proximo wondered unhappily. Should I tell her? Surely Imelia had a right to know that Proximo did not feel the same way about her that she clearly did about him. It had to be wrong to lead to her along. But at the same time, he could not see how revealing that would help at all. It would be kicking out one last leg that Imelia stood on, and he couldn’t bear to see her heartbroken again. 

Imelia was carrying the child of someone, though she would never say who. She had loved and lost once before, and now she was trying to pick up the pieces and move on. Do I have the right to shatter all that again? What would that do to her? 

There was no light in the situation, no good option. Whether it was truth or lie made no matter—people stood to suffer all the same. And yet, he had to choose.

Things wrapped up before too long. Imelia rose from her chair, and giving a little laugh to a comment that Lady Violet said. “You’re far too kind, my lady. I honestly always thought I was hopeless when it came to clothes.”

Violet waved a hand. “Pish-posh, Imelia. I truly think that green suits you wonderfully—we must go out shopping sometime. I’ll have you in a giant hat of your own before all is said and done.”

Imelia giggled. “I’d love to. Though I suppose we’ll need to finish everything happening here in the Dreamweave first.” She turned to Proximo. “My friend and I are going to be meeting again in a day or two, and he’s promised to bring me more information when that happens. Perhaps we could meet after that?” She wore an earnest smile that told Proximo a great deal about how much it meant to her. “You can come by my house, if you like.”

Proximo braced himself. Tell her, he urged himself. Say you need to talk in private and tell her, you idiot. He looked into her deep, green eyes, and prepared himself. “That sounds wonderful, Imelia,” he heard himself say instead. “I’ll see you then.” Damn it all.

Imelia left the room cheerfully, while Proximo suppressed the urge to curl up and die on the floor. He rested his head against the wall forlornly while his cursed his own cowardice. Violet laid a reassuring hand on his shoulder while Proximo tried to collect his thoughts.

While he tried to think, however, the Warden of Honesty—who had otherwise been silent in the corner—spoke up. “You are wrong to mislead her,” he said bluntly. “Should speak truth.”

Proximo shot the Warden a scathing look. “You don’t know anything about her, or me. And I did not ask for your advice.”

The Warden stiffened. “It is cruel.”

“What in Hell do you know about not being cruel?” Proximo snapped. He was surprised at how angry he was, but he had absolutely no room for patience with the Warden’s attitude right now. “Don’t pretend that you care about ‘outsiders’ like her. You’ve never given a damn about them, and the last thing I need right now are words of advice from a brute lik—”

“Oh, Six save me, I cannot abide this right now,” Violet interrupted, stepping between Proximo and the Warden. “I have too much to deal with in this moon-banished island without having to hear the two of you fighting again, so knock it off. Honesty, do you recall me telling you that I was going to teach you courtesy?”

“Yes,” the Warden replied, seeming perfectly miserable at the prospect.

“Well, go down and check on the barracks. Because when you return, we’re having a lesson about when to offer counsel to our friends.”

The Warden departed silently, leaving Violet and Proximo alone. She looked at him with a strong measure of disappointment. “I will not have this any longer, Proximo.”

“You’re giving him lessons on courtesy now?” Proximo asked, incredulous at the very idea. “You would have more luck teaching a fish to dance.”

Violet was not amused. “No more. I am so far past the point of having the space or time to deal with this petty sniping that I will go mad if I have to hear another word of it. I realize that you and Honesty have differences, but this ends right now.”

“He hasn’t changed, my lady,” Proximo countered. “You know how much damage he’s done to our cause since he came here, and he hasn’t changed in the least. I tell you, it won’t—”

“Proximo,” she said as patiently as she could manage, “you do not know him. At all. Do you know why I’m meeting with him, hmm? Because he asked for my help, so that he does not make another mistake. If you would just talk to him, perhaps you would see things differently, but at the very least I will not have some feud happening under my nose between my friends.” She gave him a very pointed look. “I had hoped that after he saved all our lives, you might have at least shown an ounce of appreciation.”

Proximo did not have an answer to her, so Violet continued. “Proximo, take a walk and check in with our other teams. I want you to think on this, OK? Because this cannot keep happening.”

He left, half-angry that she was still taking Honesty’s side, and half-ashamed that he had been scolded by his closest friend. Finding someone standing outside did not improve his mood.

“I know that look,” said Gallia, milling about in the hall. “What’s troubling you, brother? You seem upset.”

“Leave me be, Gallia. I’m really not interested.”

“In what? Sparing a word for your own long-suffering sibling, or in accepting our father’s generous offer?”

“Either. Both.” Proximo tried to walk away—he needed time to think, and that was hard to do when his sister was undercutting him.

“I thought I would tell you,” she said nonchalantly, “that girl Imelia is inordinately fond of you. I figured that you must not realize. You always were hopeless with women.”

Proximo stopped walking, and shot back a look. “Don’t bring her into this, Gallia.”

She smiled furtively. “Ah, you did notice. My my, Proximo, I’m almost impressed. I’m sure you’ll make her very happy.”

Generous Friend, please give me the strength to not attack my sister, Proximo prayed while giving a heavy sigh. The urge did not pass immediately.

“You know,” Gallia continued, “you could just marry her.”

Proximo fixed her with a skeptical stare, waiting for the punchline. None came. “Excuse me?”

“Marry the girl. She’s from a noble family, and so are you. Bring her back to Hartshold with you and be pleased that you’re aiding your family. You can even bring her grandmother along with you. Imelia would be far happier at home than she would be in this wretched place, and you might be the only chance she’ll ever have to escape. Do you suppose any other suitors will line up for a poor girl fat with someone else’s child?” Gallia’s green eyes flashed when she smiled smugly. “Of course, Father will be disappointed that he could not arrange a better match, but you’ve never cared much for what he wanted, have you?”

Proximo clenched a fist. “You’re just saying this to tempt me to return home with you.”

“Certainly,” Gallia admitted readily. “But I’m also telling the truth. Or, of course, you could just break her heart now and leave her behind, like you did so many times before. Prove me wrong, but that doesn’t seem like something that ‘new and reformed Proxi’ would do.”

Proximo had had enough, and walked briskly to escape his sister… and hopefully some of his new doubts as well. She did not let him get away too easily. “Weigh your options, Proxi,” Gallia called from behind him, “but do it quickly. The choice is entirely your own.”




* * * * * *





If you should meet a poor man on the road, murder him and steal his possessions.


If you should meet a king on the road, murder him and steal his possessions.


— Channic proverb