The World Within the Web

by Lord Max

Chapter XXXIII: A Bright Guard

. . . extraordinary detail, though how much of it is true is hard to say. The Channic are known for embellishment. Magic masks and ghost ships and the like. But the legends all have a certain shape to them, and it matches what I saw. I had heard of their demon-god, but these tales . . .

        Three times that night did Proximo Hart have the dream, but the third time was worst. Again and again it came: a vision of himself, standing amid a crowd of grey wraiths, all featureless but for their baleful yellow eyes. But each time the dream returned, the landscape around him changed. First, it was a void of mist as empty as the eyes of those watching. Then, a crumbling harbor, on the shore of dark water. Finally, the Palace of Aureliano, but torn down and ruined. Beneath his feet, he could feel a mass of greasy, writhing tendrils, ones that pulsed and moved in a parody of life. But the man across from him, the one meant to kill him, was cloaked in yellow, and bore a pallid mask. The figure peered out from the mask with a lidless, yellow eye, and the world unravelled around him...

        It was enough to force Proximo awake in a panic, and more than enough to prevent him from sleeping again. It was still hours from his usual waking time, so he contented himself by sitting up and ruminating in the dark. He tried to rub the tiredness out of his eyes. They keep getting worse, he thought grimly.

        He had hoped that his own lack of sleep in the past few days had been from anxiety—a restlessness from his worries over Imi. But in the day after they had spoken on the steps of the Palace, after he’d walked away relief and grief and dumbfoundedness, he had felt as though that weight was taken off him. It was not perfect—nothing ever was—but he and Imi both had walked away from that conversation feeling the great tension of locked-away secrets fly away, and were better friends now for having had it. That nervousness was spent and gone.

Yet the dreams continue, Proximo mused. Not like the usual ones, either. He was used to seeing his own demise, the framework of his old mistakes repeated and woven out before his eyes. But these new dreams were different: twisted, foreign, more violent. They involved people he knew, or else strangers he did not want to know. Proximo shuddered when he remembered that yellow figure, that grotesque wooden face.

Lack of sleep is doing little enough for my sanity, at least. He sighed, and decided to try and get work done. The day ahead would be important.

The next few hours passed slowly, but eventually it was time for Proximo to depart. The appointed time was still a little while off, but his escort would be waiting first. Before he left the room, he slid one more token into his vest pocket: the bronze watch from Jestin Jen.

He found his escort waiting: three guards, all in orange and gold, two of which bore the Honest Eye. One was Red Autumn, scarred but apparently back on his feet after a time recovering from the riot. Another, a guard whom Proximo recalled being named Jon Faust, nodding to what his fellows said with an amiable smile on his face. The last one, the only Friend among them that did not have a golden eye on their chest, was a tall, slim woman Proximo did not recognize. Her complexion was pale, her nose hooked, and her hair had been shorn down to little more than a black stubble. She was laughing, whoever she was, and she nudged the arm of Jon when she saw Proximo approach.

“My lord,” Jon said with a bow, “I understand that we’re to have the honor of protecting you today.”

Proximo laughed. “Small an honor as it might be, yes. You’ll find me a remarkably passive VIP, so hopefully I can make the whole experience as painless as possible—the Six know you’ve more important things to worry about.” He gave a bow to all of them, but directed his attention to Red. “Mister Autumn! I see you’ve recovered well—it’s good to see you back in the world.”

“At last,” Red grunted. “It took long enough to get Skylark’s claws out of me. I told her there was no point in staying in the barracks. I was not injured.”

The hook-nosed woman barked a laugh. “Someone dices your arm, and you cuss the doctors. You should learn to appreciate a lie-in, friend. Maybe not try and bolt quite as much.”

Red merely grumbled, so Proximo thought it a good enough time for introductions. “I am not certain we’ve met,” he said with a dip of his head. “Proximo Hart, Assistant Warden of Generosity.”

She thrust out a hand, which Proximo shook. “Selda, of Central.” She seemed to measure him with her eyes, and smirked. “No, we haven’t met. You’ve got thinner arms than most people I meet, so I would’ve remembered you, I think.”

Proximo was trying to decide if he should be put off by that, when Jon cut in. “So, this man is in the city, then? How shall we handle it?”

“The meeting has already been arranged,” Proximo answered, “though he doesn’t yet know every detail. I did say I would come alone, though. I think it will be safe, seeing how close we’ll be to the Palace, but if you wish to remain and guard me it will need to be from a distance.”

Selda scratched her chin. “This guy you’re meeting dangerous?”

He shook his head. “No. In fact, we have a mutual friend. More likely, our largest concern will be avoiding attention. We cannot afford a tail from the city watch, not with whom I’m meeting with.”

“Actually,” said Jon, “they’ve been fairly lax, of late. It might not be a problem.”

“Really?” asked Red, a skeptical look crossing his sour face. After his last experience with the city watch, he did not seem willing to underestimate them.

“Really,” Selda answered. “I was out with the White Whale yesterday, and there wasn’t a trailing eye to be seen. Odd, that.”

Odd indeed, Proximo thought. Since the Bronies had arrived, they had gotten used to seeing the red-and-bronze of Dreamweave guardsmen following behind. Proximo had to wonder if the watch was simply skimping on their usual duties, or if something else was occupying their time. If it was the latter, it could be nothing good.

They made their way to the meeting-place, leaving through backdoors and shadow-cast wynds to reach into without being seen. All the while, Proximo kept his guard up. But, though he could not claim to have the same sense for danger as an Honest Friend, it seemed to him that Jon and Selda spoke the truth: there did not appear to be any guards watching. If anything, it only put Proximo on edge all the more.

The four of them found themselves across the street from a tavern—The Blue Gleam. Selda did a quick scan before anyone else went forward. “Guard at the end of the lane, but not looking our way.”

Jon nodded, then looked to Proximo. “You’re certain we cannot come in with you?”

“I’m certain. I promised to come alone—I cannot go back on it.” It was only fair, after all—it was not Proximo put at risk by this meeting.

Red grimaced. “We’ll stay close. Watch the tavern. If you need help, we should use a signal.”

“How would we get the signal if he’s inside the bar?” Jon pointed out.

“How about if there’s trouble, he just starts screaming and running?” Selda suggested.

Red shrugged. “That would work.”

        Not waiting a moment longer, Proximo crossed over, still worried about eyes on him. He was not dressed in his ordinary colors, so being immediately recognizable as a Brony was not his concern, but he still felt vulnerable without an escort. Exhaling, he pushed inside the tavern.

        The Blue Gleam was relatively close to the high hill and the Palace, and as such it was at least halfway respectable. The paint was peeled, and a few less fortunate remnants of the night before were still littered around, but as a whole it did not twist Proximo’s stomach. Save for those drunks still on stools and floors, the place was largely empty, as should have been expected given the hour. There was a man, however, seated alone in a booth in a darker corner of the bar, precisely where Proximo had been told he would be.

        Seeing that, Proximo approached as casually as he could. He slid into the seat of the booth, while the man across from him slurped on a soup. Sitting up straight, Proximo waited for the man to acknowledge him. Nevertheless, nothing came.

        After a few moments, Proximo realized that his contact was so lost in the soup bowl that he not even noticed the arrival. Proximo cleared his throat expectedly.

        Stopping mid-bite, the man’s eyes shot up and stared in bewilderment at Proximo. His mouth was hanging just slightly ajar, while a bit of soup fell off his spoon and splashed back in the bowl. “ ‘Ey,” he said after a moment’s confusion.

        “Hello,” Proximo began. He looked around the room, wary of watchful eyes. “If you wanted to take this anywhere more quiet, I would completely underst—” He might have continued, but at that moment he noticed just how confused his counterpart seemed. “Er, Proximo Hart? I’m the man that Imelia asked you to meet with.”

        “Oooh,” he replied, wiping his mouth and nodding. “Got it. I ‘ppose that would make the most sense.” He reached a hand limply across the table. “Cabrio. Cabrio Temley. Nice t’meetcha.”

        Proximo took the hand, and tried to size up Cabrio. A few things he already knew: a keykeeper of the dungeons, a guard of the city watch, a friend to Imelia. Employed by Arcadio, but apparently of a different character entirely. His appearance, certainly, suggested that: he had none of the finery nor the cruel, handsome confidence of the Martes. Cabrio was rather short, possessed of common Devien features and wrapped in common clothes. Against his better nature, Proximo’s sense of fashion thought him a bit grubby: Cabrio’s clothes were worn and faded and dirty besides, fitting enough for a man who worked in a dank cellar. The guard’s balding head seemed smeared with a grime of some sort, the origins of which Proximo did not care to speculate on. But his face seemed honest, and he was friendly enough thus far. Proximo would have to hope that that amiability would hold strong enough to help the cause.

        “So, m’colleague,” Cabrio said while flopping Proximo’s hand up and down, “what can I do fer yah?”

        Proximo, his hand released from Cabrio’s clammy grip, restrained the urge to wipe his palm off on a nearby napkin. “At the moment, Mister Temley, I will take whatever help you can give.”

        “Well,” Cabrio started, “the pay’s good. Lot o’ walkin’, if you like that. ‘N standin’, too. Which one yah get more o’ ‘pends on whether yer on the streets or on the Hill. M’Lord Arcadio is real tough, but ‘e’s fair too, so that’s OK if you don’t make ‘em angry which yah won’t ‘cause why would yah and al—”

        Proximo stopped him. “I do not mean to interrupt,” he said carefully, “but what exactly did Imelia tell you before you met with me?”

        Cabrio blinked. “She said yah were interested in the watch. I figured you were lookin’ to join. S’good work, y’know.”

        Proximo considered the implications of that. Either Cabrio had totally misunderstood what Imelia was asking of him, or she had been selective in telling Cabrio why this stranger wanted to meet. Proximo guessed the latter. If she thought telling him the whole of it right away would scare him off, it would make sense to leave parts out. But she must have thought I would be able to sway him, or else she would not have sent him at all.

Proximo spent half a moment pondering what to do, then had an idea. Time for a new approach.

“Interested in the watch, yes,” Proximo replied. “But of a very different kind. You see,” he said while reaching into his vest pocket, “I believe we have another mutual friend.”

Cabrio once again seemed lost. But then Proximo’s hand brought out the chain of the bronze watch, and the guard’s dumbfounded face lit up. “Jestin Jen!” he hooted, beaming with a smile. “God above, now that was a colleague! How do yah know ‘em?”

“We run in the same circles,” Proximo said at first, but then considered his words. Would Imelia want him to know that I’m one of the Bronies? Proximo could hope for the best, but being a servant of the Collective was not a proud mark to have in the Dreamweave. Still, if he doesn’t know now, he will soon enough. He had learned recently that it was rarely good to delay such things. “He is Warden of Laughter, one of the Sixfold of the Collective. My superior, Mister Temley, and—as I said—a friend as well.”

“Oh,” said Cabrio with a nod, “neat.” He leaned back in his seat, meal forgotten, and looked amiably at Proximo. “Well, a friend of ‘im and Imelia is a friend o’ me. What can I do fer yah? 'N please, call me Cabrio.”

Proximo returned a gracious smile. “It is enough to know that there are still friends to be had here,” he began. “But your help would be much appreciated as well. Information, about the watch, the city, the court, or anything of interest. It is not an easy place where we sit now.”

Cabrio chewed on his cheek and considered the request for a silent moment. Then his face lit up again. “I’ll do yah one better,” he said with a jab to the table. “I’ll show yah somethin’!” He lumbered up to his feet, and plodded towards the exit, leaving Proximo to follow before he could manage an answer.

Back out on the streets, Proximo followed Cabrio closely, catching the eye of his escorts in the alley across the street. Red Autumn looked at Cabrio, then Proximo quizzically. Proximo merely shrugged in return, saw Selda return the gesture, and then watched as his guards surreptitiously followed behind.

To his surprise, Proximo could tell that Cabrio was leading him back to the shadow of the Palace. Above them, the High Hill loomed ominously in the morning light, full as it was with men who would not take kindly to a guard and a Brony seen together. “Is it safe for us to be traveling so close to the Palace?” Proximo asked. “It is not my intention to see you in trouble.”

        “Trouble?” Cabrio looked puzzled at the suggestion. “Oh, ‘cause of the horse thing. Nah, we’ll lay low. ‘Sides, no one’s gonna follow me.”

        Proximo thought about the small gaggle of his friends who were, in fact, following them, and had some new doubts about Cabrio’s judgment. “Be that as it may,” he said, “I doubt I need to tell you that the city watch have been watching my friends and me closely.”

        “Oh, you don’t really need to worry ‘bout that anymore. M’Lord Halforth got real mad ‘bout something, and now we’re not allowed to get too close to yah. ‘Sides, M’Lord Arcadio’s been busy.”

        Proximo knew enough about Arcadio to realize how much trouble that might be. “Busy with what?” he asked as he looked over his shoulder. He did not see any interested eyes watching, but knew better than to trust just a glance.

        Cabrio shrugged, and started to pick at his ear. “Dunno. Searching places around the city, mostly. Figured it was a gang-thing. Lot o’ dangerous people on the streets.”

        Dangerous people like the Changelings, Proximo knew. The city watch might no longer have Halforth’s favor enough for the Lord Moderator to authorize tailing the Bronies, but that didn’t mean that the hunt for the Society had abated at all. If Arcadio is on the hunt in earnest, we’ll need to work even faster, he realized. The Bronies were close, Proximo knew, but Arcadio beating them to the discovery would be a nightmare he scarcely wanted to imagine.

        They continued on their way through the streets, but Proximo was surprised when Cabrio turned away from the main staircase leading up to the Palace and began to led Proximo around the length of the tall, iron fence. “Where are we going?” Proximo asked as they followed the fence around the left of the Palace.

        “Guard’s entrance,” Cabrio replied. “S’a good way t’get in and out without all the fuss. We’re headin’ in the underside o’ the Palace, right ‘round the bend.”

        Proximo turned his head back to see the others a fair distance away, watching and walking. He made a gesture towards the Palace. We’re going inside, Proximo tried to say. Red Autumn seemed to understand, and nodded.

        Tracing their way around the edge, Cabrio came to a gate, which he promptly unlocked with a large iron key. Proximo looked around warily as they entered. There were guards, he could see, but they were far enough away and inattentive enough to not cause concern—they did not seem at all interested in Cabrio, at least. The two made their way through the Palace greens, until they reached the walls of the manse itself. Set into the stone was a yellow door, also to be unlocked with Cabrio’s key. Cabrio beckoned Proximo inside.

        Walking into a dim room, Proximo took a moment to orient himself. It only took looking to the side, however, for his heart to jump. Immediately, Proximo moved in a panic and hid himself behind a wall. “Guards,” Proximo gasped in a low voice. “At least a dozen, right around the corner.”

        Cabrio looked at him blankly, then to the guards in the next room. “Well yeah, s’the guard’s barracks.”

        Proximo blinked. “May I ask why you brought me here?”

        “Well, s’how yah get to the thing I wanna show…” Cabrio thought about the problem for a moment, then scratched his head. “Oh, right. Yeah, might be a problem.”

        “With due respect, this seems like a supremely bad idea,” Proximo said as politely as he could. Did they notice us? No one was shouting, so he guessed not.

        Cabrio nodded. “Nah, that’s pretty fair. Here,” he said as he took off his jacket, “wear this.”

        Proximo looked at the jacket in Cabrio’s outstretched hand. It was in the colors of the city watch, but very grubby-looking. The right cuff was frayed, several buttons were missing, and mysterious stains formed a veritable patchwork across it. “Will wearing that help?”

        Cabrio shrugged again. Reluctantly, Proximo took a deep breath and put the jacket on.

        “Right, now yah should keep t’my side, and we’ll walk straight through. If anyone asks anythin’, let me do the talkin’. Trust me on this?”

        In his mind, Proximo was running through the ways it might go wrong. There were several, as it happened. But Imelia trusts him, he remembered. Proximo sighed and nodded.

        Turning the corner, the two kept up a casual but quick pace, determined not to call attention to themselves. Proximo tried to not look anywhere but forward as they passed by bunks, ignoring the coarse voices talking amongst themselves to the side. Just keep walking, Proximo repeated to himself, just walk, don’t look, just walk…

        As they walked, Proximo’s foot hit something, kicking it off to the side with a wooden clatter. He tried to pretend that nothing had happened… but his eye caught the thing he had kicked lying ahead of them. It looked like a small figurine of sorts, with a thread strung through it. Curious, Proximo listened for a moment as he stepped forward: the conversation beside them hadn’t abated. Relieved, Proximo surreptitiously scooped up the thing as he walked by.

        “We’re almost there,” Cabrio whispered hoarsely. “Just keep yer ‘ead down, n’—”

“Cabrio.”

Both of them froze. Turning around, they saw a sour-looking guard staring at Cabrio, with a folded up newspaper under his arm.

“Uh,” Cabrio stammered. “ ‘Ey, m’colleague. Ah,” he glanced at Proximo, “this is, uh, this is…”

“I don’t even care, Cabrio,” the guard said, rolling his eyes. “Just get back to work.” He then walked away.

Cabrio and Proximo exchanged a look, then hurried off.

Eventually, they reached a narrow staircase, and began to make their way down into the dark. “Where are we going?” Proximo asked, trying to avoid tripping.

“S’the level as where the dungeon entrance is,” Cabrio explained, fumbling down the stairs. “We go there.”

“But to do what?”

“That’s the surprise!” Cabrio said. He stumbled enough on the stairs that Proximo had to catch him with a hand before he fell over. The stairs really were too narrow by half. “Y’know, Jestin thought surprises were real neat.”

After a moment more of clumsy travelling, they arrived at the bottom of the staircase. Opened out before them was a long, dark hallway, branching left and right. Cabrio took a lantern from the wall and set to work lighting it, while Proximo stood beside him. “So, how did you and Jestin meet, exactly?” Proximo asked. Jestin Jen had a habit of making unlikely allies in strange places, but the Dreamweave seemed like an even less likely place to make friends than most. Though I seem to have had some success thus far, Proximo admitted.

“Well,” Cabrio said while struggled to strike the lamp to flames, “that was when ‘e was ‘ere singin’. Does ‘e still sing?”

“Almost constantly.”

“Yup, that’s ‘im. Anyways, ‘e was playin’ in the Palace and we got t’ talkin’, which was weird ‘cause no one ever talks t’ us guards durin’ the parties.” He pointed down the left end of the hallway. “If we followed that way, we’d end up back at the dungeon entrance I work.” He then pointed the other way. “We’re goin’ down there. Stick close, it gets a bit tricky down ‘ere.”

Proximo nodded, though it was dim enough that Cabrio might not have seen. It was an odd feeling, knowing that he was travelling deep into the heart of Aureliano’s Palace. Proximo had not yet ventured into the deeper parts of the manse: the only time his friends had gone below was to visit the prisoners, and plunging into dank basements to confront jailors was not within his expertise. He might have been used to the lush ballrooms and stately chambers of the Palace on the Hill, but he could see now that much of the complex had been carved into the Hill itself, stretching its fingers down into the earth. And not just in the Hill, either, Proximo thought, knowing well that the tunnels he walked in were not the sole ones to be found in the Dreamweave.            

As they walked beneath the low, shaded ceilings, Proximo reached a hand into his pocket, and felt for the thing he had picked up in the barracks. He was not certain what possessed him to take it, but now he was idly curious to see what it was. Trash, most likely, he had to admit, but perhaps not. I’ve seen more than my share of strange things, of late.            

As it happened, he was surprised. The thing was not trash, that much was certain. It was a carven figure, one small and crudely made. The wood was one that Proximo did not recognize at a glance: it was thin-grained and yellow, but he could not tell if the color was natural or else dyed in. It hung upon a spindle-thin string, wide enough to be hung around the neck. It seemed oddly weightier than Proximo would have expected, seeing that it was made only of wood, and felt more like a rock in his hand. The strangest thing, though, was the totem’s shape. It had been carved to resemble a repulsive creature of sorts. The head was not unlike a toad, albeit one bulbous and grotesque enough to turn the stomach, but with a body that showed nothing but squamous, arching tentacles, like a kraken. At the center of its head was a single eye.            

Proximo was not a superstitious man by nature. Yet somehow, there was something about the idol that unnerved him. It was as though the thing’s features had been carved with a dark intent, weighed down with malice. More puzzling, though, was finding it where he had. Proximo did not consider himself a historian nor a connoisseur of such grim things, but he knew of places where totems like that existed: the darkling fringes of the Web, places of madness and demon-gods. The Chan. The Deep. But the Dreamweave, run-down as it might be, would not fit the list. So why is it here? he wondered, looking over his shoulders, as though the answer were already stalking him. There were three Channic in the city, he knew, and that seemed a fair explanation. But the idea of the masked men roaming the halls beneath the Palace raised only more questions, and was hardly a comfort.            

Cabrio seemed to notice Proximo’s confusion. “What’s that, then?”            

“I found it in the barracks,” Proximo replied, turning the image over in his hand.            

Cabrio, however, did not seem unnerved by it at all. “Oh, just one o’ those?” he said mildly.          

 “You recognize it?” Proximo asked, taken aback.            

“Yeah, that’ll be one o’ the boys’. Lot o’ ‘em like jewelry like that. Not that I’d judge, y’know, man can wear a necklace if ‘e please.”            

“The boys?” Proximo thought a moment. “The guards?”            

“Yup.” Cabrio saw Proximo’s expression. “Why, is that weird?”            

Proximo tried to scrutinize Cabrio again. He found it very difficult to discern if the guard was just japing with him, or was truly oblivious. Hard as it might be to believe, Proximo had to assume the latter, based on how Imelia had described her friend. “Just slightly,” Proximo replied. “Now why would a guard have something like this?”            

Cabrio shrugged. “Don’t really know fashion and such. Must be some foreign thing. Y’know a lot o’ ‘em aren’t from ‘ere.”            
That was new. Foreigners in the guards? “Oh really?” Proximo asked casually as they turned a corner. “Where are they from, then?”          

 “Somewhere else.” A moment passed before Cabrio realized that it wasn’t a very good answer. “Well, it was somewhere M’Lord Arcadio went when ‘e was abroad. ‘E recruited them out there, which was good ‘cause we didn’t have ‘nough people in the watch ‘round then. So that was good o’ ‘im.”            

Proximo nodded along, trying to fit the new information into the pattern. Arcadio goes abroad some years ago, and returns with new recruits for the watch. Now that he thought of it, several of the guards he had seen did not have Devien features. Men of the Isles had tan or olive skin, thin eyes, and dark hair. But weren’t there others who were pale and fair-haired?
Proximo tried to recall if he’d seen such men: he rarely forgot a face, but then he had also not met many guards. But where did Arcadio find them? And why did they come? Proximo couldn’t imagine that serving in the Dreamweave city watch was such a venerable position that men would cross the Web for that alone—they would need to be promised something. Proximo had heard dark rumors of Arcadio’s time abroad, but still only rumors. Still . . .           

Proximo tucked the idol away, and made a mental note to speak with his superiors about it later. Strange things indeed.            
Consumed as he was with thoughts and theories, Proximo almost collided with Cabrio when the guard came to a sharp stop. “Alrighty,” said Cabrio proudly, “we’re ‘ere.”            

It was a dead end.            

Proximo was not fooled for a minute, however. Cabrio did not seem the type to deliberately waste time—there was something here worth seeing. And Proximo had learned, of late, that there could be fascinating things hidden in unlikely places. Almost immediately, he began scanning the stone walls for the telltale markers.            

“D’yah mind if I see that watch for a sec?”            

“Certainly,” Proximo replied absently. He fished the watch out and handed it over, all while running his eyes over the walls in front of him. He saw no green hearts, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t something there. “I should tell you, though, that it is broken.”            

Cabrio laughed and waved a dismissive hand. “No it ain’t, colleague. S’a family heirloom, this. Anyways,” he continued, “I’m curious. What did Jestin tell yah about me givin’ ‘im this?”            

Proximo tried to remember. “He said that you gave it to him when he was leaving the Dreamweave. Well, more when he was fleeing the Dreamweave. I understand that some lady thought he was a thief?”            

“Yeah, but ‘e wasn’t.”            

Proximo nodded in agreement. Truthfully, he wouldn’t have expected less. Jestin Jen was not a man to be interested in thievery. “From what he told me, he had to leave with little more than the clothes on his back, and that watch as a gift.”

“Aye, that’s the truth of it. Things were gettin’ a little tricky ‘round ‘ere, if you understand. Had to haul ‘imself out right quick,” said Cabrio, placing a hand on the wall. There was a small groove between the stones, small enough to fit a hand.

Proximo smiled in understanding. “That be an interesting story.”

Cabrio grinned. “Sure is. Watch this.”

Fumbling on the stones, Cabrio approached the narrow gap between the bricks. Instead of a hand, however, he carefully slid the bronze watch inside. Proximo heard a faint click.

Then, the wall fell away.

In the center of the wall, a rectangular portion some five feet tall and perhaps three feet wide dropped, sliding down into the floor with a hard thud. Where it once stood, a gulf of darkness opened up.

Cabrio stepped back with a smile and waited for Proximo to be impressed. “Not bad, eh?”

Proximo had to agree, and answered with a numb nod. Gingerly, he stepped towards the doorway and stuck his head inside the darkened passage. “Where does it lead?” Already, he was wondering at the possibilities. If the Changelings were still hidden, and he had stumbled upon another of their tunnels, there was no telling what—or who—might lie within.

“I’ll give yah a hint,” replied Cabrio, stepping into the tunnel himself. “When Jestin had t’run, well, ‘e couldn’t just walk out the gates. Guess how ‘e managed to vanish?” He chuckled. “People were talking ‘bout it weeks after.”

“It leads out of the city?” asked Proximo, peering into the black.

“Yup. Back into it too. C’mon, I’ll show yah!” Cabrio held up the lantern, and walked inside. Proximo could only follow. After he stepped through, Cabrio knelt down and picked up the watch. After a moment, the wall began to rise again, until the two men were shut into darkness.

The tunnel was narrow, and with a low enough ceiling that a man not fond of closed spaces would find little to love. It was hard to see far ahead, past Cabrio and the fuzzy edge of the lantern-light, but it appeared straight as an arrow, with none of the turns and twists of the Changeling tunnel Proximo had crept in beneath Saffrongem Street. The air was still and stale, not disturbed for a long time, and no end was in sight. A quiet fell between the two men, save for the sound of bootsteps and the jingle of Cabrio’s belt.

Proximo broke the silence with a question he’d been pondering. “How did you know about all this, anyways?” Secret passages and hidden doors seemed somewhat above Cabrio’s pay grade.

“I told yah,” replied Cabrio, leading the way, “family heirloom!” He dangled the watch on its chain and waved it a little. “There’ve been Temleys in the Dreamweave since the start. Helped build the Palace and such. And Cabrio Temley’s just the latest of ‘em. There’s good fun, havin’ an old name. Shame there aren’t more like this one.”

Proximo held his tongue. “You’ve been greatly forthcoming about all of this,” he pointed out.

“Whaddya mean?” said Cabrio.

“Well, you did only meet me today,” Proximo explained. “Not that I don’t appreciate it, but showing me this,” he said with a gesture, “is a lot for a stranger.”

“Aw, well yer a friend o’ friends. Really, s’no trouble at all, not like I had anything goin’ on today,” he said blithely.

Proximo tilted his head at that. “No, I meant that it must have taken some trust. You couldn’t be sure that Arcadio would not learn of it.”

Cabrio looked back, and seem confused. “Why, d’yah think he wouldn’t like it?”

        Proximo had to take a moment to process that. “Cabrio,” he said slowly, “does anyone else know about this place?”

        “Nope. Just you, me, n’ Jestin. Actually, wait,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck, “Jestin kinda got hit on the ‘ead a lot before we went through ‘ere. ‘E might notta known what was happenin’, now that I think ‘o it.”

        “But if it isn’t a secret, why didn’t you tell Arcadio? Or anyone else?”

        “Didn’t ask.” Cabrio tried to read Proximo’s expression. “I mean, I could tell ‘im, if you’d like.”

        Proximo politely but firmly dissuaded him, then tried his best to make an accounting of Cabrio again. Proximo could not help but be slightly baffled by Cabrio. There was nothing about the man that he regarded as untrustworthy. Far from it: Cabrio seemed almost uncommonly earnest and sincere, and made every sign of holding his friends close. Were that not the case, he would have no reason to help Proximo, a friend of friends, so much as he had. Yet Cabrio was so lacking in guile that Proximo had to worry, grateful as he was.

        It was the incongruity of it that Proximo could not understand. “Cabrio,” he needed to ask, “why exactly do you work for Arcadio?”

        “Dunno. I mean, I need a job n’all.”

        “No, I mean that you do not seem a bad man in the least—”

        “Aw, well that’s mighty nice of yah,” Cabrio cut in, seeming genuinely touched.

        “—So why do you work for him? The man is vile.”

Cabrio hesitated. “ ‘E’s not . . . that bad.” When he saw Proximo’s look, he backtracked. “Alright, well, ‘e’s definitely worse recent-wises. I dunno, I don’t have a lot ‘o skills ‘ere. It’s keykeepin’ or nothin’. ‘Sides, I don’t think it’s my business.”

Proximo raised an eyebrow. “I mean to say, Cabrio,” he said gently, “that if Arcadio were to learn of any of this, it would go poorly for us both. He has already done a great deal of harm to my friends. I’d not have him repeat that on Imelia. Or you, for that matter.”

Cabrio thought on that for a long moment. Then, he nodded. “Aye, I see what y’mean there.” He looked up and sniffed at the air. “Smell that? Almost there.”

Proximo could feel it too. The air was less stale. Just barely, he could feel it moving down the hall—a slight draught, hardly noticeable, was coming from ahead.

Eventually, Cabrio’s lantern reached the last patch of inky blackness in the corridor, banishing the dark enough to reveal another wall—another dead end. But not truly, [Proximo knew. It took only a moment for Cabrio to find the same tell-tale groove in the wall, and place the watch inside as he did before. The wall fell away, and in its place was a bar of blinding sunlight.

They had been below long enough that Proximo had to shield his eyes from the noonday brightness. He stepped out, blinking hard, into the realm outside, and found himself standing on rock. Not the smoothed building-stone used in the tunnel, but true rock—a rough, jutting, natural floor filled with tiny craters and small tufts of grass. There was no ceiling above him: the wall that held the tunnel continued up only a few feet more, then had only blue skies beyond. It appeared to Proximo that they were at the bottom of a hill, with a sharp face that contained the doorway. Proximo stood in a little gulley at the hill’s feet, with a gentle slope leading out of it.

Taking a few tentative steps up, Proximo peeked over and took a glimpse of the surroundings. The direction facing the door, the way that they had come, he saw open fields that ended in a distant wall. The city’s walls, though far enough away that Proximo could only see the blurred outlines of the guards patrolling the gatehouse. Looming above it was the Palace of Aureliano, shining upon its hill. Proximo could see the two main roads out of the city in the distance on either side of the gulley, albeit with no one travelling upon them. Finally, in the opposite direction of where he had come, there were some scattered pastures not far off.

He heard Cabrio rustling behind him, and turned to see the guard removing the watch from its setting-place. The doorway began to seal once again, and Proximo could see that the secret doorway on this side was not unlike that on the other. Brickwork: one could tell that it was not a natural part of the hill, though Proximo doubted anyone would guess its purpose. To him, it appeared to be the long-forgotten foundation of a house.

Cabrio made his way forward, and stood with Proximo in the sun. “I remember back when Jestin was out ‘ere. ‘E was pretty outta it when I carried ‘im through that tunnel. But once ‘e came to we found a guy to take ‘im to Indelio, no questions asked. So it all worked out.”

The end of that story was enough to remind Proximo of his original purpose. “That’s a kind thing to do, for a man you couldn’t have known for long,” Proximo pointed out, hoping for an opening.

“Aw, well it was the least I coulda . . .” Cabrio had a look of realization. “Oh hey! I clean forgot: you wanted my help with somethin’, yeah? S’what Imelia told me, at least.”

“Indeed,” replied Proximo. He aimed to be assuaging, but clear: he wanted to convince Cabrio to testify, but not to deceive him about the dangers. “My superiors—my fandom—need your help. You know already of the position we’re in, what with these accusations. We would like to have you testify in the investigation Lord Halforth is conducting.”

Cabrio seemed surprised. “Testify? Like, to what?”

“The truth. What you’ve seen in your job in the city watch, and in the dungeons. Nothing more and nothing less.”

“Sounds simple,” Cabrio said.

“Not exactly,” he had to admit. “Cabrio, I warn you that this testimony might have an adversarial cast to it, as far as Arcadio is co—” He saw a blank look, and doubled back. “It would reflect badly on Arcadio. Enough that it could get you in trouble.”

“Hmm,” Cabrio intoned with a bobbing of his head. “Trouble, huh?”

“We could make accommodations for you,” Proximo added quickly. “If it were no longer safe, you would be protected by my friends, and that is a promise. We can arrange for you to travel, as well. I was hoping to relocate Imelia and her kin after this was over, regardless.” Proximo looked to Cabrio seriously. “We take care of our friends.”

Cabrio rubbed his neck thoughtfully. “Imelia’s goin’, eh? Well, she is a friend. And it seems she’s helpin’ you too.” He chewed on the thought. “Never been outside the Dreamweave, never once. Might be fun.”

Proximo saw the chance opening. “I swear that anything you need to ensure your help is given. As I said, we take care of our friends. And I would not ask were it not of the utmost importance.” He took a step forward. “If you would like, I could send you a list of the things on which we’d like to hear your testimony.”

Cabrio considered it silently. Then, he nodded. “Aye. Aye, I’ll look at ‘em, and see what I can do.” He looked to Proximo sheepishly. “I do wanna help, o’ course. Strange, though, all this happenin’. Not used to sweatin’ ‘bout the big stuff like this. Never really thought ‘bout it much before.”

“It will not be the last thing that will change, should you help us,” Proximo warned. He did not want Cabrio walking into danger unaware.

Cabrio smiled. “Well, I never ‘ave been hard t’please.” He stuck out an inviting hand, one of that Proximo readily took. After a firm shake, he gestured back to the door. “Wanna try openin’ it? You’ll need this.” He dangled the watch in front of Proximo.

Proximo hesitated. “Are you certain? It’s your family’s heirloom.”

“I gave it t’Jestin,” he replied, sounding puzzled, “ ‘n then ‘e gave it t’you. That makes it yours.” He tossed the watch over to Proximo, who only barely caught it. “Go on, it’s fun!”

Proximo obliged, sliding the watch into its place in the wall. He had to admit: the sight of a wall sliding down to reveal a secret door was immensely satisfying. He could see why the Changelings were so fond of it. Though, now that he had been through it, Proximo doubted that this passage belonged to the Society. It lacked their marks, for one, and only one man had access to it or knowledge of it—Cabrio, whom Proximo had to assume was no Changeling. A complete inability to keep secrets did not mesh well with admission to secret societies, by his reckoning.

Although, Proximo thought, it wouldn’t hurt to be certain. “Cabrio, are you part of the Changeling Society?”

“Nope,” Cabrio casually replied.

Well, that settles it. Proximo made an elaborate bow, and motioned towards the open tunnel. “Shall we?”'

“Sure,” Cabrio said, wiping his nose. “Let’s shall.”

They made their way back through the dark, towards the Palace. Some sparse words were exchanged between them, but Proximo was busy in his thoughts for much of the way. He had in him a certain feeling of accomplishment. One more ally, he thought while stepping through the tunnel, or near enough. Cabrio’s testimony was far from assured, but even a meager chance was good enough for now. A chance meant a hope, and Proximo’s cause always had need of that.

Eventually, they reached the end, stepping back into the Palace fold. Proximo knew that it was still best not to be seen together, so he bid Cabrio farewell—and, at Cabrio’s insistence, held on to the watch. The bronze key—and a key it was—weighed down his right pocket, while the curious idol he kept in the other. Both, Proximo knew, would warrant an explanation of some length to Lady Violet. He set off to give just that, trying to avoid the guards as he went.

As Proximo returned to the Brony wing, he was unsurprised to find his escorts waiting for him, as they had arranged. Jon Faust greeted him first. “How did it go?”

“Well enough,” Proximo replied. “Cabrio Temley is a curious man, but not a bad one. I believe we have a new friend in this city.”

“Will he talk?” asked Selda bluntly.

“That remains to be seen,” Proximo admitted. “But I think as much.”

Red Autumn grimaced. “First the guards attack us,” he grunted, “now we hope they help us. Hrm.” He motioned to down the hallway. “We’ll take you to debrief.”

Proximo nodded and followed, but it was not long before they heard someone speak up from around a corner. “Having fun?” they said in a scornful tone. “It must be nice, out in the world.”

Proximo recognized the voice, but that only confused him more. Looking around the corner, he saw him. Slumped down on the ground, his legs sprawled out across the ground, his body slouched into a heap. His clothes might have been fine, but seemed torn up and faded, and his thick black hair hung down in disarray. Proximo could still see his face, though. There was black stubble across his features, that was new, but the rest was as familiar as before. A handsome face, but only on one side. Proximo took a sharp breath.

“Dustario?” he said tentatively. “I . . . I did not realize you were out of the sick bay.”

Dustario barked out a laugh. “Are you surprised? I hate it there. Gawking. No one around. Where were you, hmm?”

The way that Dustario sat, Proximo could only clearly see his undamaged side. But he knew what lay on the other: the side of his face torn apart in the riot, the scars now hidden by bandages. Proximo had not seen Dustario, not since his injuries were deemed serious enough for selective care, and he had been sequestered apart from the others. Proximo swallowed. “Dustario,” he said slowly, “you would not let anyone see you.” The Six knew that Proximo had tried.

He gave a dark laugh. “Who would want to?”

“You’ve been drinking,” said Red Autumn, seeming forlorn. It was not a question, nor was one needed—there was a stench of alcohol on Dustario’s clothes.

“And why not? There’s nothing else.” Dustario brought his head back against the wall sharply. “It’s done. We’re done.”

Six save us, thought Proximo, looking aghast at his friend.

Red Autumn tightened a fist. “I’m not leaving him here.” Jon nodded, seeming shocked, while Selda merely stared, her face unreadable.

“Agreed,” Proximo said immediately. To Hell with debriefing, he thought. There would be time for that later. “Here, help me with him. Dustario? You shouldn’t be up like this. We’re getting you out of here.”

“You don’t get it, do you?” Dustario said. He began pushing his legs about, as though trying to prop himself up, to no avail. “I’m not getting out of here. Neither are you. None of us are.”

Proximo looked at Dustario uncomfortably. “What are you talking about, Dustario? Of course we are. We’re going to help you.”

Dustario made a retching sound that might have been a laugh. “You can’t help anyone, none of you. We’re never going to leave this place. Never!” He turned up and looked at them all, eyes alive with fury. “We’re never leaving. It told me. We’re trapped here, in this Hell. You don’t understand! We’re all trapped here, inside Aureliano’s dead dream! It’s all rotting, and so are we, because we’re dead. Why are we still walking? A black voice . . .”

Proximo didn’t need another word.  Seeing Dustario in such a state made him sick and sad and frightened all at once, but that would not excuse him leaving a friend behind. With Red taking one arm and Proximo the other, they pulled Dustario up from the ground. Their friend limply swung his legs and arms against them. “Get off,” he murmured.

“No,” replied Red, as they hauled him out.

At that moment, a voice came from down the hallway. “—tario?” it called. “Dustario?” at that moment, Skylark of the Kind came into view. “Oh, thank the Six, you found him!” She rushed over immediately, gathering up her robes to run up and check on Dustario. “Drunk. He should not be out in a state like this. I cannot even say how he managed to get ahold of drink, but the man will not stay put, and there’s only one of me.” She lifted up Dustario’s face and spoke to him firmly. “Do you hear me? I will not have you disappearing while my back is turned again, Dustario. Six save me, if something had happened . . .”

“I’ll make sure he stays put,” said Red gruffly. “You need someone downstairs to keep an eye on him.”

Skylark gave an appreciative nod. “You have experience controlling patients?”

Red snorted. “Drunk ones? Yes.”

Before Proximo could move much farther in carrying Dustario off, however, he felt a hand on his shoulder. “I’ll help from here,” said Selda. “You’ve got words for the lady.”

“That can wait,” Proximo protested. “He needs friends with him.”

Selda scoffed. “Hence why we’re going.” She looked at him sympathetically. “We’re all worried, here, but there are jobs that need doing. Do yours.”

Proximo looked to the others and saw agreement on their faces. Red stared at him, then gave a small nod.

Sighing, Proximo reluctantly let Selda take his place. The two lifted Dustario up, ignoring what he murmured, followed Skylark’s path. Proximo was left alone with Jon and a heavy heart.

Jon placed a hand on his arm. “Come on, friend,” he said sadly. “Jobs that need doing, eh?”

Proximo nodded numbly. After a moment to think, he rubbed his eyes, and went off to his duty. The day was not done, and yet he felt very tired. It had been a day of bad dreams.

“The Moderator invasion of the Chan took little time: forces were mobilized immediately upon the request of the previous Mootking for aid. The opportunity to move an Authority presence into the troublesome isles amicably (to the extent that was possible) was too good for the High Administration to pass up, and thus the army they sent was one large enough that—if the chance arose—it might occupy permanently. Thousands of men and women in the white-and-black poured into the Saying Sea, landing on the northern shores of Greatchan to meet with their Channic allies. Now, that combined force stood outside Baysmouth.

“Had circumstances been different, Madelin Wright might have stood for a siege. But her position at Baysmouth was beyond untenable. Her forces might have taken the city, but much of its defenses had been damaged in the process. Even worse, the Channic within the walls baled for blood: they had no love of their new occupiers, and sought to purge the fandom from the Slouchhall however they could. Day and night, Baysmouth roiled, and situation seemed increasingly dire.

“In a council of her captains, Wright took stock of precisely how dire it was. The combined force of Giles Blair and Mootkind Rohd would reach the walls within days. There was no means of reinforcement: while another Brony force remained in Comchan under the Warden of Honesty, communications between the two were scattershot, and additional forces would not reach Baysmouth in time. Though some of her captains wished to stand and fight, Wright was reluctantly forced to order otherwise—to evacuate.

“Trying to flee by land would have been futile, and thus a seizing of every remaining ship in Baysmouth and its environs began. Many had already fled when the city was taken, but all that remained were commandeered: longships, sloops, schooners, fishing boats, and mud runners, even down to rafts made by lashing together whatever materials were on hand. Many were in poor repair, and almost none were armed. One observer saw the assembled ‘fleet,’ and remarked grimly: ‘One Mod frigate, and we’ll feed the Bay for a century.’

“Thankfully, those fears had proven ill-founded, though only by chance. Lord Blair and the Mootking had been unable to agree upon allowing Moderator ships access to the Bay of Masks—Rohd feared that if such permission was given, the Mods would never leave. Thus, the complete quarantine plan Blair had originally made never came to fruition: Baysmouth remained encircled only by land, while the ornery Channic failed to organize an effective blockade.

“A greater problem, however, could not be surmounted. There were too few ships, and too many men.”

“It became clear soon enough that, with the time they had and with the Channic in Baymouth harrying them every step of the way, they no longer had the resources to evacuate everyone. Channic infiltrators had worked to destroy several ships already, and none more could be gathered from the area. Scouts had reported the enemy force approaching rapidly, and believed they would arrive within mere hours. The grim calculus became obvious to Wright: some men would be forced to remain behind.

“When she announced this news to her captains, Wright insisted first that she be left behind. It when the others forced her to back down that she did so (though the story of her being chained to her ship during the evacuation is an apocryphal one). Instead, a search began for other volunteers for the bleak task.

“They came. Some eagerly, some slowly, one-by-one, the tally rose. By the end, there were two hundred and thirty men and women standing on the docks when the last ship fled from Baysmouth, watching their last chance at escape fade away. Those that remained ran to the walls, to try and man what defenses still remained.

“The enemy were upon them within an hour, both those within the walls and without. Channic inside the city used secret signals to urge Rohd into an attack, one which Blair—sensing weakness, and unwilling to let the Channic take sole control of Baysmouth—joined. The battle did not last two hours more: the remaining Brony defenders were cut down between the military outside and the insurgents within. The last of their forces at the Slouchhall were forced to surrender, allowing a Mootking to stride through it halls and sit the Driftwood Throne once again.

“Of the two hundred and thirty who remained in Baysmouth, all were killed or captured, save for the remarkable case of the Brony anonymite Arl Everfree. Some of those captured managed to escape or were rescued later on in the war, most notably Tyver Saarthos, later called ‘the Sixclaw,’ who would captain the Nightmare during the First Rise’s final stages. Others would be freed as part of the Treaty of Baysmouth that ended hostilities. Whatever their fates, the legend of the Blue Martyrs would outlast them.

“The evacuation ended on the shores of Comchan, when Madelin Wright touched the shore and swore vengeance. Some few ships had been lost to storms, others to krakens, others to the Channic, but the vast majority landed safely, albeit at a high price. It would not be forgotten. In what is now the Brony territory of Sixchan-on-the-Shore, there stands a monument in Faust’s Square. A pillar of stone, but with scratches made on its sides, as though by a knife—two hundred and thirty of such marks were made. Beneath that, a plaque reads a single word. That word is ‘LOYALTY.’ ”