Chapter XIX: Find a Way
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“Tolerance! Too often we hear the klaxon call of that hateful word, gnawing away at our will to act. Our Moderacy compels us to seek justice and order, and this task requires the pursuit and punishment of those that threaten the divine law as promulgated to us by the Logos-Most-High. And to be sure, a fair portion of this sacred rite demands of us a special attention to certain deviant behaviors — those that cannot be allowed to exist in a civilized society. The catalogue of these Intolerables is too long to dictate here, and are best found elsewhere, but the truth is this: these absolutes exist, and that they must be stamped out wherever they might be found.
“But what does the profligate say when we carry out our duty, and he is found at the end of the gavel or the noose? Why, he cries out that we must be ‘More tolerant!’ And what is worse, the profligate—our most hated enemy—is not alone in saying this. It has become all too common to hear those guilty of even the most base and vile of the Intolerables defended by those who pick up the demand of ‘tolerance.’ ‘It does no harm,’ they say, ‘you have no right,’ they add. It is not with the worst crimes that these misguided complaints are most often heard, however. Rather, it is with the small offenses, the mild errors, the aesthetic divergences, the licentious indulgence or the slip of judgement in the moment. Hear how the misled take up the battlecry of the evil, once that slogan is able to justify their own weakness in some small fashion!
“And ‘weakness’ must be the word we keep in mind. What does this word ‘tolerance’ actually mean? Perhaps it appears obvious, but we must unpack this so casually-used term if we are to combat the effect. The Oppressed of the Blurr are particularly fond of it: whenever one can be found that violates the vaunted sensibilities of their justicars, do not be surprised when you see that word ‘intolerant’ within their accusations against the perceived offender! And what is the punishment for ‘intolerance?’ To be humiliated before one’s neighbors, to be driven from one’s home, to be utterly hated, and to be strangled by a red ribbon until dead.
“You see, then, the utter hypocrisy of the ‘tolerant!’ For what are the things they call ‘intolerant?’ They are restrictions that keep others from acting in a way that is clearly objectionable—the things that do not properly conform with the Logos. The profligate rails against the supposed injustice of such strictures, but in truth their calls for tolerance are precisely the same thing. They are demands that others act in the same way that they do, and working against any dissent. Even those who are not violent in their outbursts act in a similar way: so long as you nod and passively agree to follow their rules and their standards, the profligate is content to smile and congratulate himself on how truly understanding and open-minded he is. But the moment that one may disagree with what they say, or worse, act contrary to their oh-so-tolerant codes? Why, then there is no saving the poor soul who dares to stray away! Succor that dissenter, plead with him, bribe him, harass him, threaten him, burn him or break him, anything to destroy that contrarian!
“The strangest trend we now see, then, is the habit of our enemies to use tolerance to promote intolerance—the only difference is that it is now their intolerance that has sway. And that was the only goal all along: not a ‘tolerant’ society, for a truly tolerant land cannot exist, but rather one that perfectly fits with what they believe and desire for their own selfish gain.
“Let us then purge this word, this ‘tolerance’ from our collective vocabulary. It is useless to us. By presuming that we must ‘tolerate’ certain crimes, we weaken our resolve and our certainty of right and wrong. It undermines the foundation of our entire society when we make the mistake of allowing offenses to pass under our sight, for it makes us numb to the simple fact that there are evils in this world against which there can be no middle ground, and there can be no compromise. If an entirely tolerant society cannot be—and it cannot, for all people need structure in their lives in order to function fully, and that means absolute stances on the worst crimes our race is capable of—then we have no reason to pretend otherwise and put on airs of our ‘tolerance.’ Let us leave such pathetic devotions behind us. We are only stronger upon doing so.”
— “On Tolerance,” by the Lord Moderator Dyren Halforth. It is dated two years before the First Rise.
* * * * * *
The ambush was complete and ready to proceed, hidden in plain sight and poised to spring at a moment’s notice. The hunters were scattered loosely in the entrance hall of Aureliano’s Palace, taking their places behind pillars or in nearby rooms, cutting off all points of exit. All that was missing was the target.
It would be the end of a hunt that Proximo had grown to resent, these past two days they’d conducted it. For that brief time, the diplomats of the fandom had been hard at work, opening contact with nobles and courtiers willing to offer aid for a price, and scouring the site for whatever leads they could find. Not all had born fruit (Proximo had had enough wine thrown at him to make that obvious), but many had, and yet there was one particular charge that remained out of their reach. Proximo waited quietly by Lady Violet’s side, standing by in a far corner, concealed by a wall, waiting for the moment to strike against this loose end.
The moment came quicker than even he had hoped. There were footsteps coming into the hall, a nervous patter of feet, and few enough steps had sounded to tell Proximo that this person was, at last, alone. Lady Violet, dressed in ‘stealthy’ purple of her choosing, fixed her eyes on the look-out, waiting for the signal. The sound of the anxious steps grew closer and louder, and Proximo readied himself. Then, swiftly and in all haste, the look-out gave the command.
They rushed out and converged quickly, before their prey could have a moment to turn and flee. And there, in the middle of the room, stood the young and imperiled Sir Alwin Cameron, one of their three judges for the investigation.
“Sir Alwin!” Lady Violet said cheerfully, relishing a plan come together. “I was hoping we might have a word.”
For half a moment, Proximo thought the nervous knight would try to bolt out of the room again, but he quickly saw that such a route was impossible: a number of other Bronies had moved into the room, walking past the Palace guards that stood at several entrances and were looking on the scene with a certain clandestine interest. Out of the side, looming tall and appearing especially impatient, was the Warden of Honesty, in all his ugly terror. Sir Alwin, dressed in his ill-fitting black-and-white robes and looking very alone, was already engaged by the enemy, and now quite surrounded.
No escape for you this time, Proximo thought triumphantly, though feeling slightly silly that they had been forced to such means just to talk with the man.
Sir Alwin’s large, bulging eyes darting around, scanning for any possible avenue of escape. Finding none, he resigned himself to defeat. “Ah… alright,” he stammered, his head bowed.
“Oh, how wonderful!” Lady Violet replied earnestly, with only the slightest hint of unlady-like smugness. “I’ve had a separate room set aside for us, if you please—some privacy is needed, as always,” she said, shooting a glance to the Palace guards who were looking and listening on.
The Bronies led their quarry to small sitting room down a nearby hall, flanked by guardsmen of their own and filled with appropriate furniture. Lady Violet led Sir Alwin to a seat, coming close to sitting him down forcibly herself, while she and Proximo took their places opposite to him. To either side of the knight, their other friends to their places: Hadrena, looking dark and tall and dangerous as always, took her place at his left, while Skylark of the Kind, hooded and serene, sat at his right. And standing directly in front of Sir Alwin, so that he would have no choice but to stare directly at him, was the Warden of Honesty, placed there in order to dispense with any remaining illusions the knight might have as to his position.
“Well,” Lady Violet said, helping herself blissfully to a pot of tea that was prepared for the occasion, “this has truly been an exciting past few days, Sir Alwin. I do hope you’ll accept my apologies for not meeting to speak with you sooner, but—due to no fault on your part, I’m certain—it has been quite a struggle to find a moment alone with you.”
“Er, well I— ah, yes,” the knight said haltingly, trying to look anywhere but at Lady Violet.
“Yes indeed,” she said with a polite laugh, “strange as it might seem, there’s been no end of things standing between this little meeting of our’s. It almost seems that every time I’ve walked into a room that you happened to occupy, you would take the chance to dart off on some account before I or anyone else had a chance to speak with you! And then of course there was the time yesterday—you remember, I’m sure—when we almost had a chance before Sir Borlund so courteously dragged you off, or the time before that—which you no doubt recall as well—when the Lord and Lady Martes had that urgent business they insisted took up so much of your valuable time. What was that errand, I wonder?” she asked innocently, cocking her head to the side. “I wasn’t even aware that mere noblemen could command a knight of the Authority so easily.”
Before he could jabber out a stunted answer, she gave another brief laugh. “If I weren’t a much better informed, better educated person than the Martes and Sir Borlund no doubt believe me to be, I might even say that…” She shook her head, chuckling at the thought, “Well, one might have even said that you were… oh, how do you say? Avoiding us, Sir Alwin.”
Sir Alwin paled, looking up at the Warden of Honesty, whose expression Proximo could only imagine was close to murderous after how much trouble it had been the past few days just to speak with the simpering twig-man in front of them. “Ah…” he choked out, his voice catching in his long throat.
Lady Violet gave a reassuring smile that was only partly insincere. “Oh, don’t look so glum, sir! I didn’t mean to tease you so, truly. I know you’ve had much on your mind, and would never be so lacking in sense of duty as to ignore the people in your charge, so we really do appreciate you taking this time from your day to sit down with all of us. Is that not so?”
“Indeed, my lady,” Proixmo affirmed obediently, adjusting his light-blue tie.
“Truly, a pleasure to meet you, sir,” Skylark said, smiling warmly.
“At last,” said Hadrena, her own smile containing more of a threat.
“Hrm,” the Warden of Honesty grunted from behind.
Sir Alwin Cameron, despite being tall as a particularly skinny tree, seemed to shrink considerably in his seat. Lady Violet continued, regardless. “Well, it’s no matter now. I imagine that we’ll have a bit of time before any of your fellow Mods or other prying folk might interrupt, so perhaps we can get down to brass tacks, as it were. We’re all friends here, no?” she said, taking a drink of tea, and offering it to Sir Alwin, who only shook his head in response to the offer. “And, in fact, the subject of friends is precisely why we’re having this discussion. I’m sure a man of your education understands what I mean.”
“My lady,” Sir Alwin said slowly, trying to regain some of his composure, “if— if you’re referring to the state of the Brony prisoners, I am not in any authority to—"
“To? To what?” Hadrena asked pointedly. “To help them in any meaningful way, or just to retract the blatant lies you gave to the Lord Moderator? The lies that helped our friends be trapped in cells to be beaten and starved and God knows what else by Arcadio and his goons?”
“My la— lady,” Cameron struggled to say, going red with shame, “His Honor, Lord Halforth asked me to report truthfully on whether the, ah, the conditions were appropriate for the accused, and I was fairly convinced th—"
“That they were ‘satisfactory?’” Hadrena ventured again, with razor-sharp smirk. “Your eyesight cannot possibly be that bad, can it? You aren’t truly blind, are you, sir?”
“Hadrena, please,” Skylark said calmly, performing her own role admirably. She laid a gentle hand on Sir Alwin’s arm, causing him to seize up slightly. “I’m certain that Sir Alwin had his own reasons to report such things to the Lord Halforth, His Most High Honor. For what we know, he might have simply been deceived, as his superior was.”
Lady Violet nodded in solemn agreement. “Very true. Was that so, Sir Alwin? I can only imagine that Arcadio might have tried to prevent you from seeing what we did. I doubt any just man could look on the state of our friends and not raise an objection. Have you seen my friend Greenglade’s place, Sir Alwin? Have you seen the filth, the rot he was living in, the torture he’s suffered? One wouldn’t believe you have, being a just man.”
Sir Alwin looked up reluctantly at the Warden of Honesty, then down at the floor. “I have,” he answered.
“And you considered Arcadio’s personal pleasure palace to be a fitting place for two innocent men?” Hadrena said, accusatively.
“I… no,” replied the knight, defeated.
“But then why would you keep the truth from Lord Halforth, Hammer of the Channic?” Skylark asked, feigning astonishment. “Surely it is a matter of duty for a man of your rank to remain truthful, sir.”
Sir Alwin did not answer, just sinking more into his chair. Lady Violet did not look for a response, instead taking a sip of tea with her thin eyes closed. She did, however, tap her foot against Proximo’s leg, indicating what he was to do. The assistant cleared his throat, and made a well-educated guess. “Would one be wrong to suggest, sir, that your reason might include Sir Borlund or the Martes in some capacity?”
The young man’s gawkish eyes flittered over to Proximo. “They are quite convinced of your guilt.”
“That much is obvious,” Hadrena said. “That does not change you perjuring yourself for their sake. Might I ask what Greenglade or Dabrius have ever done to injure you, that you must inflict this on them?”
“I have simply acted how I felt was best serving the law an—"
"Liar," the Warden of Honesty said in his own particular brand of brutish intimidation.
Skylark put her hand on the quaking Mod’s shoulder. “I understand your hesitation, sir,” she said with a genuine compassion, “but please understand that our friends’ wellbeing is at stake. We’re not asking that you find them innocent before we’ve shown you the proof: just that you sympathize with their position. This is your first assignment, isn’t it?”
The young knight nodded his head, seeming overwhelmed.
“Sir Alwin,” Lady Violet said calmly, “I understand that you might not believe me, but I truly bear no ill will towards you. And I truly don’t think that you hold any hate for me or mine either. Which leads me to think,” she continued, “that you have not been a completely willing participant in this folly.”
The knight looked at all the people waiting on his words, closed his eyes, and sighed. “My lady, I will not deny any personal… qualms. But I can’t just, just disobey my superiors.”
“I didn’t realize that Sir Borlund Barr was superior to anyone,” Hadrena pointed out.
“He has seniority,” the knight replied. “I can’t go against him, my lady. I can’t.”
Proximo understood that there was more to Alwin’s decision to bow to whatever his ‘superior’ desired than just compliance to rank, but Lady Violet spoke before he did. “My good sir, you are your own man,” she said matter-of-factly. “And in your position, you are naught but an equal to Sir Borlund. You are not bound to follow him or anyone else step-for-step, and I must wonder whether doing so is worth compromising the ideals your order is founded on. Like justice and honesty, for example. Your own conscience is what you should rule on.”
She looked as though she were about to continue, when a very loud, very angry, very familiar noise leaked in from the halls outside. Lady Violet closed her eyes, rubbed her temples, and inhaled sharply to prepare herself for what she knew was stomping its way towards them.
Sir Borlund appeared in the doorway in a moment, already shouting. “What is this?” he demanded immediately, looking around at the assembled Bronies surrounding the other knight. His moustache twitched on his ruddy face, while a vein bulged out in his neck. “You,” he said sharply to Sir Alwin, “get up. These sorts don’t deserve our presence.”
“Good afternoon to you as well, Sir Borlund,” Lady Violet said, still rubbing her head.
"Don’t prattle at me, horse-lover!” the large man yelled. “Cameron. We. Are. Leaving,” he said.
Lady Violet looked at Sir Alwin, as though asking him whether he would take her advice. For a second, Proximo thought the anxious, awkward, foolish young man might say something… but instead he stood up in silence, and walked out with his apparent ‘superior.’ Though Sir Alwin stood much taller than Barr, the knight was so stooped over in defeat that one might not even have noticed.
Hadrena’s lip curled after the two walked off. “Balefire and damnation,” she cursed, “what a waste of time.”
“I’d hoped that would have amounted to more,” Skylark admitted sheepishly. “Perhaps we should try approaching him again, my lady? He hardly seemed happy with his position, ruling against us.”
“Had a chance to correct lie,” the Warden of Honesty said in disgust. “Did not accept. Will not, if asked again. A coward. Waste of time, trying to convince him. Every moment, our friends suffer.”
“Patience, my honest friend,” Violet replied, placing a hand on his arm. “We’ll find a way.”
The Warden glanced down at her, considering what she said, and nodded. “Hrm,” he grunted in response.
Lady Violet just sighed, and stood up. “Let’s go down into the city. I’d like to see how our investigators are coming along.”
The rest of her entourage exchanged glances, then fell in behind her as they walked out of the Palace and into the open city. The afternoon sun was high and bright overhead, lighting up the Dreamweave below as activity in the main square grew steadily. The Warden of Honesty took the lead, marching down the Palace steps with the four diplomats behind him and seven hand-picked guards on all sides. Lady Violet looked out onto the city below as they stepped their way towards the center, her expression gloomy.
“One judge claims impartiality, but doubts us at every turn; the second doesn’t even bother with the pretense of objectivity; and the third is too far under his fellow’s thumb to even breathe his own opinion. And we need at least two of them to believe our innocence, if we’re to have any chance of freeing our friends,” she said, the odds clearly weighing on her.
“With the right evidence, Lord Halforth will be duty-bound to side with us,” Skylark pointed out, “and I know we can find it.”
“That still leaves the problem of Barr and Cameron, though,” Proximo said. “Sir Alwin might believe our testimony and wish to see us freed, but if Sir Borlund holds him by the throat it won’t matter.”
“What we need is to drive a wedge in, my lady,” Hadrena suggested, lifting her purple dress as she stepped gingerly down the stairs. “If we can pull that craven coward away from his fat handler long enough, he’ll be more receptive of what we have to say. We need only convince him to strike out on his own, and think for himself. Or at least to stop kowtowing it to Barr.”
“That begs the question of how, though,” Proximo pointed out. “We’re hardly in a position to order the Mods around, and none of their staffers can be persuaded to join us, I’m certain. If the reports that the investigation team sent us are accurate, all of the others in Lord Halforth’s retinue are either fanatically loyal or despise us too much to help. And we need someone with a closer ear to Cameron if he’s to hear our case with Sir Borlund or the Martes interfering.”
That comment from her assistant seemed to get Lady Violet thinking: he could practically see the gears turning in her mind when he spoke. A subtle look of inspiration came over her face, followed by a smile. “I think it’s time to see how some of our units on the ground are faring,” she said as they stepped off the staircase and into the square.
They had gotten used to dirty looks from the Dreamweavers the past few days, but Proximo had not been on the streets enough to anticipate just how many he would get. As they rounded the fountain of Aureliano the First, passing by his outstretched hand, he saw dozens of angry eyes following him. Men in fine clothing, women in poor garments, children and old men and sick men all alike were giving a stare that made Proximo feel very unwanted. He picked up his pace, eager to leave the crowded area, and moved closer to Lady Violet.
The square was crowded enough that people had to clear a path for the foreign envoys, however clearly reluctant they were. Then, in the front, a few people — dressed poorly and swaying as they stood—refused to move. The Honest guard in the front stopped, and tried to move another way, only to find those blocking them shift to the side to halt them once again. Proixmo heard people in the crowd murmuring, then saying, then shouting curses at them. Lady Violet tried to step forward… when a thrown bottle exploded on the ground in front of her, littering the walk with broken glass.
Immediately, the Warden of Honesty unslung the hammer from his back with one hand, and drew the longest, ugliest knife that Proximo had ever seen with the other—and then took a huge, threatening step forward. The anger in the crowd turned swiftly to panic, as the people blocking them quickly pushed each other down to get away. The way now clear, the Bronies moved out of the way as quickly as they could, ducking into a less crowded street and pushing on.
Once they were a fair ways away, Proximo stopped a moment to catch his breath. Hadrena did the same, leaning against a wall and turning her sharp, regal face towards the way they came. “Don’t these people have better things to do than bother us?” she asked angrily.
“I imagine they say the same about us,” Skylark said, breathing heavily. One of the Honest Friends walked up to her and put his hand on her arm, as though to ask if she was alright. She nodded to him in response.
Proximo strode over to Lady Violet. “My lady, are you…”
“I’m fine, Proxi, don’t worry,” she said, only slightly winded. She looked at the Warden of Honesty. The giant still had his weapons drawn and ready, and was looking furiously down the direction that they came from.
Violet put a hand on him. “Honesty,” she said carefully.
The Warden’s eye flicked down to her, then to the weapons in his hand. Then, he lowered them both, took a step away, and holstered them back where they belonged. “Not hurt?” he asked with grave concern.
“Not hurt,” Lady Violet replied, smiling sadly.
One of the Honest Friends approached: a Sajlic woman of medium height, with a braid of dark hair down to her shoulders and a golden bandana around her neck. “The crowd did not follow, Lord-Warden. Hopefully we shall not be needing to engage.”
“Either way, my lord, we should keep moving soon,” said another of the guards. It occurred to Proximo that he had seen this member of the Honest Friends before: the one with the short-trimmed blond hair that had attended the Warden during the planning in Shine and the ball a few nights previously. Though he was one of the Honest Eyes, Proximo still felt embarrassed that he had not learned the man’s name — he made a mental note to correct that later. “It doesn’t take much to whip these crowds up, if the past few days have been any sign.”
“Has that happened before?” Hadrena asked as she scanned around them. The backstreet they were on was most clear, though a few confused and intimidated Dreamweavers were scuttling quickly past them as they stood on the side of the wynd. “The citizens accosting our people, I mean. I saw them during our arrival, of course, but besides that—"
“Three times,” the Warden of Honesty replied tersely. “That was third.”
“Three times in three days,” Skylark said, now worried. “This does not bode well.”
Proximo had to agree. What in the Web has made these people hate us so much? he wondered. And how are we meant to accomplish anything if the streets aren’t safe? Much of Proximo’s work thus far had been in the Palace, but he could hardly expect to remain in there the whole time, his friends even less so. He thought perhaps the city watch might be trying to control the mobs, for the sake of peace if nothing else, but none of them had moved to stop the ones that had cornered them before.
Violet shook her head. “Come now, we must reach the others.”
The path they had chosen was High-Hill Way, Proximo soon learned, but it soon turned crooked and twisted its way into several turns and corners, sagging buildings strung with paper lanterns hanging above them. It took them past the Green Gate, the entrance of the city that faced to the northwest, and the least used of them all if Proximo’s memory served. Past that, squatting in a remote corner towards the Bay, was the half-abandoned slum of Nightside, on the outskirts of which the Brony teams in the field were gathered.
He saw them at the corner of a nearby alley, talking quietly and carefully watching the people that passed them by. Donnet, his colored spectacles flipped to a purple lens, stood at the center, with the Honest Friends Daria and Dalwin Faust beside him on one side, listening carefully. Dustario was on the other side, cleaning a knife with a yellow rag, when he saw his friends approach and waved them over.
The assembled group stood at attention when they saw the Wardens, and bowed to their leaders. “M’lady, good t’see you,” Donnet said in greeting.
“To what do we owe the pleasure, my lord?” Dustario asked, seeming anxious to be speaking with his own Warden.
“We just wanted to check on progress, friends,” Violet replied, taking in the dilapidated surroundings.
Donnet raised an eyebrow behind his glasses. “That tells me gettin’ Sir Shakey was either more easy or a lot less than planned.”
Violet sighed. “You never miss a beat, Donnet. Things are more complicated than one would hope.”
He shrugged. “I can handle complicated, m’lady.” Swatting a finger against his glasses, he changed the color inside to a sickly yellow.
“I’m sorry to say, my lady, but things have been slow here as well,” Dustario said sheepishly. “I understand that there’s been some success in finding willing ‘friends’ in the Palace, but here on the ground we haven’t had nearly the same luck.”
“They don’t like us,” Daria Faust said nervously, brushing a strand of short dark hair behind her ear. “The Dreamweavers, I mean. Donnet has to bribe them to say anything, and it usually isn’t helpful.”
“You’ve found no witnesses to Dabrius that night?” Proximo asked. “No one that can support our alibi?”
“Not a one,” Donnet replied bitterly. “Least none that’ll talk. Them dee-dubs are clamped tight, an’ ain’t willin’ to help much. ‘Specially with the watch watchin’ out, like they do.” He gestured his head to something behind Proximo: when the assistant turned, he saw two watchmen standing beside one another, clothed in their red and yellow uniforms with the bronze circles on their chest catching the afternoon sun just so. Their eyes were fixed firmly on the Bronies. “S’always at least two o’ ‘em hangin’ close, most times. Even if you can’t sight ‘em.”
“I wasn’t certain before, my lady,” Dustario said, his voice low, “but it seems to me that if there were any people in the city that were willing to talk with us before we arrived, the city watch probably ‘convinced’ them to stay quiet. That Arcadio has been at work, and now the only ones that we can question are either too scared to speak out or never liked our kind to begin with.”
Lady Violet frowned. “Have you tried all of the places that Greenglade mentioned? The list he provided the last time we spoke was long. What of all the local haunts? Still nothing at all?”
“We haven’t tried every last one of them, my lady,” Dalwin Faust said softly, his sad eyes blinking slowly. “We may yet find what we seek. But there has been less in the way of luck so far.”
Violet considered what he said carefully. “We must try, without a doubt. There must be some way to con—"
She stopped, hearing something coming their way. Proximo braced himself at the sound of many footsteps coming towards them, but when he turned to see what was on its way, it was not a mob of Dreamweavers heading down the street. Rather, it was a crowd of several members of the city watch, led by a man in a black and white uniform.
The person leading them was wearing a sour expression, had a receding hairline, and was a knight, judging from the amount of dark color in his garb. By his side was a shaggy black dog, ears bouncing and tongue rolling out of its mouth carelessly as it bounded happily next to its master. The knight led the watchmen past the Bronies, not sparing them a look, and quickly rounded the corner to head into Nightside.
“What’s all that about?” Hadrena wondered after they had passed.
“Oh!” Daria Faust exclaimed, remembering something and turning to the Warden of Honesty. “Sorry, my lord, we were about to tell you: there’s something going on with the Mods in there. In Nightside, I mean: a bunch of them went in earlier, and Lord Halforth was with them.”
“An’ lookin’ purposeful-like, no less,” Donnet said, sounding bitter. He rolled his eyes. “Never get in a black-hand’s way when ‘e’s lookin’ purposeful—that purpose’s usually hangin’ someone, most times.”
“Lord Halforth, you say?” Lady Violet got a familiar look on her face—a mix of curiosity and willful intention towards some plan. “I wouldn’t mind a word with him. Follow me, everyone—let’s see if he’s in a position to talk.”
“What if he’s busy?” Daria asked, seeming nervous. “Like, with executing criminals or something, I mean.”
“I’m prepared to wait. If Halforth is after criminals, it won’t take him long to finish, I think. Come, now.”
Dutifully, they followed behind Lady Violet, their guards staying particularly close now that they were entering Nightside proper. Proximo could see why: if the rest of the Dreamweave was in a slow decline, this district was in freefall. Most of the buildings looked as though they had been abandoned for years, either boarded up completely or collapsing in on top of themselves after years of rot. What ones remained open were uninviting, to say the least: unlit tenements or half-shacks that barely stood with the decades weighing down heavily on them. Foul and profane graffiti was spread ungraciously across the remains of storefronts, while windows that had clearly been smashed and doors that were clearly broken in remained open and uncovered like wounds in the buildings’ sides.
A few people could be found stumbling blearily through the empty lanes, and a few more could be glimpsed peering out of half-closed windows, but for the most part the place was entirely empty. It was like nowhere that Proximo had ever seen, and more than a little unnerving.
Just in front of him, the Warden of Honesty stirred. “Disguising scent,” he muttered.
One of the Honest Eyes, the blond one, caught the words. “Pardon, my lord?” he asked inquisitively.
“A scent over the city,” the Warden of Honesty replied quietly. “Hangs over. Over streets, the Palace. Like perfume, all the finery they cling to. But cheap. Unpleasant. Meant to overpower senses. Not intended to beautify, but disguise. Mask something. Conceal odor of decay.” He frowned, and narrowed his eye. “Not perfume. Embalming fluid. This city is a rotting corpse.”
He said nothing more, but continued to walk forward as though there had been no mention of it at all. The rest of the Bronies looked to one another in confusion, unsure of what to say. They made their way forward.
A sound could be heard hanging over the otherwise silent ruin: the faint sounds of talking, moving, and shouting. Not the shouting of people in danger or in battle, but rather something resembling a conversation between at least two people—or, more accurately, a heated argument. Tracing the path the watchmen had made and following the noise, the Bronies made their way through Nightside at a brisk pace.
They arrived at a strange scene. There was a small block of buildings, with people being pushed out in single file. The ones moving out into the streets were Dreamweavers, and were all poorly dressed and unhealthy-seeming, aside from a handful of higher-class sorts. All of them looked somewhere between haggard, anxious, and terrified as they were herded out into the open—herded by Mods. There were not many of them, but just the few assembled men and women in Authority colors were enough to intimidate the people they were escorting out of the buildings. Some of the Dreamweavers spoke among themselves in low voices, others tripped over themselves, but all moved, not eager to disobey whatever orders the Peacekeepers had given to remove them.
In front of it all, with his arms folded behind his back and a distinctly neutral expression on his face, was Lord Dyren Halforth. His lined, weathered face was seemingly fixed in only mild interest in the drama unfolding in front of him, his hat’s wide brim casting a shadow over his visage. He was also very clearly not looking at the furious man next to him, a fat fellow with fine clothes and a red face, who was the source of the angry shouting.
“...You’ve not a right to do this, sir!” the man yelled, waved his hands around. “This is my establishment, my property! I tell you now, the Martes will hear of this, and they—"
“They will what, pray tell?” Lord Halforth replied, his voice cool. “As you say, you are the one most responsible for this wretched den of iniquity. Certainly you are aware, then, that it is in clear violation of established zoning and franchise regulations, as well as innumerable offenses against the decency and moral character laws of the city. At the very least—and I do mean the very least—such tedium should be restricted to the red-zone, which is some distance from this spot.”
His grey eyes were focused intently on the people now fully removed from the buildings, whom his Peacekeepers were now separating into different groups. “This would ignore, however, the Intolerables I have already noted, including five counts of possession of illegal substances and one count of merchanting in the same materials. I do not intend to ignore that. If the Martes intended to, then I would be forced to act accordingly.”
Proximo took another look at the building that Halforth had so thoroughly emptied. It was certainly in better shape than most of the hovels surrounding it, and was adorned with several bright, eye-catching red banners. Crimson lanterns, not yet lit for the evening, were hanging from pegs on its porch. Judging from what the Moderator had said, the decorations adorning the place, and the questionable dress of some of the people Proximo saw in the crowd, there was little doubt as to what the establishment was.
The red-faced proprietor continued to look incensed. “Spare me the sermon, this is a harmless business—"
“I disagree. Thankfully,” Halforth continued, still not looking at the man, “the point in question here is not opinion or agreement, but rather law and judgement. I tell you now, the law will find you lacking, and the same will ring true for your customers. There will be fines, for those that can pay them, and for those that cannot there will be the chance for liberation, through service or confinement as need be. After their charges have been made clear to them and their guilt ascertained, of course.”
The concept of actually facing punishment unnerved the man. “And I?” he asked, no longer so demanding.
“The same. Though,” he said with the same level of vague disinterest, “the sentence for owning and allowing such improper properties will naturally be several degrees higher than merely perusing them. This walled deviation of yours will be confiscated, first of all, and put up for auction. Though I do hope they clean it first.”
The man’s eyes went wide, and he quickly began stammering. “I… I can pay.”
“That must be encouraging for you. The fine for such crimes is ordinarily quite high, though, and paying it will not change the demand that this building be taken from your frankly suspect possession.”
“No, I mean if you don’t charge me then… well I’m sure I can m— “
The grey eyes snapped towards the simpering man very suddenly. “Think carefully how you wish to complete that sentence. I once encountered a man who sought to bribe me. On the gallows, I suspect, he learned to rue that mistake. However briefly.” The stare he gave to the owner was forceful enough to not only quiet him but send him into shakes as well.
Ignoring the quivering and gibbering man next to him, Lord Halforth turned his attention to two Peacekeepers that had approached him. One of them was a young man with well-groomed auburn hair, and the other was a dusky woman with her black hair tightly tied into a bun, who was likely the same age but somehow appeared far more mature. Both of them came before the Lord Moderator, raised their right arms to the left shoulders of their white uniforms, and bowed their heads.
“We rounded up the lot of ‘em, yer honor,” the man said. In his hands, he was cradling the wooden stock of an Authority repeater: the crossbow was loaded, though not primed to fire, the metal box clamped to its side no doubt filled with bolts to be readied by wrenching down the lever on the weapons’ underside. “What next?”
“I shall have you see the accused off in a moment, Mister Cartwright,” the Lord Moderator replied immediately, “as soon as I have taken proper stock of our resources. You may return to your place until I have further need of you. And Mister Cartwright?”
“Yes, yer honor?”
“Take this one with you and add him to the collection,” Lord Halforth said with a gesture to the still speechless man that had been speaking with. “I believe that his taste for conversation is quite sated for now. I will give the order when we may depart.”
The Peacekeeper Cartwright did as he was told, and escorted the criminal away. The other, the woman, kept her place silently, awaiting orders. Lord Halforth’s attention came upon her quickly. “Miss Ravenry?”
“Yes, your honor?” she replied enthusiastically, though with a formal voice.
“Attend me for a moment. This will be useful for your studies.”
The woman had a face of very barely contained glee when she came to her superior’s side, even though from Proximo had seen occupying such a place was relatively hazardous. She stood proudly, ramrod straight and with a uniform almost as clean as the Lord Moderator’s. Proximo had not met this Miss Ravenry yet, but she was clearly very eager to serve.
All of this talk, however, had seemed to make the knight—the one that had been leading the city watch troops — impatient. He and the guardsmen had been waiting for the Lord Moderator to finish, and the knight looked ready to go on. “Your honor? Not that this isn’t fascinating, but I have the city watch here, as you asked.”
“And so the absent watchmen at last arrive. Thank you, Sir Depravity. Could you please bring their ringleaders forward?”
Two members of the city watch were grabbed by the knight and pushed out. They stood in front of the Lord Moderator, not seeming clear on what to do. He did not look at them, but instead fixed his sight on what was in front of him once again.
“You are to escort these accused criminals back to the holding place in the Palace and keep them detained there until I, or my fellow Moderators, are able to properly hear their pleas and sentence them. My subordinates, Mister Cartwright and Miss Cawtler, will be reading them their charges now, I imagine. Additionally, I expect you to devote some of your men to cleaning the interior of this building, stripping it down, and preparing it for seizure. If my initial inspection was any indication, the leftmost corner of the second floor will require particular attention.”
The two guards looked to one another, confused. “Is M’Lord Arcadio here?” one of them asked, eventually.
“That is a question, and not a response to my order. To answer it, however: no, he is not. However irrelevant that may be.”
The other one rubbed the back of his neck, meaty hand brushing against the rim of his half-helmet. “I, ah, I dunno if we should be doing all this, you know, if the commander hasn’t ordered.”
“We take orders from him," the first added. “That’s why he’s the commander.”
“A logical conclusion,” Lord Halforth replied, sounding annoyed. “Since I am a Moderator empowered by Central and given authority over this island so long as my investigation continues, however, I will remind you that local powers are currently outranked by me and my fellow judges in certain matters. Criminal justice is one of them.”
“The point being?” one of the guards asked, clearly not grasping the gravity of who he was speaking to.
“The point being," the knight, Sir Depravity, replied angrily, “that Lord Halforth is the commander of your commander, and if you don’t want me to arrest you for Interference with Justice, you’ll move and follow the orders you’ve been given. Is that understood or not?”
It very clearly was, seeing that the city watch present then high-tailed it to the prisoners as fast as they could. Seeing that the business was done, Lady Violet immediately approached the Lord Moderator, ready to talk about whatever was on her mind. Despite her patiently standing almost next to him, however, he did not take notice of her. “Miss Ravenry?” he asked, eyes forward.
“Yes, your honor?”
“When I was sitting through the proprietor’s jabber, he mentioned that an establishment such as this was harmless, in an attempt to avoid punishment. What is your reckoning of such words?”
The novice folded her arms behind her back, not unlike her mentor, and said in a formal manner, “A rogue value judgement arriving from a biased perspective, your honor. Framing the issue in terms of harm or lack thereof deflects culpability through means of dilution, introducing subjective matters into an objective question of legality. As such, it is irrelevant.” She had listed off her reasoning in a clipped, dignified, and controlled fashion, a way that told Proximo that this was a question she was well-trained to answer. She then gave a look of momentary doubt. “Right?” she asked hesitantly.
“Quite so,” Lord Halforth said, emotionless. “Divorced from the salient problem at hand, however, what are your feelings on the veracity of such a claim to harmlessness?”
Miss Ravenry considered the notion for a moment. “Speaking theoretically,” she said carefully, weighing her words closely as she spoke, “I would again disagree with the claim. It seems likely to me th—"
“Seems?” Lord Halforth interjected.
“Apologies, your honor,” she said quickly, catching whatever mistake she had made. “It is likely that, even setting aside the obvious harm inflicted on one’s person by means of flesh and drug abuse, the damage to one’s sense of selfhood and perspective is ever-present.”
“I see. Pray excuse me for a moment, Miss Ravenry.” Without turning his gaze, Halforth addressed the people assembled to his other side. “If you’re looking for some manner of satisfaction, Bronies, you will be disappointed. As of my arrival on the premises, this crimson catastrophe has been effectively closed and purged. You will need to pause your propriety elsewhere, if it must be done.”
“The stables are open, as I understand it,” added the knight that lingered on the scene, the one that Halforth had named Sir Depravity. It was no doubt the same Depravity Blair that Proximo had been hearing about over the past few days, and his appearance certainly matched the given description. The man was older than Proximo but younger than Halforth, with light hair and dark brown eyes that were prone to roll and look contemptuously at things. Proximo had the feeling that they would not get along.
“My Lord Halforth,” Lady Violet said with a bow of her head, tactfully ignoring the insulting insinuations. “It would seem that you have wasted no time in applying your talents here, in the Dreamweave.”
“A necessary measure, unfortunately,” Halforth replied, a measure of distaste in his voice. He turned his head slightly, to look up at the giant Warden next to Lady Violet. “Warden Honesty. I trust that you are enjoying your time in the city?”
“No,” the Warden replied immediately. “It is dirty, poorly kept, unruly. Filled with outsiders, unbelievers. Enjoyment impossible.”
The faintest smile appeared on the Lord Moderator’s face. “I am forced to agree. Though my primary duty is to oversee your investigation, it would seem that this area has been subjected to several appalling lapses. It would be an aberration of my duties to leave such matters uncleansed.”
“These ones are to be cleaned, then?” Lady Violet asked, looking to the assembled prisoners, whom the Peacekeepers and city watch were preparing to move.
“Indeed. The traditional city dungeons have been stretched beyond their capacity for some time now, as I have been told, so I converted several unused facilities in the Palace for a holding area. It will serve well enough, until their misdeeds are properly processed.”
“The conditions of these facilities were up to standard?”
“If that is meant to be an oblique criticism of your compatriots’ conditions, I would ask you speak your fictions openly.”
“Not fiction,” the Warden of Honesty replied angrily. He looked down piercingly at Lord Halforth. “Your subordinates lie. Friends should be moved.”
Lady Violet looked as though she were about to interject, no doubt to try and cover for what Honesty had said, but Sir Depravity beat her to it. “I’m glad to hear that I’m the one being accused of indecency in a conversation with horse-lovers,” he said, eyes narrowing on the Warden. “By all rights, your people should have been among the refuse squatting in that red building. Not that an ogre like you would get much interest. Were you born that ugly, or did you have to work to it?”
“I would thank you if you did not insult my friends, sir,” Lady Violet replied coolly. She was speaking politely, but Proximo could sense the anger under it—Sir Depravity’s choice to forsake her friends was not one easily forgotten.
“And I would thank your friend if he didn’t insult my honor,” the knight replied. The look that he gave to Violet was a mix of being smug, knowing, and filled with contempt. He knows what he did, Proximo thought, and he knows that we know. And he doesn’t care at all.
“You seem unwelcome to my kind, sir. Might I ask what we have done to warrant such treatment?”
Sir Depravity Blair rolled his eyes. “The day I bend over for horse-lover questions is the day Central is lost to the Deep. Don’t flatter yourself, though—you aren't worth my hate.”
“Sir Depravity?” Lord Halforth said, seeming weary of the conversation. “Your dog is missing.”
The knight had a sudden moment of realization, and then starting turning around and looking for something. “Dammit all,” he swore with exasperation, "Roger! Where did he go? Roger!" In the distance, something barked in response to his calls.
“Do look for him, sir. I would hate for our merry company to lose its mascot so soon,” said the Lord Moderator, lip twitching slightly into a thin smile.
Sir Depravity cursed again, then stomped off to find his missing pet. It was Hadrena that spoke up after he had gone. “Your servant despises us, Lord Halforth.”
“Lying for animosity,” Honesty said bluntly. “Should disregard.”
“He has served me faithfully and well for twelve years. On three occasions, he saved my life,” the Lord Moderator said dismissively. “And in all that time, he has never once failed me. I trust my subordinates with my life, and I have no reason to trust any of you. You wish to make claims about their supposed deceptions? Then bring me evidence, or do not waste my time further.” His tone made it clear that he would not hear any more on the subject.
“Is his attitude so ordinary, then?” Lady Violet asked.
“Sir Depravity speaks his mind and cares little for airy persiflage, so yes. It is a quality I admire, not that it is your concern in the least. Has it occurred to you that it is possible for one to see little value in your impure devotions without commanding some conspiratorial cabal designed to sabotage your lives? Such paranoia is more suited to the Channic or Blurrite feel-mongers, by my reckoning.”
“With all due respect, my lord,” Lady Violet said both politely and defensively, “there is nothing ‘impure’ about our devotions.”
“Oh?” Lord Halforth said, sounding very vaguely amused. “You deny the ribald presence of… let us say, salacious and base materials within your fandom? Or members that subordinate themselves to it?”
Small chance of denying that, Proximo thought. It wasn’t something he concerned himself with, but he knew for a fact of such practices, even among his close co-workers. Donnet and Mattieu Winely had a habit with certain literature, and Dustario no doubt had some art that would likely blind a Censor like Halforth. He didn’t care to voice such thoughts, however.
“I would not be so bold, my lord,” Lady Violet replied honestly. “But one would have to concede it is no more seen than in any other group.”
“It is not the amount of such weaknesses, but rather the nature of them unique to yours’ that is objectionable,” the Lord Moderator replied, leaving his meaning in the air. “Miss Ravenry?” he said to his attendant, “take note of this.”
Miss Ravenry flipped open a notepad, and listened intently with pencil in hand as her leader spoke. “The profligate,” he said with a gesture towards the captured patrons standing in front of the closed building, “will partake in any amount of earthly desires, not comprehending their fleeting nature. Rather than seeking to join with the immortal and objective cause, they instead link themselves only to satisfaction of their own body. They are compelled by instinct, and they move without thought or reason towards those demands — in doing this, their perspective becomes increasingly focused inward, on themselves and no one else.
“The needs of others are lost on the profligate,” he continued, “it is only want and feeling and self-interest that they can understand. They come to the notion that their own happiness—if one can even call it that—is more important than that of their neighbors. And, whether by the money in their pockets or in their living flesh or even as a still image, the profligate observes and utilizes human beings as mere instruments towards satisfying those desires—the person is lost on them. The one that they use is no longer a man or woman, just a method of gaining or satisfying something. It is in this way that respect for selfhood dies, and selfishness at all costs begins. The bane of honor, the obliteration of duty, the pulverizing of will and reason.”
The Lord Moderator frowned in disgust. “Harmless," he scoffed. “You did not come here to see me deal out justice, I am assuming,” he said to the Bronies. “What is it you want from this servant?”
“A moment of your time, my lord. So that we might discuss the arrangements between our respective investigation teams. Though if it pleases my lord,” Lady Violet said with a smile to the woman beside him, “it would seem that you also have us at a loss. I’m afraid that your assistant and I have not been introduced.”
“It would seem so.” He waved a hand to his shadow-servant. “Miss Cellia Ravenry, serving in my staff as a Peacekeeper for Sir Depravity. My leal aide.”
Cellia smiled, saluted, and bowed to the Bronies. “A pleasure to meet you, my lady. I had the honor of meeting some of your ranks earlier, if I recall correctly.”
“If what they told me was any indication, I’d wager so,” Violet laughed. “Your lord is lucky to have one as talented as yourself, if they spoke truly. Well met, Miss Ravenry.”
Cellia blushed slightly at the praise, but the Lord Moderator seemed eager to end the small-talk. “Pleasantries aside,” he said, “what is your intent involving the investigation? If it is to request that any other of my staff be dismissed, then you had best stay yourself.”
“Not in the least, my lord. On the contrary, I was wondering if you’d be willing to add one.”
She explained the nature of her proposal, as the Lord Moderator stood and listened silently. “There is precedent for it, my lord,” she pointed out. “The Putnam decision in Askobarr, most recently.”
“I know precedent,” Halforth snapped. “Lord Putnam made a correct choice, in his case, though he has always been too willing to please and appease others. Still,” he mulled, “so long as it is surveyed carefully, it may have merit.”
He frowned, thinking it over. “Miss Ravenry? What is your judgement?”
Cellia Ravenry’s eyes widened, staring at her superior half-agape. “Your honor?”
“If you are to be a knight, you will need to learn to weigh decisions such as this. You have more immediate experience with their investigating officers than I, and can speak more to their effectiveness: what is your decision?”
She thought it over carefully, musing on merits and demerits in her mind. “I believe that—”
“You believe?" Lord Halforth interrupted. “There is no room for detached opinion or equivocation in knighthood. Rephrase.”
“Sorry, your honor,” Cellia said, embarrassed. “I mean to say that, from what has been observed, they have operatives of merit. It would be valuable, as a whole, and involve little risk so long as the proper oversight is maintained. I am prepared to take responsibility for it, your honor, should my judgement prove poor,” she said, bowing her head respectfully.
A smile came upon Halforth’s expression. “Commendable. Personal responsibility is vital for your future—you are learning well.” Cellia smiled proudly at her mentor’s praise, while he turned to Lady Violet. “Your proposed liaison will need to be suitable, however. I will have no bumbling amateurs slowing down our progress. And they will be very limited in their privileges: their duty will be communication between you and I, seeing that I apparently will be busier than I had initially hoped during my time here. Anything more than that, I leave to the discretion of Sir Depravity and Miss Ravenry. Do you have such a candidate?”
Lady Violet smiled. “I believe I have just the man.”
The rest was just details. Halforth still seemed skeptical, but for all his snide remarks and lack of consideration, Proximo had to admit that he put great faith and confidence in his fellows — he respected Miss Ravenry’s advice and agreed to the proposal accordingly. Of course, this did nothing to change how truncated and constantly monitored this representative would have to be in order to preserve Mod security, but it was something.
“If that is all,” the Lord Moderator said once they were finished, “then my work here is done for now. If you wish to inform your follower that they are to work with mine, you should do so sooner rather than later.”
“Perhaps my assistant could accompany you back to the Palace?” Lady Violet suggested.
“I shall allow it. So long as he can keep pace.” Lord Halforth folded his arms behind his back and walked towards the guarded prisoners, Cellia following close behind.
“Are you sure you have no further need of me, my lady?” Proximo asked, a bit uneasy. “After what happened with the crowd earlier, I would hate to think you were unprotected.”
Violet waved the thought away. “I’ll have my Honest Friends, Proximo, and my honest friend, of course. In all fairness, it would be more reasonable for me to worry about you, were it not for you being accompanied by a full team of Moderators. There are few people in the Web stupid enough to accost a man of Halforth’s position. I’ll meet with you in a few hours; inform our friend of his new role, and I shall check on the progress of our other ground units.”
Proximo bowed, split off from his fellows, and joined the line of watchmen and criminals and Moderators back to the Palace, a veritable column of red and yellow uniforms led by black and white ones. Hart found himself next to one of the Peacekeepers, not wishing to depend too much on the city watch that had done little to protect them earlier that day. It was the auburn haired one with the crossbow, the one called Cartwright, that Proximo stood by as they marched.
“Good day, ain’t it?” the PK said to Proximo after a short time, as they walked up Aureliano’s Way to the Palace on the hill. “The name’s Percy Cartwright, by the way. Sorry we ain’t met yet, but yah know the way things run here, I suppose. City might be a bit of a hole, but at least it keeps yah busy,” he grinned.
“I suppose so,” Proximo replied courteously, sparing a glance at the criminals they were escorting, the result of Mods ‘keeping busy.’ The wretches might have been completely guilty, but it was hard to not feel slightly sorry for them, seeing them stepping shamefully in front of their fellow citizens. “Lord Halforth has made himself well-known to this city in such a short few days. Is he usually so… proactive?”
Percy Cartwright laughed. “That’s a roundabout way of askin’ ‘is he always such a scary stick,’ ain’t it? Yeah, he does damn good work. Glad I work under him—life’d be boring otherwise.” He leaned in and spoke to Proximo under his breath. “Don’t go and tell him I called him a stick now, y’hear?”
The journey back to where Proximo came from was far quieter than his initial one: not a single person heckled at the Mods as they passed, and most moved quickly out of the way when they realized Halforth was coming. Smart move, Proximo thought, the Six only knows what regulations he might find them breaking. If the Dreamweavers held the same hatred for foreign Mods as they did for foreign fandoms, they were aware enough to keep it silent.
They reached the foot of the Palace in short order, the Mods and watch breaking off to escort their prisoners to the holding area the Martes had so graciously given to Halforth. Proximo proceeded inside the manse on his own, looking for his brothers and sisters that he knew to be conducted investigations inside—the one that he looked for in particular, the one that Lady Violet had already chosen as an envoy to the Moderators—would be with them.
The Great Hall was still nearly empty, the only people inside being the guards and a portrait of the city’s founder, Aureliano the First, looking heroic at the front of the room. As Proximo walked towards the western wing, however, he heard a man’s voice come from behind him.
“Why, hullo there!” the man shouted cheerfully with a mocking air. “Just the man I sought—my friend, my ally, my stalwart, my shield against all things, how do you do today, Grand Horse-lover Assistant?”
Proximo stifled a groan, knowing immediately who it was talking. To his disappointment, that prediction proved true when he turned around and saw Withins-Bei swaying towards him.
“My lord,” Proximo said courteously, “how good to see you again."
“Urgh, you are so tediously less honest than that hulking horror that lurches around with you,” Withins-Bei replied with a roll of his eyes. His appearance was as haphazard as always, fine clothes scuffed and torn, and his hair messy and hanging down loosely over his thin eyes. The lordling sighed. “I should have hoped that after all my betrayal and treason against my liege you would have been appreciative enough to at least tell me how irritating you find me. But alas,” he said, “such is the way of courteous people. At any rate, I’ve some new aid for you and your hilarious cause—I haven’t grown bored of you yet, so don’t breathe relief before you’re well and really rid of me.”
“Truly?” Proximo asked, intrigued. Truthfully, though Withins-Bei was an utter pain to deal with, he had also been most helpful in securing the Bronies contacts and sources within the Dreamweave. And unlike most of the resources they made use of, he had demanded no compensation in cash for his services—apparently he found the drama unfolding so amusing that helping the people the Martes despised was payment enough. “I would be happy to pass along the news to Lady Violet, as to this help. What is it, then?”
“Actually, this particular morsel is for you alone… what was the name again? Proximo?”
“Proximo Hart.”
“So you are,” Withins-Bei said with an odd smile crossing his face. “Come to my side for a moment, Proximo Hart—it’s story time.”
Proximo shot the pudgy man a look, but followed nevertheless, curious as to what he was talking about. Withins-Bei waved him over to him, standing directly in the sight of the portrait that stood at the furthest end of the room. “Have you heard much of how this city came to be, Hart?” he asked, smiling wanly at the painting.
Proximo looked at the same piece of art. It was the same one that had been hanging there when the Bronies had first arrived, but he had never taken the time to look at it in great detail. It showed the city’s founder, the first Aureliano Martes to call himself Lord of the Dreamweave, standing proudly in long and stately robes, looking down directly at those that entered his mansion. One of his hands rested on a stack of canvas, the other rested at his side clutching a builder’s hammer closely. The face of Aureliano the First was old, weathered, experienced, but still lively and strong after many years. “I haven’t, I confess.”
Withins-Bei seemed to take that as an invitation. “Aureliano Martes, the first of his glorious name,” he said in a drawn-out way, “was an Indelian trader, who shipped his dyes and inks across the Web and made a fair fortune doing so. He was inventive and restless, talented and ambitious, and so he was everything that Deviens love and admire, and his enterprising brought him great acclaim. But one day, he did something very stupid. He had a dream. And in that dream he saw a beautiful city of mirrors, where the halls and homes and streets were all like polished glass that showed only his reflection and that of his children and his children’s children. And so his fate was sealed: he gathered up his fortune and family, and began to build a new city on this little green island, which he named after the dream he had, in gratitude.
“And so,” he continued, “since that day the lords of this city that waxed and waned proud have had the name Aureliano, and more importantly have carried the family name Martes—the only name that matters, remember? It’s so strange,” he remarked with a half-sad look in his eyes, “how the name can be so much the same, and yet the men so different. What would the First think of the Third, I wonder? What would he think of Arcadio?”
For a moment, Withins-Bei said nothing, staring silently at the portrait as Proximo did the same. “Good history,” Proximo said, “but what has it to do with me?”
Withins-Bei smiled smugly. “It occurred to me earlier today that I had never caught your family name when we were first introduced. The name that mattered. It wasn’t until I had the most fascinating party come to me that I learned it, and now I can only wonder why you weren’t toting that little privilege without shame. Are you related to the Indelio Harts, by any chance?”
“I am,” Proximo said, now feeling uncomfortable.
“A Hart of Hartshold,” Withins-Bei smirked, “and not far from hold or home, either. Are you a nephew of Lord Theostinian then, or a—"
“A son, actually.
The disheveled noble burst out laughing. “Oh that is too funny. You know, when she first told me your full name and asked me to find you, I almost didn’t believe her — I had long thought that the son of Theostinian was… well, let’s say in no position to be visiting this little slice of paradise.”
“What do you mean, my lord?” Proximo asked, confused. Truthfully, he had hoped that he wouldn’t be recognized while in the Dreamweave, guessing that the reputation he had left behind in Indelio would not be a good one, but Withins-Bei seemed to be hinting at something else. And that 'she’ that the man had mentioned as having sent him made Proximo worried. It couldn’t be her could it? Hart thought, memories of his family racing back. ‘I can see who you care for more,’ he remembered hearing. ‘Join your friends then. And do not return.’
“I do hope that you’ll stop calling me ‘lord,’ dear Hart of Hartshold,” Withins-Bei said unctuously. “It leaves the wrong impression as to my role in life. Still,” he added cryptically, “Though I suppose acting as the beautiful lady’s errand boy is a bit of a lordly thing for me to do, isn’t it? How chivalrous of me. She was practically soaked with anticipation, having me find you, that handsome young thing. Of course, I had to tell her that she wasn’t your type, seeing that she only has two legs, no tail and—"
“Alright, alright,” Proximo interrupted, having heard enough for one day, “get to the point, Withins-Bei.”
“Now that’s more like it!” the noble replied, delighted. “She was insistent, though. How could I resist? And so here I am, fulfilling my duty. It wasn’t even difficult.”
“I’m happy to hear it. I suppose you can take me to see this ‘she’ you refer to?” Proximo asked, fearing the worst. Not now, he pleaded in his mind, Six save me, not now. His family was the last thing he wanted to deal with, under the circumstances.
“Take you to her?” Withins-Bei chuckled. “Why, she’s been listening this whole time. She’s just too shy, bless her, to try and say hello herself. Oh my lady, my lady!” he cried out.
Proximo steeled himself to see a slender woman dressed in green and white appear… but was surprised that someone else entirely was approaching instead.
She was walking towards them quickly and sheepishly, red-faced and embarrassed. Eyes under short dark hair tried to avoid meeting Proximo’s as she stepped forward. When she stopped in front of the two of them, she hesitated to speak, giving Withins-Bei a chance to jump in instead.
“My dear Hart, I believe you’ve already made yourself extremely well-introduced to my dear Lady Imelia Kohburn. I can hardly blame her, wanting to seek you out so desperately. Why, even I was almost seduced by all that gallantry and charming charm, why I— “
“I hate you, Withins-Bei,” Imelia snapped, seeming far less hesitant now that someone was insulting her.
The lordling sighed and rolled his eyes. “Not even a thank you? A Withins-Bei cast aside despite his service, as always. Well, don’t let me keep you. I’ll just eavesdrop somewhere I’m more wanted, thank you very much. Good day, Lord Hart.” He swaggered off, whistling to himself as he did, leaving Proximo and Imelia alone.
Imelia bit her lip, looking down. “You must think I’m a terrible fool, my lord. I’m sorry I didn’t just come out myself, but I… I didn’t really know how to go about it.”
Proximo dismissed her concern immediately. “It’s nothing to me, my lady. Though,” he joked lightly, “you may want a better choice of confidante next time. Withins-Bei does not seem like one that keeps trust consistently.”
She smiled bashfully. “No, I suppose not. Sorry again, my lord, but he was the only one that I knew you had spoken to before. I thought of asking one of your Bronies if they knew where to find you, but they always seemed so busy.”
“While Withins-Bei never does, I imagine,” Proximo added wryly. “It is a pleasure to see you again, my lady,” he said sincerely. He had actually been thinking of checking in to make sure she was well in the days after they met, but he hadn’t been sure that she would have any interest in seeing much of anyone—he probably wouldn’t have, were he the one being hounded and mocked by all his former neighbors and friends. “Are you…”
“I’m well. And you can just call me Imelia.” She bit her lip again, then quickly added, as a hasty afterthought, “Sometimes people call me Imi.” She was dressed in a fine gown, though an old one, and had her hair draw up into a fashionable bun, her bangs still hung down her forehead. It occurred to Proximo that she had gone to lengths in order to make herself look nice for meeting him.
“Very well, Imelia,” he said, thinking the alternative name a little too casual for now. “But if that’s the way it goes, I must ask that you call me Proximo—that ‘my lord-ing’ can hardly be one-sided, if we’re going to be fair.”
She smiled. “OK, Proximo.” Imelia said nothing for a moment, then said slowly, “I wanted to thank you.”
“There’s no need, Imelia,” he replied sympathetically, “Any one of my friends would have done the same, and the thanks you’ve given have already been—"
“No, I mean I want to thank you properly," she said with a step towards him. They were close enough that they could have locked hands and began dancing again, if they had wanted to. “I want to help. With all this in the Dreamweave—the Martes and the Mods, I want to help you. As thanks.” She looked at him, expectantly.
Proximo wasn’t sure what to say. Since the first time they had met at the ball, Proximo’s efforts had all been focused on keeping Imelia out of all the political nonsense happening around him, not hoping she would jump in. Even when Theosyrius had suggested making use of her, Proximo had refused, thinking she’d want no part in all of it. And yet, here she was, making the offer regardless. “You… you do not need to do that, my lady. It wouldn’t be right for me to—"
“Imelia,” she insisted. “I know I don’t have to, Proximo. But I want to.”
“If you help us,” he said gently, “the Martes and their lickspittles will learn of it. They’ll use it as an excuse against you. It isn’t your fight.” I don’t want innocent people caught up in this, Proximo thought.
“They already hate me,” Imelia said with a weak smile, “what else can they do?” She looked down at the floor, not looking at Proximo. “You already know why they do it, don’t you?”
“Yes,” Proximo confessed. He would not have known, had Withins-Bei not told him, but apparently an unexpected pregnancy with an unknown sire was enough to garner the attention of people with a truly sick sense of humor. Imelia did not show any outward sign of her condition, but he knew how heavy it was weighing on her.
She smiled appreciatively. “You know why they hate me, and you knew it that night when we met. But you helped me. I… I don’t know anything about your friends, or your fandom. I don’t know if they’re all like what people say they are. You helped me, Proximo, and you were the only one that ever did. I can’t just let that pass by without trying to repay you—you know that, don’t you?” The look she gave to him was hopeful and pleading, and had something else in it as well, something that made Proximo feel very unsure. He could feel her eyes on him intently. They were a deep, dark green, more beautiful than any of Imelia's other features. Proximo had never really noticed that until that moment.
He gave in quickly. “If that’s truly how you feel, then I am no man to stop you Imelia,” he said to her delight. “But what kind of help do you mean?”
“I have a friend in the city watch,” she explained, “There is information about them, and the guards that Sir Harald had with him, before he was murdered. The watch won’t help you, but I can get you this contact—what he and I can tell you might just mean something.”
Proximo nodded. “Sounds like a lead to me. Where can we talk about this?” he asked, still preferring to speak of such things in as much privacy as possible. They were too far for the guards in the hall to hear them, but it never hurt to be prepared.
“The information I have is in my home, down in the city. We can go there now, if you like.”
He considered it. “I’ll need to check in with some of my friends in the Palace first, but certainly. Would you be willing to join me, for a moment?”
She smiled and nodded, and they walked together towards the western wing, so Proximo might find his fellows. As they did so, his mind turned to this new partnership he’d struck. They had been in the Dreamweave some three days now, and had little to show for it in terms of progress. Proximo wasn’t sure if this lead Imelia claimed to have would prove a turning point, but at the very least he had made a friend. He only hoped that it would be enough for her, in the end.
* * * * * *
“When his neighbors first saw John the Traveller returning from his sojourn in the mountains, they were shocked, as they had thought after three weeks in the wilds that he must have perished. It was true, though, that the boy that had left was gone, and the man who came back to his house was far different: his brown hair had gone white, his grey eyes seeming aged and webwise as though from many years. He had always seemed distant and strange to his fellows, but now when he spoke it was with the voice of one much older than sixteen, which was his age in truth.
“When he was first recognized by the men at the walls, John was let inside and asked to see his sister Abigail. When she asked where he had been, fearful for his safety after the long weeks gone, he told her that, during his contemplation in the high hills, he had been visited by Truth itself. She listened as he recounted the tale.
“As he had knelt beneath an oak tree nestled in the rock of Mount Pale, John gazed at the stars overhead. He pondered on why nature moved in the way it did, why men acted how they would, and moreover in what way they are meant to act. He thought of the corsairs that ruled his homeland: was their way, in which the strong rule however they please and the weak suffer what they must, truly the correct state of affairs? He thought not, but it was the only way he knew—something within him told him it was wrong altogether for the minions of pirates and thieves to steal and kill the innocent as they pleased.
“And as he sat in the dark, John the Traveller began to hear music.
“It came from no source, and no matter where he moved or turned it would grow no softer nor louder, nor could he find any direction it sounded from. Voices and songs swirled around him, the most beautiful that he had ever heard, and he found himself letting go of the ground beneath him, lifted by a rising pillar beyond sight into the above.
“John looked down, and saw his resting place, and his home, and all the island that he had lived on in his life. He saw many lands beyond as well, ones he had never imagined could be, with surging rivers that fed strange seas, and mountains that scraped the heavens, and terrible shadows at the rim of the world. They were burning, these foreign lands, as was his own home, he saw beneath him—burning endlessly from the fires of conflict. And above him, John saw the celestial heavens.
“It was the Music of the Spheres that John heard, as they plied and moved across the sky and space in perfect balance, out of divine order. The code of the Web was calling to him, showing him that everything in every place, and all that moved and dwelt in the world, was aligned by the same principles, and the same laws, within the same Creation. There was a truth in the world, ingrained down to the tiniest particle, that could not be changed, altered, or mistaken by any man alive, nor would it ever cease to be true for all people, in all places. It was the Fact of All Fact.
“But the music grew cacophonous, and John was confused—why was this beauty interrupted? And then he realized what had happened in the Web, and what had to be set right.
“‘But how?’ he asked the heavens.
“Suddenly, the dissonance vanished, and only a single strain of sound remained. But it grew, louder and fuller, filling every inch of the world that John saw, and finally he understood what it was that spoke and sang to him. It was the Order of All Things, the Law Above Creation, the Light of Life, the Truth That There Is Truth, the Mind of Reason, the One, which made and pervaded everything and guides our lives. It was the Logos-Most-High, and through its music, John gained enlightenment.
“John wept when he recounted this, and told his sister that he had been called to set the Web to right. The music of all things had grown chaotic due to the folly of man—the mindfulness and brilliance that made our race unique and favored above all others had been corrupted, and turned into rapine and vice and evil. John had been given the knowledge of how man was meant to live in accordance with the order of the Web, and in his sister’s witness swore his oath:
“‘I, John, shall not rest in this life or any other, until the commands given to me by the Logos are set and followed and held as true in every corner of the Web. None alive will send me away from this path, and no power of the world or strength of arms will I allow to defeat me. The truth of this cause is greater than human, and it will not die. This I swear, by the Order of All Things.’”
— Excerpt from “The Book of Histories,” in the Books of Black and White.