//------------------------------// // Chapter XX: A Deceptive Cadence // Story: The World Within the Web // by Lord Max //------------------------------// Chapter XX: A Deceptive Cadence * * * * * * “The Loyal Wing of the Citadel of the Six is always buzzing with life: novices and veterans alike walk and sprint and talk, training with weapons to prepare for when their friends call upon them or simply passing the time in the way they know best. The liveliest of them all might just be the woman I sit with now: one of short stature, with burning grey eyes and a welcoming smile that rarely fades. Lady Madelin Artemelia Wright has served as the Warden of her branch for years now, but still treats her duty with the same enthusiasm as in her earliest days of service. Seated in what passes for her office, she is every bit as fond of asking questions as she is of answering them. I will also add that I have not had to make use of removing profanities until this interview was conducted.” Lady Wright: “Back from the very beginning, eh? Well, I’ll do what I can, but I gotta warn you now—it goes a ways down the line if you want the whole story. How the Hell are you anyways?” Lorelove: “I’m well, my lady. Thank you again for agreeing to help with this.” Lady Wright: “Well [expletive redacted], you can’t expect me to just hang around and lounge when I hear my favorite purple smartypants is writing up a book, can you? That’s right, I said favorite, but don’t you go tellin’ Mars! Ha!” Lorelove: “Without a doubt, my lady. If you—" Lady Wright: “Er, sorry for interruptin’, but have you got anything happening later today? Other book-stuff, I mean. I don’t need to be gabbing off my gums if you have places to be, hear?” Lorelove: “I’ve got all day, Lady Wright. Don’t hold back.” Lady Wright: “I can cut the chatter if you need me to, is what I’m meanin’. Just say the say if I’m wastin’ daylight, God knows no one around here ever does.” Lorelove: “Don’t worry, I’ll need every word.” Lady Wright: “Alright, you asked for it, don’t say I didn’t warn you. Ha! Now [she slams a hand on the table], where do I start? Home, I guess. That was ancient history, really, but like I said, the story goes a ways back down the timeline, understand?” “I was born out by Mead’s Creek, in the Redcup of the Land of Faces. Nice place, lot of trees, lot of cute little deer and such. I was the baby of the family—youngest, with a literal handful of older brothers. [She is silent for a moment, thinking about what she said] By literal handful, I meant five. Like fingers, get it? Never mind, forget that, point is it was my five brothers and my mom and dad, and a whole mess of other relations all in Clan Wright. I wasn’t like Mars when I grew up: I was never alone, never lackin’ people to talk to or look up to. And trust me, when you’re the youngest of the younglings, you’ve got a lot to look up to, see? You have brothers, Lorelove?” Lorelove: “A younger one, my lady.” Lady Wright: “Boy, that must’ve been a handful sometimes. I never had to worry about that, at least, but with a lot of people in the family that are a lot smarter or a lot stronger, or a lot prettier, or… well, alright, let’s just say it, a lot taller than you, some sorts might start to feel a little cramped. A bit claustrophobic is what I mean. Don’t get me wrong, I love my family, but you need your space, right? That’s what I thought anyways, so once I was eighteen I signed on with a merchant ship and started off across the Web, to find… well, something, I guess. I wasn’t very clear, all things considered. You probably think that’s pretty silly, you being all sorted out I mean.” Lorelove: “No, no, I understand—” Lady Wright: “Yeah, I mean, I get it. Don’t go off just because you could, right? I was pretty stupid when I was a kid, but hey, if it got me here it couldn’t have been all bad decision-wise. Ha! Anyhow, it was the Fine Vintage I served on first, the ship, I mean, and I’m guessin’ you can guess what we were shipping. Well, after that it was Redsum Dawn out of a southern port, then Cold Mountain, then the Kraken—urgh, can’t believe I had to remember that [expletive redacted] nightmare—then the Blast from the Past, don’t ask about the name you don’t even want to [expletive redacted] know, and then after that one was… ah, well the last one was the Brighter By Night. I saw a lot of places, in the years I spent out there. Halfway around the Web, if you’d believe it. I got to see north and south and Central, craggy mountains in one place and long deserts in another. I got as close to the Deep Web as I’d ever like to, and a few other neat places besides. I don’t mean to say that I’ve been there—just in case any Mods come askin’—but I’d say that if you were ever in Kio-Kyo, up past the Great Firewall, maybe smuggling, then you should try the river crab. The stars are pretty strange, up there. “It was weird, how the water would always be different, wherever I’d go—I never thought about that before I went out, you know? I saw blue water, green water, water that would freeze you in a half a heartbeat or the kind you could lie down in all day, fall asleep in if you wanted to. Calm in one place, but in the right stops? Dark, black, like its filled with ash, and stormy and rocky like you would never believe. That’s what the Chan was like, out in the Bay of Masks. “That last ship I told you about? The Brighter? She was a sinker. She’d been out on the Saying Sea almost twenty years, but it was twenty too many, because she couldn’t take the Bay. We were rescued, but I was washed up and washed out, and I didn’t feel like heading on another ship for a while. Didn’t see the point, so I made my way in the Chan instead. Those Channic know how to keep you busy, I’ll say that much. Won’t claim it was my proudest year, but it was something. Lorelove: “And that’s where you were for the First Rise?” Lady Wright: “You got it, kid. I was in Comchan then. I’d found some work, but it was oddjob nothingness, not something you have a heart for. Most of my time I was bottled up in some sink or in the slap-pits for money on the side. If you’ve got a talent, right? Well, it didn’t last long. “There was some talk, around Comchan. Some new weirdos, same as every week. But not the same, you see. Now, some people found these guys funny. A few of ‘em thought they had all the right ideas, and you’ll find a lot of those folks here in this Wing, if you ask around. And a lot of others thought that they were a little too [expletive redacted] much for one island. Now, I don’t wanna blame the last ones but… actually, no, scratch that, I do wanna blame ‘em, but yeah I get it, it was weird. Didn’t stop me getting curious, though. “You know, I see now why I couldn’t seem to stop anywhere, not at home and not when I was out sailin’. Even the Chan was just temporary, and you know why? ‘Cause I didn’t have a leg to stand on. I didn’t sink like the Brighter, but I was just floating, and that was pointless, really. Take my advice, kid: find what you want to do early, or might end up in tough straits, and you might lose yourself on the way. But you know what? I guess I found something after all, in Comchan that autumn. “Every word of it was everything, to me. I’d never had anything like it: I was drunk on the Six, and they filled me like nothing else. Can you remember when you first really listened? I mean, really, no jokes, no eye-rolling, no ‘just so I can laugh later,’ but really listened to them? I hope everyone in the fandom remembers that moment. Six save me, it’s still in me even now, and I’ll never shake it, I swear. I don’t want to, either. “I met a lot of people I liked, a lot I’d die for… but I started meeting the ones that might kill me, too. That’s the problem with new things: there’s always a pushback. Well, when the Channic push, they push hard, and a lot of my new friends were getting shoved over, if you understand me. I didn’t know it then, but I was a Loyal Friend before we even called ourselves that, and when it came to a brawl… well, I had my talents, remember? “There weren’t many of us, not at first, but we had something better than numbers. ‘The fire of friendship lives in our hearts,’ right? Well… heh, I guess maybe some dead men think I might have taken that ‘fire’ part a shade too literally.” — Part 1 of the interview of Lady Madelin Wright, the Warden of Loyalty, as recorded by Lorelove for use in her book, The Brony War. * * * * * * They were four hours in, and still getting nowhere. The inquiries demanded that they ask around the city watch and other staff in the Palace of Aureliano, but unsurprisingly most were either tight-lipped or said little they did not already know. This guard hardly seemed more promising, so far. “Did you ever observe Sir Harald Corey or his squire leave the Palace unattended?” Theosyrius asked wearily, using the same question that they had tried on several guards before. “Without any protection and without consulting anyone?” The man of the city watch, a man named Catus, scratched his thick beard, then shrugged. “No, can’t say I did. Only ever saw him around here, talking or shouting, depending on the day.” “Talking about what?” Coin Counter questioned, not liking their chances of anything new coming up. Three days, and still no one can attest to witnessing Sir Harald that night, or going to Nightside any night before, he thought. Standing alongside Theosyrius in the eastern wing of the Palace, Coin wondered if any of their colleagues were having better luck with the other residents. “Complaining, most times,” the guard Catus sniffed. “That Sir Harald hated everything. If it wasn’t the food, it was the beds, and if it wasn’t m’Lord and Lady Martes, it was you horse-lovers. The sir couldn’t stand them, is what I’m saying.” “He felt insulted?” Theosyrius pressed. “Yeah, all day every day,” he replied, rolling his eyes. “You should have heard this knight. Bull-headed, stubborn as a stump. Everything was an insult, or a threat, or something stupid like that. There was always something, you know?” “Was there any merit to his complaints?” Catus shrugged again. “Well, I didn’t like him. Hell, no one did, far as I could tell. Aureliano thought he was dragging his feet, so did the lady, and M’Lord Arcadio said he was as useless as he was pig-headed. The only person Harald seemed to like was his squire—I could tell he was always soft on him. Your two buddies didn’t like him either, though, ‘specially the one with the blue hair, Debrio or Daviano or…” “Dabrius,” Theosyrius corrected. “Yeah, that one. Sir Harald was always brushing him off, whenever he asked for stuff. Like, lifting the ban and such, or an apology for the Brony that went and killed himself down on the docks. Then they’d bicker for a while, then they go off, and then it’d start all over again the next day.” Same old, same old, Coin thought, recalling the other guards all saying the same. From what he had gathered, this Sir Harald had been very resistant to working with either side when he had come to the Dreamweave. The Bronies were demanding that the ban be lifted and reparations be considered for the Brony who had burned himself alive, but the Martes wouldn’t budge, and neither would Harald, no matter how sweetly or firmly he was asked. “Was there any time in particular, any conversations, that stood out to you or might be relevant?” Coin asked. “They all went about the same way,” the guard remarked, scratching his beard again. “Any talks, I mean. Some were longer than others, but there was a pattern, you know? First,” he said with a wave of his hand, “one of them would make a demand, then the other one would, then Harald would say ‘I can’t make a final decision yet’ or something. Then one of you horse-lovers would talk ‘bout some law or another, or M’Lord Arcadio’d talk about how Dabrius was a criminal, and then it’d go downhill from there.” The criminal accusations again, Coin thought. It had been the third or fourth time someone had accused Dabrius of being involved with some underworld connections in the city. It was probably pointless mudslinging, but he was curious how such a tale had been started. “Why did Lord Arcadio say that?” “Dunno. Not my job to question the commander, so I didn’t. M’Lord Arcadio doesn’t like your kind, begging your pardon,” the man said nonchalantly. “You don’t seem to share his opinion,” Theosyrius noted, seeming interested. Catus narrowed his eyes. “Don’t mistake me. Talking to you gets me out of guard duty, and beyond that it isn’t my business. I just do what the Martes tell me to do, when they tell it. The watch follows Lord Arcadio, so don’t go thinking I’ll do you a favor.” Theosyrius took the pass gracefully, but what the guard said got Coin thinking. “Lord Arcadio and Sir Harald didn’t get along, then?” The guard tilted his head at the question. “No,” he replied, “they didn’t care for each other.” “How so?” He stiffened. “Lot of insults. Name-calling. They didn’t care for each other, that’s all I said.” Coin could sense there was more to this than the man was saying. “That’s what you said,” he replied lightly, “but not all that you mean. Lord Arcadio thought he was useless? Too useless to side with the Martes in upholding the ban?” When Catus remained firm, Coin pressed the point. “You agreed to speak with us because we have Lord Halforth’s word behind us. ‘Hereby given leave to inquire,’ remember? You aren’t doing us a favor—just what the Lord Moderator demands.” Catus was silent, looking at Coin. Then, he looked around him carefully, scanning the hall in case anyone was listening or approaching. “Yeah,” he said eventually, “yeah it’s like you said. Lord Arcadio hated him, but I still think that Sir Harald would’ve ruled against you types in the end. There were times it was close, though. Lord Arcadio was always saying how Harald was a, ah, well a stupid son of a bitch, and the sir hated us right back. There was one time… honestly, I thought it was going to be a fight. Lord Aureliano had to pull the commander away, it got so bad, but that was months ago. Now listen, if you’re trying to say—” He stopped suddenly at the sound of footsteps approaching—several footsteps, walking in tandem, right towards them. “Deepening Hell,” he swore, looking away frantically, “I can’t be here, you all stay away—” “Catus!” called a familiar and unwanted voice. “I see you’re entertaining company.” Arcadio Martes, flanked by half a dozen of his scarlet-clad guardsmen, appeared in the hall, with his brother Aureliano trailing behind closely. Both the similarity and the difference between the two brothers was immediately striking: there was an instant resemblance, particularly in their eyes and faces, but Arcadio was sharp, lean, and strong where his elder brother, the ruler of the city, was soft and pouchy. At Aureliano’s arm was his wife, Pilara, looking at the Bronies with a disdainful curiosity. “M’Lord,” Catus said nervously, looking at the ground as he bowed his head. “What’s the meaning of this?” Aureliano demanded immediately, pointing a ringed finger at the Bronies in his sight, lifting the cuff of his fine robes. “Are you trying to succor my guards away from me?” Pilara put her hand on her husband’s shoulder, bracing herself close to him. “Trying to find traitors for their cause, no doubt,” she said in a low voice, her lips only an inch from Aureliano’s ear. “Are we to stand for this, my love?” “Certainly not,” Aureliano replied, countenance darkening. “If you think you can tempt away the protectors of my wife and this city, you are sorely mistaken, criminals.” Catus was shaking his head frantically at the approaching Arcadio, but Theosyrius stepped forward reluctantly. “My lords, my lady, please. There is nothing of the sort happening here, we were simply—" “Asking him the ordinary routine, like you did with my other guards?” Arcadio asked, thin lips turning into an unfriendly smile. “Well, I hope Catus was cooperative. Were you?” Arcadio asked, putting a red-gloved hand almost lovingly on the side of Catus’ face. “If I’d known you were so willing to whore yourself, I might have found better work for you. What do you say, Catus? Eager to prostitute yourself again?” Arcadio’s other hand was cradled around one of the knives at his belt. Catus paled, stammering quietly at the question. One of the other guards came forward, an ordinary-looking sort… aside from what he carried in his hands. Carried in front, with a finger perilously close to the trigger, Coin was shocked to see that the city watchman was clutching an Authority repeater, one of the finest weapons in the Known Web, and that several others in Arcadio’s party had the same. Whereas an ordinary variety of crossbow would require extensive time to reload, the one’s made in Central for the use of the Moderators operated by an ingenious mechanism that allowed them to be fed ammunition via the lever on the weapon’s bottom, letting it be fired extremely quickly. They were unparalleled in deadliness in the right hands, but prohibitively expensive—Coin found it amazing that a lowly city watch would have access to such equipment. That same crossbow was being gestured at the Coin and Theosyrius. “What should be done with these two, m’lord?” the guard asked to his commander. “Punish ‘em?” “Well, we can’t let Catus have all the attention, can we?” Arcadio laughed harshly. He rounded on the Bronies swiftly. “What say you, beanpole?” he asked mockingly to Theosyrius, poking him in the chest with a finger. “Oh, go on, mewl something in your defense.” Theosyrius pursed his lips. “My lord, we are simply gaining evidence for our investigation. We have a signed note from Lord Halforth,” he said, fetching the message from his coat pocket, “that says that we may do so in order to—" “Oh well, would you look at that!” Arcadio said with feigned amazement. “I suppose it really can talk. Now that is an extraordinary piece of paper, isn’t it? Don’t you think so, Catus?” The terrified Catus still did not respond, but one of the other troops his Arcadio’s party gave a very unpleasant smile. “Pretty neat, m’lord.” “Well, I think so. But what am I saying? This imbecile was blathering about something,” Arcadio said with a gesture to a red-faced Theosyrius, “and now I’m interrupting. Go on and tell me more, you annoying thing, this is fascinating." Theosyrius kept out the permit, holding it out like a shield in front of him. “Lord Halforth specifically gave us permission to—" Arcadio reached out a hand “— to gather evidence to support our innocence and—” the hand extended out slightly furthered, towards the paper “— and if you are insistent on verifying that I am certain we can—” Arcadio’s fingers were almost touching the paper, a smile growing on his face while Theosyrius uncomfortably tried to move away “— I, ah, I’m certain that we can be cooperative and…” Arcadio snatched the permit away, drew out his knife and slashed it apart in front of a shocked Theosyrius. The tatters of it fell in front of the Bronies’ feet, and Arcadio shrugged. “Oops,” he said innocently, “sorry about that, but it just broke so easily. Anything else?” The knife was still in his hand. It was a huge blade, thick with a metal band that covered his knuckles and glittered yellow. One could tell even from a distance that it was dangerously, obsessively sharp, and that it was threateningly close to a very nervous Theosyrius. “Oh, won’t you speak? How rude.” Aureliano was looking at the knife in his sibling’s hand, and seemed uncomfortable. “Brother,” he said hesitantly, “perhaps you could… I’m not certain that it is necessary. Come now, put that away.” Arcadio snorted. “Don’t let them ride over you, brother. The lord of our father’s city should be stronger than that.” Before Aureliano could respond, Arcadio took a step towards the Bronies, knife still in hand. “You and your ‘friends.’ You talk so much about them, but where are they now?” The blade drew very close to Theosyrius, inches from his neck. Coin’s hand went to his belt slowly, reaching for his weapon. “Where are your friends, hm?” “Right here.” They all looked to the side, and saw approaching another group of Bronies: four Honest Friends were flanking them, and in the center was Caleb, a heavy-set member of the Generous Friends that Theosyrius had called ‘The White Whale,’ and Jayson Joyfelt, clad in a long, pink coat. Both of the diplomats looked as serious and furious as Coin had ever seen them. “What is the meaning of this?” Caleb huffed as the Bronies approached their besieged compatriots. The knife in Arcadio’s hand lowered, but remained out as he smiled disingenuously at the newcomers. “My word, I didn’t realize lard-filled tubs could talk. I was questioning why this thing was interrogating one of my guards, if you must know.” "Questioning?” Jayson asked in disbelief. “You have a knife to his throat. Are you mad?” “This is utterly unacceptable,” Caleb said, stepping up to Theosyrius and drawing him away from Arcadio. "Utterly unacceptable, I say. I suggest you leave immediately, sir.” “Or what?” Arcadio asked, bemused. “I don’t intend to take orders from lumbering balls of suet,” he said with a wave of his hand to Caleb, “or men that dress up like pink crayons,” he gestured to Jayson. “You think anyone is frightened of you?” Lord Aureliano was looking between the Bronies and his brother uneasily. “Arcadio, perhaps we had best— “ “There isn’t a man alive that I fear,” Arcadio continued, a yellow flash in his eyes. “But none of you are men, are you? Try me, if you’re so certain of yourselves.” One of the Honest Friends drew forward: Kriseroff, dark and tall and with cold eyes looking intensely at Arcadio. “Do not take another step,” he said with an unsettling calm, “or it ends badly.” His large hand was tightened around an axe. “This one is Komaga," he remarked, patting the weapon, “and she can be thirsty. Don’t tempt Kriseroff.” Arcadio’s mouth curled into an unpleasant smile. “I can’t believe someone that bends over for horses is trying to threaten me. Me. You can’t even imagine how I’d like to hurt you.” The large knife in his hand drew closer, and he reached for the second one on his belt. “Brother,” Aureliano interrupted, placing a hand on Arcadio’s shoulder. “Enough with this now.” He seemed anxious with how his sibling had acted, and equally so with the threat of the Bronies close by. “They’ve learned their lesson, I’m certain.” Coin thought for a moment that he would not obey, but after a second’s hesitation, Arcadio slid the knife back into its sheath. “Fine,” he said ruefully. “Only for you, brother. This isn’t over, though: I’m sure I’ll see all of you later.” “Not over indeed,” Caleb said with narrow eyes. “This incident will not go forgotten, my lord. Not forgotten at all. You are being weighed even now.” “He is one to speak of ‘weight,’ isn’t he?” Pilara Martes remarked with a soft laugh. She had been looking on the entire scene with the same look of amusement, never seeming surprised or startled. “They come to your city after killing our friends, and then threaten your reign and your brother. It cannot stand, my love.” Aureliano thought about that for a moment, his expression growing firmer. “No,” he replied, “no it will not.” He gestured to his entourage. “We are leaving. Let them drum up their falsehoods on their own.” Arcadio threw one more scathing look at the Bronies, then did a mock-bow and followed behind his sibling. He grabbed Catus on his way out, shoving him along with the rest—Catus did not meet the Bronies eyes as he was led away. Coin finally let out a frightened breath once they had left. “Six save us,” Jayson said to Theosyrius and Coin, “what was all that about, then?” “We were only asking that guard some questions,” Theosyrius replied, still quaking. “He’s utterly mad, I tell you. A few more inches with that knife and…” He shuddered to think of it. Coin nodded. “Thank you for getting us out of that. Too close, really.” “It is nothing to speak of friend, truly nothing,” Caleb replied, patting his brow with a handkerchief. “I’ve little skill in arms, and I am no warrior of the Honest Friends, but I stand firm all the same when I must. Not that I’ve much choice in being, er, ‘hard to move,’ let’s say, eh?” He gave a reassuring smile to Coin. “We got worried after we saw the fop brigade passing your way,” Jayson explained, “I’m glad to know you’re both still in one piece.” “Kriseroff is sorry he was not by your side from the start, Sir Coin-friend,” Kriseroff said apologetically. “We had thought the house of Martes might be safe from dangers—a poor judgement, as we did not account for dangers within the House of Martes, you see.” His great brow furrowed, creasing the red apple tattooed under his eye. “The Arcadio carries a hunger in him. He is a void that is not filled, and he lashes out from starvation. Very dangerous.” Theosyrius was still breathing deeply, so Coin straightened himself out to answer. “I have to believe that you had a better time collecting testimony than we did.” “Well, there were no psychopaths pointing sharp things at our necks, but aside from that there was little to commend,” Jayson said sardonically. “It’s a good thing that we managed to persuade some of the courtiers and staff to help us, because otherwise I doubt we’d be able to find leads on anything. Lady Violet was wise to have us seek them out, but aside from them we’ve had little useful information. Most of it is the same few things over and over.” “Specifically speaking,” Caleb explained, “that Dabrius and Greenglade did not get along with Sir Harald, and that no one saw either of them or the victims on the night of the murder. Most of them would complain about Sir Harald’s character, as well.” “Yes, we heard much of the same,” Theosyrius said, having mostly recovered. “Most we spoke with seemed to think that the late Sir Harald was a less inspiring diplomat than might be hoped. Apparently, there was bad blood between him and Arcadio, as well.” Jayson and Caleb exchanged an interested look. “You think perhaps…” “I’ve nothing to prove it with. It tells us that our friends weren’t the only ones unhappy with the knight, though, and that means they weren’t the only ones with a motive. Someone killed Harald Corey and his squire: it’s just a matter of finding whom. Not that it will be easy, seeing that most everyone seems to have disliked the man.” Coin had given that point some thought as well. If determining a motive was the first step to determining guilt, it was worth noting that Sir Harald seemed particularly unpopular in the Dreamweave. There was a gulf of difference between disliking a man and stabbing him to death in the streets, however, and so far there was little that set any of those malcontents apart in terms of truly wanting the knight dead. Unfortunately, with the information they had, Dabrius and Greenglade seemed to have just as much if not more of a reason to want Sir Harald gone as anyone else, though Coin still did not believe them to be guilty. “This investigation is going to stall if we don’t have some way to corroborate our side of the story,” said Jayson. “We have people who can testify to seeing Dabrius and Greenglade leaving, but none that can place them somewhere other than the crime scene. Once we’re allowed to finally see Dabrius we’ll be able to properly consult him, but even then we’ll need more than his word alone. There must be someone in this city that knows something, and I don’t care where they’re hiding.” “On that point, we all agree,” Caleb nodded, bobbing his head into one of his necks. “Ah, but it seems we have some more prestigious company now. Look alive, my friends.” Coin shifted to see who was coming now, hoping that it wasn’t more Dreamweavers, and was pleasantly surprised to see the Assistant Warden, Proximo Hart, instead. He wore a white jacket over a violet vest, with a light blue tie fastened under his collar, and at his arm was a young woman that Coin did not recognize. He guessed that she was younger than either him or Hart, eighteen or twenty, perhaps. She stepped lightly and anxiously beside the accompanying servant of the Generous Friends. Her black hair was cut short, aside from her bangs, and she dressed relatively simply for what was presumably a Palace courtier of some variety. The woman was petite, pretty while not being exceptionally beautiful, and seemed ill at ease around strangers. “My friends,” Proximo Hart said, narrow eyes lighting up upon seeing them, “you are all precisely who I was looking for. I trust your work is proceeding well?” “Would that it were better,” Caleb admitted. He turned his attention to the girl. “But before we speak of business, it seems you have us at a loss, dear Proximo. Quite a loss, I daresay. I am afraid that I’ve never been introduced to your lovely companion,” he said with as deep a bow as his large body could manage to the woman. “Imelia Kohburn,” the lady replied with a bow of her own, blushing slightly. “It is a capital pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lady Kohburn, a capital pleasure indeed,” replied Caleb, being the soul of courtesy to the lady. “I myself am called Caleb Mathet, servant of the Most Generous Friend. My brother under that station is Theosyrius Kang, while my laughing friend is Jayson Joyfelt, a singer of praises and deeds when he chooses to do so. And my honest friends are Sir Coin Counter, Kriseroff Hathi, Applewood, Apple Orange, and Brandon Dempsay.” All of the people he named gave their own greetings, while Imelia Kohburn replied in kind, seeming slightly overwhelmed at all the new people. “At any rate,” Jayson said after introductions were over, “I’m guessing you came here for a reason, Proximo. If you’d like a status report, I’m afraid that our findings haven’t amounted to much more yet. Although we did just have an unsavory encounter with the Martes a moment ago, which the lady will be very keen to hear about.” “And I as well,” Hart replied. “But I actually came to discuss something with Sir Coin, if you can spare me a moment, sir.” “Ah, of course,” Coin replied, surprised that this concerned him specifically. “Excellent. I swear it won’t take much of your time, sir.” He turned to his lady companion. “Imelia, could you excuse me for just one moment?” She nodded, drawing herself into conversation with Caleb as Hart led Coin away. Jayson followed the two of them, though he seemed less interested in business. “I see you have a new lady-friend, Proximo,” he said with a grin, nudging Hart in the ribs with his elbow. “ ‘Love is in bloom, a beautiful bride, a handsome groom,’ eh?” Proximo gave a wan smile. “Secure that noise, Jayson. She’s volunteered to aid our cause, nothing else.” “Is that what you’re calling it now?” the pink-garbed man teased amiably. “I’m only joking—Laughing Friend, remember?” He clapped a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Take care, though: you’re liable to make our Warden of Generosity jealous, and I don’t even want to think about how dangerous that might be.” Proximo Hart smiled at the comment, but Coin could tell that the subject made him uncomfortable—he seemed very eager for the conversation to drift away from his ‘lady-friend’ as soon as possible. They proceeded into a side-room, where Hart leaned up against a wall to face Coin. He ran a hand through his thick, black hair, and then spoke. “I hope, Sir Coin, that my seeking you did not cause any undue alarm,” Proximo said sympathetically. “But Lady Violet—and myself—believe that there is an opportunity to advance our investigation that only you are equipped to handle. Would you be prepared to help us?” “I… well I’ll do what I can,” Coin replied carefully, wondering what this ‘opportunity’ was, exactly. “I am yours to command, my lord.” Hart nodded in reply. “As you know,” he explained, “we are not the only ones seeking to find the truth here. Lord Halforth and his staff are working restlessly to discover who killed their fellow Mod, and Lady Violet believes that having one of our men working more closely with them—as a liason, you see—will aid our progress in more ways than one. That man should be you.” “Me?” Coin said, surprised. “You have no problem working with Mods, enough experience in investigations that Halforth cannot object to you out of hand, and you’ve already had some time working with the Peacekeepers. You are the clear choice, sir: no one else would be accepted, given the Lord Moderator’s strict standards.” It made perfect sense, though Coin still felt uncertain about the whole affair. “What am I to do, then?” “Officially, you are to act as the Warden’s representative with the Peacekeepers, as they collect evidence. The Lord Moderator understands that the streets are unwelcoming to us, so he is allowing this as a way of providing a degree of protection by working closely with the Mods—no man would be foolish enough to assault you while you’re with them. And, since Halforth is preoccupied with clearing out the scum of the city, he see’s this as a way to keep us informed as to the proceedings. Since he is legally required to provide us with disclosure as to details his Peacekeepers' findings, this is a useful way for him to do so. Work with them closely, and aid them where you can.” “And unofficially?” Coin asked, picking up on his meaning. “We have been experiencing a slight… issue, with our appointed judges,” Proximo admitted, abashed. “We need two of them to side with us, in order to find our friends innocent. But we’ve come to fear that swaying Sir Alwin Cameron may be impossible, under present circumstances. Sir Borlund has the man under his thumb, and Cameron is being kept away from us and from the evidence at all costs. So long as Borlund controls him, we have no hope of success at all, and we have no means of separating the two so that we can convince him of our case with him being bullied into submission.” Proximo looked at Coin, as though testing his understanding. “By placing you into the Mod’s midst, you give us a unique opportunity, sir. You can access Sir Alwin in a more direct way than we can hope for, and get around everything that keeps him in thrall. Drive a split between him and Barr, and we have a chance, at last.” Coin thought about the plan. On the surface, at least, it was sound: there was simply possible no way to succeed if Cameron could not be convinced, seeing that there was no way Sir Borlund would side with the Bronies. But it opened up its own host of problems. “But how am I meant to do that?” asked Coin Counter, unsure. “I worked with the PKs, yes, but I’ve never met this Sir Alwin. Why would he listen to me?” “You carry the prestige of a long-serving knight, for a start. As a junior officer, Sir Alwin may listen to you on rank alone, joined with the Collective though you are. But,” he admitted, “there is truthfully no guarantee that he will listen to you, sir. I wish I could offer you such a certainty, but I cannot. Do whatever you can to enter into the Mods’ trusts, and do whatever you can to sway our judges to our side. Perhaps it will not be enough, in the end… but I do know that you’ve the best chance of anyone in our charge.” Looking down to the floor, Coin carefully considered the idea. Seeing his doubt, Hart smiled reassuringly, and put a hand on his shoulder. “I’ll tell you this much: Lady Violet would not have chosen you if she did not have the utmost confidence in your ability. And if I didn’t as well.” Coin Counter returned the smile, grateful for the kind words. He breathed out. “I have my duty, it seems. I’ll do it, my lord.” Proximo Hart bowed his head. “Thank you, sir. You may just save us yet.” Before Coin and Hart departed, however, the generous assistant stopped him with a hand. “There was one other thing, however,” he said delicately. “Sir Coin, I hope you will forgive me if anything I say seems suspecting of you. That is not my intent, nor Lady Violet’s. You have already been asked about your position with us, and every answer you gave was more than satisfactory. But I feel the need to warn you nonetheless: it may be that working closely with the Authority again, with Mods not unlike those you once served, might open itself to difficult questions.” He looked at Coin with a knowing expression, as though he understood what it meant to have split loyalties. Coin considered those words. There was every reason to be concerned, he realized: when a man spends half his life in service to something, it’s not unreasonable to guess it might have some lasting impact. It was something Coin had been approached about before, but that was before anyone was certain that he’d be working side-by-side with his former masters again. Admittedly, it unsettled him slightly: should the mission require him truly working against the Mods, misleading old loyalties for the sake of new ones, how would he… Coin Counter shook the thought from his mind. There’s no space for doubt now, he repeated to himself. “I understand, my lord. I might not wear blue, but that doesn’t mean I can’t be a loyal friend. I gave my word.” “I apologize for putting you in an awkward position, Sir Coin. Truly I do,” Proximo Hart said, understanding. “Should you ever require any help—or just want someone to talk to—don’t hesitate to seek me out, or any other man of the fandom on this island. We stand together, or we fall alone, as they say.” He sighed, and ran a hand through his hair again, giving it more volume. “If the others can spare you, I believe that the Moderators are in the Palace again—you can join them now, if you like.” The others were disappointed to see Coin leave, but they understood the gravity of the duty ahead of him enough to not begrudge the loss. After some goodbyes from all of them—and a crushing hug from Kriseroff—Coin took his leave, seeking out the Peacekeepers. Hart left as well: apparently he was travelling to the Kohburn woman’s home, a fact that raised some thinly-veiled jokes at his expense from Jayson and Kris. Coin didn’t know where the Dreamweaver lady had come from, but he was glad that she seemed prepared to help, at least. Coin made his way through, heading through to where he had been told the Mods could be found. He walked alone, though he hardly felt at risk within the heavily guarded Palace, and kept a fair pace as he turned through the winding red halls. He was wrapped up in thoughts: every step brought back a memory of sorts, or some half-remembered lesson from his academy days in Central, or recollections of squiring under Sir Samuel Harker those years ago. Coin wondered how he was meant to go forward with his new task: with so much riding on it, there was no room for him to fail or fall behind. He was so deeply entrenched in his thoughts that he did not realize that others were rounding a corner at the same time as him. Coin slammed into the man, colliding and falling down immediately. The one he’d knocked down wasn’t the only person in the group: an angry man, finely dressed with hair dyed in red and burgundy, loomed above Coin as he sat on the ground, dazed. “Watch where you’re going!” the man yelled impatiently. “Honestly, as though a man can’t walk around and have a conversation in this damnable house without having some half-wit clumsy fool of a guard smash into you like—" He stopped speaking, once he examined Coin further, looking up and down at his attire. “No, not a guard. Our luck, Ott.” “Sorry, sorry, sir,” Coin stammered, lifting himself quickly, and moving over to the man who fell and extending a hand—he could only really see the back of his dark-haired head, but the one he knocked over seemed thin and was garbed in bright blue. “I really didn’t see you there,” he grasped the fallen man’s hand and pulled him up, “here let me—“ Coin had to restrain a gasp when he helped the stranger up to his feet, and saw his face. The one who looked back at him was utterly unnatural. His skin was brown, but only partially: huge, hideous spots of milky white were stretched all across his cheeks, his eyes, his mouth and neck and hands, giving him the same complexion as one of those paint horses from the Blurr. His whole right eye was immersed in one of these patches, a circular pale island in a dark sea, and another seemed to snake up his left arm, though much of it was obscured by the hem of his sleeve. A single spot of it was resting on his left cheek, as well, underneath his eye like a teardrop. The hand that Coin had grabbed was bony, the man attached to it sickly thin. Coin tried to suppress his shock at the sight, but had trouble containing himself—this stranger was like nothing he had ever seen. If the man noticed Coin’s gawking, however, he did not show it. Instead, he smiled faintly as he brushed himself off. “Don’t trouble yourself, sir. I’m quite alright. I hope you’ll forgive me for not paying better attention myself: Amberten here is always saying that my head is too often in the clouds, so to speak.” His blue eyes scanned up and down Coin, as though measuring him. “You are guest in the Palace, yes?” “Ah… I— yes. I am, yes,” Coin said haltingly, still startled. “A fascinating building, is it not?” the black-and-white man said. “I grew up here, in the Dreamweave, under the shadow of this manse. I’ve always loved its history, myself. Did you know that when he—Aureliano the First that is, those many, many years ago—told others of his plan to build it, they said he would only succeed when tigers flew?” He laughed. “A comfortable impossibility, you see. The first lord of the Dreamweave built it anyways, and took a winged tiger as his family symbol to spite them. Wonderful history.” “Watch where you’re going next time,” the large and well-dressed man with the dyed hair said to Coin, head darting around to make sure no one was coming. He seemed oddly nervous, having stopped, and eager to move on quickly. “Come now, Ott, let’s be off.” “Now now, Amberten, there is no call to be hasty.” The strange-looking man smiled. “This man is a guest. I think some introductions are well in order, are they not?” He bowed his patchy head low to Coin. “My companion’s name is Lord Byrios Amberten, to start. My name is Heylen Ott, guest of Martes—I have the honor of being Grandmance of the Dreamweave, serving the Guild eternal.” Coin Counter went pale, as much as he tried to avoid showing his panic. Darting his eyes down to Ott’s wrist, Coin saw it: a twisted black tattoo, strange geometric shapes that spun and settled into an almost arrow-like array pointed down towards his hand. There were other markings around it—curling, twisting tendrils of fire that surrounded the official image—but there was no mistaking it: a registration tattoo, one that was required by Authority law to be printed on the arms of any man with the cursed blood. A cybramancer! Coin thought, frightened that he had just touched the hand of a thing that could deal out death in a heartbeat with the dark powers. “I’m certain you have a name of your own, no?” Coin snapped back to attention. “Coin,” he replied quickly, “Coin Counter, of the Honest Friends.” The cybramancer, Heylen Ott, closed his eyes and nodded. “A Brony of the Collective. An interesting coincidence—we were just discussing your fandom a moment ago, weren’t we Amberton?” “Yes,” the lord replied, sounding vaguely angry at the question, “now let’s go, Ott.” “I don’t mean to keep you any longer, Mister Coin,” Heylen Ott continued, ignoring his companion, “but my friend and I were of two different minds on something, and now I wonder whether you might help us resolve it.” “Let’s not waste his time, come on,” Amberten insisted, gripping Ott’s shoulder. “In a moment, please.” The cybramancer put his white hand over the wrist on which his tattoo was printed, gripping it down at his side, as though out of habit. “You say you are of the Honest Friends?” Coin nodded, not liking where this was going. He glanced down at Ott’s hands, worried that at any moment he might pull out one of their ritual knives to slice across his own palms, powering some spell with his cursed blood. “Then I pose you a quandary, honest friend.” He smiled gently, blue eyes looking deeply at Coin. “If one swears an oath, the honest course is to maintain that promise, yes? And if one knows a certain truth, it is rightly said to be honest when one reveals that truth, correct?” “I… I suppose so. Yes, that is right,” Coin said, confused. “Quite so. But here is where my friend and I were disagreeing: if one has sworn an oath of secrecy, but one also knows that to say the truth will be beneficial, which is the more honest path? Do we have an obligation to always say what is true, even if there are circumstances that compel us not to? Or would it be dishonest to forsake the oath, even if it were to tell the truth?” Coin opened his mouth to answer, then shut it again. This is some manner of game, he thought quickly, and who knows what a wrong answer means. He glanced down again at the man’s wrist, wary of what might come. “Well,” Coin said carefully, “given those two choices, I would say that neither is ideal. Both ways require some dishonesty. The question is just which of two bad options is best.” Heylen Ott nodded, smiling. “And your answer?” Coin thought, then chose. “I would think that telling the truth is best, if it were truly right to do, as you said.” “Even if others disagree?” Heylen asked, shooting a glance to Amberten, who seemed more ready to leave than ever. “As long as they weren’t correct, yes,” Coin answered. The cybramancer laughed gently. “We’re of the same opinion, Mister Coin. Are you one of the investigators, then? I would wager you have the mind for it.” “I am, yes.” “We’re leaving, Ott,” Amberten demanded impatiently, head darting around again. “In a moment,” Heylen said firmly. “Not in a moment,” he replied angrily, “now." Amberten wrenched Ott away quickly enough that the cybramancer bumped into Coin’s side again, and walked quickly down the hall with the Grandmance. Heylen Ott still found the time to say goodbye. “Sorry that I have to run, but good day to you, Mister Coin! Hopefully we shall see one another again soon, and best of luck!” And like that, they were both gone, moved on into the Palace. Coin took a moment before continuing, still ill at ease. Six save me, he thought, what in life’s light was that about? Coin had been told that the diplomatic team was trying to make headway in swaying some of the Dreamweave nobles to their side, and had been gathering information as well. He wondered what they had learned about this Heylen Ott. Talk of honesty and dishonesty, and angering his friend while doing so. That’s something to look into, if I ever saw it. During his years training to become a Moderator, Coin had learned about the cybramancers, and they were on his mind as he continued his way forward. True, he had not studied them as much as one planning on policing the Guild would have to, but it was a necessary subject for any man of Central, who still remembered bitterly the dangers of the curse. The cybrahakar were an old and dangerous foe of the Authority, not least because of their close affinity for what they called ‘the other arts’—vile and ruinous powers, in truth, that sapped a man of his strength and sanity, degrading them down to early death if they were lucky, and madness if they were not. He remembered that his mentor, Sir Samuel, had once told him that cybramancers were prone to deformity: a sign of their condition, of them being rotted away from the inside out. Ott’s own appearance was no doubt due to just that. Their sick and perilous nature was something drilled into Coin constantly during his academy years, and that training made him shudder to contemplate being so close to one of them again. Learning the truth about Lord Feylen Mars was enough, he thought, remembering that time in the Citadel of the Six, now I have another one interested in me, though for what reason only God knows. He was still thinking of the implications when he found himself in the space allotted to the Moderators in the Palace. The way Hart had worded it, he wasn’t sure if the Mods would have all returned yet, seeing that they were taking care of some official business in shutting down illegal circles in the city, but he was pleasantly surprised to hear familiar voices carried down from the hall. “...it is not a matter of no motive being present,” came a formal woman’s voice, “but rather that said motive is flimsy at best. There were others in the court with just as many if not more grievances.” “Yeah, but none of those other ones were chattin’ ‘bout takin’ him out the night before,” said a man. “There’s your difference.” “There’s a lot of talk about that conspiracy in the city,” said another woman, distant and different from the first. “One of the Bronies was accused of being part of it. Considering the testimony, that might be true.” Coin approached the room that the voices came from, and heard the formal voice speak again. “Well, we had best hear that testimony prior to any judgments here, though Sir Depravity certainly seemed—“ She stopped mid-sentence, hearing something, then turned around to notice Coin about to knock on the open door. “Sir Coin?” said Cellia Ravenry, sounding pleased. “It is good to see you again, sir. Are you by any chance here on your warden’s orders?” “I am, m’am.” “Huh, so you’re the one they sent to us?” asked the man in the room. If Coin remembered correctly, then the auburn-haired Peacekeeper that was sitting at a table in a large, but very bare room, was named Perseverance Cartwright. He sat beside the other PK that Coin remembered, the very pale, monotone woman named Abigail Cawtler. “Well, welcome to the team, bud. Assumin’ his honor approves yah.” “He seems clean. Lord Halforth approves of that,” said Abigail absently, staring blankly at Coin. “Why was he sent?” “Sir Coin is the liaison that the Brony Collective has sent for Lord Halforth’s convenience,” Cellia explained. “He shall be on hand to deliver our findings to his superiors personally, and do the same for theirs’. It should be a convenience, seeing how preoccupied his honor has been since we arrived.” She smiled cordially and extended a black-gloved hand. “Allow me to welcome you, Sir Coin: I am certain that you will be a great help to us.” Coin took the hand and shook it. “Er, likewise, m’am.” Perseverance chuckled. “Aw, yah don’t have to go and call us all sirs and m’ams and such. She’s just ‘Cellia,’ I’m just ‘Percy,’ and she’s just ‘Abigail.’ ” “You can call me ‘m’am,’” said Abigail, still emotionless. Coin found it very hard to tell if she was making a joke or not. “So,” Coin said after a moment’s pause, “where do I start?” “We’ve got a witness comin’ in, soon as Lord Halforth and the sir get back,” Percy chimed in. “‘Suppose that’ll be interestin’ enough.” “A witness?” Coin said in surprise. “A witness to the…” “He didn’t spy on the killing,” Abigail said, “but he knows more than anyone so far.”          It took only a moment for them to arrive. Footsteps: some light, some heavy were echoing through, along with an excited pattering sound. Entering the room, the Lord Moderator almost seemed to glide past, arms behind his back, followed closely by Sir Depravity Blair and another man, a scruffy sort that Coin did not recognize. Bounding beside the knight, panting blissfully, was Sir Depravity’s shaggy black dog, Roger. As soon as Lord Halforth arrived, all three of the Peacekeepers stood up at attention, followed almost as quickly by Coin. “Your honor,” said Cellia, standing straight with chin high, “the Brony representative has arrived to us.” Lord Halforth spared a glance to Coin, then looked back to the PKs. “As you were, all of you.” Percy and Abigail returned to their seats, while Coin remained standing. Cellia did the same, albeit without much of the stiffness of before, particularly after Roger the dog came running up to her excitedly, tail wagging frantically back and forth. She tried to maintain her stoic stance, but broke quickly after the dog started nipping playfully at her hand. “Roger!” she laughed, scratching the dog’s head with one hand and chest with the other as she knelt down to him. “Little rascal, are you causing more trouble, then?” Roger whined loudly and started to lick at her face, making her laugh all the more. “Miss Ravenry,” Lord Halforth interjected, shooting her a quick glance, “your decorum.” She stopped doting on the dog, looking embarrassed. “Sorry, your honor,” she said, standing back up again. Roger turned away, disappointed, but she gave him one last pat on the head for good measure. “Roger, come here you,” Sir Depravity said sourly, snapping his fingers. The dog rushed over, tail wagging again, and started leaning up against the knights legs as he stood, threatening to push him over. “God Almighty, you are a pain,” he said to the dog, scratching the creature’s ear. “So,” Lord Halforth said mildly, “you are the one your warden has sent to us.” He did not look at Coin, but instead retrieved a metal cylinder set down on the table, and lightly turned the top of it. “I am, your honor,” Coin Counter replied. “My name is Coin Counter, of the Honest Friends.” Lord Halforth continued to undo the cap of the cylinder, slowly removing it. “Miss Ravenry mentioned your name. You were a knight, correct? Of the Order of the Fair Trade?” “Ah, yes. Yes, your honor,” he said, nervous as to how the Moderator would receive this news. “Interesting,” Lord Halforth mused, fetching a small cup from the table. He poured some hot, black liquid into the receptacle, screwed the lid back onto the cylinder, and set it down. “You have some experience with inquisitorial matters, then? And with the expectations of Authority operators?” “Yes, your honor.” He took a sip of whatever it was that he had poured into the cup—Coin was fairly certain it wasn’t tea or coffee, but couldn’t really be sure. “For how many years did you serve?” “Ah, well,” Coin said, “I was a full knight for five years, and squired two years before that under Sir Samuel Harker, in the Order I mean, but before that I was also in the academy since I was thirteen, so in—" “I will accept you on conditional grounds, sir,” Lord Halforth said, cutting him off. “First, shorten your responses. That question could have been answered with two words, four if you prefer to be polite. The warden of your branch is appropriately succinct, so follow his example.” Ignoring Coin’s abashed look, the lord continued. “Furthermore, I will remind you that you are here purely as a point of convenience, due to unexpected demands of our time. Do not mistake your position as one of privilege, and never presume to speak with my voice. Finally, my subordinate Miss Ravenry has offered to take responsibility for the choice of including you to this extent. As such, any disappointment on your part will reflect on her.” He looked at Coin with a grave seriousness, cold grey eyes drilling into him. “Do not disappoint.” “Y— yes, your honor.” “Is this entirely necessary?” Sir Depravity asked, looking displeased. “My team has enough to worry about as it is, and forcing us to play babysitter for some horse-lover traitor won’t improve things.” “If it should become burdensome, I will suspend the practice immediately,” Lord Halforth said with a shrug, taking another sip. “As it stands, I would prefer to make the attempt.” Sir Depravity crossed his arms. “It’s a waste of time. At any rate, he might try to sabotage us,” he continued, still talking as though Coin were not right in front of him. Cellia gave Coin an apologetic look, but truthfully he had grown fairly used to people insulting him at this point: stay in the Dreamweave long enough, and all fell to background noise. Coin was mostly focused on the man that had accompanied Lord Halforth and Sir Depravity, the one that was standing awkwardly in the corner while this official discussion continued. He was unkempt in appearance, with a scraggly beard and long, messy hair, seeming unhappy to be around Mods. Coin assumed that this man was the witness that Percy mentioned. Witness to what, though? “Then you had best keep a close eye on him, sir. I am certain that Miss Ravenry and the rest of our subordinates will. Correct?” Cellia replied with a salute and an immediate “Yes, your honor,” while Percy was content to give a more nonchalant “Yessir.” Abigail replied, “I’m already watching” in a calm voice. Sir Depravity looked as though he were keen to argue further, but chose not to. The dog at his legs, however, suddenly decided that it was bored being where it was, and instead barreled over to see Coin, eager to meet a potential new friend. Roger started to sidle back and forth in front of Coin, then tried to force his head between the man’s legs while Coin tried desperately to dissuade him. “Roger seems to approve, at least,” Lord Halforth remarked, shooting a sideways look to the dog. “He approves of everyone, the stupid fool of a mutt,” Sir Depravity noted morosely. "Roger, would you knock it off? Have some damn dignity.” Roger cheerfully ignored him, proceeding to rub his ear up and down on Coin’s leg while panting loudly. “Your honor,” Coin said while trying to ignore the animal, “I was told that there was a witness that I might, er, see. Is this…” “I’m him, yeah,” said the civilian. “I was the one that saw him, the night it happened, y’know.” Lord Halforth motioned to a chair, indicating it to the witness. The man took a seat; Coin did the same, hoping that Roger might give it up if he sat down. It didn’t work, and instead the dog simply rested his chin on Coin’s leg while wagging his tail. “Mister Cartwright?” said Lord Halforth. “Take note of all this. We can prepare a formal transcript once we have finished.” “Got it, yer honor,” Percy replied, whipping out a notepad and pencil. Setting down the cup in his hand, Lord Halforth made his way to the head of the table and seated himself. “Please state your name for the record.” “Adrios,” said the witness, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “M’lord.” “You are aware, Adrios, that whatever you state in this record can and will be cross-referenced with other evidence, to ensure its veracity?” Lord Halforth asked intently. The witness Adrios blinked in confusion. “Uh…” “His honor is telling you not to lie,” Sir Depravity explained impatiently. “Oh, righto.” “ ‘Righto,’ indeed,” Lord Halforth replied. “Lying under oath is a grave offense. Pray you do not commit it. So,” the Moderator continued, raising a hand, “do you swear on your life and soul to tell the whole and entire truth, by the Logos?” Adrios nodded nervously. Lord Halforth then said, “Make a note that the subject showed compliance, Mister Cartwright.” Grey eyes focusing intensely on the witness, he said, “What is your trade, sir?” “Gardner, m’lord,” Adrios replied. “I do work ‘round the Palace.” “What did you observe on the night of Sir Harald’s murder?” Adrios looked around at everyone in the room, eyes glancing back and forth before he answered. “I have a shift at the Palace most every day, tendin’ to the plants and such. Most times when I’m done I go to a bar on t’other side of town. Out by Nightside.” “The name of the bar?” asked Sir Depravity. “Er, the Greenfield, m’lord. I was there the night of the… the murder.” Percy was scratching down notes, while the Lord Moderator continued to study the witness. “Continue,” Lord Halforth said. The witness swallowed. “I was sittin’ in the bar, but I stepped out for a while. It was about one in t’morning, and I know ‘cause I checked m’watch. I was just breathin’ and scannin’ around out in the street. That’s when I saw him comin’ out of an alley. He was all wrapped up in a cloak, but I saw his face and I know who it was. He was headin’ towards Nightside.” “Sir Harald?” Coin blurted out. He hadn’t meant to speak out of turn, but someone finally being able to testify witnessing the knight and what he was doing spurred him on despite himself. “No,” Adrios replied. “Dabrius Joh. The horse-lover.” Coin’s heart sank just hearing it. “Are you certain?” he heard Lord Halforth ask. “Yes m’lord, completely. Saw him all the time, workin’ at the Palace. He and the other passed by almost every day or so. Dark hair, blue dyed, beard, wore white and purple most times. It was definitely him, m’lord.” “And he was going towards that slum, Nightside?” Sir Depravity asked, smile forming on his face. “The same place where Sir Harald and his squire would be murdered not an hour later,” he noted with a triumphant tone. “Yeah, that’s right,” Adrios replied. “I saw him go straight into it. He was tryin’ not to be noticed, but I saw him.” Lord Halforth shot a slow glance to Sir Depravity, who still looked as though he’d won first prize in some tourney. “Was this the first occasion that you had seen Mister Joh venture to Nightside?” he asked. The witness shook his head. “No, no I’d seen him there before. Told you, m’lord, I always went to the same bar. Well, I’d see him pass by the same way, and go to the same place. Into Nightside, m’lord. Least five times, before that night.” There was a pause in the questioning, while all the Moderators exchanged knowing glances—some suspicion had just been proven true in their mind, Coin knew. “Did you ever report this behavior?” Lord Halforth asked pointedly. “Er, no m’lord,” Adrios answered, wringing his hands. “Didn’t really know why he was there. Wasn’t my place, really.” “People thinking that it is not their business to intervene is the source of great misery among us,” Lord Halforth replied. “Why is it that you didn’t come forward with this sooner?” Coin asked. Adrios rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. “I was a bit afraid to say it, to say the truth. Didn’t like the idea of bein’ stabbed, myself.” “By whom?” asked Coin, finding it hard to believe that Dabrius and Greenglade would be found so fearsome from their cells. “Who indeed,” Lord Halforth stated. He looked carefully at Adrios. “You have heard the allegations that this Brony ambassador was involved with a criminal conspiracy, likely based in the city slums?” Adrios nodded. “Aye m’lord. They say…” he hesitated, and spoke quietly, “well, I’ve heard them say it’s the Changelings.” Coin blinked, unsure that he had heard that correctly. “The what?” “The Martes family claims that there is a Brony group trying to overthrow the Dreamweave government from within,” Cellia explained. “A group comprised largely of nobles, merchants, and courtiers sworn to the Collective secretly. One that calls themselves the ‘Changeling Society.’” Coin didn’t hide his disbelief. “If there are masses of people eager to help my friends and I, placed at every level of the city, then no one told me. Most people just try to attack us,” he remarked. He realized immediately that he had spoken out of turn. “Ah, with due respect, your honor.” “I’d take this more seriously if I were you, horse-lover,” Sir Depravity said with narrowed eyes. “Your friend, this Dabrius Joh, is said to have been in close contact with this cabal. A criminal gang, hiding in the slums, whose only goal is to advance your fandom’s interests, along with a dissatisfied ambassador who had publicly threatened Sir Harald just hours before his murder. The same Sir Harald that showed every sign of ruling against that same fandom, and that same ambassador?” Sir Depravity snorted contemptuously. “That seems a compelling theory to me.” Coin thought about that. Even he had to admit that, of any possible suspects, Dabrius seemed the most implicated thus far. He had a motive, had outright declared a willingness to commit the act (even if it was an idle slip and nothing more), and if this claim of a ‘Changeling Scoiety’ was true, he had the means of carrying it out as well—a large backing of moneyed interests, guided directly by the Brony Collective. That’s a big ‘if,’ though, Coin thought. “If you don’t mind my asking,” Coin said to the witness, “you saw no one else with Dabrius?” “No sir, not a one. Alone, he was.” “The other Brony ambassador, Greenglade, was not with him? Nor any other individual you know of?” “He was alone, I said.” Coin leaned back in his chair. “Sir Harald and his squire were murdered by a group of at least three. For someone with the backing of a large criminal conspiracy, Dabrius seems very alone in this account.” He looked to Sir Depravity. “Is there any evidence that this group exists, or is it just the Martes saying so, sir? You cannot say that they speak without bias.” “We’ll find whether it’s real or not soon enough,” Sir Depravity replied, a hint of anger entering his tone. “But let me ask you: you’ve had investigators combing every inch of Nightside, and chatting up every bar or dive in the slums, but have you found a single place that claims that they saw Dabrius Joh turn up for a night on the town? Not a one. So if he wasn’t out for that, then why was he there the night a man he hated happened to be killed, in the same place no less? How do you reconcile that?” “I…” Coin started to say, wanting to choose his words carefully. Can’t afford to offend now, he thought, not with what might be at stake. “I do not know. What Dabrius was doing there, I mean. But I do know,” he continued, “that it would a great deal easier to find out if we were able to speak with him, in a cell or not. We still haven’t received that permission.” “I have seen to it that such an audience is given,” Lord Halforth replied. “In due time. We are interested in that information as well, but Aureliano has insisted on delaying. No doubt that imbecile brother of his is behind it. He has promised an interview soon, but my patience is beginning to wear thin. Rest assured, though,” he said evenly, “you will have your chance to speak with him.”          The witness, Adrios, shifted awkwardly in his seat. “Er, beggin’ your pardon m’lord, but am I free to go or—" “No,” the Lord Moderator answered sharply. “You will remain and aid us in preparing an official affidavit of your testimony. Plants are not known to move a great deal, so I am certain that your own ones will keep for a few hours.” As Adrios sank in his seat, Lord Halforth turned to Coin. “Sir, if you would like to remain for the process of recording and transcribing said affidavit, you are welcome to do so. I would understand, however, if you would prefer to deliver this news to your wardens immediately.” “That would be best, I think, your honor,” Coin replied. They’ll wish to know of this as soon as possible, he thought. “Very well. A copy of the report will be prepared and provided to you.” The Lord Moderator stood up, adjusted his hat, and folded his arms behind him. “I hope that those notes are satisfactory, Mister Cartwright: we will make fair use of them. As to you, Brony, I say good day.” Coin bid them farewell, and hurried back to his friends, ruing more and more how far apart the Martes had set the Moderators and the Bronies in the Palace. The news was poor, and wouldn’t be welcome to much of anyone within the fandom. Greenglade says that they stay at the Moonlight all night, but then Dabrius vanishes into thin air, and reappears in Nightside within an hour of the murders, he pondered as he headed back to the Brony rooms. Now one of their friends looked like a liar at the very least, while the other was stalking around the future crime scene after having threatened the victim. It doesn’t paint a healthy picture for their innocence, does it? Coin admitted. Particularly not when they’re accused of helping some criminal underground. Coin had heard much of Dabrius and Greenglade’s supposed criminal connections in the past few days, but this was the first time he’d heard a name given to it: this so-called ‘Changeling Society.’ As a Moderator, Coin had been taught to think little of conspiracy theories. They were vague, lacking in credible evidence, and rather conveniently shifted to fit practically any possible prejudice the man who suspected one had. The Martes had every reason to invent some imagined Brony threat in their mind, seeing how little they seemed to admire the fandom. Coin stuck his hands in his pockets, considering another point while he passed under a well-lit hallway of uncurtained windows. Why was Dabrius in Nightside so often then? Sir Depravity was right: if he was just there for some seedy bar or den or pseudo-red-zone, then someone would have seen. Maybe they just haven’t spoken out yet, but the investigative team had been testing everything. And more importantly, why did he abandon Greenglade at the Moonlight just to go there that night? What were you doing, Dabrius Joh, and why— “ Coin stopped, standing in the hallway with the light at his back. His hand, the one in his side pocket, had felt something—paper. And more importantly, it was paper that he hadn’t put there. From the pocket, he pulled out a crumpled, folded sheet of parchment, that looked as though it were hastily balled up to be shoved away. Coin was positive that he hadn’t put it in his uniform, nor had he ever seen it before. Looking around, Coin saw no one in the room with him. He unfolded the sheet, opening it to his eyes. Most of the page was unmarked, and unadorned. But in the center was a simple illustration—a green heart. And above and below it were words printed in flowing ink. “Look for me—from C.S.” * * * * * * “To accept the Moderacy is to be freed from oneself, to achieve liberty from the worldly desires and petty appetites that achieve nothing and inevitably fade. To accept the Moderacy is to devote oneself only to the objective and eternal, the universal and the infinite. To accept the Moderacy is to know there is no good but good.” — Recitation in “The Books of Black and White.”