• Published 26th Jan 2016
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The World Within the Web - Lord Max



In a world where the "Six Friends Who Are One" are worshiped as gods, a small team of followers sworn to the Generous and Honest Friends must work together to face a charge of murder, a masked threat, and a vast conspiracy.

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Chapter XXI: A Sorceress Girl

Chapter XXI: A Sorceress Girl

* * * * * *

Sir Kennan:

“I am assuming that all of you did the reading last night, concerning Our Founder, John the Traveller, his revelation on Mount Pale, and his subsequent pledge to spread that newfound truth. I hope that some of you will be able to actually stir yourselves today, then, and contribute to the class discussion. So that we don’t a repeat of the last lesson, hmm?

“Now, seeing that we are legal scholars, it should be fairly obvious just how relevant this portion of your reading was. It was the incipient point of law as we know, specifically the notion of universe applications of the law. Our Founder received a vision of a truth higher than any single person—one that no one could modify or change or appeal in any way. He had this knowledge in his soul now—imprinted on him. Branded on him. He told his sister Abigail as much once he finally descended from the high hills and returned home. So, armed with this understanding, what did he do next?”

[several hands raise in the room]

“I hope that we will see more hands than that in the future. Perhaps some of you need some mental stimulation to wake you up, hmm? [he points to a raised hand] Yes, you?”

Student:

“He started preaching, sir.”

Sir Kennan:

“Lecturing would be the more accurate term, but yes, he realized that this knowledge had to be shared. This was in a time, however, that written words had little meaning to the people of Central, outside of the bearded priests, and thus dictating his message would have to be his method. So, he took to the streets, and spoke these words to whomever would listen. These early speeches are not only great pieces of oratory, but help us in understand the nascent roots of our Authority’s structure and teachings.

“According to our sources, these orations were very specific in their scope—focused on very particular topics. There were four that your text mentioned in detail. Would someone like to share what the first of these truths was?”

[the same few hands as the first time are again raised]

“No one else can say? Did you do the reading, or did you not? I see many students and few hands. Are you too shy to answer, or do you not know the answer? Now engage in the discussion, all of you!”

[many hands are raised]

“You, [he points to one of the only people without their hand raised] what was the first topic on which Our Founder lectured?”

Student:
“Uhh… it’s uh, he talks about how, uh… “

Sir Kennan:

“No. Read the assignment next time. [he selects some that had their hand raised]

Student:

“The first subject was that morality is not subjective, sir.”

Sir Kennan:

“Yes, that it is a universal concept. Moral relativism is a lie that selfish people tell themselves to excuse their actions, and that cowardly people tell themselves to avoid conflict. Our Founder told the people held in thrall that when they are being abused and robbed, there is a wrong being committed against them—that isn’t ‘opinion’ or whatever other ridiculous word you want, it’s a fact.”

“What was the second truth?”[points to a student] Yes, Miss Wilcove?”

Student:

“That the ruler should follow that morality, sir?”

Sir Kennan:

“A bit out of order, but yes. Can you recall the exact phrase he used to describe that? A very important one.”

Student:

“Uh… oh! ‘To punish evil and to ensure good.’”

Sir Kennan:

“Yes, exactly: ‘To punish evil and to ensure good.’ Our Founder argued that, since this objective morality exists, it is the obligation of the sovereign to see it is carried out to full effect — when they fail to do this, they are failing in their duty and rendering themselves useless.

“The third truth?"[points to a student]

Student:

“That it is right to pursue those that violate what is right?”

Sir Kennan:

“Not those exact words, but that is correct in a sense. Our Founder is stating that if there is a law, it is possible to break that law, and there must be some who are willing to enforce that law and lay judgement on those that don’t—on those that hurt and enslave others. You see how that’s relevant to us.”

“And the final one? [He points to a student] Miss Ravenry?”

Student:

“That life is suffering.”

Sir Kennan:

“Precisely. John stated that our lives are, by nature, imperfect, and that struggle and pain are parts of life that can never be removed. We are forced to accept that there are always variables that cannot be accounted for, and things may always become worse. However, no circumstance excuses deviating from the law—it might become understandable to do something wrong, but it never becomes right to do it.”

“All of these things were focuses of his lectures in Central. It is important to note exactly what life was like in Central, for all the people that would have heard this. The idea of rulers being bound by an unchanging moral code would have been an alien one: the only people that had ever ruled the island, for as long as anyone could remember, were the corsairs—pirates and looters. They only respected strength and cunning, and they only cared about themselves: they killed, raped, and robbed without a second thought because no one could stop them, and because they simply wanted to. Their Pirate King was simply the worst of all of them, not a person that others expected to rule wisely and well. Murder, violence, slavery—all were common, on the very ground beneath our feet.

“The common people were fearful, miserable, and abused. The only other group in Central outside of the various corsair crews were the bearded priests, who had dwindled down to almost nothing. They were scholars, and men of great mindfulness that wanted to understand the world. For a time, they had been left alone, but the corsairs were interested in blood and gold, not ink, and the priests soon found themselves targets. By John’s time, there were few left.

“But one of them is a name that all of you know: the one that established my own order, Zephemiah the Scholar. He was young, and eager to know more about the world, but was discouraged by what he already knew of it. He was certain that there was an intrinsic higher truth to the world, as did many of his brothers, but there was a theory to it that he could not formulate. He grew depressed, even turned to earthly vices to distract himself… but now there was someone on the streets that seemed to be claiming direct knowledge of exactly what he had long suspected.

“Zephemiah listened carefully to this man who claimed to have seen the Code of the World, and so did many others. People were curious: Our Founder said things that had never considered before, and his powers of oration could not be understated. There were others listening though—could anyone tell me who?”

Student:

“The Pirate King.”

Sir Kennan:

“Yes indeed. There were those that heard John’s words and agreed with them, but there were also many who did not. Some of these objectors ridiculed him and his claims, but others felt he was a threat. The corsairs and their friends, especially—people declaring that those who claim to rule based on strength are illegitimate and must be punished are rarely viewed lightly by tyrants and criminals. Their attempts to stop them started small—beating or humiliating him—but when that failed to dissuade him, they decided to take another step, and simply kill him before he gained more followers.

“Of course, that didn’t happen. Care to say why?”

Student:

“Well, Zephemiah came to him in the night and warned him, and helped him escape.”

Sir Kennan:

“Yes, the bearded priests had contacts within the Pirate King’s palace, and knew that an assassination was being planned. They took it upon themselves to help John flee. Our Founder refused at first, but they told him that he was not the only one at risk. If John was dead, there would be no one to protect his younger sister Abigail, and the corsairs knew that he had a sibling. They would take special note of her, and an event was coming that might mean a horrible fate being visited on his beloved sister. That event was?”

Student:

“The Maiden’s Feast.”

Sir Kennan:

“Perhaps the most foul of all the corsair’s crimes. An abduction of young women all across Central, tossed to the Pirate King and his cronies like traded cattle. Abigail normally would have been too young to get their attention… but they planned to make an exception for John’s blood. Zephemiah promised that the priests would keep him in touch, and protect his followers however they could. John reluctantly agreed, and was smuggled aboard a departing ship alongside his sister and a handful of loyal supporters. When the Pirate King’s cutthroats broke open John’s door the next morning, they found his home empty. By morning, Our Founder was sailing north.”

— The above is a transcript of a lecture given by Sir Kennan Doyle of the Order of the Enlightened Mind, as part of his course on legal theory and divinity. Sir Kennan’s words appear in bold, those of his students are in normal text, while editor’s notes are enclosed in brackets. This transcript was written by Sir Solomon Parker, as part of the Knight Enlighteners’ teaching census initiative.

* * * * * *

They tried to keep a low profile, travelling to the not-so-far home. After all, the streets had not been altogether welcoming thus far, a painful fact that made the two guards a necessary precaution. Proximo had been worried that another howling rabble might try to assault them the moment they passed the square, but thankfully the area was less peopled than it had been a few hours prior—evidently it was a slow time of the day for the place, though no doubt it would fill up again in the later evening.

It was not dusk yet, but one could tell that the sun was just beginning to consider setting for the day—the sky was growing less blue and more amber by the moment, and the Princess was falling rapidly down to the horizon. People were preparing to light the colored lanterns that were strung up between homes and above streets, the ones that would illuminate the darkling pavements with colors of yellow and red on one wynd and orange and purple on another. It would be a pretty sight, no doubt, but Proximo hoped they would return to the Palace before they could see it: he had little desire to walk the city at night, and no doubt the city would be unpleased to find him there either.

At least we’re protected, he thought as he glanced to the protectors to either side of him. On his right was the cheerful mute, Crispin Peck, who was glancing all around inquisitively at the looming buildings and dark alleys, as though eager to explore every one of them. Proximo couldn’t help but notice that the brawny man was almost abnormally curious: they had found Crispin wandering around aimlessly in the Palace before they recruited him to guard them, turning over sofas and staring with wide-eyed fascination at paintings or pattern wallpaper. Proximo might have said that Crispin reminded him somewhat of a very earnest child, but that would have sounded more rude than it was intended to be. To his left was another one of the Honest Friends, a scruffy, brown-haired man apparently named Applewood, who had been ‘loaned’ to Proximo by Caleb when the diplomat had learned of his need for guards.

And in the front, leading the way to a place that only she knew the address of, was Imelia Kohburn. After an overwhelming moment of meeting Proximo’s friends, she had volunteered to lead him to her home in the city, where apparently some interesting information lay for the Brony cause. And so, after explaining his intention to join her to his friends, and then after explaining it further in response to several raised eyebrows and jokes, they had departed with guards in tow. Tracing their way past the main square, the party found themselves in a street flanked by high buildings, walls that almost seemed vaulted by the way they sagged into one another overhead. There were no shops in this place—a residential area.

They stopped at one of those residences before long. It was a tired old place: though Hart was no architect, he wagered that this area had been built quite early on in the Dreamweave’s history, and that this very building had been there as well. It was three stories high, made of red brickwork, drawn and shuttered at its windows. It stood, crammed between two other, practically identical homes to either side, with a yellow door whose paint had long cracked stuck uninvitingly in the middle. Imelia drew up to the entrance, pulling out a key.

“There’s a bit of a climb up,” she apologized as she fumbled with the lock. It gave a satisfying click. “We live on the top floor.”

“We?” asked Applewood, scratching his mud-colored beard absently.

“Gran-Gran and I,” she replied. Her face then took on a red color and said quickly, “My grandmother and I, is what I mean.”

She popped open the door and they stepped inside the entrance-way. A rather narrow hallway ended with a sharp, steep staircase stretching up high to the top of the complex. Imelia picked up the bottom of her dress and started to climb, using her other hand to grip the banister.

“I thought you courtiers lived at th’Palace, yeah?” Applewood remarked as he looked around.

“The servants do,” Imelia explained while they ascended up, “well, them and some of the boarders too. Most of the old families live in the city, though.”

They reached the top in due time, the stairs leveling and the banister curling into a balcony, in the middle of which was a shut door. Unlocking the way with her key, Imelia opened the door a little, then gingerly stepped halfway through. “Could you excuse me one moment?” she asked Proximo sheepishly. When he nodded in reply, she vanished inside.

“So,” Applewood the guard asked gruffly, “should me n’Crispin stay out here then? Imagine you’d like some privacy.”

“Pardon?” Proximo asked, unsure of his tone.

“Oh, ain’t this an… er, ‘recreational’ visit?”

“No,” Proximo replied in the firmest manner he could.

“Gotcha,” Applewood coughed, embarrassed. “Er, sorry. I, uh…”

“I would thank you if you never suggested that again, friend.”

“Can do.”

Crispin Peck was looking between them with blank confusion written over his face, clearly not understanding what they were talking about. It would thankfully never be explained to him, however, as Imelia opened the door again. “OK, you can come in now, if you like.”

“I think I’ll keep watch out here,” Applewood said. “Otherwise I might trip up and put my foot in my mouth.”

Imelia gave him a confused look, but didn’t question it, as the rest stepped inside. Proximo followed Imelia, and his honest friend Crispin followed him.

The narrow entrance hallway soon opened into a living room. Imelia had mentioned a grandmother she took care of, and that there was such a person living here was immediately apparent. Near everything was antique or antiquated: floral patterns on wallpaper and sofa cushions, bland colors splashed here and there, old porcelain stacked carefully to collect dust in a long-shut cabinet. Tacky paintings hung the wall next to yellowed newspaper trimmings from decades ago, over bookshelves filled with dusty paperbacks and topped by mothy cloths. To call it small would be unjust to proportions, but it was not large either—it settled in an uncomfortable mediocrity. Four rooms branched out from this central one, and a hallway that no doubt led to a few more.

“I have it all here,” Imelia said as she walked about nervously, “the information, I mean. I wrote it all down, so I can bring it out, if you like. Try to be quiet, though, it wouldn’t be good to wake—”

“Imi?” said a fragile voice from deeper within the home. “Imi, is that you back already?”

“Yes, Gran-Gr— grandmother,” Imelia replied, going red in the face. “It’s just me.”

“Is there someone with you, Imi dear?” A shuffling sound could be heard coming closer, from down the hallway.

“Just some friends, grandmother. You don’t have to get up.”

“Friends? Oh, you should have told me, Imi,” cooed the old, reedy voice coming towards them. “We never have company, I would have tidied up more.”

“It’s no trouble, grandmother, please,” Imelia cried, cringing a bit in the face. “Please, you can stay in bed, really.”

“Nonsense, dear, nonsense!” she called back cheerfully, quite close now. “I’d love to meet your friends, sweetling. Let’s get a look at them now, hmm?”

A very old, very hunched woman stepped into view. Her grey hair was wild, tangled, and unkempt, her face seeming little more than lines upon lines upon wrinkles piled atop one another. Her eyes were so lost within the sloping folds that one could barely even tell they were there, although her wide mouth was easier to see, perked up into a distant smile. She hobbled in a manner of one who should be using a cane, but instead made her way towards them with a hand on the wall for support, coming closer at the pace of a particularly aged turtle. Like her hair, the old woman’s clothing was quite undignified: a messy, baby-blue nightgown that she had thrown a deeper blue jacket over, as if to try and make herself more presentable. Her friendly, if somewhat absent, smile broadened when she squinted at them.

“Oh hullo dearests!” she exclaimed brightly. “I’m Imi’s grandmother. We’ve never met before, have we? I forget sometimes, but I’m sure Imi told you all about me.”

“I’ve never had the delight of your acquaintance, Lady Kohburn,” Proximo said with a courteous bow, “but it is a pleasure to meet any relation of Imelia.”

“Oh, so polite! And very well-dressed in that white suit, isn’t he?” Old Lady Kohburn said, smiling toothlessly. Proximo tactfully did not mention the fact that he was not actually wearing a white suit, while the elderly woman turned to her granddaughter. “Oh, have you finally found someone, dearie? I’m so glad—he’s very handsome.” Imelia gave an uncomfortable smile to the comment, but the old woman continued regardless. “Oh, he’s much better than that Regiano boy you had over last week, I didn’t like him at all, Imi.”

“OK, Gran-Gran, I’ll keep that in mind,” Imelia said hastily, avoiding the look that Proximo was now sending her. “They only need to pop in for a moment, so don’t worry, there’s no need to—”

“And who is this one, then?” Lady Kohburn said to Crispin, squinting at the bulky man only a foot away as though he were as far as the horizon. “He’s very orange, isn’t he?”

“Ah, this is my honest friend, Crispin Peck, my lady,” Proximo explained. “I would let him do his own introductions, but I’m afraid that he is quite—”

Suddenly, Crispin dropped down to one knee in front of the ancient woman, bowing his head solemnly and placing one clenched fist on the floor. His other gloved hand began to perform strange motions across his chest, using three fingers to trace the outline of the Honest Eye printed on his uniform, and then jab at the ‘pupil’ twice with his thumb. Proximo and Imelia looked on this strange and unexpected ritual in silent confusion, while Lady Kohburn seemed delighted.

“How gentlemanly!” she exclaimed. “I’d thought men never did such things nowadays. It was different when Lord Aureliano still ruled the isles, Imi. Have I told you about him?”

“Yes, grandmother, you have.”

While they spoke, Proximo noticed something in the air. A strange, sickly sweet, unpleasant smell wafting into the room, drifting in from the hallway Lady Kohburn came from. Imelia noticed it as well, judging by how her nose wrinkled.

Lady Kohburn must have seen the look on her face. “Oh, I’m sorry about the smell dear. I wet the bed earlier—had to cover up the smell you see,” she smiled absently, not seeming cognizant to what she said. “Don’t make a fuss over it now, I’ll make some tea.”

“No, Gran-Gran, you don’t—”

Lady Kohburn didn’t acknowledge her, and instead starting hobbling towards the kitchen. Imelia sighed and touched Proximo’s arm. “Let’s go to the other room, OK?” she asked pleadingly.

Proximo turned to Crispin, who had stood up from his strange vigil. “Could you perchance stay here? I’ll only be a moment.”

The mute saluted and took a seat on the couch, sinking into the soft cushions while Proximo and Imelia went into a adjourning room.

It was a bedroom, and probably Imelia’s from Proximo’s guess. It was more modernly adorned than the rest of the house, but still a bit outdated in terms of fashion. A nicely-made bed stood nestled in the corner, flanked by two nightside tables. At the other end of the room was a writing desk, covered in papers, and a wardrobe closed shut. It was a very clean room, one that had the impression of someone having cleaned it only moments ago—Proximo began to wonder if that was why Imelia had disappeared into the house without them for a moment.

As soon as they were inside, Imelia shut the door firmly. She half-leaned, half-collapsed into it, sighing softly with her eyes shut. “I’m sorry about Gran-Gr— grandmother,” she said. “She isn’t well.”

“There’s nothing to apologize for,” Proximo replied sincerely. Though it was probably not the most proper thing to do, his curiosity overcame him. “That, er, that ‘boy’ she mentioned, Regiano?” He glanced involuntarily at her stomach. “Is he…”

“My father,” she replied wearily. When she saw Proximo alarmed expression, she quickly added, “She has trouble remembering people—she gets my mother and I mixed up. Grandmother didn’t approve of my father when they first met, and that’s what she remembers.”

“She can’t tell you apart?” Proximo asked, concerned.

“Not all the time. She’s usually better. Some days are… worse than others, and she forgets more later in the afternoon.” Imelia closed her eyes again, and rested her head against the door behind her, sinking a little more. “She can’t live by herself in her condition. I’ve been taking care of her—there’s nowhere else in the city that she can go.” Imelia sounded almost embarrassed to admit what she was doing, embarrassed and the smallest trace of something else—resentful.

“That isn’t something you should be ashamed of,” Proximo consoled her.

Imelia bit her lip. “I know. Sometimes I just… I can’t…” She shook her head, and shook the thoughts away with it. “That’s not why you’re here. Sorry for wasting time, I’ve got what you need right in this desk,” she said, walking across the room briskly, despite the worried look that Proximo was giving her. She sat herself down, pulling out drawers and then pulling out papers within them, putting them up on the top.

“I have to imagine that you’ve been trying to get the city watch to talk, ever since you arrived,” she said while straightening her pile of parchment. “For information on what happened? One would also guess that they haven’t been helpful.”

“Not very,” Proximo admitted. “Most of them refuse to answer at all, and those that do act like we’re pulling teeth. A handful have been cooperative, but they still have little to say.”

“Well,” Imelia replied, “this contact that I’ve told you about—a friend—is one of the guards. He tells me that silence is no coincidence: they’ve all been either bribed or threatened to refuse cooperation with you. I doubt you need me to say who accomplished that.”

The name came to Proximo immediately. “Arcadio.”

“Arcadio,” Imelia said, practically spitting the word. “Proximo, he was always awful, but ever since he got back from his time abroad and took over the city guards, he’s been a thousand times worse, or at least that’s what the older people tell me. Most of the watch love him: he let’s them do whatever they want in the city, and he pays well besides. The rest he bullies into line however he can. Neither will ever help you openly, not even with the Lord Moderator’s word, not as long as Arcadio can snatch them away at any time. It doesn’t help that most of the guards hate your fandom to begin with.”

Proximo frowned. Exactly as we suspected, he thought, not pleased that their suspicion was confirmed after all. “But this guard—this friend of yours—he doesn’t feel the same as his fellows?”

“Not exactly,” she said hesitantly. “His family and mine are old friends, and he’s helping me because I asked him to. Helping me, not you. He doesn’t really know that I’m passing this information on.”

“You never told him why you were after it?” Proximo asked, a little surprised at the deception.

“My friend is a bit… simple. I never lied to him,” she explained, as though sensing Proximo’s thoughts. “He never even asked why I wanted to know. I don’t think the question ever came to mind.”

“I suppose then,” Proximo ventured, “that your friend would not be terribly interested in testifying this information? In an official setting, before the Lord Moderator?”

Imelia looked away. “I’m sorry, Proximo, but there’s no way. Not with his commander at his back.”

Balefire, Proximo rued, so much for bringing Arcadio to justice. Perhaps he could change this guard’s mind in time, but that was a plan for another day. At least we’ll have the information, even if we can’t bring it to Halforth. “Very well,” he said, “what else can he tell us?”

“It isn’t just the guards that are being warned. Many nobles in the court and servants of the Martes have been told to stay away—if you want their help, you had best go with money in hand.”

Already ahead of you there, Proximo noted. At the moment, there was no reason to divulge such an arrangement, though. “Fair enough,” he said instead, “but I get the feeling that you brought me here for more than just warnings.”

“I suppose that you don’t need me to tell you that you Bronies are being followed everywhere?”

Proximo laughed. “They aren’t very good at hiding it. The uniforms make it quite a bit easier, as well.”

She smiled and nodded. Going through her papers, she at last pulled out a single sheet. On it was a map of the city, with small red dots printed on several parts of it. “Do you recognize any of these places?” she asked, pointing to the dots.

Proximo squinted at the various marks. He did not claim to know the city perfectly, but in truth he did know some of them: they were places that the Bronies themselves had noted for importance during their sweep of the city. Many of the red dots were in Nightside, others scattered about different districts like the docks. “Yes,” he said, “at least a few. That one there is the murder site, I believe, and that one is a bar we were looking into. What does it mean?”

“My friend tells me that the city watch are being ordered to comb the city: go to an area as ordered, turn it upside down, then leave. Lord Aureliano and his brother have been working them non-stop, asking them to search in these places over and over. These dots are some of the places they’ve looked, according to my friend.”

“Hardly surprising,” Hart remarked. “If they’re relevant to the crime, they would want to be thorough, wouldn’t they? We’ve practically done the same.”

“Except that they’re not relevant to the crime—not all of them. Not even most of them.” She pointed to several spots. “This one is just an alley—only one way in or out. Another one here is a store in Nightside that was closed five years ago and boarded up—no tenants, no residents. There’s also apartment buildings, taverns, courtyards… none of which have anything to do with what happened to Sir Harald or your friends. The watch—or at least my friend—haven’t a clue why either. It seems completely arbitrary.”

Proximo looked over the map again. “Surely there must be some reason. Elsewise why would they search at all? Unless Arcadio is just a fool hoping to make them look busy.”

“I don’t think so. I think,” she said with a sparkle in her green eyes, “that they’re looking for something. Or maybe someone, I’m still not sure.” She looked up at him carefully. “Proximo, have you ever heard of the Changeling Society?”

That name again. The term had come up several times during Proximo’s search for willing informants: there was never a great deal of explaining, but this ‘Society’ had been thrown in his face more than once while they tried to convince Dreamweavers to help them. “Some conspiracy of pro-Brony criminals trying to tear down House Martes, yes? I can tell you, as a Brony, that if such a thing exists we know nothing about it.”

“Well, I think that the Martes are more sure than you are. This Society is what the watch is being sent to find, and they haven’t been succeeding—Aureliano wants them rooted out.”

Proximo considered that. “Why now of all times, though? Surely they’ve more important things on their mind than some hypothetical conspiracy. One that probably doesn’t exist, mind you.”

“There might be more important things,” Imelia said, “but only if one considers Sir Harald’s murder and this Changeling Society to be unconnected. Aureliano doesn’t: his wife and his brother have him convinced that the killing was done by your fandom, and that finding this Society is the key to proving his suspicions correct.”

“He thinks to pin the crime on our friends by alleging some tie to criminals?”

“It might be easier than you think,” Imelia said carefully. “Proximo, I don’t know if you’ve already been told, but many were suspicious of your friends long before Sir Harald was killed. The one with the blue hair especially.”

“Dabrius?”

She nodded. “My friend tells me that the watch was made to investigate him—to follow him and report what he did. Apparently it was much harder than they imagined, because he would just disappear: some nights he would vanish into the city, and not be seen again for hours. Other times he was receiving messengers from unknown parties, or else making himself scarce whenever the guards were meant to be watching him. And most of the time that he was seen outside the Palace,” she said seriously, “he was spotted in or around Nightside.”

What were you up to, Dabrius? It might have just been some illicit interest Proximo wasn’t aware of that Dabrius wanted satisfied in the slums, one that made him careful to avoid detection. But with the Martes accusing him of murder and involvement with some criminal gang, his lurking around the most dangerous part of the city did not look good. “Can your friend tell us anything about his condition?” Proximo asked. “Dabrius, I mean. We’ve been trying to speak with him, but Arcadio has blocked us at every turn, saying that he’s ‘dangerous’ or some nonsense to keep us away. Seeing how Greenglade was treated, it has… it has made me worried.”

“The only thing he knows is that Dabrius is still alive,” she said apologetically. “He knew a lot more about Greenglade, but you’ve already met with him. I’m sorry, you probably wanted more than that, but with Arcadio…” Imelia looked away for a moment, then back to Proximo. “Well, it wouldn’t be the first time that prisoners have died unexpectedly.”

Proximo clenched a fist. “Alright,” he said, “so the Martes are spending precious time and resources looking for this fantasy, this Changeling Society? All the better: the more time they waste chasing something that doesn’t exist, the more room we have to focus on what matters.”

Imelia bit her lip. “Proximo,” she said slowly, “I know it isn’t what you want to hear, but I think they actually might exist.” Seeing his skeptical look, she rummaged through the papers to find something. “It was a month ago,” she said as she searched, “Just after I learned that I was…” she sighed, “well, you know. Once the court found out, Pilara and all the others wouldn’t leave me alone. They thought it was funny,” Imelia bitterly recounted, “I went to a dinner party at the Palace, but when I found my chair, the my name on it had been crossed out, and they’d printed ‘whore’ there instead. They all laughed.”

She paused for a moment, and wiped her eyes on her sleeve. “I went back home, but when I got there, I found this.”

She handed him a small slip of paper, one that showed signs of being folded previously. Printed on it were a few lines of flowing text, which read: We can help. Midnight out, Moonlight Inn, at the docks. C.S. In the middle of the page was a small printed image—a green heart.

“I found it attached to my door—I don’t know who put it there or how they got into the building, but it was right there, as soon as I returned. I asked my grandmother about it, and she hadn’t seen anyone either.”

“The Moonlight Inn?” Proximo read off, surprised. “I know the place. My friends, Dabrius and Greenglade, went there more than once. They were there the night of the murder as well, at least for a time.” He flipped the card over in his hands, looking for any other possible clues—finding none, he looked back up to Imelia. “What happened when you went there?”

"I— I didn’t go,” Imelia said, eyes at the desk. “I thought about it, but… I still hoped then that my old friends might just take me back. I’d heard such horrible things about the Society, and if I joined some traitors, I thought they would hate me forever.” She gave a short laugh, one lacking any humor in it. “I suppose that shows how foolish I was. I tried going back to the same place later once, but no one ever came. I haven’t had any notes like that since.”

“I could have been another trick,” Proximo pointed out, “a way for Arcadio to guess out enemies by tricking them into thinking they were invited to join.”

“I thought about that,” she admitted, “but I don’t think so. Call it intuition, I suppose, but it seemed genuine to me.”

Proximo did not share her certainty, but he had to admit that it was an intriguing lead. “Let’s say,” he mused while running his fingers through his thick black hair, “that this Changeling Society exists. And that they have some connection to the Moonlight. That means that the very place in the city where my accused friends happened to be last seen before the murder, is also a meeting place for a supposed pro-Brony faction in the Dreamweave court.” He looked back down to the note, reading over it again, as though it would change the words printed on. “I cannot speak for you, Imelia, but that seems like an astonishing coincidence.”

Imelia did not answer right away, but after a moment she reluctantly asked, “Proximo, are you certain that you know nothing about this Society?”

“I give you my word: I had never even heard the name prior to coming to the Dreamweave,” he answered truthfully.

“But do you suppose any of the other Bronies do?” she ventured, seeming uncomfortable asking. “If the Society exists, people say that it’s backed by your fandom. That they get money and support from them. You’re sure that isn’t true?”

“It isn’t,” he immediately replied. “Believe me, Imelia, if such a thing were being done, I would have known about it. If such an operation existed with the Warden’s consent, I would have been the first Lady Violet told. I put my full trust in her.”

She looked at him, large, dark eyes gauging what he said. “You and her are close, then?”

“She’s my closest friend,” he answered.

She seemed to think about that, then nodded. “I believe you, then. Not that it would change my mind about helping you either way.”

“And I must thank you for that,” Proximo said with a gracious bow of his head. “You’re taking a great risk to do us a great service, Imelia. I promise you that the Collective will not forget it—and neither will I.”

She gave him a folder filled messily with other papers—apparently more information to be looked over—and then the two of them departed from the room. Opening the door to the living room, they found Lady Kohburn hunched down on the sofa, chatting to an enthralled looking Crispin, who was listening to whatever it was she said with eager intensity, teacup in hand.

“I think we’re finished for now, Crispin,” Proximo said to the disappointed looking friend. “I certainly hope that my friend was able to provide some good conversation, my Lady Kohburn, mute though he is.”

The old woman smiled absently. “Mute? Why this young man has been talking the whole time!”

Proximo gave Crispin a look, to which the tongueless man only replied with a shrug. Before he said anything further, however, Lady Kohburn stood up. “Oh, but must you be leaving now? I’ll certainly miss the company, Regiano.”

“Proximo, grandmother,” Imelia corrected her.

“Oh? Oh, sorry dear, I forget. Proximo, much better. I never liked that Regiano boy you had over, Imi.”

“I know, Gran-Gran,” her granddaughter sadly replied.

As they left the apartment, Proximo turned back to see Imelia in the doorway. “Thank you again,” he said to her. “Will I see you soon?”

“I’ll try not to make myself scarce,” she said with a tentative smile. “I’ll keep trying to find out more from my friend, and if anything comes up I’ll go right to you. You can come to me anytime, as well. For help, I mean. If you want to.”

She was blushing, so Proximo gave a reassuring smile and bowed his head. “I’m honored to accept the help. Goodnight, Imelia.”

“Goodnight, Proximo.”

When all was done, the three Bronies made their way back to the Palace. Thankfully, it hadn’t truly turned to night just yet—the Princess was still making her way steadily and quickly down, but there was time enough to return back to safety before dark. They ascended the staircase to the Palace with minutes to spare, and Proximo turned himself to thinking while he did so.

First the Martes, then the Mods, now this ‘Changeling Society,’ he thought while taking a step, then another. Truthfully, he still did not believe in this talk of strange insurrectionist groups, at least not ones that the Collective knew anything about, but what Imelia had told him made him consider otherwise. A part of him hoped that such rumors were untrue simply because how much one more variable would complicate things. Factions upon factions, built up against other factions. The Six only know what other people have a stake in all this. Perhaps Imelia’s suspicion was incorrect, in the end. Either way, she had found them a useful resource: someone in the city watch that was on their side. In a certain sense. A bit.

A good chance for more information, at least. Proximo wondered who the person was: someone with at least some contact with Dabrius, judging by his information concerning the prisoners.

He was interrupted from his thoughts by Applewood, who had spoken for the first time since they embarked back to the Palace. “So,” he started, “do the Wardens have any plans for the Celebration?”

“The what?” Proximo asked, snapping out of his contemplating.

“The Summer Sun Celebration. Didja forget it’s a day from now?”

He had, actually, though he wasn’t proud to admit it. He remembered speaking of it with Lord Jestin Jen and Lady Lillian Semmer, prior to his leaving for the Dreamweave, but since then he had been so focused on the task at hand that he’d completely forgot about the Brony holiday. “Sorry Applewood, but I think with everything happening…”

He waved the concern away. “Ah, forget about it. I figured you higher-ups had more important stuff happening anyways. Dustario’s been trying to find a way to go out and get drunk, though, if you’re interested.”

Proximo laughed, just as they reached the door. “Seeing that there’s a ban on all Bronykind in the city, I’d like to see him try.” They pushed their way in, opening up to the entrance hall. “Still, I shall have to keep an ear open for that—if just to see him try to pay his way into some bar. I imagine you need to check in with Caleb now?”

“Yeah, prolly should. Make sure he’s not caught in any doors or somethin’. Well, see you around, Proximo.”

“The same to you, Applewood.”

The orange guard departed, off to find his original charge, while Proximo and Crispin walked silently towards the other side of the Palace, where Lady Violet would no doubt be waiting. He had a lot to report on, that was for sure. I’m not sure whether to lead with the secret conspiracy possibly involved in the city, or that we have a new friend willing to help. Choices, choices…

As they moved through, however, Proximo heard something strange. An odd, almost strangled noise came down one of the hallways as they passed. He might not have stopped, thinking it to simply be a trick of the ear or a result of the creaking building around them, except that he saw two of the Honest Friends come from the same hallway. None of the city watch were around: Proximo guessed that the Bronies standing down there were deliberating keeping the guards away. Curious, the assistant turned down the hall to see what was happening.

He did not get too far before one of the Honest Friends approached. It was Strongshield, the tall, bulky woman from the Honest Eyes, the same one with the irritable look and worshipful attitude towards the Warden. “Need something?” she asked, blocking his path.

“Nothing urgent,” Proximo replied, trying to sound friendly. “Is there something happening here?”

Strongshield narrowed her eyes at Proximo, and shot a glance to Crispin as well. “Nothing you need to be concerned with. Move on.”

Crispin, himself an Honest Eye, seemed to pick up on some hint, and started tugging lightly at Proximo’s arm to leave. He shook off the attempt. “If this is some official business, I can assure you that—”

“Not. Your. Concern,” Strongshield repeated, each word an impatient jab. “Take a hint and leave.”

The other guard in the hallway, yet another Honest Eye, approached—Red Autumn, the same stocky, scarred man that had escorted Proximo and Lady Violet in Shine. “What’s this about?” he asked gruffly. He spared a glance to Proximo. “You? None of your business here, friend.”

Proximo heard another noise, again from down the hallway, in a room to the side. He looked back to the Honest Eyes, now more suspicious. “What is going on here? Who’s down there?” he demanded.

“Told you,” Red Autumn said, “none of your business. Just push off and—”

A muffled cry came from the room down the hall. Proximo’s eyes widened, and immediately pushed forward, determined to reach it. Strongshield reached out to stop him. “Hey! Not another—”

“I am the Assistant Warden of Generosity, and Lady Violet Brushshape’s right hand,” Proximo said rounding on her. “On what authority do you command me? Step aside, or I promise you that she’ll hear of this.”

Red growled. “Nice try, but we serve—”

Proximo bolted down the hallway, past rushing past them as they shouted for him. They didn’t catch up until he had already reached the room, and by then it was too late.

He heard the voices first, much more clearly now. One of them was gasping, stumbling over words and struggling to speak. “—cannot, cannot you…” There came a sharp breath and a choked sound. “L— Lord Halforth will…”

“Bring Halforth,” came another voice, sharp, coarse, and angry. “Admit lie. Then, release friends. Now.”

“Y— you’ll kill me!”

“If you do not comply. Release them, weak thing.”

“I can’t!”

“You will.”

When Proximo turned the corner into the room, he saw them at once. Pressed against the wall, lifted off the ground by the neck, legs kicking uselessly under him, was Sir Alwin Cameron, clawing desperately and uselessly to release the vice-like grip around his neck. And looming over him, strangling him with a single, huge hand, was the hulking, brutish form of the Warden of Honesty, looking without emotion or pity at the man he was threatening with death.

“My lord!” Proximo shouted furiously.

The Warden of Honesty only broke his concentration for a moment, snapping his head to the side to look straight at noise. Proximo stood as firm as he could—the honest eye was upon him.

* * * * * *

“Even the greatest people have their flaws. And when put under pressure or the right circumstances, those flaws can become cracks. They can break you.”

— Excerpt from “Fallout: Equestria,” by Kkat

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