Night of Intrigues

Night of Intrigues

Lucian I

Note: This is the beginning of a new protagonist's adventures, which-unlike most of the others-will be told in chronological order.

He awoke in a cold, dark cell.

The memory of the previous night was still raw in his mind. Men had stormed into his quarters with shouts and bared blades. He had been kicked, beaten, shackled, and dragged bloody and indignant through the streets. Resistance was quickly beaten out of him, and he had resigned himself to pained protests until he had seen the black edifice of Keep of Sorrows looming over him. Again, he had fought to break his captors' grasp in vain and was hauled through the dreaded gates through which no man dared hope to return. He was stripped, beaten again for good measure, and thrown into a cell in the keep's tallest tower. Left with nothing but rags and a pile of straw for a bed, he lay on the harsh stone and waited.

The keep was silent, except for the occasional screams of its unfortunate prisoners. With nothing to occupy himself, the prisoner was forced to watch the slow progress of the sun through its pooled light on his cell floor. Slowly, it crept toward the door as the sun rose in the sky, then it began its progress back toward the outer wall as the day wore on. It was mind-numbing, and he felt himself slowly going mad.

There was a noise in the corridor, and he heard the heavy clomp of boots draw near. Outside his cell there was a jangling of keys and the door swung open. He sat up at the entrance of two huge jailors, both so tall they had to crouch as they passed through the door. He was wrenched to his feet, shackled, and carried down the hall to a torture chamber, where the jailors threw him into a chair.

He looked around. He sat at a simple table with two chairs, the other occupied by a thin, severe man holding a sheet of paper and a quill pen. Behind this man was a hooded man who stood beside a rack, his arms crossed.

"You may leave us," said the thin man, and the two huge jailors departed the room. The interrogator turned to his subject. "You are Lucian Alviaro."

It was not a question, but it demanded a response.

"I am," said Lucian slowly. "Who are you?"

"I am Gaspar, first assistant to the High Inquisitor."

"Why am I here?" Lucian demanded. His head still throbbed from the beatings he had sustained.

"You are servant to Count Prospero Noronha of Talmenarra." Again, it was not a question. Lucian rubbed his head.

"I am. Why am I here?"

"Have you had contact with a man named Gaius Messius Quintus?"

Lucian blinked. That was a question, but the name was unfamiliar to him.

"No. I don't know who that is. Why am I here?"

"Prospero Noronha has been arrested for treason."

The words did not make sense. Lucian blinked again. "What?"

"Treason," repeated Gaspar. "He conspired to admit our enemies to the city and thereby bring down our whole republic."

"How? Why? This thing does not seem possible. You must be mistaken."

"Am I?" said Gaspar softly. "Tell me."

"I have served the count for five years," said Lucian. "I have fought for him at sea and on land, garrisoned a fortress for him, guarded his home in the city, sparred with him, drank with him, sang with him. He is no traitor."

"Indeed. Yet this conspiracy is vast. For you to be unaware of it strains belief."

"It is true."

"I have been informed," Gaspar continued, turning to his papers. "That you carried a payment to this man, Gaius Messius Quintus."

"I did no such thing."

"Denying it will not serve you well, Lucian." Gaspar's voice sent a chill through his spine. The interrogator's cold eyes fixed upon him. "I want to know the details of the conspiracy. Who else was involved?"

"I cannot tell you that," Lucian protested. "I was not involved in the conspiracy."

"Did you attend meetings of the conspiracy?"

"I told you, I was not involved! You have the wrong man!"

"I see." Gaspar sighed and shuffled his papers. "I have others to interview. Take him back to his cell and we will start again tomorrow."

The two enormous jailors returned and dragged him back to his cell. He was thrown to the floor and locked inside. Lucian hauled himself to a seat against the bare stone wall and buried his head in his hands. From a distant chamber, he heard someone scream.

---

He remained in solitude until the following afternoon, except for a single meager meal delivered at midday. Again, the door to his cell was thrown open and the two giants hauled him back to face Gaspar. The hooded man waited behind him in silence again.

"Tell me," began Gaspar. "How did you come to be involved in this conspiracy?"

"As I told you before," Lucian growled. "I was not involved. I have no knowledge of any of this, and my master Count Prospero is a good and loyal man."

"Perhaps the fire will reveal the truth."

Gaspar signaled to the man behind him, who lifted a red-hot iron from the cell's fire. He began to advance on Lucian, who started to his feet. Terror gripped him, followed swiftly there after by the two giant jailors.

"Hold him," Gaspar commanded them. Lucian struggled, but hands of stone held him fast. The torturer pressed the iron against his breast and he screamed. He did not know for how long, but when at last the iron was taken away, his throat was raw. He tasted blood as he sagged forward. The giants released him and he slumped to the table.

"Who else was involved?" came the distant voice of Gaspar.

"I don't know," Lucian gasped.

"Again," Gaspar commanded, and Lucian knew only pain.

---

It was morning again. He did not know how long he had slept and only knew the time of day by the sunlight spilling across his floor through the cell's bars. He ached and burned everywhere. The questioning had gone on for hours and he had been swiftly broken. Lucian could not even remember what other names he had given the inquisitor, only that there had been many.

He struggled to his feet. Still shackled, he was determined to see the sun again one last time. Every part of him screamed with agony as he made his way across the small cell to his window. Just the act of standing at the window was excruciating, but he turned his face up to the sun and basked in its warming rays. For the first time since he had been arrested, he felt hope.

Slowly, the pain in his legs dulled. He put his arms through the window's bars and leaned forward. Resting his chin on the stone windowsill, he stared down into the bailey with the sun one his face.

There was a clattering below and he slowly opened his eyes. A wagon had been wheeled in, topped with an iron cage. Armed guards now led six shackled men out of the cage and into the Keep of Sorrows. Lucian wondered how many of those men had been doomed to the keep by his own confession. He could not even recognize them from his tower cell.

The pain and weakness in his legs overwhelmed him, and he was forced back to the floor. He sat back against the wall across from the window and looked up at the blue sky, resigned to think he would never see it again except through these bars, or perhaps as they led him to meet the hangman.

He sat against the wall watching the sun climb until it was high overhead and fell asleep praying to the gods for mercy.

They came for him again in the morning. He was half-asleep still when they threw him into his chair across from Gaspar, who sat in silence reading through his papers for a long spell before he spoke.

"Since you have proven stubborn," he began, "let us weaken your resolve before we begin with the questions."

He screamed again. The torturer applied hot irons, screws, the rack, and all manner of other hellish implements of agony, all without making any demands. Lucian pleaded with them to stop, but his words fell on uncaring ears. At last, they determined that he was ready for more questions and threw Lucian into the chair where he slumped over the table.

Everything hurt. He had some time ago lost all hope that he would escape. Now he only wanted the pain to end.

"Now, tell me how you and your master plotted to betray the city to our enemies," Gaspar commanded. Lucian blinked without understanding.

"What are you talking about? I don't understand what you are saying," he begged. "Count Prospero is a loyal man, a prince and regent of the republic. He is no traitor."

"It is just Prospero now," Gaspar replied. Lucian's eyes narrowed in suspicion. "The Colleges have stripped him of all title and property. Your former master now awaits only the headsman's axe."

Lucian felt a pit in his stomach. Prospero had always been a good master to him. Many other rich men cared little for their servants. They demeaned them, abused them, spent them like coins, and paid them late or not at all. But Prospero had been faithful, generous, and shared in their suffering on campaign. When they went hungry, he went hungry. When they slept in the mud, so did their master.

But now he had been judged a traitor, and there was only one fate for traitors.

"What need have you of me?" he asked dully. "You have your verdict, leave me alone."

"I will not let any traitor hide from the light."

Lucian said nothing.

"Tell me of the plot against this city," Gaspar demanded. Lucian said nothing.

"Very well. Irons!" he commanded, and Lucian was lost to the agony.

---

He was asked many questions he did not understand the meaning of. Did he know the commandant of the city's harbor fort? Did his conspirators mention Marquis Baltazar Ravedo of Alivarras? Did they mention a ship called Crescent Moon? What about Sir Montano of Perra? What had he told the Auric ambassador Gaius Messius Quintus?

Lucian denied any knowledge of these people, denied any knowledge of a plot, denied carrying money to a man, but it was all useless. Again and again, they subjected him to the hot irons and other implements of pain, then dragged him back to his cell to await further questions at some point in the future.

He lay waiting in his cell, his mind aflame with memories of their torture and the sight of yet more implements they had yet to use on him. Then came from below a murmuring of voices. With great pain and exertion, Lucian hauled himself up to look out the window.

Below in the bailey was his master, summitting the scaffold. His hands were bound, and he was clad in only a simple shirt and breeches, looking more like a common criminal than a prince. Accompanying him was a headsman, a long, broad-bladed axe laid across his shoulders. In the bailey were gathered only a few men; four jailors, a gravedigger, the inquisitor Gaspar, and a priest.

Prospero held his head high, despite the fresh wounds upon him and the state of his clothes.

"I die an innocent man," he said, his voice clear and strong. "I am undone by my enemies, and my former friends, but I call upon the gods. Reward my pious life. Smite my enemies for their treachery. Smite my friends for their falseness. I have little to offer you at this last juncture of my life. I offer only my credit on my reputation as a loyal peer of this glorious republic, and an obedient servant of the gods. I will say no more."

He knelt and laid his head on the block. Through tears, Lucian watched the headsman raise his axe and bring it down, and then Prospero was no more. The rest of the grisly ceremony played out before him, but he had not the spirit to record it in his mind even as he watched.

He fell into a dreamlike state, unable to comprehend the passing of time. Memories of his life passed before him like scenes from a theater, while he could only watch. He saw himself in Prospero's service, and in the service of other men before him. He fought Klysian wildmen, stormed aboard the deck of a galleon. Nearly forty years of his life passed before his eyes, and then he was in Gaspar's clutches again, slumped in a chair with his wrists and ankles shackled together. The inquisitor loomed over him, with pen and paper in hand.

"I want your confession," said Gaspar. Lucian stirred groggily. He blinked, trying to remember.

"You have my confession," he said at last. The inquisitor shook his head.

"The judge will not accept a confession made under torture."

Lucian laughed. It was a good feeling, one almost foreign to him after so much misery and despair. His sides hurt, but it was a good pain.

"That would seem to be your problem, not mine. You should have thought of that before you did this to me."

"Perhaps," Gaspar mused. "But your problem is that you can make the confession now, or else in the morning, after another night and day of torture. The choice is yours."

Lucian sighed. What was the point in fighting? Count Prospero was dead, and he would soon follow. Was it not better to die quickly at the hands of the headsman, rather than slowly at the hands of the torturer?

"Very well," he rasped. "Give me a pen."

Gaspar slapped the paper onto the table in front of him and Lucian signed it. The inquisitor blew on the ink to dry it, then smiled. He waved dismissively to the two giant jailors.

"Take the traitor to his cell to await the headsman. Tomorrow morning, you will breathe your last."

---

Lucian lay on the floor, staring at the ceiling. Sentenced to die. He could not believe it. Ever since he had been dragged into the Keep of Sorrows, he had known he would die there. But even now that he had heard the words, he could not believe it.

He would hang in the morning. There was nothing to do until then but wait. As much as he wanted to cling to life, he was losing hope. If there was no hope, he would rather they get it over with now. Anything else was only to prolong his torment.

The door opened and in stepped one of the night jailors. In one hand he held a folded leaf of paper, and in the other he brandished a heavy ring of keys. He chewed on something in his mouth, then pointed the paper at Lucian.

"You," said the jailor. "Get up."

"Morning," Lucian rasped. "I have until morning." Sick dread gripped him as his moment had finally arrived.

"Naw, you're leaving now."

"Executions are in the morning," Lucian protested weakly.

"Aye, that's why you'd better be gone by then. Get up."

Gone? Lucian could not believe his own ears. He strained against his own weight to rise. Every part of him burned in agony. His lack of haste seemed to annoy the night jailor, who stepped forward and hauled him to his feet. Lucian staggered and braced himself against the wall.

"Come on now, one foot in front of the other."

The jailor walked him out into the hall, then along the corridor toward the stairs. Lucian's knees were weak. His lungs burned with pain and his vision was dim. The wounds on his chest, arms, legs, and hands still burned. But each step now further convinced him that he was not bound for the headsman. He was going free.

They slowly made their way together toward the gatehouse, where two men sat playing dice.              

"Where you going with him?" asked the one with the dice.

"This one's a free man now." The night jailor waved a piece of paper.

"Free? At this hour? Whose seal is fixed to the order?"

"Claudio Garrius."

The dicer snorted. "He must have found himself a fat purse. Very well, I won't argue with the High Court. Hold on, he needs his possessions."

The man stood and went into an antechamber. Lucian was guided to a chair to wait. Leaning his head against the cold stone, he suddenly wondered why he was being released. He had been bound for the headsman earlier in the day. Prospero was dead, so who had secured his release?              

The dicing man reemerged and handed Lucian the possessions he had been stripped of when they dragged him in; his broadsword, cloak, boots, broad-brimmed hat with a flamboyant plume, his pistol, and his belt with all its attachments. Lucian numbly dressed and armed himself while the jailors rambled on, ending with "Take him out the west gate. Gaspar's man watches the front."

The night jailor led Lucian down a side hall to a small door and unlocked it.

"Apliss guide you," he said, then opened the portal. "Prisoner coming out," he called. Lucian paused at the portal, a nagging doubt in his mind. Was it true? Was he a free man after all?

He cautiously stepped through as if he expected the trick was about to be revealed. On the far side, a guard leaned casually against the wall, his spontoon resting on his shoulder. The guard gave him a curt nod, and Lucian smiled. He was free.

He limped across the street away from the Keep of Sorrows, feeling life flood back into him. His legs were aching again, and he took a moment to lean on a wall and catch his breath before continuing on. He needed a drink and a sit, so turned into the first tavern he found. He was unfamiliar with this end of town, so any tavern was as good as another.

The one he chose was called the Roast Hog and the tavern looked like any other tavern late at night. Most of the patrons had turned in for the night, leaving only a handful left, tended by a single barmaid. Even the whores had gone home. A quiet card game was being played in the corner, while behind it sat two longshoremen deep in their cups. He ordered a beer from the tired-looking barmaid, but when he opened his coin purse he found that his jailors had left him bereft.

Lucian winced and set it aside. He would enjoy his drink and then vanish before the barmaid demanded payment. In the morning, he would go to his bank and withdraw everything before fleeing town, but for now, he needed a drink.

The drink was delivered eventually, haste being unknown to this establishment, and he nursed it, along with his many wounds, while wondering what to do next. The jailors had seemed to think that his pardon was forged, and he still had no idea who had secured it for him. Did he have friends in high places or low places? He realized that he should have asked the jailor before leaving.

The Keep of Sorrows was still just across the street, but the black stone edifice where he had seen his friend and master beheaded was too much for him to approach again. He held the beer before him and resolved to get out of the city the following day.

As he sat slowly sipping his beer, a young lad entered the Roast Hog in a rush. Lucian lifted his eyes to study the newcomer, who spied him and brusquely crossed to stand before his table.

The lad was short. Very short, for a man, and dressed in a puffy, slashed shirt and equally puffy pants. Lucian knew the look. It was popular among soldiers of the elite regiments who wanted their enemies to know exactly whom they faced, and in the lesser regiments who hoped to counterfeit their betters' reputation. Lucian could tell that this lad fell into the second category.

The boy was young, with the soft look of a pampered nobleman and a ridiculous mustache that he surely thought made him look older than he was. But Lucian easily saw through it. He was not even convinced that the mustache was real, so young did the boy look.

"You are Lucian Alviaro?" he asked in a deep voice that Lucian could not believe for a moment was his real voice. He decided to humor the lad, for the boy also had a rapier and main-gauche at his side and in his current state, Lucian did not like his chances in a duel.

"I am. Who are you?"

"Thurio Noronha, son of the late Count Prospero," said the boy. Lucian started in surprise. He had never met Prospero's family, whom the count preferred to keep on his estates in Talmenarra, but this boy unmistakably had the count's look to him. They had the same high cheekbones and soft blue eyes. They shared nearly the same rarified accent as well, though the boy had not his father's acquired familiarity with the lower classes, and still sounded like a man fresh from the highest echelons of the republic's society.

"I..." Lucian stumbled over his words. "Your father was generous to me."

Thurio nodded. "He was generous to many. And so, I have been generous to you."

Lucian thought he understood. "I take it I should thank you for my escape?"

"I still have some friends in the Colleges," said Thurio. "You are officially cleared of suspicion in my father's crimes, as am I. However," the lad took a deep breath, and Lucian noticed that his voice's pitch had climbed to what must be his natural register. "I need you. I must discover who did this to my father and avenge him."

"Who did this to him? You think he was set up?"

"I know he was!" Thurio hissed with barely constrained fury. "My father was no traitor. The inquisitors had documents, a whole plan laid out. My father did not create that plan. Someone else must have done it."

Lucian's head throbbed. He wanted nothing more than to crawl into a bed somewhere and fall asleep. But a thought came to him through the pain and the fatigue. Someone else had created the plan, which meant someone else could still execute it. Prospero had been executed for plotting to turn the city over to their enemies. That dagger was still pointed at the city's heart, but its wielder was now unknown. Worse, the inquisitors thought the threat had passed and their vigilance would fade.

"Alright," he whispered, staring down into his beer. "Just... give me a moment to rest. I've had a very hard few days."

"Oh, was your father executed?" Thurio asked dismissively. "Were you dispossessed of all your property? Get up. There is no time to lose."

"Where are we going?" Lucian asked. His head throbbed as he stood up, and all the wounds inflicted upon him by his torturers cried out at the effort. Yet he rose from the table, downed the rest of his beer in the hopes it would do something for the pain, and followed the short youth toward the door.              

"The inquisitor acquired some documents indicating my father's guilt from a professional thief by the name of Pancino. He has a house near the Hospital."

"And you think he will talk to us?"

"I think he will talk to you. Father said you were an interrogator for him."

"You have me mistaken for someone else. I was a soldier. I can dig a tunnel for you, but interrogation is someone else's specialty."

The lad blew out a frustrated breath, then shrugged. "No matter, we have no choice. We will learn as we go. Come along."

Checking to see that the barmaid was too distracted to notice him abandoning his unpaid tab, Lucian hobbled out of the Roast Hog. The pain was nearly unbearable at first but somehow seemed to lessen as he went. Thurio went ahead of him, and he contented himself to watching the boy's back as they made their way across town.

"Slow your pace," he gasped before the end of the block. "Those bastards in the Inquisitor's Office beat me like an old mule..."

"We need to hurry," the boy retorted without looking back. "These things are best accomplished at night, and the night is young no longer. You were supposed to be released through the front gate, where I was waiting. That wasted precious time."

"Then let me apologize," Lucian grumbled acidly. "For fleeing my place of torture and imprisonment in a manner so inconvenient for you."

"You can apologize by hurrying your pace. The thief's house is on the far side of the Hospital."

Lucian bit back another acid remark, his eyes conscious of the blades at the boy's side even if he was growing to doubt that the youth had anything other than bravado on his side. Still, while his wounds felt better, he was far from ready to duel the boy or otherwise provoke a fight and obeyed the insistent commands to hurry.

Grimacing, he made his way through the streets toward the Hospital. Thurio kept them to side streets and alleys wherever possible, for despite the hour the taverns were still crowded with drunks and revelers who might give them trouble. He was still unsure that his pardon was legitimate, and Thurio was the son of an attainted traitor. Better to exercise discretion that squander his providential freedom dying in a street fight.

Yet why was he following the boy into peril again? He was a free man, and it had been the Count who paid him, not Thurio. Whether the pardon was legitimate, he thought it unlikely that he could find employment in Riellas now. Should he head to the border forts and enlist in the garrisons? Lucian had never found life in the garrison appealing, and doubted he would now.

Where else? To sea, then? The sailor's life was hard enough, and that of an old landlubber like himself sure to be harder still. Perhaps then to Auria or Armannais, the two great kingdoms that bordered Riellas. Their hunger for soldiers was infinite, and rumors had them set on a course of war once again.

The soldier's life was hard as well, but nothing he was unused to. He had no other skills that might find him employment, and there were plenty of Riellans in either army. It seemed the best of the bad options.

So why was he following Thurio? Revenge was not going to clear his name, but it might make him yet more enemies. A voice in his head urged him to flee this very night, the boy be damned! Yet Lucian remembered fondly his time in the service of Count Prospero. The Count had always looked out for his men, shared their meals in times of war, walked when they had walked, ridden when they had ridden, and even usually paid them on time. There was hardly a better master to be found in all the world. The sight of Prospero's head falling from his shoulders came unbidden to his mind, and Lucian felt his tears well up.

He could spare one night of service to the man in repayment.

The streets passed by faster than expected, so lost was Lucian in his reverie for the Count. Suddenly he realized that Thurio was speaking again, and he looked up.

"There is the Hospital," Thurio said, tracing with an outstretched hand a line from its stone edifice toward a dim street mouth. "'North of the Hospital,' he said, 'in the red house between the print shop and the lawyer's office.'" He turned and looked imperiously at Lucian. "Come."

Groaning in pain again, Lucian hobbled after him.

"Who said?" he asked. Thurio looked back in confusion, his stupid mustache riding up his face as he frowned at Lucian. "Who gave you these directions?"

"The judge," replied Thurio, turning to look ahead again. "Pancino is a thief known to the inquisitors but protected by the grandees who use him to steal and spy on their rivals."

"And you expect him to be at home?"

"If he is not, we will wait for him. There it is, with the green door."

Lucian slipped into the doorway of a darkened baker's shop and studied the thief's front door. The house was modest enough, with a stairway climbing the side of the weaver's workshop on the ground floor to a small balcony with a green door. The house and workshop were both dark. There was no sign of Thurio's thief.

"Well?" the youth asked. Lucian shrugged.

"It looks empty. Perhaps he is at one of the taverns."

"Get us in," Thurio commanded, his voice climbing to his higher register. He coughed, then went on in his feigned deeper voice, "Unlock the door. And quietly, so we don't wake his neighbors."

"I am no burglar," Lucian countered. Leaning against the wall of this bakery was relieving so much of the pain in his legs that he was loathe to leave so soon. Thurio sighed with annoyance.

"Nor am I. I expected you would be more useful to me than this."

Lucian scowled. "If you wanted a thief, hire Pancino. I have suffered too much at the hands of our inquisitors to learn new tricks at the moment."

"Very well," Thurio grumbled. "Stay here and watch. I will wait for him inside. If you see him coming, let him pass by, then come up behind him so that he cannot escape."

He turned on his heel and marched off toward Pancino's stair. Lucian could hear the steps creak from across the street and prayed to the gods that the thief was not at home. Thurio reached the door and bent to examine the lock. The lad showed little skill as he fumbled with the handle, but after several long minutes, found his way inside. Lucian settled in to wait.

The night was warm, despite being so late in the season, and Lucian found it pleasant to sit against the baker's door and rest his tired body. The torturers knew how to inflict pain without leaving wounds, and he did not doubt that they would heal in time--assuming he survived--though it would not make the next few days or weeks any more pleasant to live through. The thought of going on the run in his state was not a pleasant one, either. He wanted little more than to sink himself down into a bathhouse and wait out the next month with good wine, rich food, and beautiful women for companionship.

But that would require money, and that no one was looking to kill him. Perhaps Thurio might find some stolen goods in Pancino's house that they could sell? It would not solve his issue of people wanting to kill him and might even make things worse if the original owners of the goods found out, but if he was to die, he preferred it to be in luxury rather than squalor.

His wait dragged on, his eyes darting up and down the street in search of Pancino returning from a night out, but there was nothing. The street was deserted, and even the thief's neighbors were quiet. Lucian turned his eyes back to the thief's house. It, too, was quiet, and Lucian began to fear something was wrong. Where was this thief?

Thurio had made enough noise going up the stairs to wake the dead. Had Pancino been home, the practiced thief surely would have heard. What if the boy had met the sharp end of a knife as he passed through the door?

Lucian dragged himself to his feet with great effort. He checked his pistol, then his sword, and cast wary glances up the street in either direction, then stepped out from the doorway. With one hand on his sword, he crossed with pained purpose toward Pancino's stair, his eyes fixed on the house's windows for any sign of someone lying in wait.

Reaching the foot of the stair, he stopped, trying to remember which steps had creaked under Thurio's feet. He grabbed hold of the railing, intending to climb, but before he could raise his foot from the street, the door at the top opened.

Lucian grabbed for his pistol, but it was not a trespassed thief who appeared through the portal, but instead Thurio. He was in disarray, his clothes ruffled and his mustache askew. A false mustache after all, Lucian mused. Yet despite that, he did not appear injured, and he looked down the stairs at Lucian with annoyance. He waved Lucian back and began his way down the stairs to the street. Lucian stepped back to allow the youth passage, noticing a slight sway in his step.

"What--" Lucian began, but Thurio raised a finger to his lips.

"We need to be away from here," he hissed in a whisper, and strode ahead of the wounded Lucian, leaving the latter to hobble along in his wake.

"What happened?" Lucian asked as soon as they were away from the house.

"He fought back," Thurio said, not meeting his eyes. "But I overpowered him."

"All by yourself?" Lucian asked with skepticism, and Thurio shot him a deadly glare. When the lad spoke, he did not answer.

"He was hired by a knight named Sir Montano of Perra. He was hired to deliver documents to the inquisitors, as well as to place documents in my father's house for the inquisitors to find."

"Montano..." Lucian repeated. "The inquisitor asked about him."

"What did he want to know?" Thurio demanded.

"He wanted to know if I had heard the name. I told him I had not."

"And did you lie?"

"I had no reason to lie to him. Not that it spared me his brand..."

"Well then, Sir Montano is part of the conspiracy that killed my father. I mean to have words with him, and perhaps more." Thurio gripped his main-gauche in a fist and drew it halfway out of its sheath to illustrate his meaning, though Lucian understood well enough without.

"Why would he do such a thing?" Lucian knew the answer even as he spoke. Like all rich men, Count Prospero had enemies out to ruin him. But few of them would expect to succeed at such a thing so easily and completely as his enemies had now. "Your father was no traitor, that much we both know. So why frame him?"

"Sir Montano must be working for someone else. Someone who has it out for my father. A mere knight would not act against my father this way. He must be the hatchet man of a greater conspiracy."

"So, what now?"

Thurio's face seemed to flash with annoyance, and he again straightened his false mustache.

"We find Montano and discover who employed him."

"Where do we find him? Does this knight have a house in the city?"

"No," answered Thurio. "But Pancino said that on nights such as these, Sir Montano favors a brothel on the Merchant's Square known as Nystra's Palace. With luck, we can find him there."

"What of Pancino?"

"Leave him," Thurio replied. "He means nothing to us now."

"Very well," Lucian replied, though he threw a look over his shoulder to ensure that no one followed them as they headed for Merchant's Square.

---

Nystra's Palace was a four-story edifice that loomed over the south side of Merchant's Square, with a façade of gold and flowers and two door guards in gleaming cuirasses and green bronze helms. The brothel's porch was crowded with eager men anticipating or recounting the night's revels, along with peddlers selling good luck charms, love potions, or elixirs of virility. Even at this late hour, the Palace was a lively place, and the three taverns and winesinks along the square did a good business.

It was a place Lucian knew by name, for many wished to enter its decadent halls, but never by experience. Nystra's Palace did not let just anyone inside.

That became apparent as he and Thurio approached. The two guards locked eyes on him as soon as he was halfway across the square, and he could see their lips curl in disdain. Thurio was undeterred--or else did not notice--and boldly strode up the front steps to present himself before the guards with a flourish.

"I wish to enter Nystra's Palace," he said, planting his hand on his hip and throwing open his cloak. In someone else, he might have cut a dashing figure, but Thurio could only look like someone playing the part. The guards smirked with amusement, unimpressed.

"It's forty-five soldos for you, boy," the shorter of the two guards said, then nodded at Lucian. "The ruffian can't come in."

Thurio cast a look over his shoulder at Lucian, and his eyes narrowed.

"He is my bodyguard. I will not enter without him."

"We keep the Palace safe enough," the other guardsman answered. "And you'll have to leave your weapons with the majordomo in any case. Men have a way of getting hot-blooded inside."

"I have ninety soldos for myself and my man," Thurio replied, holding forth a fistful of coins. The guards shook their heads.

"The Palace is reserved for men of class. You will be safe enough without him."

Lucian could see Thurio's face reddening underneath his silly mustache.

"Ninety soldos, and a donative of another forty to the pair of you for your understanding," Thurio offered. His voice was rising in pitch now, and Lucian feared he was about to attack the stubborn guardsmen. The guardsmen only laughed and shook their heads again.

"Leave your man behind, boy. The women inside will teach you how to fuck, you don't need him. If it's a man you want, there are men inside who fit the bill."

"I seek not a man," said Thurio, even though he did. "My business is my own."

"Suit yourself," the shorter guard said with a shrug. "Hand over your forty-five soldos, and you can go in. He stays," he said with a pointed finger at Lucian.

It was already clear to Lucian that these men were not going to let him inside. He wondered if Thurio had enough coin on him to pay for both of them even if the guards were amenable. But the longer they spent here, the more likely they were to be recognized, and that would likely be the end of their night. They needed another way in.

"Master," Lucian called, though it pained him to call the boy master. But he had to play his part in order for his new plan to work. Thurio balled up his fists in frustration, then turned from the guards.

"What is it?" he growled through his teeth. Lucian beckoned him away from the guards' hearing.

"Here, sir," he said, and though Thurio was loathe to retreat, he drew the boy away to a darker corner of the square.

"Do you have the paper with my pardon on it?" he asked.

Thurio's eyes narrowed in confusion. "What do you want with those?"

"Do you have them? They may help us here."

"I do," he answered slowly.

"Show them to the guards," Lucian offered. Thurio scowled.

"It will do us little good to tell them you're recently spared the gallows. They already think you're--"

"No, not that," Lucian snapped in annoyance. "Just show them the seals. They can't read what the papers say. Tell them you are hear on behalf of the judges on some business."

Thurio reached into his shirt and pulled out the letter of pardon. Turning back to the Palace door, he marched up to the guards and thrust the letter into their faces in turn.

"I am charged by High Judge Silvio Arvirargus and Judge Claudio Garrius to enter this establishment on secret business of the State Inquisitor. Here are my papers, and if you continue to obstruct me, I will have you brought up on charges of interfering with a state investigation!"

The guards exchanged looks of confusion and surprise, then the shorter one reached out to inspect the seals. He shrugged at then, gestured to his companion, and then the pair of them each grabbed a handle of the Palace door.

"Apologies to the Inquisitor's office, sir. You may enter."

"Very well," said Thurio, his voice somewhat higher again, as if surprised that the ruse worked. Lucian hoped that the boy had enough composure not to ruin it now. "And I command you to keep this between yourselves. This is secret business of the state. It is bad enough that you have made me reveal myself already, any more gossip about this and crucial state dealings may be compromised to our enemies."

"Of course, sir," the taller guard said with a nod and an expression that said he was unsure whether to believe Thurio. But neither of them raised an objection as Lucian followed through the door, which was all he wanted from them.

The pair stepped into the lavish foyer of Nystra's Palace, the lamps flickering slightly in the wind coming through the open door. The Palace's oak doors swing shut on well-oiled hinges, but as they closed, he heard the guards musing to each other. "Secret state business at a brothel? What do you think that is?"

The door closed with a soft click before he could hear the reply, but he feared the possibilities. He decided once again to leave the city as soon as this business was resolved.

Yet no sooner had he decided so than the luxury of Nystra's Palace began to weaken his resolve. The foyer was as lavish as was to be expected. They stood upon a thick carpet that ran from the tall doors to a marble staircase that ascended to the next floor. The foyer was double height, and the extra space was used to accommodate an enormous crystal and brass chandelier that lit up the whole room with the help of six superfluous gilded lamps on the oak-paneled walls. Two floor to ceiling paintings flanked the hall, each of a naked woman presumably of the type to be found within the brothel. On the oak panels hung many other paintings both large and small, all showing the delights to be found within, from relaxing baths to nude dancing girls to two men pleasuring one another atop a table piled high with food.

Three doors branched off the hall, one grand door leading to a salon of some sort, another to a cloakroom, and a third to somewhere in the back of the establishment. Across from the front door, underneath another painting of a rich man attended by two nude maidens, waited the Palace's majordomo, a graying man in a doublet of rich, dark red, slashed with white on the sleeves and trimmed with gold on the fringes. His wide white collar nearly covered his shoulders and was itself covered by a thick brass necklace of office. Beside him was a clerk, dutifully scribing away in a thick ledger. At the sight of Thurio and Lucian, the clerk sniffed meaningfully, and the majordomo slowly rose from his velvet seat to advance toward the door.

Behind the majordomo, a small, open door led to the cellars, from which emerged a servant bearing bottles of wine. The servant carefully did not meet Thurio's eyes, but his gaze flicked over Lucian and his mouth lifted in a subtle sneer.

"Good evening, my... lord," intoned the majordomo. "Welcome to Nystra's Palace. What is your pleasure this evening?"

"Good evening, sirrah," replied Thurio in a tone even haughtier than he had used before. "I am here seeking a friend."

"We have many friends here. Would you prefer a man or a woman tonight?"

"Not any friend, sirrah," Thurio insisted. "Sir Montano of Perra. Is he still here?"

"Ah, our guests appreciate our discretion in matters of delight and lust, so I cannot provide information on who may be under our roof tonight. However, I would be pleased to take a message and relay it to him if he asks. Is that agreeable to you?"

"If you will not provide his location easily, perhaps I might gild your palms." Thurio held forth a trio of coins in his hand, but the majordomo shook his head.

"Sir, I am a man of discretion. Surely you know your friend's habits well enough to find him yourself, if he is within the Palace tonight."

Thurio sighed with annoyance. "Very well, I will do so without your help."

"Of course. If you will just hand your weapons to the man through that door," he pointed to the cloakroom door. "Our main salon is through that door on your right, while the wine room and dancing hall are upstairs. Private suites are on the upper two levels, and the bathhouse is in the basement."

"Then there is no time to lose. Lucian, come!" Thurio snapped his fingers and Lucian felt his face grow hot. He was not pleased to be led around like some calf by this insolent youth, whoever his father might be.

"Ah," said the majordomo with a politely raised finger. "There remains the issue of your... companion."

Thurio's eyes narrowed again, and Lucian felt his anger fading toward shame. The majordomo was right; this was not a place for men of the lower classes, as much as he wanted to be within its opulent halls.

"What about him?" demanded Thurio.

"This is an establishment for men and women of class," the majordomo insisted, repeating the door guards' sentiments. "Which house does he hail from?"

"Mine," retorted Thurio. "He is my loyal servant and goes where I go."

"We have servants enough to provide for you, sir. If you wish his companionship..."

"His what?!" Thurio squawked in a high voice. "I--with him, no, I--"

"I mean no offense, sir. Many... men of station have their... predilections. I will say nothing of the matter, but he cannot be permitted to walk about unescorted. He does not present as a man accepted in these parts. Those clothes... and that walk... He... he is not diseased, is he?"

Lucian dropped a hand to his broadsword and took a half-step forward. The majordomo turned toward him, defiantly declaring with a neutral expression that he would not dare harm a man of higher status, but it was Thurio's raised arm that stopped him.

"My man follows me," he said, his voice returning to its feigned lower register. "I have brought him as a favor to my friend Sir Montano."

Lucian liked that lie even less that the idea of bedding the boy. At least the boy was comely, for a boy, while he would rather die than lay with a grown man. Yet the majordomo seemed to accept it with a sigh.

"Very well. Perhaps borrow an abandoned shirt from the cloakroom to make your presence more subtle. If you need anything, make a request of the servants with blue collars, they will see to it that your every desire is fulfilled."

He bowed slightly and lifted a hand toward the cloakroom. Thurio accepted that that was good enough and turned toward the cloakroom. The majordomo stayed standing in the foyer, watching their backs with his hands folded demurely in front of him.

Thurio pushed open the door to the cloakroom to find an attendant sitting at a little desk, behind which stood rows of racks for cloaks, hats, and swords. Fine feathered hats, fur-trimmed cloaks, and gilded hilts told of the Palace's luxury and the great status of its patrons. Lucian felt ashamed to leave his humble blade and pistol among their company, but when the attendant presented his hand to take them, he surrendered them without question.

Thurio did the same, though his blades did not look out of place. They both surrendered their hats and cloaks next, and Lucian found himself struck by the boy's long, blonde hair done up under the hat. It was out of place on a man, even one as wealthy as a count's son.

When the lad lifted his coat, his shirt moved aside to reveal two necklaces beneath, sparkling in the light. That was wise of him, for jewels made for a good way to covertly carry wealth that might later be exchanged for food and shelter. Should the pair go on the run together, the jewelry would sustain them for at least a while.

The attendant held forth a shirt for Lucian. It was a blue so dark it was nearly black, with white around the collar and down the breast. In the room's dim light, he could just make out a pair of lions rampant embroidered on the breast, supporting the central white column. It was a fine shirt, and he wondered who had left it here. Perhaps a wealthy man caught in the act by his foes? Or his wife?

His mouth twisted with amusement as he put it on. The attendant nodded with satisfaction, and from behind, the majordomo's voice carried the same sentiment.

"Very well," he said. "I wish you great enjoyment of your night, sir and sirrah."

Without further complaint, the pair of them headed for the stairs. Their feet padded softly on the thick carpet as they climbed, and Lucian felt the eyes of the majordomo on him still. From above came the sounds of laughter, excited chatter, and music, all echoing vibrantly to them down the stairs.

"Do you know what Sir Montano looks like?" asked Lucian as they climbed the stairs. He leaned in close so as not to be overheard and laid a gentle hand on the boy's shoulders, but Thurio recoiled from him. Thurio stopped, staring tensely back at him. "What's the matter?"

"Do not touch me," Thurio hissed. "And no. I had hoped..."

"Hoped what?" Lucian pressed. "That he would be wearing his arms while abed with the whores?"

"I don't know," Thurio admitted, turning back up the stairs. "We will have to think of something."

They summitted the stairs into the dance hall, awash in the noise of a crowd. Over-stuffed couches surrounded a raised stage, their cushions occupied by rich men and the pretty girls who attended them. Lucian passed a careful gaze over them, recognizing few by face but many by profession. He saw bankers, merchants, guild masters, knights, and even a viscount. Nearly all were men, but in the back of the room, he spied two older patrician women sitting with three tall, handsome wildmen from the north--or at least men made up to look as such. The appeal of barbarians was always strong among women.

A musicians' gallery stood fenced off behind the stage, where the musicians played unseen but well heard, and well-appreciated. Between the couches and the tables in the back moved a host of servants, some naked to the waist, some naked entirely. Those who wore clothes wore those befitting of the servants of the wealthiest men in the city. To the left of the staircase they had just climbed was a bar with tall racks of bottles for the perusal of the Palace's patrons. The whole room had a strong scent of perfume and rosewater.

Thurio stopped dead, staring in bewilderment at the scene before him. Lucian smirked in quiet amusement again. The lad had apparently never been in a place such as this, and likely never seen two naked women at once. He remembered the first time he had been in a brothel--a place far less luxurious than this--and been reduced to red-faced stuttering the first time a naked woman had approached him and offered to suck his cock for two soldos.

He found himself admiring the sights. On the couch nearest them, a man sat between two naked girls with a hand between each of their legs. His fingers explored their pussies, rubbing their womanly beads as he kissed each of them in turn. Both girls moaned as one, their bare breasts heaving as the three of them entwined in a passionate embrace.

On the next couch over, a buxom girl sat in the lap of a balding man, his face buried between her big breasts as he kissed and suckled her. She tossed her head and long, dark hair with it, moaning softly in his lap with her arms around his neck. The wet smack of his kisses on her big nipples made Lucian hot under his borrowed collar.

He felt his cock harden at the sights before him. He yearned for the women here, wishing beyond all reason that he had been born to a life of wealth and power that would allow him to spend his nights here enjoying these pleasures of the flesh.

A curtain on the stage was flung open and out walked a dancing girl. She was nearly naked, her breasts and nethers the only part of her covered besides her high-heeled shoes. The crowd cheered for her, and the girl advanced to the center of the stage where a pole of varnished wood stood from floor to ceiling. She dropped into a low squat, presenting her ass to the eager crowd, and began to bounce it up and down.

Lucian watched enraptured, while Thurio's cheeks turned a bright shade of red. The poor lad's embarrassment brought Lucian no small amusement, and he wondered if the boy had ever known a woman.

The dancing girl gyrated back and forth to cheers and applause, and Lucian felt his cock grow hard at the sight. She gripped the pole with both hands and began to climb, her long legs on full display for the lusty crowd's pleasure. They all watched her wrap her legs around the pole as she slithered up it to the roof, then turn herself around so that they could see her from all sides.

Men beat on their chests, thighs, and the floor all together in delight. Even those who already had a woman underarm seemed mere moments from rushing the stage to mount her. The girl slowly descended back to the floor and began to slowly remove her top.

Lucian had seen such displays before, but only in lower class whorehouses and with cheap whores who had a tenth of her talent. Here, now, he was nearly ready to come without having come within thirty feet of her.

The girl's top slipped off, and she threw it to the floor, covering her breasts with one arm. She dropped her mouth open in feigned shock at the crowd of men leering at her, then slowly lifted her arm to expose two lovely, delicious round breasts with dark pink nipples.

The crowd howled. Whistles and whoops split the air. Men shouted their price at her, begging to take her to bed, but the girl stood up, shook her head, and turned around to take off her bottoms. With her ass facing the crowd, she slowly slid them down her thighs until the whole crowd, Lucian and Thurio included, could see straight into her shaven sex.

Lucian took a steadying breath. The girl was everything he wanted. Out of the corner of his eye, he checked for a guard. Not that he wanted to rush the stage for her, but if there was no one to stop him...

The girl squatted again, now naked except for her shoes. She spread her legs to either side, affording the crowd a view of her entire naked body. With one hand holding the wooden pole for support, she cupped one breast with the other and pinched her nipple. With a little coo of delight, she began to creep down her bare body until she had her hand between her legs.

Then, to Lucian's great delight, she began to play with herself. He and the other gathered men watched with fascination as she spread her lips with fingers and slipped them inside herself. She moaned slightly, exploring the depths of her purse with two, then three fingers. She bit her lip, then raised her eyes to look one of her gawkers in the eye. The man shouted a price at her, and she smiled coyly. She turned her eyes to another man, who threw himself to his knees and shouted a higher price.

"Would that I had all the gold in Auria," Lucian murmured as he imagined taking the dancing girl where she stood now. "I'd fuck her until one of us was dead."

"We are wasting time here," Thurio stammered from beside him. "This... all of this... We need to go."

"You can go," Lucian replied dreamily. "I am watching this display. Find yourself a girl and unleash that cock of yours. It will do you some good to feel like a man."

"We need to find Sir Montano," Thurio gulped, looking away as he blushed deeper.

"Where do you think he would be?" Lucian asked, his eyes and mind on the dancing girl rather than the blushing lad.

"One of the suites, I'd bet," Thurio replied, his eyes on the floor. "We just need to find out which one. Go ask the bartender."

"Me? Why? I stick out in here."

"I..."

"Oh, alright," Lucian sighed. As conspicuous as he was, the blushing boy in a brothel would draw more attention. He knew that there were courtesans who specialized in inducting young men to the arts of passion and wondered if Nystra's Palace had one in house that Thurio could afford. However, he suspected that the lad would refuse all advances of the feminine sort until his father's enemies had been dealt with and so approached the bar.

Adopting his best upper-class accent, Lucian caught the bartender's attention.

"You there," he began. He realized at once that his accent needed work, but had no choice other than to continue on. "I am looking for a friend. Sir Montano of Perra? He was supposed to wait for me, but I suppose he could not be patient as I was late..."

The bartender looked at him with a bored expression.

"Sorry, I don't learn a lot of names here," he said, and moved on to serve someone else. Lucian sighed to himself. He bit his lip in thought, watching the bartender pour expensive red wine into the cup of a rich man waiting impatiently with a pretty girl on his arm. Lucian tossed a glance around the room, his eyes taking in all the beautiful girls in various states of undress. How he wanted them!

One of the liveried servants approached the bar and plucked a bottle from the rack. He turned and headed off, but Lucian kept his eye on him. The servant climbed the stairs to the second level and returned shortly thereafter. Lucian smiled.

The next time the bartender turned his back, he snatched a bottle himself, then disappeared into the crowd. He caught a servant climbing the stairs from below, holding the bottle out before him.

"Excuse you," he feigned a hiccup and a slur, "This is for my good friend, very dear friend--" he paused, trying to force a belch, but it did not come. He clapped a hand to his belly. "Sorry, though some of that stuff was coming back up. What was I saying?" the servant rolled his eyes impatiently. "Ah, yes! My very good friend Sir Montano of Perra. I'm afraid I don't know where he has gotten himself to, and your staff won't tell me. Very good at that secrets thing, I say. All well and good, wouldn't want the ol' wife knowing what we get us to in here, eh?" he nudged the man in his ribs, and the servant grabbed the bottle.

"Montano of Perra, is it? I'll be sure it gets to him. Don't you worry a bit, sir." The servant hurried away before Lucian's obnoxious alter ego could make any more requests, and Lucian smirked as he watched him go. He then turned his attention to finding Thurio.

The lad had pressed himself against the room's wall, staring anxiously and red-faced at the debauchery all around him. He started when Lucian tugged at his sleeve.

"What?" he squeaked in a high voice, then steadied himself. "Did you find him?"

"I found us a minion," Lucian said wryly. "That servant, see him? Follow him and he will lead us to Sir Montano."

Thurio nodded jerkily. "Let's go."

He pushed himself off the wall and hurried through the crowd so quickly Lucian feared he would give the game away. He hurried in the boy's wake, trying to ignore the curious glances of the rich men who noticed his worn clothes. Just as they reached the stairs, a trio of giggling, naked girls bubbled down the stairs in the opposite direction, nearly running the poor lad over as they ran. Thurio froze, still as a stone, and they passed him by without a second glance.

"What's the matter, boy?" asked Lucian with an amused smile. "Never been touched by a lass before?" Thurio blushed a deeper shade and said nothing. "How much you got in that purse of yours? Maybe once we've asked Montano our questions, you could do something about that shyness of yours. This is the place, after all."

"We're losing him," Thurio whispered, and hurried up the stairs after the servant, who had disappeared onto the next floor. The stairs creaked under their hasty feet despite the carpeting, but when they summitted the flight onto the third floor, there was no servant in sight. The hall branched in two directions, while another flight climbed to the next level. Lucian paused, and Thurio cursed.

"Damn, we lost him," the boy hissed.

"Maybe we would not have if you hadn't gone stupid at the sight of a naked whore," Lucian muttered. Thurio turned a furious glare on him but said nothing further. "Well, he can't have gone far. Keep an eye on the stairs in case he went up, I'll look for him in these halls."

Lucian crept forward into the hall, taking care to maintain his drunk disguise in case the servant should suddenly emerge. The first branch of the hall led in two directions, one through a small parlor form which he could hear voices. He crept closer, at which point he saw the servant emerge from another hallway behind.

He started, then leaned against the wall and pretended to be drunk before the servant saw him. The man did not seem to take notice of him as he passed by and headed back downstairs. Lucian waited until the footsteps had faded, then looked in the direction that the man had appeared.

It was a short hallway, leading to just two doors, but neither of them made it obvious where the bottle had been delivered. Still, only two options, he thought, that makes it easy. The voices in the salon seemed to take no notice of him, and he crept back to Thurio.

"This way," he said, and the youth nodded stiffly. "I am unsure which door it was, but there are only two choices."

Thurio followed him wordlessly, and they made their way back to the salon. They entered with purpose, finding a rich man seated on a couch while a pretty girl knelt between his legs with his cock in her mouth. Thurio stopped again, his cheeks returning to their reddened state, but the man took no notice of them. Lucian prodded the frozen youth, then pulled him into the little hallway. He pointed to the first of the doors.

Thurio nodded stiffly again, then crept forward and put his ear to the door. From within came a soft moan, followed by the slapping of naked flesh upon naked flesh. Soft voices murmured to one another, and Lucian's curiosity was aroused. Yet Thurio pushed past him, knelt, and peered through the keyhole only to turn suddenly away. He backed off with a shake of his head, and Lucian sated his own curiosity by taking his place.

Inside, a voluptuous woman was being fucked by four men. They crowded close around her, cocks diving in and out of her holes. Two more men sat to the side, stroking their cocks and watching eagerly. Lucian felt his cock harden at the sight. His heart quickened its pace, and he unconsciously licked his lips. There are six of them already, he thought, would they notice if I entered and made myself a seventh?

Thurio grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him away.

"This is not what we are here for," he hissed, blushing still. They turned to the other door, and he heard Thurio mutter "what is this place?"

"It is a place where men's desires are made manifest," Lucian replied with a smile. "For a price."

"Six men for a single woman?" Thurio muttered in disbelief, his voice high once again. "It is humiliating..."

"Some women like it," Lucian said with a shrug, remembering one camp follower in particular who had made a dozen soldos in a single night while they were camped in the siegeworks outside Ardea. How she had screamed when he entered her ass... It was a memory of a better time, but Thurio seemed unconvinced.

"Some sluts like it..." he corrected, then straightened his shirt and looked at the other door. "This is it, no? Or was Montano one of those men?"

"Beats me," Lucian shrugged. "I don't know what he looks like."

"Did you see the bottle?"

"No," said Lucian, "but I wasn't looking for it. Perhaps I should look again," he said with a sly smile. Thurio scowled.

"Try this one then."

Lucian knelt with a sigh and peered through this keyhole, too. Inside, the room was lavish, with thick carpets covering its oaken floor and tapestries on the wall to dampen the screams of pleasure. A man was seated against the padded headboard, stroking his long cock while he watched two naked girls kiss and caress each other at the foot of the bed. He was tall and well-muscled--the build of a knight--with narrow eyes, an aquiline nose, and a thin mustache and goatee. His smile at the two girls pleasing each other was at once lewd, proud, and cruel.

On the table beside the bed was the bottle of wine that Lucian had had delivered to him.

"There's our man," he murmured, and he heard Thurio shift behind him. Lucian stood up and looked his companion in the eye.

"What is your plan?" Lucian whispered. "Are we to just ask him? What if he calls for help?"

The best brothels would have men on call in case their girls were mistreated. A place like this would surely take unkindly to any abuse of their prized whores.

Thurio drew a knife from his shirt.

"Asking is a good start," he said darkly. Lucian nodded.

"Very well, how do we get the door open?"

"He opened it for wine before, bring him some more," Thurio answered. His brow furrowed, and he held the knife in a white-knuckle grip as fantasies of gutting the knight surely danced through his head.

"Very well. Be ready to go as soon as he opens the door. And stop him from shouting, there are a whole bunch of men right in there." He pointed to the room with six men and a whore.

Thurio nodded, and Lucian took a deep breath, then knocked. He knelt and looked through the keyhole, while Thurio positioned himself against the door. Both of them coiled, ready to spring as soon as the latch was undone.

Through the keyhole, he saw Montano look to the door in annoyance. He hesitated, looking back to his whores and then to the door again, still stroking his cock. He sighed.

"Go down on her," he commanded one of the girls. He rose from the bed, and the girls lay down in the spot he had left, one with her face between the legs of the other. With his cock in hand, Montano strode toward the door. "What is it?" he demanded.

"More wine, sir," called Thurio in a high voice. Lucian saw Montano shake his head.

"How much can a man need?" he muttered, but reached for the doorknob nonetheless.

Lucian heard the click of the latch, and he and Thurio both shoved. They were in the room in an instant, Thurio with knife in hand as he grabbed for Montano's throat.

The knight and his whores were too stunned to cry out, and Thurio's fury bore the man to the floor. Lucian was into the room after him and slammed the door shut behind him. He shot a deadly glare at the whores and raised a finger to his lips.

"Stay quiet, girls. We have no quarrel with you."

"But I have one with you, Montano," Thurio hissed. He rested the knife against the knight's throat, though as the latter's surprise faded, he did not seem much afraid.

"Who are you fooling, boy?" he laughed, and Thurio punched him in the face. The knight's head banged against the carpeted floor, but he did not seem hurt. "What is it you want?" he asked breezily. "My money? I'm afraid these lovely girls have a claim to it now."

Thurio looked up at them and was seemingly taken aback by the sight of them. Both girls were pretty, dark-haired, and blessed with full breasts. They lay naked on the bed staring in shock at the intruders, but still very much in the act of pleasure. Thurio's face screwed up in confusion, and Lucian wondered if the lad had never imagined girls pleasing one another. How sheltered was Prospero's son?

"Tell us about Prospero," Lucian commanded, trying to pull Thurio's attention back to the matter at hand. Montano frowned for a moment, then smiled.

"Ah, the traitorous count," he said, and Thurio punched him again.

"Don't you dare slander my father, knave!"

"Your father?" Montano echoed. He propped himself up on his elbows and gave Thurio a look over. "I had heard you were dead."

"You will be dead soon yourself if you don't start talking," Thurio snarled. The knight was still unimpressed. He pulled himself gently out of Thurio's grip and sat against the bed, his legs spread. His thick, hard cock lay against his leg, and the sight of it caught the lad's attention. He stared at it with fascination, even as the knight began to talk.

"You've made a foolish mistake coming here," he said. "All of the traitor's lackeys are being hunted down, and you two are no different. I am an important man, you see, and any harm done to me with be done to you a hundred times over before it is all done. You will die screaming on the wheel, my masters will see to it."

"Who are your masters?" demanded Thurio, readying his knife once again. "Who had you hire the thief Pancino?"

"Ah, dear Pancino. He talked, did he? That will costly him a few fingers, if he is lucky."

"Why did you have him frame my father?"

"Frame? There was no frame. Your father is a traitor to be sure, boy. He will be remembered as such. If you want my advice--"

"I don't," Thurio shot back."

"--leave the city while you still can. I have friends in very high places. My master controls the Colleges now, and I have a personal friendship with the Auric ambassador. You are trifling with far greater men than you know."

Lucian frowned. This was going nowhere. Montano was spinning a tale while he goaded the boy. The two whores still lay frozen on the bed, as if staying still might cause them to be forgotten about. Thurio was not buying the knight's threats and looked on the verge of using the dagger. While the girls had stayed calm so far, bloodshed was likely to set them screaming, which would bring the whole Palace down on their heads.

His weapons were still in the cloakroom, and he misliked his chances of fighting his way clear if he had only Thurio's little knife.

"Who are you working for?" Thurio hissed. He cocked the knife back, ready for a thrust. Montano simply laughed.

"I told you," he said. "Men who will have you torn limb from limb and feed your grisly remains to a baying crowd." He leaned close to Thurio's face. "My master and I rule this city now."

Thurio screamed with fury, driving the knife forward.

Montano caught him by the wrist. Thurio growled, unable to push the knife home, and Montano twisted. The knife thudded to the carpet.

They all three grabbed for it at once. Lucian knocked over Thurio as he dove for it and all three ended up in a pile, the knife underneath him. Montano jabbed at him with two fingers, spearing him painfully in the side. The naked knight shoved them off him, but now Thurio held the knife again. He thrust it at Montano as the knight grabbed for it, and again Montano caught him by the wrist. The blade flashed in the candlelight as it was ripped from Thurio's grasp.

The two whores sat up on the bed with a cry of alarm, pressing themselves against the room's tapestried wall to get as far away from the flashing blade as possible. Lucian scrambled to his feet, fearing that the girls had just set off the alarm. His wounds burned, but he could not let the pain stop him. He rushed Montano and the knife lashed out for his neck. Lucian blocked the blow with his forearm, diverting it to the side. He wrapped Montano in a bear hug, pinning his knife arm to his side.

They wrestled, the girls crying out again as they sheltered behind their arms and a silk bedsheet, but Montano burst from his grasp. The knight slashed at him again, and Lucian only just leapt back from its cold touch. Thurio now rose, first kicking at Montano's bare legs. The knight grunted and staggered back a half step, but the attack did not topple hm as the boy no doubt hoped.

Now on his feet, Thurio dropped into a crouch. He feinted another charge, but Montano did not bite. Lucian cast his eyes about the room for any sort of weapon to use. His hand fell upon a candlestick, with a burning candle in its sconce. He quickly knocked the candle to the floor and stomped it out before it set the room alight, then whirled to bludgeon Sir Montano with his newfound club.

Montano was tangling with Thurio, who was grabbing at the knife once again. The knight stabbed for the boy's eye but instead cut a few hairs from his false mustache. Then Montano got his leg in between Thurio's and tripped the lad to the floor.

Lucian struck. His candlestick thudded against the knight's back, drawing a grunt from Montano and a squeal of fright from the two whores. Montano spun on him, the knife flashing for his throat, and Lucian was driven back. He slapped at Montano's knife hand, but the knight withdrew it and threw his left hand into a fist with which he punched Lucian square in the chest.

The breath was knocked from his lungs, his battered body flared in agony, and his candlestick fell to the carpet. Lucian staggered against the wall, expecting the knife to plunge into his neck at any moment. But instead, Montano turned on Thurio, who had scrambled to his feet again. The boy was finding his footing and moved with a dancer's grace. Though still unarmed, the expression on his face told Lucian he was far too driven by fury and revenge to avoid this fight.

Montano saw it too. He chuckled to himself; knife cocked for a killing thrust.

"Fool boy," the knight teased. "You don't know when to run away."

Thurio screamed and rushed in again. The knife flashed overhead and there was the loud tearing of cloth. Thurio's shirt ripped open from collar to navel and Lucian expected to see a red line of blood across the boy's chest.

But there was no wound. Thurio danced away and looked down, following Montano's gaze. Both seemed equally surprised that the blade had not found flesh. Montano snarled and turned his back fully to Lucian as he advanced for a finishing stroke.

Lucian wasted no time. He snatched up the candlestick again and brought it swinging overhead in a two-handed blow to Montano's crown. There was a sickening crack as his skull gave way, then he toppled forward and thudded to the carpet. The whole room seemed to shake.

The whores screamed, grabbing hold of each other. Lucian stared numbly at the knight's body where it lay still, then looked from it to Thurio.

The lad was panting heavily, splayed against the far wall of the room with his torn shirt open, exposing four jeweled golden necklaces, his soft white flesh, and... tits.

The boy unmistakably had two tits. Lovely little things with rosy pink nipples and soft curves to them. Lucian found himself confused by the sight, but things slowly began to come together in his head. Thurio's whole torso was bare to him now, and there was an undoubtedly feminine nature to "his" waist, "his" skin, and--now that he looked for it--the youth's face, as well. Remove that mustache, and nothing would ever pretend that Thurio was a boy.

How could he have been so blind? Had that stupid mustache been enough to fool him the whole night?

Thurio met his gaze, understanding that her deception was at an end. But there was no time to discuss it, for the two whores screamed a piercing cry that was sure to send the whole brothel running.

"No, no, no!" Lucian begged, "Be quiet, don't scream, we won't hurt you!"

The whores continued their screaming, and Lucian held a hand to his temple. There was no doubt about an alarm now. Voices sounded through the room's door, and he felt panic rising in his throat.

"We need to go. Now."

Thurio shook her head.

"We don't have any answers."

"And we're not getting them from a corpse. Let's go!"

Montano's purse sat on a nightstand by the door, and he grabbed it hastily, then rushed to the door and opened it a crack. The whores' screaming emanated through the open portal and into the hall. He heard still-distant voices, and others muffled through the door opposite his, but there was no immediate sign of danger.

"No time to waste!" he insisted, and threw open the door. "Run!"

Thurio snatched up Montano's discarded shirt but had not the time to put it on as they ran.

"Where?" she asked. "I don't know how to get out except through the front door!"

"We'll have to find a window somewhere, or perhaps through the cellar?"

"The front door!" Thurio cried, "Our weapons are there!"

"There they will have to remain. We will surely be caught if we go out that way."

"Damn, we left the knife behind with Montano! Without it, we have no weapons at all!"

"Well, we can't go back for it!"

They ran through the salon, which was now empty, but from all sides they heard voices, and through cracked open doors, suspicious eyes watched them go. They rushed into the main hall connecting to the stairs just as two servants in the Palace's livery summitted the stairs with an armored guardsman following behind.

"Not that way!" Lucian cried and turned away. "Run!"

They ran the opposite way with the armored guardsman in hot pursuit.

The halls of the Palace of Nystra were narrow and winding with few windows. There was telling where the exits were, and Lucian had only seen one staircase into the foyer. In all likelihood, they were trapped, but he did not intend to make his pursuers' task an easy one.

Sure enough, they rounded a corner to find themselves at a dead end. Doors to private rooms studded the walls, but none were an obvious escape route. Lucian tried to remember the turns they had taken and match it with the building's exterior. Were they near an outer wall that might have a window?

"Damn, a dead end!" cried Thurio, nearly running into his back as he came to a halt.

The door beside them opened a crack, showing a sliver of a man's face, then slammed shut again. The pursuing guard rounded the corner, now with a companion trailing not far behind.

"What do we do?" she asked. Lucian backed himself against the wall opposite the door.

"Hope this one paid for a room with a view."

He kicked the door open--his wounds still flaring with agony--bursting open the lock with a great crack. The man at the door fell away, sprawling to the floor before them. A half-naked girl on the bed screamed and dove underneath the covers. Lucian and Thurio rushed into the room and slammed the door shut behind them. He looked around. To his relief, the room had a window, hidden behind a thick curtain to prevent the Palace's neighbors from spying.

"Mercy, sir!" cried the man on the floor, immediately reduced to tears. "I have money! Take it, take whatever you want, but don't hurt me!"

Lucian ignored him and ripped the curtains open. Outside it was dark, but he could see the steeply sloped roof just outside the window. He peered out and saw the slope drop off into a dark alley below the Palace. It would have to do.

"Get something in front of that door!" he shouted to Thurio, then pulled the window open. Or tried, for he found that it was nailed shut. "Who would want to open a window when they've been fucking?" he muttered, but his complaints were too late to reach the builders. He grabbed a bowl from the room's dresser, dumping its fruits onto the carpet, and smashed open one windowpane. Only eleven more, plus the lattice, he grumbled to himself.

Looking over his shoulder, he saw the man and Thurio, the latter with her tits still bare, drag a chest of draws in front of the door just as the guards arrived and began beating on it. They shouted dire threats to no avail, for Lucian and Thurio--or whatever her name truly was--were settled on flight, and the man and his whore were in no state to oppose them.

"Get over here and help open the window," Lucian commanded Thurio. "You, hold that door shut!" he ordered the weeping man. Thurio lifted a stool overhead.

"Stand back," she cried, and heaved the stool at the window. It smashed through with a great crash, then clattered all the way down the slate shingles until it dropped into the alley. There was a distant sound of wood shattering, and then all was quiet except the guards' pounding on the door.

"Time to go," Lucian said quickly, and clambered through the window. The shingles were slick with rain, and he kept low to the roof as he crawled out to get clear of the building. 'Thurio' waited at the window, her face taut with concern. "Come on!" he urged. "They'll break through that door soon enough. We need to be long gone by then!"

She nodded, then carefully climbed through the broken window and onto the roof. She, too, kept low, both hands guiding her across the roof. There came a loud crack from the room. The door had been split.

"No more waiting," Lucian said, and shoved himself off the roof's crest. He slid easily over the slate, gaining speed as the edge neared. His heart leapt into his throat as he careened over the edge and dropped into the darkness. The air rushed past him, his eyes straining to adjust, and he crashed into a pile of old, rotting crates. His aching wounds sent lances of pain shooting through his body, white hot agony flaring in his eyes. He cried out in pain, then groaned and pulled himself into a ball.

He hurt too much to move for a long moment, instead lying in a pile of broken wood and feeling sorry for himself. From the roof above, there came a series of shouts and then a clattering of slate. Someone cried out and he heard something descending upon him.

With a scream, 'Thurio' plunged from above to crash into the alley next to him. She landed lightly on her feet, then dropped to sit panting beside him.

"We need to go," she said, pulling her torn shirt tight around her bare chest. She held Montano's stolen shirt in her other hand, still unworn. He chuckled grimly at the reversal of their positions as he thought about begging for just a few more moments, but the direction of the shouts above told him that their pursuers had climbed out onto the roof.

Groaning again, he hauled himself to his feet with 'the help of 'Thurio,' and they set off at a run through the darkened city.

---

Their mad dash took them several streets away before they stopped to listen for signs of pursuit. Distant voices sounded in the dark night, but a long pause to catch their breaths brought the voices no closer, and Lucian sighed in relief. He leaned against a barrel in the latest dark alley where they sheltered, his wounds still aching fiercely.

"Where are we?" wondered the girl who had pretended to be Thurio. Lucian was more interested in another question.

"Who are you?" he demanded. "Really, this time."

'Thurio' frowned and crossed her arms underneath her breasts.

"Anaïs Noronha, daughter to Count Prospero," she said, her voice now what he would expect from a girl her age and size. She had a sweet voice, though tinged with some of the brashness she had exhibited all night. Her highborn accent was at once soothing and beautiful to hear; her voice radiated class, and her open shirt made his attraction to her that much greater.

"Why the deception?"

She scowled, then shrugged. "I did not think you would take me seriously as a woman."

Lucian laughed. It felt good, despite the pain in his aching chest.

"I do not take you seriously with that mustache. Here." He grabbed one end of her mustache and ripped it off. The girl squealed in pain and clapped both hands to her mouth, but the hair peeled off cleanly, and only a redness on her upper lip told the tale. She was pretty, now that the mustache was off her. With pale, clear skin, high cheekbones, and a rosebud mouth, he could not believe he had bought her disguise as a man. Her shirt still hung open, affording him a view of her naked chest and the lovely little breasts upon it. He bit his lip against his rising thoughts of lust and changed the subject.

"Where is your brother, the real Thurio?"

"I don't know," she answered. "Likely with Mother, hiding out with family somewhere. I never heard of their arrest, just Father's. I had hoped... I had hoped that once I proved his innocence, they would reappear." She scowled in sudden anger. "But now that Montano is dead, he will never tell us who is pulling his strings. All because you killed him, you damned fool!"

Anaïs was shaking with fury. The stolen shirt she still had not donned hung from her grasp, but her bare chest was what caught Lucian's eye, even as he felt anger rising within himself.

"To save you!" he snapped back. "Would you prefer if I had let him gut you like a fish?"

"I was not in danger! You could have knocked him out, not dead! Now we're out here with no weapons and half the city hunting for us while we hide in a dirty alley with my tits hanging out! Damn!"

She turned and kicked one of the barrels that lined the alley, and he heard a sob of frustration. Anaïs then turned back to him.

"We must go back." Lucian scoffed. "We must find something on his person to lead us to his master. Maybe a letter, or a seal, or--"

"Back?" Lucian exclaimed. "Into that brothel where they nearly killed us!"

"Back! For proof, and our weapons!"

"No, we need to leave! We'll be wanted for murder as soon as they find a magistrate--"

"And I thank you for that, for I would not be a murderer without your fine touch on all this," Anaïs sneered acidly.

"No," Lucian conceded, "Just a robber and a traitor's daughter. I am getting out of this city."

"Oh, where are you going to go?!"

"I don't know yet, but not here. All that is here for me is a short wait and a long drop. I escaped the noose once and I'm not keen on another brush."

"You escaped the noose?! No, I set you free!"

"Free to serve you?"

"You served my father," Anaïs shot back, her blue eyes cold in the dim light of the distant streetlamps. "I am his heir; you serve me."

"Legally, no," retorted Lucian. "Your father is dead, attainted a traitor. His property is stripped, and his servants released from oaths of service. I am a free man, and you've no money to pay me, anyway."

Anaïs stormed up to him and glared at him in the eye. He felt her hot breath on his cheeks, and some dim light reflected in her cold blue eyes. Her pale cheeks shone in the moonlight, flushed with frustrated fury.

"Do as I say, or I'll have you flogged for your insolence."

"Oh, really?" Lucian snarled back. He stepped closer to her, towering head and shoulders over her slight form. "You and what army?"

She slapped him. Despite her anger, he did not see it coming. His face stung, stars danced before his eyes, and the wounds his interrogators left burned once again. Lucian felt his anger boil over.

He throttled her, driving Anaïs back against the alley wall. Shock played across her face, her eyes going wide and her mouth falling open. Lucian pinned her, staring hard into her eyes and snarled with rage.

"I've had just about enough of you. Time to make yourself useful, little girl!"

He threw her to her knees and began to unlace his trousers.

"What--what are you doing?!" she squealed, and Lucian's cock flopped free. He was still hard from the sight of her little tits and all the attractions on display in the brothel. "Let me go!"

"Suck it, little girl, and then we'll see about your attitude."

"Die and burn you, you gutter-trash!" Anaïs snapped back, and Lucian simply grabbed his cock and stuffed it in her mouth. She let out a muffled squeal of shock as he buried himself in her pretty little mouth up to his balls.

"Suck it," he commanded, and she stared up at him with fury and more than a little fear. She pushed against him, fighting as he fucked her mouth. He yanked off her hat, letting her long tresses fall loose about her half-naked shoulders, and wound a hand through her locks. "If you bite me, I'll see to it that you never know the end of pain."

Anaïs ripped herself away and off his cock. She slapped ineffectually at him as he caught her again and hauled her back to her knees.

"Don't you touch me, don't you even dare!" she sputtered. Lucian grabbed the back of her head and forced her down on his cock again.

"Or else what? Are you going to scream? You want to draw those guards down on us? You want to make a scene? Or are you going to cut me like you did with Montano? You're pathetic. You lost your knife to him twice! Silly, stupid little girl playing at being a man."

"Brute," she gurgled around his cock. He dragged his cock over her teeth and felt a slight pain, but more importantly a sudden fear that she would bite his cock, consequences be damned. He pulled himself out.

"Get up," he commanded, and pulled her to her feet. "Turn around."

"No, please," she begged, understanding his aim. He yanked off her torn shirt and threw it to the dirt. "Please, not there!" she whined.

"Shut up," he growled, then pulled down her trousers. She was naked from the knees up now, her pale body glowing in the light of the moon and more distant streetlamps, her flesh soft and inviting even as she pleaded with him.

Her pussy was shaven, a rosy slit between her slender legs. She was a little wet already, and Lucian's mind went back to the brothel. She had not been shy around the girls out of desire, but scandalized that a highborn lady would be seen in the company of whores. Then he thought to the way that 'Thurio' had looked at Sir Montano's cock and understood why she was wet. And perhaps why she was so upset at his death.

Women. Highborn ladies or lowborn whores, they were all the same.

He thrust his hard cock into her slit all the way to the base, and Anaïs whimpered in defeat. He shoved her up against the wall, pressing her face into the cool, damp brick. Her long blonde hair fell down her naked back, her golden necklaces jingling as he began to fuck her. He slapped his hips against hers, drinking in the silken touch of her pussy.

She was something else. He was used to the whores who frequented army camps, but the body of a pampered noble girl was an entirely new sensation for him. Her skin was soft and smooth, her hair was fine, her tits... He grabbed at her tits again, cupping and squeezing those little breasts in his big, rough hands. Anaïs moaned softly, then whimpered again.

He fucked heedless of his body's pleas. He ached and burned everywhere, but it was worth it to be inside her. The torturer's marks wracked him with pain, but at the same time felt like they were fading with each stroke of his cock into Anaïs.

Anaïs' hands scrabbled against the wall, as if looking for a way out. But Lucian was not about to let her go. He wrapped an arm around her waist and another around her chest, groping those little breasts that had so entranced him. He crushed her close, pawing at her, nuzzling at her shoulders, kissing the soft skin of her throat on his way up to her rosebud mouth.

He kissed her cheek, then grabbed her by the chin and turned her to face him. Her blue eyes stared pleadingly at him.

"Please don't hurt me," she begged. "I'll be good, please!"

"Kiss me," he hissed, his breath hot on her face. He did not wait for a reply and pressed his lips to hers. Her lips--warm, soft, and wet--were in that moment preferable to those of Nystra Herself. He drank of her mouth, wrapping his arms fully around her body, and thrust his tongue inside her.

She responded in kind, their tongues entwining within her mouth. She reached back to brush his hand. Anaïs grasped a lock of his hand in her soft, white hands, her body shaking under the assault of his hungry hips.

He throbbed with pain and pleasure in equal amounts.

"Take me," she whispered through his kisses. "Keep me, use me, punish me--I am yours, Lucian."

He could not remember if she had called him by name since they had first met in the Roast Pig. His cock throbbed for her.

"Turn around," he gasped. "I am not done with you."

With a great effort of his mind, he pulled himself out of her. Anaïs turned, still tangled up in the trousers around her leg. She teetered and he caught her before she fell. Lucian shoved her backwards to sit on the edge of a barrel, and she lifted her legs. He yanked off her boots and trousers in three quick tugs, throwing them all into the soft dirt.

Anaïs was naked now, all except for her jewelry. She half-sat, half-lay on the barrel, her legs together but her sex showing between them. She covered her bare breasts with one arm, the other bracing herself against the edge.

Lucian stood for a moment, admiring her beauty as he stroked his cock. She smiled slightly at him, then lifted her arm to bare her breasts once again. Lucian could wait no longer and mounted her again.

He pinned her bare legs back against her shoulders, thrusting himself down into her. He crouched over Anaïs, panting and grunting with each thrust. Her breasts trembled, her teeth clenched. He was driving them both to orgasm.

Lucian threaded his arms underneath her and lifted her up to press their bodies together. Her naked skin against his was a better salve to his wounds than any alchemists' brew. They kissed again, the barrel rocking back and forth beneath them, her jewelry clinking, and Lucian exulted in the moment.

He was in her, defiling her soft, innocent, noble flesh with his baseborn cock. He felt a conqueror, but also a pang of guilt for taking the virtue from a girl whose father had been so good to him.

She screamed against his chest, her body shaking with the familiar tremors of a woman's climax, and Lucian forgot all about guilt. Anaïs seemed to cry out in alarm as much as pleasure, and broke their lip lock to look down at her fulfilled sex in surprise. She oozed wetness on him, and Lucian felt himself reaching orgasm as well.

He came, spurting himself inside her purse before he could say anything. His cock twitched, his seed mixing with her wetness, and he sagged forward, both hands bracing against the barrel. Anaïs sat still, her legs thrown over his shoulders and her arms around his neck.

"I..." she trailed off, her face pressed against his shoulder. "I've never felt like that before."

"Like what?" Lucian asked, his breath short. "You've never come before?"

"Is that what that is?" she asked, now shy. Lucian lifted his head to look into her eyes, but she kept hers downcast. "Have you ever fucked a man before?"

"Yes," she blushed. "A few. But only one for pleasure. He was young, as I was. But... he's gone now... He would want nothing to do with a traitor's daughter."

"And the others?" Lucian asked, brushing a stray lock of hair from her eyes. Anaïs blushed deeper.

"They were older. Two judges... and a thief," she admitted. Lucian smiled to himself. He had been sure she could not overpower Pancino. But no matter, whatever men had known her before, she belonged to him now, and he was determined to keep it that way.

"Now what?" she asked. Lucian stepped back, his cock sliding out of her and hanging limp before him. His breath was heavy, his arms ached, but in a good way. His eyes lingered on her naked body as he put his cock away.

"Now we find who Montano was working for," he said at last. Anaïs' eyes lit up. She hopped off the barrel, her bare feet setting into the soft dirt. She frowned right away, and Lucian handed her the discarded shirt. "Get dressed, we are well into the night already, and we need to be somewhere safe by first light."

Anaïs pulled on her stolen shirt and began to lace it up. Lucian took a moment to admire her bare legs as she did and felt his cock stiffening again already. As much as he wanted to, he had no time to fuck her a second time.

"Sir Montano mentioned friends in high places," he mused. "One of them must be protecting him. One of them must be his patron."

"He said his masters control the city now."

"Who commands the Colleges now that your father is... gone?"

Anaïs furrowed her brow as she reached for her trousers.

"I am not sure. The keyholder is still the same as before, but with Father's disgrace the Regents will have realigned."

"If Montano was not all bluster, whoever controls the new reigning faction will be his master."

"It's all a bit chaotic now," said Anaïs. "The Prince of Ravahn is no doubt one of the leaders, he always is. His usual allies will back him. Father's old rival Guiderius Menho will likely join the prince, just to avoid association."

"Montano mentioned the Auric ambassador," Lucian suggested.

"Gaius Messius Quintus, yes. He is close to Bassanio Caltassia, and the Marquis of Alivarras as well. They--"

"Wait, the Marquis of Alivarras! The inquisitors asked about him."

"What did they say?"

"They wanted to know if I had spoken with him, or if he had passed me anything. Do you think he has been arrested?"

"No," Anaïs' face darkened as she pulled on her boots. "He was going to a play on the North Side earlier tonight. What else did they ask about?"

"The ambassador, the marquis, Sir Montano... and the harbor fort. They wanted to know if I had heard anything said about the harbor fort. And the key! Oh... I don't think they meant the keyholder."

"No, I think they meant the keys to the fort. Was there anything else?"

"Yes... something about a ship. The Crescent Moon. I don't suppose you know it?"

"Perhaps... When I was... with the senior magistrate, one of his secretaries mentioned a ship called Crescent Moon. The magistrate had just been asked to revoke its berth at the wharf and wrote a letter telling the ship's master to be gone as soon as the tides permitted. I want to know who asked for that letter."

"Sounds like someone is covering their tracks. What was the Marquis' position in the government before your father's arrest?"

Anaïs' face hardened. "He was Keeper of Laws. Give me my hat, it's time we paid him a visit."

---

The house of Marquis Baltazar Ravedo of Alivarras was a grand thing. It sat on a small square near the Palace of the Colleges, overawing its modest neighbors with four stories of marble and granite. Tall windows looked onto the square, while a lush garden and wrought iron gate separated the front door from the street where passersby stopped to stare in amazement. Even at this late hour, the gate and façade of the house were lit by great lanterns of brass and crystal that spilled enough light across the garden that Lucian could almost believe it was midday.

"How do we get in?" Anaïs asked from the alley where they had hidden themselves to observe the house. Lucian frowned at her. Her new shirt hid her breasts much better, and he was disappointed. Yet she had not lost 'Thurio's' aggressive impatience when she revealed her true identity, and that was still likely to get them killed, or worse.

"Carefully," was his reply. "The front is too well lit, but--"

"I do not see a guard," Anaïs replied. "Light is nothing without someone to observe."

"What is your plan?" Lucian challenged. "Say you get in the door, then what?"

Anaïs frowned. She looked chastened, though was far from about to admit it.

"Letters," she muttered. "He must have letters that prove this. We must get into his study."

"Oh, and rich men like him usually leave their letters unlocked, do they?"

"Locks will not be an obstacle. We just need to get inside."

"So you say... remember that we must not only get in, not only find the letters, but also get out and deliver them to someone who can clear your father's name. All of that means nothing if we get killed. Or caught."

"There must be a servants' entrance. I have been in a hundred of these homes and they are all alike. No one pays attention to the servants. Come."

Anaïs hurried from the alley across to the garden wall. She looked around the square for anyone watching, then silently urged Lucian to follow. Sighing, he obeyed.

"Quickly," she whispered as he neared. "Lift me over the wall and I will help you up next."

Lucian eyed the wall. With some effort, he could lift her high enough to pull herself over the top, though he worried that the effort would overwhelm his wounds. The top of the wall was wide enough that she could rest upon it and help him climb it as well, though he knew nothing of what waited on the other side.

"What if there is a guard?" he asked. They had still not found any weapons since abandoning them in Nystra's Palace. While the coin he stole form Montano would serve to rearm them in time, no sword or gunsmith was making in sales in the middle of the night. But Anaïs merely shrugged.

"We will figure it out when it happens."

"No," he said with a shake of his head. "We need to do this my way. Your way is likely to get us killed."

"They will discover your escape in the morning," she pleaded. "All our opportunities exist for this night only."

"We're rushing too fast into this. Our opportunities count for nothing if they get us killed. I can't do this."

"Lucian," she said. Her expression shifted from angry determination to desperation. "I need you. I can't do this alone."

Her blue eyes pleaded with him to indulge her, and Lucian sighed. What was he doing?

A little voice in his head told him to fuck her one more time, then sell her to a brothel and use the coin to disappear. Count Prospero was dead. Revenge was not going to bring him back but would surely make him new enemies. What good was the daughter when all the count's things had been seized? I should be halfway out of the republic's lands by now, he thought to himself.

Yet she looked at him with her pleading eyes, and he could not refuse.

"Very well," he sighed again. "I'll lift you up, then you help me. We'll stick to the shadows. Get inside, find the study, grab any letters that could incriminate him and then... who can we show them to?"

"I know someone in the inquisitor's office," Anaïs offered. "He will help us, if we provide the documents."

"Very well. Ready?"

He laced his fingers together to create a stirrup, with which he lifted her high enough to grab the top of the wall. Anaïs pulled herself over the lip, cast a quick look around, then lay flat atop it and extended her hand to Lucian.

Working together, they climbed over the wall and dropped stealthily into the darkness of the lush garden. Here the light of the great lanterns did not penetrate, and they crept silently through the flowerbeds to the servants' door.

Inside was the kitchen, already abuzz as the servants prepared for the rising of their masters within an hour or so. A great fire burned in the oven, and it was only there that Lucian realized how hungry he was. He had not eaten since... he could not remember when, and had sorely wanted a meal at the Roast Hog before Anaïs had showed up.

Peering in the door, they waited until the cooks turned away, then darted from the door to the dim pantry. Lucian slipped through the pantry and out the far door, leaving him just steps from the door out of the kitchen and into the house. Two women stood just beyond, rolling dough beside the oven. They chatted amiably, showing no urge to get out of his way. Anaïs waited impatiently at his shoulder, and Lucian was keenly aware that someone would come into the pantry sooner or later.

He could not wait for the way to clear, and his mind searched for a solution. He bid Anaïs to stay put, then scurried stealthily across the pantry to where a stack of crates stood by the far door. He took a deep breath, then shoved them over. The resulting crash drew all attention in the kitchen, and the women rolling dough left their posts to investigate, taking the long way around the pantry. Their attentions diverted, Lucian and Anaïs darted for the exit. The door opened silently, and they were through it in a flash.

They were through to the main hall, which was thankfully empty. A grand staircase ascended to the next floor, while the tall windows they had seen from the street let in the great lanterns' light in long, lancing beams of gold.

"Quickly," urged Anaïs, and she rushed past him toward the stairs. They climbed as swiftly as they dared and entered a second-floor hallway chosen for its closeness more than anything else. Lucian tried to think as a rich man. Where would he put his study? Count Prospero had preferred the quiet of his garden, away from the street, while he knew other men liked to watch over the front door to see who was coming and going. Was Baltazar Ravedo more like Prospero or the others?

Anaïs turned toward the front of the house, and Lucian followed. She was making for a door with such purpose that he wondered if she was familiar with this design of this house? Had she been to some ball here? She had pretended to be a man, she had fucked the thief instead of fighting him, what other secrets did have?

They flattened themselves against the wall outside their target and listened. All within was quiet, and there was only the curious chatter from downstairs in the kitchen. Anaïs bent before the door and drew her thieves' tools. While she had fumbled painfully outside Pancino's door, this lock proved less troublesome and they were inside shortly thereafter.

Lucian found himself in a lavish study, looking out over the front walk through tall windows. The study jutted out before the rest of the building, watching over anyone approaching the house's front door from the side like a fortress' bastion, ready to rake an invader with cannon fire. Tall shelves lined the windowless walls, filled with neatly organized rows of books. There must be thousands of them, Lucian marveled. The marquis was a rich man indeed, no wonder the Colleges had turned to him in their time of need. And no wonder he conspired to seize control, for no rich man had ever existed who did not crave to be richer.

Anaïs was already searching the huge desk of ebony that stood in the middle of the room. She rifled through letters and other papers, shoving some toward him.

"Read those," she whispered harshly. "There must be something here that proves his complicity."

Lucian leafed through the pages she handed him--their number growing as she searched the desks, then its drawers, then the rest of the room. He was rare among soldiers in being literate, but the flowing script and flowering language of the letters challenged him still. There were simply too many. Personal letters, reports from the Colleges' proceedings, household accounts, records of arrests... it would take days to read them all, and they did not have hours.

"Here," said Anaïs suddenly. She held up a letter stamped with the marquis' seal. "A letter from the Auric ambassador Gaius Messius Quintus. They... they do not come out and say it, but there is some agreement here between Quintus and the marquis that concerns my father." She looked up. "Look for a chest of coins."

Lucian cast his eyes about the room and shortly settled them on a small coffer that sat beneath the desk. Picking it up, he found it quite heavy and, more surprisingly, unlocked. Opening the lid, he was greeted by the glitter of gold.

"There must be two hundred ducats here!" he gasped. Anaïs nodded.

"A bribe for the fortress commander," she said, holding up a different letter. "The Marquis of Alivarras is to secure control of the harbor fort."

"So that no one may escape?" Lucian asked, and Anaïs frowned. "Prospero is already dead. Do you think he would do all of that for us?"

"No, these plans predate my father's arrest by months. They have been plotting this for a long time. We need to find out what else they planned."

They went back into the letters, and Lucian stuffed the coffer of gold into his purse. It would come in handy if they were to make a run for it. He found another letter tucked away in the cubbies of the desk.

"This is something," he said, his eyes straining in the dim light of the study to ready its scrawl. It had the look of a clerk's writing, not some nobleman's secretary. "It mentions a galleon called the Crescent Moon."

"That's the ship the magistrates were discussing," said Anaïs, who hurried over and tore the paper from his hand. "The Marquis must have asked for word of it, for it says that the ship is still docked and uninspected, but that the crew are getting restless staying aboard."

"That's strange," Lucian said. "I've never known a sailor to delay running from his ship to a gambling den or whore's bed as soon as landfall was made and the hold unloaded. What captain would stand between his men and their entertainment?"

"Indeed," Anaïs mused, "For this ship made port six days ago."

"Then I am surprised they have not mutinied and hanged him from a yardarm." He remembered one captain he had contracted with in his youth who had forbidden his men to gamble or womanize, even when on leave. He had been shortly thereafter run out of camp in his smallclothes.

"There must be some secret aboard that ship that he does not want getting out. But why the delay? What are they waiting for? We must know more."

And so, they returned a third time to their paper chase. The marquis' output was incredible, though from the other desks in the room Lucian could tell that he had at least three secretaries to aid him. Yet they must still have worked all day and well into the wee hours to make so much to read. Which meant that they would soon have company in the study.

His eye fell upon another sheet, this one marked with straight, rigid lines in neat rows. He saw numbers and calculations and two great seals; one of the marquis, the other of a golden eagle on crimson.

He offered the paper to Anaïs. "You had better take a look at this. It's a banker's note of some sort, but I cannot make sense of it."

Anaïs scrutinized the paper, turning it over and whispering nearly silently to herself.

"It is a loan from the Bank of Lakoria," she said at last. "For one hundred thousand aurei, which is about a quarter of a million ducats."

"He could hire a small army with that much money," Lucian whispered. "What does he want with that much money? No... why would Auria give him that much money?"

"My father's death wasn't worth that much," Anaïs remarked bitterly. "But... a bribe to the harbor fort commandant, a ship with a secret, restless cargo..."

They heard a noise from the hall.

"Hide," he urged, and they rushed to find a place. Lucian secreted himself by the door, ready to ambush whoever came in with a purloined letter opener in his hand, while Anaïs hid herself behind the curtains.

The door opened, and in walked a tall, slender man with a thin mustache and dark ringlets that fell to his shoulder. His clothes were fine, with lace and embroidery all over, yet he was clearly not yet dressed for the day. He strode to the large desk, softly humming to himself. In the darkness of the pre-dawn, Lucian could just make out Anaïs behind the curtains, pointing toward the man at the desk.

"That's him," she mouthed through the darkness. The Marquis only now seemed to notice the mess they had left around his desk, and he frowned. Muttering a curse upon his careless secretaries, he struck flint and steel to light his desk lamp, and Lucian froze.

The lamp flared to life, bathing the whole room in a warm amber--and clearly illuminating Lucian by the door. The marquis did not start in surprise, but instead locked his eyes on Lucian.

"Who are you?" he demanded slowly, his hands on his desk. Lucian stepped forward, holding the letter opener out beside him.

"A friend of Count Prospero," Lucian growled. He brandished the letter opener now, but the marquis simply sniffed in derision.

"Who? Oh, you must mean Prospero the traitor. Well, you are quite brave to associate yourself with a condemned traitor. You know what happens to traitor's friends, presumably? Why don't we call my guards to help you find out?"

"I think that would be unwise." Lucian took a step forward, readying his makeshift dagger.

"Why should I not call for my guards and take my chances with your little letter opener. Or, should I say, my little letter opener, thief?"

"We have your letters," Anaïs declared, stepping forth from behind the curtains as she brandished his incriminating correspondence. The Marquis started at her presence, but quickly regained his composure.

"So you do," he remarked easily, though his eyes narrowed slightly. "You I recognize. I had heard that one of the traitor's spawn was out trying to hide his crimes. I had expected it to be your brother, girl. But I am pleased it was you. I should thank you, for if not for your efforts, mine might have come to naught."

"What do you mean?" she demanded, visibly restraining herself from hurling herself upon him. The marquis leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers.

"Your desire to study music in Auria," he said. "My spies heard that you begged your father to let you go there, and when he met with Quintus to arrange it, I had men from the inquisitor's office watching. While your father talked of schooling and patronage, the inquisitor's spies determined he was plotting treason. That was what convinced them to move against him. A most fortuitous desire of yours."

He smirked, and Anaïs lunged at him. Her hands reached for his throat, and the marquis caught her by the wrists. They wrestled, knocking over the chair and spilling both to the floor. Baltazar came up on top, raising a heavy inkwell over Anaïs' head. His arm descended, and Lucian caught him by the wrist. He laid the letter opener against the marquis' throat.

"Let her up," he commanded, and the marquis sighed. Anaïs crawled out from beneath him and brushed herself off. In the reddening light of the sky, Lucian could see she was flushed all over from rage and embarrassment, but she took a deep breath to compose herself.

"Now," she said, "you are going to answer our questions."

The marquis rolled his eyes, unimpressed. But he raised his palms toward the roof and smiled.

"I am yours," he said with mock servility. "What do you wish to know?"

"Why did my father have to die?" Anaïs demanded. Baltazar gave a little shrug, almost apologetic.

"An accident, really. He had nothing to do with my plans, but he has always opposed me in the Regents' College, and I hated him so. The inquisitors came sniffing around my plot, my ship in the harbor, and I needed to throw them off my scent. So, I revealed the plot to them but credited your father for its creation instead of myself. A shame, I would have quite liked the credit. But I am quite happy with how it all worked out. It takes a brilliant mind to change plans so quickly when things are already in motion."

"So he died for your crime?" Anaïs snarled with rage. The marquis made no apology, not seeming to understand how close to death he was.

"Indeed," replied Baltazar. Anaïs cocked her fist, and Lucian caught it before she could strike.

"Not yet," he urged, and, gritting her teeth, she held back.

"Why betray the republic?" asked Lucian, and the marked shrug again.

"Because Auria would pay for it. If not them, then it would have been Armannais. They all covet our wealth, as do I, as do all the rich men of this city. I am just the only one brave enough to take it."

"So, what? You would take their money and retire to your estates while we become another province of the emperor?"

"Retire?" scoffed Baltazar. "No, I will rule this land. Auria rewards its servants well, and its throne changes hands easily. One day, I will sit it myself, and all of Riellas will be just a memory of poorer days."

Lucian curled his lip in disgust, pressing the letter opener tighter against the man's neck, and the marquis laughed.

"You think me grasping? No, all men want power. But only some are brave enough and capable enough to seize it. You would all do the same in my position, were you not cowards or fools."

"I am not so cheaply bought," Lucian spat. Baltazar laughed.

"You are a mercenary," he retorted, then turned to Anaïs. "And you, I hear, are a whore."

"What's on the Crescent Moon?" Lucian demanded. The marquis smiled.

"Five hundred Aurian soldiers, to impose my rule. They were to be my agents as I arrested all those who would oppose me in the middle of the night, then a fleet waiting just over the horizon would make for the port with two legions to complete the conquest and hold the city in the emperor's name. With the harbor fort in my power, there would be no stopping them from making landfall and conquering this city."

"Then where are your legions?" challenged Anaïs, all full of bravado. The marquis shrugged.

"I don't need them. The realignment of the Colleges after Prospero's death and disgrace put me exactly where I want to be. I was just about to send away the Crescent Moon, for I already control the government, and no one thinks I am their enemy."

"They will all know once word of this gets out," she spat. Baltazar smiled. From nowhere, he produced a pistol and leveled it at her heart.

"What makes you think you'll ever be able to tell anyone?"

"If you intend to kill both of us with one shot, you'll need to find a bigger pistol," Lucian scoffed.

"Good point," Baltazar conceded. He turned the pistol toward Lucian. "How about I just kill you, then overpower the girl myself? Perhaps she and I can have a little good time before she dies. Or afterwards, I am not a choosy man."

"Your man Sir Montano is dead," Anaïs said, and Baltazar turned his eye upon her. "I bashed his head in in a brothel, before his whores. But before he died, he begged for mercy."

"You think to distract me?" he smirked. "If I shoot you, I have to fight a man with a knife to my throat. No, I'd much rather shoot him, and watch the life go out of your eyes as I strangle you myself. Say farewell to your last protector, traitress."

Anaïs' eyes begged Lucian to cut the man's throat, but Lucian feared the letter opener was not sharp enough for the task. Even if it were, a slit throat was not a quick enough death to prevent the pistol from firing. The marquis aimed the pistol at his thigh and fired.

Just as he did, Lucian jammed the letter opener into the hammer's mechanism. It fouled the gears, and the hammer failed to spark. Baltazar twisted his face in anger but lunged upward to smash his face into Lucian's head. Lucian staggered backwards with a cry. Baltazar slugged him in the side, then again for good measure.

His wounds flared white hot all along his battered body. The letter opener fell from his hand, and he heard it clatter across the floor, then scrape underneath some papers. Another blow to his gut dropped him to the floor, his whole world spinning. He felt nauseous, like his stomach was about to revolt and come spewing out his mouth. He fell to one knee, dazed, and then found himself curled up on the floor in a ball, barely able to move.

Baltazar climbed atop him, looming overhead with his fist raised. Still curled up in pain, Lucian feebly raised an arm to defend himself. The hammer blow sent him reeling. His whole arm screamed with agony, falling back against his chest where he clutched it with his other arm. He was defenseless, and Baltazar raised his fist for another strike.

He suddenly lurched backwards, and over his shoulder, Lucian saw Anaïs with a curtain rope thrown about his neck. Her face twisted with rage; she pulled the rope taut about his throat. Lucian scrambled backwards on his hands and knees, looking to find the letter opener underneath all the discarded papers.

Yet the marquis was not done. He deftly slipped underneath the makeshift garrote and bowled Anaïs to the floor. He climbed atop her, straddling her as his fists began to pummel her about the head. Lucian, staring helplessly in pain, could not bring himself to aid her.

In horror, he began to back away on his hands, staring in shock as the man savagely battered a girl half his size with mighty blows of his fists. Lucian, his sides flaming in agony, could not bear to bring himself closer to the violence and could only crawl pathetically away.

As he did, his hand landed on the discarded pistol. Hardly stopping to think, Lucian snatched it up and fired at Baltazar. The pistol did nothing. He stared at it stupidly, not understanding what had failed to work. The hammer had not even moved. Anaïs quavered under another blow of the marquis' fists. Lucian realized with dismay that the hammer was still in the forward position after its misfire.

He recocked the hammer, leveled it at Baltazar's back, and pulled the trigger. The claw snapped forward, sparking all along the frizzen, and the pistol cracked. There was a tremendous roar of fire and thunder, all the louder in the narrow confines of the study. Baltazar cried out in pain, clutching at where he had been shot, then slumped to the floor.

Anaïs scrambled out from under him, her face bruising already.

"He's dead," she gasped. "Damn, not again!"

Outside, they heard raised voices, then footsteps on the stairs. Lucian scrambled to his feet. The spent pistol he stuffed into his belt, and he extended a hand to Anaïs.

"We need to leave," he urged as the voices grew louder and more alarmed. "Come!"

Anaïs quickly gathered and accounted for all the evidence they had found--the loan agreement, the letter to the ambassador, the coffer of gold, the docking permit for Crescent Moon, and everything else, and stuffed it into her purse.

"We will take this to a friend in the Inquisitor's office," she said hurriedly. "Bassano of Pedarra. He will help us. Come on."

Lucian checked to see that the fortress commandant's bribe was still in his purse, then ran for the door.

---

They had been waiting for what felt like hours. The sun had already been up by the time they made it to the inquisitor's office, and now it was well on its way to midday. Lucian was dozing in his seat while Anaïs paced impatiently around the office. The desks were abuzz with activity as dozens of clerks and other functionaries went about their day, pointedly ignoring the strange pair who occupied the foyer.

At last, Bassano of Pedarra emerged from the head inquisitor's office. His face impassive, he headed for the front door, subtly beckoning them to follow. Anaïs did at once, while Lucian groaned as he dragged himself from the seat, feeling the aches in his bones.

By the time he made it to the front door, Bassano was nowhere in sight, and he only just caught sight of Anaïs disappearing into an alley. He furrowed his brow and set off after her.

"Well?" demanded Anaïs with heated impatience. Bassano sighed and spread his hands.

"My master is convinced," he said, and Lucian breathed a sigh of relief. Yet the deputy inquisitor was not smiling. "He will do nothing with them, however."

"What?!" Anaïs gasped, clenching her white fists in fury. "Why?!"

"With the marquis dead, there is no one to accuse. The city has already seen much strife over this, and he wants to present a united front. The Aurians aboard their ship will be expelled, and the traitorous commandant dealt with, but there is to be no public admission that your father was innocent, nor any word about the Marquis of Alivarras' treason. He was murdered during a robbery of his house, nothing more."

"He cannot get away with this!" Anaïs protested. "I must speak to the inquisitor. He must take this to the Colleges. Surely they will see reason."

Bassano shook his head. "He has been a member of the Princes' College for twenty years," the deputy inquisitor replied. "He knows how they think. They will agree with him."

"They will not let my father's name be sullied for nothing."

"They will know the truth," Bassano said, "Even if they do not speak it."

"That does me little good," she replied furiously. "What of my father's lands? His property? It is mine by right with him gone."

"The state seized it and will not give it back. I am sorry, but you have greater concerns."

"Greater concerns that destitution and attainder? I doubt that," Anaïs replied, and Lucian felt a sudden sense of dread.

"Marquis Baltazar was killed in his home by robbers," Bassano repeated, "And the inquisitor will need to catch the culprits."

Lucian's throat tightened as he understood. Anaïs said nothing, her mouth working uselessly as she struggled to understand the treachery of her former peers. Bassano looked into her eyes, clearly wondering if she had just gone mad.

"My lady?" he asked, and Anaïs sputtered something unintelligible, then whispered "It's not right, it's not fair."

"It isn't," Bassano agreed. "But it is what is happening. Now, there is little time to waste. If he cannot find you, he will make do with some lesser criminals, but he will be most incentivized to find the ones who make it all make sense."

"Damn," Lucian muttered, and Anaïs was still mute with shock.

"I am sorry that I cannot do more for you," Bassano said. "But at least I can give you warning before he comes after you. I wish you the best of luck, but you should leave the city at once."

Anaïs stood gaping in shock as Bassano turned and went back into the inquisitor's office. Lucian approached her and put a comforting hand on her shoulder.              

"We should go," he said softly. "First, we need to get horse." He patted his purse. "Don't worry, I have the money."