The long, dim corridor that stretched out before him starkly contrasted with the polished marble of the High Cathedral above. The walls were made of black rock, smeared with centuries of grime, and flickering torches illuminated its length only at great intervals. Gregor Ravenor Nykerius, inquisitor, resumed his march into the oppressive darkness after a brief pause to steel himself. His jaw worked and his balled fists clenched and unclenched while he walked. Gregor hadn't deigned to change his practical, leather apparel for this visit to the black cells, but he had pinned his inquisitorial badge to the lapels of his greatcoat for the occasion. He would do well to remind the Templars of his authority.

It had been years since he had last been in Maldoror. The great capital of Montgarde wasn't part of his assigned territory. Other inquisitors worked to root out the heresy in the bloated city, and Gregor was thankful for that. He had never much liked Maldoror -- the traitorous imperial court, the endless miles of crime-ridden slums at its edges, the holier-than-thou attitude of the insufferable ecclesiarchs... Gregor detested all of it. No, he operated further north, in the wetlands and forests that surrounded Couronnesbourg. That was a much more modest and agreeable city, and while its people were equally pious, they were humble. Gregor enjoyed protecting them, mostly from the ravenous monsters and wicked sorcerers that sought refuge in its dreary landscape every so often. Investigating his corrupt, fellow man was not his forte.

Alas, he had been recalled to the capital for a preposterous, detestable assignment. The church had captured another witch of some kind at the empire's borders, as they did every once in a while, and insisted that the heathen be given a chance at redemption by using their dark powers to fight the enemies of Montgarde. Gregor hated that line of thought. The Templars and their friends within the clergy always blathered on about the Matriarch's mercy, but Gregor was pretty sure the whole operation was designed to weaken the inquisition from within by forcing them to work with dangerous heretics and sorcerers. As long as the Emperor was in bed with the church, the inquisition was forced to cooperate. Gregor didn't believe any more, but if he did, he would most certainly not see this as a holy task performed for the Matriarch's favor. This is the Gravedigger's work, he bitterly thought to himself.

At long last, the corridor opened up into a large, circular chamber. Hundreds of candles flickered silently in the alcoves that lined the walls, interrupted by at least a dozen doors. Gregor had never been further into the dungeon than this, but he knew that those doors led to the actual black cells themselves. This was as far as visitors were permitted to go.

Four Templars waited there for him. A seated figure was in their midst, a hood of black cloth obscuring her face, but Gregor immediately knew that this was the witch that was supposed to accompany him. Gregor exhaled sharply through his nose and stepped forward. "Paladin Eritreas," he said, greeting the most senior of the Templars in short clipped tones. Gregor had met him before. Obviously, he didn't care for the older man. Eritreas returned the greeting with an unpleasant smile. "Inquisitor Nykerius," Eritreas replied in a sickly, honeyed cadence. "We are so pleased you've come. The Matriarch smiles upon you. You know what is expected of you?"

Gregor cleared his throat. "Yes, Eritreas. I know. Get on with it." The Templar raised his eyebrows, the smile never leaving his clean-shaven face, and shrugged. "As you wish." Eritreas reached out with a hand and pulled the black hood off of the witch's head. Black hair spilled over the woman's shoulders and Gregor met her eyes briefly. The enemy. He looked away, shifting his weight, and grunted uncomfortably. "This is Loka Meissa ar-Raqis," Eritreas continued. "We captured her near Kopt. As we understand it, she worships a false deity named the Peacock God. She is misguided, but... potent. Use her wisely." Eritreas tilted his head, his dark eyes seeking Gregor's. When the inquisitor returned the stare, seeing it full of schadenfreude, he muttered an oath under his breath. "Fine," he spat. "Leave me with her."

The four Templars bowed mockingly and retreated. Gregor stared at the ground for a while, processing his fuming indignation, before taking a deep breath and looking at Loka again. He took off his hat and held it in front of his chest, not unlike a man paying his respects at a funeral. My own funeral, Gregor thought. "So," he said eventually. "Tell me about yourself, Loka."

The Koptic priestess sat hunched in on herself as they forced her into the chair, twisting her hands together compulsively in her lap and trying to keep them from trembling. Beauty and dignity now seemed so very far away, barely a half-remembered dream. The black cells were like a realm of their own, cut off from the surface, echoing with lunatic wailing, a dark, sunless abyss into which souls were cast, and lost forever. The men of the Empire had created a plane of living nightmares, and hidden it beneath their proudest city.

Loka understood now why the Imperial church did not need a Hell. They had built one of their own.

There was the thick, muffled sound of doors opening and closing, muted voices, indistinct, laced with veiled aggression. Loka shifted uneasily in the sparse chair. The hiss of her own breathing filled her black little world.

She spat a lock of hair from her mouth as the suffocating bag was finally drawn from her head. Her face was drawn, skin glistening with sweat, and her eyes flicked rapidly around the candlelit chamber, coming to rest again and again on the hard-faced stranger in front of her. He was frustrated. Angry. Well. Perhaps she would be angry too, once she could keep from pissing herself.

He spoke, in the tone of a man trying to mitigate a disaster. She blinked, quickly, candlelight dancing in her dark eyes. The question was so out of place, so different from the other interrogations, that it caught her off-balance.

"...I am Deva Loka of Irem Kopt," she said at last, her chest rising and falling heavily, "I have fourteen brothers. When I was young, I wanted to be a dancer. I like spiced milk, honeyed bread and not being tortured."

She leaned forward, lowering her voice to a strained, musical whisper.

"Why am I here? They talk, about 'redemption', but I hear 'politics.' They tell you to 'use' me, why do I feel, it is you who is being used?" Her eyes dropped to her white-knuckled hands. "I do not understand this. But. Please. Do not send me back to that place."

She took a long, uneven breath.

"It is evil."

Gregor listened silently, and was taken aback by her quick and astute assessment of the political nature of the situation. It was true that this had nothing to do with real penitence and that Gregor was as much a pawn in a much bigger game as she was. It was clearly written upon her face that she was scared. No surprises there. Gregor knew that the Templars could be just as horrible as anything he prosecuted on a daily basis. He didn't feel sympathy for her, though -- she was still a witch. Magic was a vile thing, in Gregor's opinion, and he loathed the idea of having this woman use it to help him. Besides, if the general public was to learn that the inquisition used witches for their own purposes, the scandal would be unimaginable. Gregor shook his head and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"First of all, you're not going back to that place," he said in a low voice. "You are to come with me and -- Gods above, I hate saying this -- help me. You don't have to understand this. Just know that you're right and that we're both being used."

The inquisitor paused for a few seconds. If they were going to work together, he figured she deserved to know his name and what they were going to do. "My name is Gregor Ravenor Nykerius. I am an inquisitor in the Emperor's employ. It is my duty to root out the gravest threats to the Emperor's rule that exist within Montgarde's borders, and bring them to justice. That normally includes those who practice witchcraft... do you understand, Loka?" The last words came out with a hard edge to them and Gregor practically hissed the woman's name. He moved his left hand and rested it on the pommel of the longsword sheathed at his waist. The implied threat was clear.

She watched him as he spoke, hands pressed together, her head cocked, her eyes narrowing, the corners of her mouth turning down by slow degrees. The sword didn't intimidate her. Yes, she had no doubt he would kill her and feel nothing at all, but the weight of the unknown world above her was enough to smother any hope of rebellion.

Yes, she thought, yes I understand, Gregor Ravenor Nykerius, I understand better than you think and once you would be cut in two and fed to wild dogs simply for looking at me in that way but here I am in this hungry tomb a thousand miles from freedom and the only path I might take is upon your leash, you who hate me and would sooner see me dead. I wonder what kind of man you are, beneath that bleak mask. I wonder what manner of people do battle in this way, like thieves in the night, skulking amidst their own kind. Come then, master and foe; but have a care should you stare long into the sun.

The thoughts were hot coals, and she swallowed them in silence. In the end, she only nodded, bitterly, and stood on her cramped, aching legs.

Satisfied with her silent obedience, Gregor nodded and continued in a less threatening tone. "I'm glad we understand each other, Loka. As long as you do as I say there will be no need for me to treat you as I would any other one of your kind." He put his hat back on his black, swept-back hair and motioned for Loka to follow him. Gregor left the circular chamber back the way he came; through the long, dark corridor.

Gregor kept a slower pace than he normally would, allowing Loka to keep up with him. He sincerely doubted she'd had much room to move around since her capture and it was obvious from the way she walked that it hurt to stand on her legs. Despite himself, Gregor felt a pang of pity for the woman. As much as he hated those who dabbled in things they should stay well clear of, he always gave his enemies a quick death. This torture that the Templars had inflicted on Loka was appalling. Annoyed, Gregor suppressed the feeling.

"Tell me about Irem Kopt and this Peacock God of yours," Gregor said in an attempt to distract himself. He truthfully knew very little about the place and its culture and this was as good an opportunity to learn more about the world as any.

Loka considered the questions, eyes darting around the black corridor. She kept looking over her shoulder, as though her own shadow might lay its hand on her and drag her back down into that terrible darkness.

"Bright." she said. "Loud. Deep shadows." She frowned slightly in another moment of thought "...Crowded. The towers can go no higher. People have begun to spill into the inner ring of the maze. Living there. Even the inside of the city is like a labyrinth itself, now. And there are many, many people, from everywhere. Some like you, even. Montegardi, who did not leave when the princes claimed the city. Sometimes I think the whole world is in there, somewhere."

She half-smiled, for just a moment, throwing small, sideways glances at Gregor. "There is a flower, in the Amber Sea, that only grows from the bones of dead men," she said. "I suppose Kopt is like that."

They slowed and stopped a moment, as she rubbed at her calves.

"...Many claim it is theirs of old, but I think nobody remembers who it truly belongs to, anymore. Everyone, perhaps. Or no one. The roads that lead to it are littered with rusting swords. You attack the brazen princes. The brazen princes attack you. There is always war. Everyone wants the city. Well," she straightened up and shrugged, thinly, "Let them take it, if they can. From what I have seen, Kopt will flourish in the ashes."

They went on, the woman stealing one last glance over her shoulder.

"Of the Blue God..." she broke off a moment, half-sighing, half choking back some other emotion, "I do not know if I can make you understand. The others did not ask of him, much. When they did, my answers made them angry. In time, I... gave them different ones."

She took hesitant little breaths as they walked, staring down at her feet, repeatedly going to speak and then silently cutting herself off. Finally, she looked up, framing the question tentatively.

"...Tell me: What is the most beautiful thing you have ever seen?"

Gregor listened silently as Loka talked, his hands clasped behind his back. His eyes occasionally meandered to find hers but he spent most of their walk looking straight ahead or at his feet. She didn't sound insane or particularly dangerous. Then again, it was always the ones that seemed the most normal that were the most dangerous. Gregor was surprised to learn that there were Montegardi living in Kopt and he idly wondered what it was they did there. It sounded like a strange place.

It wasn't until her question that he felt the need to say something. He looked her in the eye and frowned, a mildly bemused look on his face. He opened his mouth to say something and closed it again, unsure of what to answer. "I..." he began, paused, and chuckled. "Nobody has ever asked me that. Let's see. Most of my time is spent near Couronnesbourg, up north. It's a city surrounded by moors, marshes and wet farmland. Sometimes, at dawn, the grass is covered in dew and a thick mist blankets everything. The sun has to fight to be seen. It's very quiet then." He looked away and into the middle distance, picturing the scene. After a few seconds, he looked down at his feet again and smiled. "I suppose that's beautiful. What about you?"

She laughed again, a nervous, breathy laugh that immediately caught in her throat.

"That is... a very interesting answer." But I think perhaps you need to travel more. "Maybe I will see it?"

The passage had begun to slope upward, curving like a spiral staircase, a dim twilight haze of sunlight beginning to creep into the dank, dusty air. With each step, shadows began to deepen in the carven alcoves, strange religious iconography and the eyeless skulls of dead clerics. Loka's breath came thicker and harder as the ascent went on. She mentally bit back against the possibility that the luxury of the Peacock temple had perhaps made her soft.

"For me..." she said, trying to mask her exertion, "He, is. I was to ask you also what the most frightening thing you had seen was, but I think maybe it is best..." her eyes flitted over the skulls set into the walls, "...not to know.

"But imagine, that the most beautiful thing and the most frightening thing were the same. He is like that. Like looking down from a high tower until you are dizzy with fear. Gazing into the sun until your eyes are burned from your head. He is beauty so great that we are too small to behold it, that the gods would tremble at it. Think of something so beautiful it makes you want to scream. That is what He is."

"Only girls worship him," she went on, huffing a little, "Males do not, for He is... in them, if they seek Him there. When men are beautiful, when they are powerful, so that other men drop their blades in awe and even the strongest woman longs only to be his plaything, then the blue god is there, even if he does not know Him. Shining with his light--"

She threw up a hand as the bright glare of daylight blinded her and a cool wind blew her lank, greasy hair across her face. She blinked, wincing inwardly as her eyes adjusted. They stood in a wide, immaculately-maintained garden of hedges, flowers, rosebushes and rhododendrons, a perfect path of flagstones meandering across the flattened green grasses. The huge, hazy shape of the cathedral loomed like a blue shadow beneath wispy, drifting clouds, and an orchard of apple trees rustled to either side in the slow and gentle wind, robed shapes climbing ladders and carrying baskets beneath the shady eaves.

A cowled monk tended to the bushes, trimming stray branches with an iron sickle. He turned, meeting her eyes deliberately, and smiled at her, a gentle, practiced smile. She turned behind her, her mouth hanging open, and saw only a humble altar house, its gate already beginning to creak slowly shut in the soft spring breeze.

Loka stared in horror. She looked at Gregor, trying to speak and finding no words.

Somewhere, a church bell began to toll, echoing across the serene, silent distance.

While Gregor didn't interrupt her, he was glad she fell silent upon exiting the dungeon and beholding the Cathedral's private gardens. The inquisitor was already growing weary of her fanaticism. The way she talked about the Blue God made it seem like she'd clapped eyes on the deity herself, which made her certifiable insane. Deciding to ignore that for a moment, Gregor took a deep breath, enjoying the various smells that drifted on the cool breeze -- roses, apples, freshly cut grass. It was heaven compared to the stuffy air of the catacombs. This brief moment of peace was interrupted by the cowled monk's frustrating smile, reminding Gregor of his sour mood. He ground his teeth and tipped his hat in a mock greeting before grabbing Loka by the arm. "Come on, let's go," he muttered, and only then noticed the look of horror on her face.

"Ah, yes," he said in a low tone, smiling wryly, "most people only see the pleasant, polished exterior of the Imperial church. You started at the rotten core. I know, it makes me sick too. Best not to dwell on it." Gregor moved them out of earshot of the monk and the other apple-pickers, walking towards a wrought-iron gate set into the stone walls that surrounded the garden, and continued: "If it's any consolation, I'm an apostate. You will not have to endure the presence of these snakes much while in my company." He stopped at the gate for a moment and looked Loka up and down in a disapproving, appraising way. "This won't do," he mumbled and gestured at her torn robe and unwashed, bare feet. "I've rented a room at a nearby establishment. You can wash yourself there while I get you some proper apparel. Something practical would be best, I think. Could always tell people you're my apprentice." Gregor didn't wait for an answer and stepped out into the busy street, beckoning Loka to follow him.

He kept a close eye on her while they walked through the streets of Maldoror. All sorts of people moved past them, including nobles, city guards, sprinting urchins, street vendors peddling their wares, laborers and craftsmen. They were flanked by tall buildings of excellent architectural make, though some were falling into disrepair. Depictions of the Imperial gods were everywhere, carved into the stone walls as bas-relief sculptures. Maldoror was the seat of Montgarde's government, of course, but also the heart of the state religion.

The establishment where Gregor had rented a room was called Double Tree, with a relatively modest exterior. Inside, rich, silken upholstery, oiled wood and paintings depicting peaceful woodland scenes dominated. Gregor ushered Loka into his room, number 5, eager not to be seen with her in her current state for too long, and had a tub of hot water brought. He stepped out of the room and locked the door behind him, the tumblers sliding into position with a smooth click. "I will be back within the hour," Gregor said tersely. "Don't take too long."

---

Gregor returned fort-five minutes later with three boxes containing clothes from a local tailor. All expenses would be covered by the inquisition, of course. He knocked on the door, opened it wide enough to slide the boxes into the room and closed it again. "Come out when you're dressed," he said through the door, and waited, hands clasped behind his back, foot tapping the carpeted floor impatiently.

She was out of the bath the moment she heard his boots on the stair, yanking at the door handle and rattling the latches, cursing in middle Koptic as it refused to budge. Of course he had locked it. She failed to bite back an indignant pout at the realization that he hadn't trusted her, inwardly plugging her fingers in her ears and mentally shouting down the scolding voice that pointed out she was in fact at this very moment proving she couldn't be trusted.

She ran quickly to the window, unfastening it and swinging open the stained-glass pane. The clamorous music of the Imperial capital washed into the bedchamber, carts, bells, birds, a tumult of male and female voices. The wind blew at the curtains, chilling her wet skin. The flagstones sprawled fatally beneath her, filled with foot-traffic and drifting with the dim shadows of passing clouds.

She gnawed at her lip. Too far. She would break like caked sand.

She leaned over the sill, unconcerned with her nakedness, gauging the width of the ledge below. Wide enough to support her small frame.

The wind blew across the streets, throwing her soiled hair into her face again. It stank of stale oil and old fear. She frowned, tugging at it distastefully and wrinkling her nose. Glanced back to the bath. To the ledge again. To the bath.

Yes, she had time. Some things were more important than freedom.

---

She bathed quickly. Half an hour at most. Perhaps a little more. She felt a small twinge of pride at her determined efficiency as she wrapped a silk bedsheet around her body, knotted it tightly at the back of her waist and got her foot up on the windowsill.

The wind buffetted her as she eased out onto the ledge, setting the silk flapping to one side. Her nails gripped the painted wood behind her and she slid her way toward the corner of the building and the second open window, slowly, carefully and not looking down.

A shrill expression of disbelief rang out from below, and she looked without intending to, alarmed. A pampered-looking, bleary-eyed man had staggered out of a local drinking-house and was now staring up at her, slack-jawed and blinking rapidly. She lifted a finger to her lips, frantically, ducked under a hanging clothesline and redoubled her shuffling race toward the window, finally getting her leg over the sill and slipping inside right as the gawking bastard's friends arrived.

"Callen?" she heard him warbling from below, "Callen, di'jou seeat?"

The room was quiet and uninhabited. Loka ran to the door, took the handle, and pulled.

It rattled, thudded, and refused to budge, with the same obstinate Imperial indifference of its cousin.

She gave a strangled, high-pitched sing-song whine of girlish anger from somewhere in her throat, grabbing a cane, a shoehorn, even a butter knife and trying to work the latches open. None of it worked. The knife snapped as she tried to loosen the screws on the hinges. She sighed, a long, exasperated, pantomime sigh which rose into a feminine growl, pressing her face into her hands and doubling over like a grounded child. It seemed she would be bound to Saer Nykerius's graces a little longer after all.

She sighed again, pacing. If only he had been younger, at least. Perhaps a little more cheerful.

_{"No. No. no, no, I swear t'yer, I'm no' makig thissup--"}

She drew in a heavy, defeated breath and blew it out. She frowned, looking around the room. A lady's chamber, there was no mistaking it. She knew the scents, the hallmarks of false modesties. She sat down at the curving wooden table set against the longest wall, prodding at its contents and eyeing herself critically in the inset mirror. A little box inlaid with rippling seashells gave up a treasure trove of brushes, pencils and colored powders, and she scooped them up without a second thought, as though they were little bulbs of water in the desert. Another box held jewels, rings and necklaces of precious metals and stones. Tacky and unwieldy things, valued because they were valuable. Loka rifled through them as though they were garbage before a little flash of color caught her eye. Two tiny, dangling earrings of modest silver, set with deep blue opals from the pits of the Amber Sea, shimmering with insubstantial, flickering rainbows.

She hooked them through her earlobes, turning her head this way and that, letting the light catch them as it shone through her hair from behind. She felt that small glow of vanity, the unnameable feeling deep inside her. The faint, familiar tremor that heralded the shaking of that beautiful, terrible tail across the stars. A small golden trickle of power welled within her belly, warming her blood.

Loka leaned toward the mirror, slowly tracing black lines across her eyelids, thickening them and tapering them to sharp points, tracing a small, half-spiral curve from one lower lid to above her cheekbone. The woman would not miss them. She had more than she required. The earrings were not valuable anyway. Opals were common in the expanse. That is why they had named it so. And if Loka could not have her freedom.... Well. At least she could have this.

---

The box slid into the room right as Loka was dragging herself back in through the window, cursing as the wind blew the sheet up her inconveniently-positioned backside. She heard a woman squeal from somewhere below right as she slammed the window shut.

"Yes!" she shouted through the door in a shrill, desperately friendly tone, "Thank you! This will not be a moment!"

She pulled off the lid, dragging out the clothing. It was drab and practical. Gregor was not used to shopping for women. Loka frowned. Did he even have a woman? Did he even like women? Perhaps he preferred monks. A bitter, vindictive snarl shifted in her heart. Perhaps he preferred young boys in holy robes, it said.

Her brow creased a little further. No. He was not that sort. She would smell it on him even in the cathedral's prison.

She held up the garments, one after the other. There was a short robe in dull red-brown velvet, appropriate rather than indulgent. The rest was a smaller version of what the Inquisitor himself wore. How unimaginative. The leather at least she might make fetching. The riding boots would make her stride more impressive. But still. Improvements would have to be made. Many, many improvements.

An angry voice in the back of her head reminded her that she was supposed to be planning her escape. She inwardly plugged her ears again and set about getting dressed.

---

She opened the door and posed in the frame, having taken just enough longer than Gregor might care to wait to irritate him, but stopping just shy of riling his temper. Loka, like all her kind, had a sense for these things. She smiled, giving her hat a showy quarter turn with a leather-gloved hand, her riding coat creaking, the dark color adding warmth to her brown skin. Tiny flecks of color caught the light and sparkled beneath her earlobes. She was never going to pass muster as the church's secret police. But then, perhaps that was the point.

"Well?" she said, expectantly.

Several people passed Gregor in the hallway while he waited, their footsteps quiet on the crimson, velvet carpet. He took off his hat and nodded politely to them. An older lady returned the greeting with a warm smile, mistaking Gregor for a gentleman waiting on his mademoiselle. Her face soured when her eyes landed on the longsword sheathed at Gregor's waist. It was considered bad taste in high society to go around openly armed and this clearly set Gregor apart from the nobility -- ignoring the fact, of course, that he actually was a nobleman. Most people took him for a well-to-do mercenary. Gregor ignored the lady's disapproval and looked outside through a window set at the end of the hall. The shadows were growing long already. The inquisitor tutted. How long did this woman need?

At long last, the door opened and Loka stepped outside. He inspected the clothes first -- they fit reasonably well. It seemed he'd judged her measurements well enough. She could pass for an associate or an apprentice, for sure. He was about to remark on his satisfaction when his eyes wandered up to her face and he saw the makeup and the earrings sparkling in the atmospheric lighting. Gregor knew there was no makeup in his room, and he certainly didn't have any earrings. The door had definitely been locked when he brought the boxes, so what on earth...?

"What is this? Where did you get that?" Gregor snapped, his eyes narrowing, and pointed at her face with an accusing, leather-clad finger.

"Where did I get what?" she asked, breezing past him into the hall and deliberately obliterating any possibility of their next words being a private conversation. "Where are we going next? Shall we have dinner? It is getting late."

She measured her faint reflection in the window, adjusting her step appropriately, lifting and tightening her wide swordsman's belt. She let her eyes linger on a passing young nobleman in a green longcoat, making sure he noticed and drawing the ire of his ladyfriend when he did. The conflict of emotion was like colored sugar on her tongue. His longing for her form and male vanity at her appreciation contrasted with his sour contempt that she was southern. Her anger spiced with her hatred and her fear and her fragile but heartfelt love.

Yes, she thought. She could make this work.

Gregor opened his mouth to say something only to be interrupted by Loka's hasty sidestep as she strode down the hallway. Annoyed, he followed her, determined to get the truth, when she caught the eye of a green-coated man. While not very experienced in matters of courtship, Gregor wasn't blind, and he could see that Loka was doing this deliberately. The look she gave him was far too lingering to be meaningless. Why she did it, however, escaped him entirely. Gregor halted in his tracks and crossed his arms, staring at Loka with raised eyebrows. His aristocratic upbringing prevented him from making a scene in public so he played along with her little game as best he could.

"Very well," he said, his voice genial. "We can go for dinner. I know a good restaurant a mere hundred yards away. Now, will you please come here and leave that poor man alone?" he asked. He shot the nobleman an apologizing look before fixing his eyes on Loka again, terse impatience subtly visible on his face.

Loka held up her hands in mock surrender, strolling to Gregor's side but unable to stop her lips twisting into a rueful little smile. This might be easier than she thought.

He did say please, she admonished herself. We must reward that. And we do need real food.

"Of course," she said aloud, "I said I would follow your instructions." She smiled, adjusting her hat another inch in the windowpane, "And I think I like this one."

---

"I was only looking. I was imprisoned, you know."

The restaurant was bright, spacious, twinkling with faceted polished glass and uncountable white candles. It was a feast for the eyes, but colorless, calculated, without true life.

Gregor, through some subtle means, had secured them a small, slightly more private table in a shaded alcove, a place where they could see without, so much, being seen. Though they drew second glances from some of the patrons -- who found reasons to look away as they met eyes with the hardened nobleman -- the staff were trained like veteran fighters, and they never wavered as they glided between the tables like immaculate, dead-eyed swans.

Silverware clinked and clattered against exquisite porcelain dinnerplates and the low murmur of polite conversation rose over the subtle music of a string quartet. The air roiled with the aroma of a hundred different mouth-watering dishes, the perfumes, powders and sweat of the highly-bred patrons, the scent of dry, dying flowers in their perfect glass flutes. Loka took slow, regular breaths, trying to expand her senses and control the torrent of sensation at the same time. The influx, stale as it was, though welcome, was making her faintly dizzy. In the Templar's abyss, there had been nothing. No light. No scent. No touch but her bonds and no sound but the muffled suffering of broken creatures that were no longer human.

She took a strong mouthful of olive wine from a snowflake-thin drinking glass, savoring the heavy taste and pushing the memory from her mind.

"They do not know who they see when they look at you," she said, idly, resting her cheek on her fist and gathering the last of her food, gravy-soaked roast partridge and herb-baked potatoes, to the corner of her plate with feigned lack of appetite. "...This is good. If you instruct me to have dessert, I will of course obey."

She laced her fingers together and lowered her voice, watching the immaculately-mannered patrons set about their suppers and conversations, the muted, blurry color of their aspects and interactions.

"Where are we bound next?" she asked, softly, "...What sort of 'threats' would have them think someone like you will need someone like me?"

"Yes, you've said," Gregor remarked casually when Loka explained for the umpteenth time that she had only been looking at the green-coated nobleman. He had already finished his meal (a simple steak with mashed potatoes and seasonal vegetables, the heartiest meal he could find on the menu) and moved his plate aside. He didn't deign to respond to her cheeky dessert comment.

Her question afterwards, however, was more interesting. Gregor thought about it for a few seconds and responded with an almost imperceptible shrug. "Haven't faced a threat I couldn't deal with on my own yet," Gregor replied in an equally low voice. He considered telling her that he thought the Templars were doing this to weaken him, not help him, but decided against it. "But I suppose having another pair of eyes and hands doesn't hurt. As for where we're going, it's Couronnesbourg, the city I told you about. We'll travel by carriage."

Gregor tilted his head and looked at her pensively. "What do you think it is that I do?" he asked, curious.

"Kill people like me," she replied, easily, wiping up the gravy and popping the last morsel of birdflesh into her mouth. She washed it down with a delicate sip of the overpowering wine. "But quietly. Not loud, as the others do."

She angled her head to better catch her reflection in a hanging silver mirror, along with a surreptitious view of the rest of the chamber, measuring brief, unseen glances thrown her way.

"You said we were being used," she said, laying her cutlery down on the plate. "Both of us. I hope you will tell me, if we are to walk into a pit."

Gregor nodded at her answer, took a measured sip of his chilled mineral water and leaned back. He'd taken off his greatcoat, hung it over the crest rail of his wooden chair and rolled up the sleeves of his black, woolen, high-collared tunic. Several faint scars were visible on his forearms, relics from old fights. Gregor's hat was on the table next to his discarded plate. All in all, he looked more approachable and relaxed than he had all day. That said, Loka was right -- Gregor was a killer, though he killed much more than just people like her. He figured she would learn that soon enough.

"We are pawns in a game being played by some of the most powerful political factions in the empire," Gregor replied. "If there is a pit, I might not see it coming. All we can do is make the best out of this situation. Who knows, you might even come to enjoy this line of work. I take great satisfaction in it." He raised one brow and gave Loka an amused half-smile.

The priestess's eyes dropped, trying to keep her expression neutral; not quite able to return the smile but unwilling to unleash the quills of the hundred sharp remarks pricking at the end of her tongue and sour the taste of the wine, to say nothing of her keeper's improved mood. She finished off the glass instead, drowning her sorrows.

"I don't want to die," was all she said. "If there is no dessert, then I am ready to leave."

She sighed, placing the fluted glass carefully down on the perfect white tablecloth.

"Perhaps the sunrise will be beautiful."

And so they left. After Gregor paid the bill they made their way through the dwindling masses out on the streets as the sun started to set behind the buildings. Maldoror was large and horses weren't allowed in the city center, which meant that Gregor and Loka had to walk quite a ways to get to the stables. Carriage was the most popular mode of transport across terrestrial Montgarde for the wealthy and powerful -- and Gregor was glad he could afford their services every time he had to undertake a substantial journey. Riding on horseback didn't agree with him and walking the entire distance back to Couronnesbourg could take up to a month. Often considered the last bastion of proper Montgardian civilization before the Ironbone mountains and the white wastes beyond, Gregor would be glad to see Couronnesbourg again.

Gregor managed to haggle one of the carriage drivers down to a reasonable price and held the door open for Loka. The two of them stepped inside without a word; Gregor could see that the Koptic priestess was sullen. Perhaps the reality of her situation was only setting in now, properly, after Gregor's last remark about his work. Whatever the reason, Gregor didn't disturb the silence and instead unsheathed his sword, placed it sideways on his lap and started sharpening it with a whetting stone. The blade of the weapon shimmered in the faint twilight -- it was obviously more than just steel. Gregor caught Loka looking at it, perhaps disapprovingly, and spoke for the first time since their departure. "The rimefire forges of the Isle of Faces produce exceptional swords. All inquisitors are gifted with one upon their inauguration. It cuts a man like any other blade but it has a remarkable effect on less savory entities," he said and held up the sword to admire the twinkling light that danced around its keen edge. "You'll see."

The rest of the night passed without incident, as did the next day. They paused for food, a drink and fresh horses at a roadside inn called the Smiling Friar. Neither of them said much during the meal and Gregor ordered them back into the carriage as soon as possible. He was eager to make progress. His plans were interrupted when they came by the small town of Oaksheart in the middle of the night. A crowd had gathered on the road and forced their carriage to a halt. Gregor slept with one eye open, so to speak, and woke up immediately. "Sir?" he could hear the carriage driver say -- there was a nervous twang to his voice. "They're carrying torches and pitchforks. What shall we do?" Gregor frowned and gripped the hilt of his sword. "Stay here," he ordered, and looked at Loka. "And you -- stay inside."

Upon stepping out of the carriage, Gregor was greeted by a wary silence as the crowd turned to look at him. "Hail," Gregor said tentatively and took a few cautious steps towards the villagers. A few mumbled greetings were his only answer. "What seems to be the problem?"

"See for yourself, stranger," one of the men said, a tall fellow in a long, hooded cloak, and stepped aside. The rest of the crowd followed suit and parted. Gregor approached slowly, his hand still resting on his sword, and saw what the problem was -- a corpse. Or several. It was hard to say. The blood was almost black in the darkness of the night and the orange glow of the torches. "Matriarch's mercy," Gregor said in attempt to break bread with the villagers, and some echoed the call. The crowd seemed to relax and accept Gregor as one of their own. "May I?" Gregor asked, looking at the hooded man, who acquiesced with a barely perceptible nod. Gregor crouched down next to the gory mess and held out his hand for a torch; after a few seconds, he received one. He held the flame closer and squinted. Gregor could make out long, ragged cuts, parallel to and crossing each other, but always in sets of three. "Ah," said quietly and rose to his feet. "This looks to be the work of a werewolf, I'm afraid," he added, meeting the gaze of several villagers. None of them looked surprised to hear it.

The tall man in the hooded cloak nodded. "Aye, you've got a sharp eye, friend. This isn't the first time. We asked the damn lord in Doloureux for help, but he sent nothing," he said without a trace of anger to his voice. Gregor knew that kind of negligence was par for the course in Montgarde. "What's your name?" Gregor asked. The man introduced himself as Krassus. "I'm the local gravedigger," he added. At that, Gregor smiled wrily.

"Looks like your god saw fit to give you work tonight, Krassus," the inquisitor said.

And so she travelled on, locked in her gleaming nobleman's cage.

At first she took some pleasure in the Empire's green vales and towering woods, the call of a mourning-dove or glimpse of a beautiful stag, bounding through the bracken and ivy off the side of the road. But at the middle point between the capital and their destination Montegarde seemed to grow damp and wretched. The road was swallowed up by puddles and mud, in places little more than slats of rotting wood over a burgeoning moat, and she could taste the hard misery of the shuffling figures bearing loads of firewood, glancing at them expressionlessly as the horses drew them past.

And when night fell, even the lovelier face of the countryside changed. The sprawling hills vanished into a pall of fog and shadow. The woods and thickets blackened into threatening silhouettes, their tops swaying in the chill night wind. The moon shone down, pale and bright, glowing sparsely through a drifting sea of heavy, soupy clouds. The temperature slowly dropped as they travelled further and further from her home, and she slumped in the corner of the carriage, huddled under her coat, staring forlornly out of the window with her eyelids slowly dropping, opening with a faint start as the carriage went over some rut or pothole, dropping again as the rock and sway and rattle of their journey lulled her back to sleep.

She blinked herself awake when they stopped, rustling under the coat and slurring a vague question in her own language as to whether or not they were there yet. She sat herself up, suddenly alert at the mention of torches and pitchforks. Foreigner though she may be, she had heard stories, all of them with highly specific endings.

Gregor, however, only looked at her grimly as he swung open the door and got his foot on the step, admitting a grey wisp of coiling fog into the carriage.

"...And you --" he ordered, "Stay inside."

Loka immediately bristled at the command. Getting out of the now stuffy and confining transport suddenly seemed of paramount importance. She waited, fidgeting, listening for the sound of raised voices or conflict, but none came.

...Yes, she had waited long enough. It had to have been at least forty seconds. She sat forward, still listening as best she could, shrugging into the heavy coat with some difficulty, buttoning the collar up to her chin and pulling on her gloves.

"Miss?" murmured the driver uneasily, glancing back through the tiny, tilted rectangle of glass.

"Shut up." Loka replied.

She unlatched the window and swung it open, supporting herself on her hands, leaning out at an angle and trying to see through the press of shadow on shadow, the torchflames shifting like wisps in the middle of the black road. The smell of dried fear and clotting blood oozed between the flickering, firelit shapes, and there was something else, a faint, rank odour twisting amidst the mud, manure and stagnant water, the cold, wet greenery and rotting bark and faint scent of animal musk, torchsmoke and human unease. Familiar and unpleasant. She licked her lips sourly as she tasted pain and disgust. She knew it well and yet couldn't quite place it. It was maddening.

She could hear Gregor murmuring between the crowd. There was tension in them, but it was blanketed beneath a heavy weight of resignation. She watched as their bleak, faded colors turned from suspicion to shared, guarded commiseration. Loka took a breath of crisp, wet night air.

"Firqah!" she called, sharply, "What is it? Why are we stopped? Why are they gathered here?"