In spite of everything -- who she was, the legacy she had been born into, how she had been raised, and the violence that she played an active role in -- the sound of a fist striking flesh when she was not part of the fight always made Sofia Rhovnik?s stomach twist into knots. Without adrenaline pumping through her veins and with a the perspective of distance from the altercation, she could see the savagery of violence.

It was the sound that greeted her when she stepped out of the elevator onto the floor beneath even the training facility in the Rhovniks? RhyDin headquarters. In this subterranean space dug deeply into the earth lay the level that frightened them all in which the office building gave way to what could very well have passed for a hell hole of an eastern European prison.

The harsh glow of overhead florescent swinging lights bounced off the dark concrete which surrounded them from floor to ceiling, including all four walls. It was the perfect backdrop for brutality and violence and the pair of men standing in the middle of it were providing just that. Her heels clicked across the concrete floor. She was seriously over dressed. But what does one wear to the beating of one?s employee?

Several of Chase?s men were standing uneasily on the edge of the room while their boss took advantage of one of their co-workers. Although, Kent Sutter had his hands free, this was far from a fair fight. Having grown up on the backyard ice rinks of Michigan, Kent had always been a gritty athlete but Chase had been raised a killer. Nobody had bothered to politely cover up their intentions. Chase had always been told he was good for one thing and one thing only -- the family business.

With those talents on full display, Kent stood exhausted, nearly bent in half from the effort. Blood poured from his broken nose and by the hitch in the manner his chest rose and fall with his panting, it seemed he was fighting against the pain of broken ribs. Chase hadn?t escaped unharmed -- there was a cut over his left eye that seemed to be blurring his vision as he was forced to backhand blood every couple of minutes -- but he was certainly in much better shape. Kent appeared mere minutes from curling up into the fetal position. The man was smart enough, though, to know that curling up would not stop the beating.

As Kent tried a weak attack, Sophie?s gaze settled on Chase?s right hand man, Eric. He spared a glance her way and gave a polite nod but had nothing to say without prompting. Immediately, Sophie saw that she was not welcome here. This was the Third Division -- Chase?s Division -- handling their own problem. Her eyes bouncing between the sorry excuse for a fight and Eric. ?Even if I wanted to know what?s going on here, you?re not going to tell me, are you??

?I wouldn?t worry about it,? Eric reassured without answering the question directly as he kept his eyes trained on the two men who only days ago were friends -- more than friends, brothers even. ?Kent betrayed Chase. Chase is handling the matter.?

Betrayal. It was the worst word in the Rhovnik language.

?You?re going to make sure that he doesn?t kill the kid, right?? Sophie questioned in a low tone.

The expressionless Rhovnik soldier gave a single, firm nod as he watched Chase?s fist connect against Kent?s jaw yet again. Not a soul in the room was enjoying the display. Even Chase looked pained by each blow he landed. They were all friends. Kent had attended Dartmouth with Chase. They had fought alongside each other for years. It was odd to see them now pitted against one another... and it seemed clear that the Third Division had closed ranks. Whatever the betrayal, it would not be leaked. Sophie's curiosity would never be satiated.

Kent?s body twisted with the force of the vicious blow and he dropped to his hands and knees. He spat a mouthful of blood dangerously close to one of her Christian Louboutin pumps. Sophie watched in silence as Kent?s gaze traveled up her form to find her face. He gave a bloody, humorless smile with a gap where his lateral incisor had been only hours before. ?You?re not going to even try to stop your lunatic cousin? You all think you?re above the law??

Sophie slid down to a crouch, catching Chase?s hard gaze on the way down. He was clearly irritated that she was here. That was his problem. This was her building to run as she saw fit. At least for the time being it was. Her voice dropped to a soft, silky whisper. ?Kent, you?ve been with us long enough to know that the only law is our law.?

His eyes narrowed at the statement and she watched desperation flood his face. He had thought she would eventually show up to stop this. He had thought that someone would eventually intercede. Unfortunately, he had ended up being quite wrong. As Sophie rose to her feet, the phone in her jacket pocket vibrated.

She turned and stepped away from the brutality back towards the elevator doors as she pulled the phone to her ear. In the background, Kent struggled to find his way back to his feet but Chase didn?t give him long. A swift kick to the abdomen forced the air from Kent?s lungs in a sudden, surprised exhale.

?Hello,? Sophie stated evenly.

The voice on the other end sounded as if it were coming from a long way away. Static crackled the line and nearly made the low voice on the other end inaudible. ?Sofia, it?s Lantos.?

Her grip tightened around the phone. This was just the call she had been waiting for. Now that she and Alain had a plan, the months until their wedding seemed exceedingly short. There was much to do. ?Do you have information for me??

There was a pause on the other line and then the faint voice flooded from the earpiece once again. ?I can give you the location of the men you?re looking for but we?ll need to do it in person.?

?Name the time and place. I?ll be there.? It was a firm reply that did not hint at the layers of doubt beneath. She did not doubt that her and Alain?s plan would work but she questioned still the morality of the move.

?Chester,? he answered. ?Our usual place and time.?

?Jesus Christ,? Sophie murmured beneath her breath as she dropped down low to eye the evidence of hail left behind on the fourteen year old Chevy pick-up. The hood was pockmarked with dimple-like dents that didn?t break the paint. Every different angle provided another handful of dents that could only be seen when the light struck them perfectly.

She?d been in RhyDin for the early April hail storm that had showered Chester country with golf ball to baseball size hail. Most of her and her father?s collection of cars had been within the safe confines of the pole barn and, thus, had escaped a fate similar to the battered pick-up. However, after one of the farm hands had borrowed the truck to get grain, no one had bothered to pull it back in.

Dale Johnston, her father?s long time farm manager, frowned disapprovingly as she took the Lord?s name in vain so openly. Dale was just the southern sort that spent all day Sunday at church and went back for seconds on Wednesday evenings. He crossed his arms over his chest as he leaned back against his equally beat up GMC Jimmy. ?Them som?bitches were comin? down hard.?

While he might be opposed to using the Lord?s name in vain, he certainly wasn?t opposed to adding some colorful language to illustrate a point.

?At least this is the only one that was out in it. Dents give old pickup trucks character,? Sophie stated as she rose from her crouch.

?Well, that damn thing?s gotta shit ton of character then, Miss Sophie.? Dale pulled the brim of his trucker hat down a bit lower over his freckled face. Barely into May and it already felt like it was just a hair under 90 degrees in the sun. ?Was gonna have Jimmy take it over there to see Troy at the body shop in an hour or so to see what he thinks ?bout it.?

Sophie pursed her lips into a thin frown as she quickly thought up an excuse. She needed the truck for the meeting with her informant. It was the only of her and her father?s large collection of vehicles that didn?t stick out like a sore thumb in the southern farming community. If she took a Mercedes or even her beloved classic truck, every one and their brother could pick it out and know immediately that Sophie Rhovnik was in town. For this trip, she?d prefer to slip under the radar -- an almost impossible task in a town the size of Chester, South Carolina.

?I need to run into town anyway. I?ll stop by and see Troy. Let him take a look at the truck,? she offered in a casual tone.

Dale wasn?t the type of man that looked for ulterior motives. It wasn?t that he lacked the intelligence but rather that he took men at their word. If she offered help, he took it at face value without looking any deeper. It had made Dale quite useful over the years to the manipulative pair of girls that had grown up in the old farmhouse. He gave a single nod in return, tossing her the keys to the truck before turning to head back towards the cow barn.

?Stay on the main roads, ya hear? Marty Sloan done called Peggie just this mornin? to say that the bridge over there on the dirt road ?tween his fields had washed out over night.?

Sophie grinned as she caught the keys in the palm of her hand and gave the fatherly-like advice a two-fingered salute with her opposite hand before sliding into the cab of the pickup. ?Main roads! Sure will!?

There was a hint to her tone that suggested she most definitely would not. With three nearly grown girls of his own, it was a tone Dale knew well. He rolled his eyes at it and kicked at a stone, muttering under his breath all the way back to the barn.

The old Chevy pickup truck struck the large oak tree with such jarring force that it caused an explosion of sheet metal, fragments of plastic lamps, and bark. A well-rooted tree with no rot, the oak stood up to the impact with barely a shudder. The truck wasn?t so lucky. The chrome front bumper had folded itself inward in a dramatic v-shape and the hood had crumpled as if were made of cardboard rather than sheet metal. The smell of coolant was heavy in the air with its nasty, urgent burn.

The lone chase vehicle still standing spun to a stop at the top of the ditch. Car doors slammed shut as the driver and his two passengers emerged from the vehicle to view the wreckage below. Wordlessly, they cautiously picked their way down the ditch with guns drawn to approach the truck.

There was no sign of life from the broken pick-up. It hissed an angry broken noise as freon leaked out of the condenser. However, there was no movement from the cab at all. With the force of the impact and the old pickup truck having been made in an era before mandatory front air bags, it wasn?t all that surprising. It was very likely that the woman they were here to kill was lying unconscious slumped over the steering wheel.

The leader of the assassination team -- a reed thin man with a striking Roman nose -- motioned with a tip of his head for his driver to approach the driver?s door of the truck. With old hinges groaning, the team?s driver swung open the door. An explosion of gunfire rocked the woods startling the sparrows in the surrounding trees into flight.

Two shots aimed right at center mass. The team?s driver stumbled back with a look of shock cemented on his face and then fell into the underbrush. Before either the hooked nose man or his partner could react, Sophie rose from the floor of the passenger?s side of the truck and fired another three shots through the hole where the back glass had once been at the other man closing in on her location. He let out a cry as the bullet ripped through his pant leg into the flesh of his thigh and then another drove itself into his gut. The hook nosed man ducked for cover while his comrades fell.

It was her opportunity to escape. Perhaps her only opportunity and it was a slim one at best. The passenger side door of the truck stuck when she tried to open it. The front fender had been shoved back and now overlapped the door causing it to resist the force. With a grunt of effort, she shoved her weight against it. Metal crunched and gave way as the door swung open. As soon as her feet hit the soil beneath her feet, she broke into a run.

Miles from home, and now out of ammunition, she had at least one advantage. This was her home turf. She?d grown up in the wooded backland of the upstate. She knew to pick a path to avoid the large oaks and their roots which could easily trip up a sneaker. She knew which vines were thick with teeth-like prickers. And she knew that she was close to another dirt road -- the one that led to White Oak African Methodist Episcopal Zion Church.

She had no way of knowing if Fawsett and Valastro?s man would recognize the ancient practice of seeking sanctuary much less recognize the A.M.E Zion church as a legitimate Christian denomination. It seemed one of the most legitimate in Sophie?s book. A church founded and grown on the ideal that all men, no matter what their skin tone, were loved equally by God? It was no wonder it had spread like wildfire among the former slaves of the southeast as soon as the Confederacy had exhaled its last breath.

Her sneakers hit the church?s dirt drive and thanks to the woods thick with kudzu, she could hear the sole remaining pursuer after her stumbling through the woods and could judge just how far behind he was. He sounded like a bear tumbling through the woods. Although, to be fair, when the southern forests were as full of life as they currently were, even a rather rotund squirrel hunting up nuts could be mistaken for a grown man with all the noise it could create in the underbrush.

The small brick country chapel beckoned at the end of the drive with a well-maintained cemetery lining either side of the path. As the thin man broke free of the woods, she suddenly realized he had a clear shot. The thought came only a split second before the shot sounded. They issued no warning. They were no threats. Just a single shot. He had no desire to take her alive.

It struck her right side, throwing her forward several feet. Her knees locked and legs gave out beneath her, sending her tumbling onto the dirt path. The shock sent a renewed surge of adrenaline pumping through her veins as she drug herself forward, the fingers of one hand digging around a rock deeply embedded in the ground. The man?s footsteps grew closer. He was coming to finish the job.

There was a heavy dose of surprise to being shot even after being chased through the woods by a gunmen. Chase and Stefan really had cornered the market on making mistakes and getting shot or knifed. Sophie was usually cautious enough to avoid such brushes with mortality. Yet, here she was, pulling herself over so she could face her hangman when he put a bullet through her forehead.

The shooter was smirking down at her with his weapon hanging down at his side. He gave a tip of his head with a flicker of a grin. His heavily Slavic-accented voice was rich with success. ?Mr. Fawsett and Mr. Valastro send their apologies for being unable to attend your funeral, Miss Rhovnik.?

As he began to lift the gun, a voice to his left suddenly interrupted his moment of glory. ?Son, do you know you?re about to discharge a weapon into the head of one of God?s children under His watchful eye on the grounds of a place of worship? This here is holy ground.?

The thin man?s eyes grew wide as he glanced over to find portly, middle-aged Reverend Davis with a shotgun pointed squarely at the stranger?s head. The gun slipped free from his grip and fell to the ground at his feet. The Reverend gave a slow nod as if in gratitude for the man dropping the weapon without him even having to ask for it.

When Yaya was eight, she?d asked Mrs. Davis -- the good Reverend?s wife who had done all the cooking at their Chester home since before they could even remember -- why angels were always white in paintings. She had laughed warmly at Yaya, given her hair a ruffle and told her that angels came in all sizes, shapes, and colors no matter what the old, dead artists chose to paint. Sophie was quite sure that from this moment forward, the angels in her dreams would always be portly, middle-aged, and dark-skinned just like Reverend Davis.

?Now get goin?, son, ?fore I up and decide to shoot you in your head and let the good Lord sort out your misdeeds.?

There?s a very good reason why so many southerners attend church regularly. It?s in large part due to the fact that once a southern minister gives you marching orders, you hop to. Therefore, if he spots you in the supermarket after not being in church for a couple weeks and reminds you what time service starts on Sunday, the next week your butt is in the front pew. The Slavic stranger just had his first dose of a good talking down from a southern minister (complete with a shotgun) and seemed quite willing to take the command seriously. He gave a final glance to Sophie and the gunshot wound to calculate her chances of surviving it and then turned his back to disappear back into the woods.

Once he was out of sight, Reverend Davis lowered himself to a crouch beside Sophie, setting the shot gun down at his side, and shot her a wry grin. ?Well, well, if it isn?t little Sophie Rhovnik. You sure know how to get yourself in a good heap of trouble, young lady.?

She opened her mouth to thank him but found that she could not fill her lungs with enough air to whisper for help much less adequately express the depths of her gratitude. His grin slid from his lips as he reached into his pocket for his cell phone and laid the other hand on her shoulder for comfort.

?Now you hold on there. We?re going to get you some help comin?.?

The dining room table of Alain and Sophie's New Haven house was engulfed in blueprints, floor plans, maps of Teobern, and rough sketches of what the trio of architects standing before Sophie claimed to be able to accomplish for them. Despite the chaotic sprawl of paper and the arguments over which style would suit not only the couple but also the barony as a whole, Sophie could not help but allow a distant smile as she listened. It felt good to be concentrating her energy on something so lasting, so constructive as the grand buildings that the architects had up their sleeves.

"A Neo-classical style really would be the way to go, Miss Rhovnik. Think of something that is an ode to Spencer House in your London," one of them began in a gentle tone meant to tug on her heartstrings with the mention of one of her favorite cities.

Sophie crossed her arms over her chest, lifting her shoulders in a shrug. "I believe that might be a bit over the top, Mr. Monte. I think we were thinking something a little less... well, showy. He's a baron, not a prince."

A knock on the door interrupted the conversation and she twisted as an aide swung the door open and lifted his voice. "Miss Rhovnik, the Baron of Albany is here to see you."

"Thank you," she called out in return before returning her attention to the men before her. "Now, the Baron believes that his farmhouse in the middle of nowhere is sufficient. I believe a more formal residence in Teobern is necessary. I'm entrusting the three of you to agree on a plan. A single plan. Now can we start on that?"

After a reluctant shared glance, the three men nodded and Sophie smiled warmly at them before turning on her heels to head from the room. The old floorboards of the home announced her arrival before she stepped into the front parlor and the Baron of Albany was already rising to his feet with the same weathered old smile that she remembered. Pierre Laroche shared the dark good looks of his children. Though, his hair was now mixed with a heavy dose of salt-and-pepper, his deeply tanned face was marked with smile wrinkles, and he was carrying a couple extra pounds that he had not had in his youth.

"Baron," Sophie began with a smile to match his as she approached. "I was surprised to hear that you wished to meet with Alain. I did not even know you were in town."

He caught her hand, lifting it to press a kiss against the back of it with a sly wink. Yet, there was a hint of anxiety to his usual charm. "It's been far too long, Miss Sophie. And I apologize that I have not come sooner to meet with your Baron. Besides that brief introduction last fall, I'm afraid we have not crossed paths."

"Well, let's rectify that. I believe he's trying to reclaim the apple orchard back from nature." She gave his hand a squeeze before releasing it. Through the house she led him as if he were a friend over for a casual visit rather than a visiting dignitary who clearly had something on his mind.

The Laroches and the Rhovniks went back centuries. Their bloodlines were intertwined. Sophie's familiar demeanor was a reminder. A reminder which Pierre Laroche did not need because the rift between the two families was already weighing heavily upon him.

St. Aldwin was not about to allow their Baron to work on this orchard alone. A beer truck employed by Armand's Tavern had spread the news when they passed Alain on the old road chopping and sawing his way through the underbrush: in two days there were a handful of volunteers from Armand's Tavern and Grenmarsh Bend nearby, all from one of the many families who remembered the way St. Aldwin and its ambitious young leader had gone out of their way to help them in the past. Four men (counting the Baron) and two women filled wheelbarrows with the weeds and brambles that had choked the orchard in years past, opening a path for the sunlight little by little. A pickup truck rumbled nearby, bed almost filled with the debris, waiting to shoot off to the dump for the second time today. Given time, all this could make good mulch.

Alain stopped for a breather, leaning one arm against an apple tree with a pair of shears balanced over that shoulder. His free hand worked the canteen, and he grimaced when it gave that hollow slosh that let him know a refill was in order.

Pierre's eyes shifted a glance towards Sophie's face as they approached the orchard and his St. Aldwin counterpart. He had sent word ahead that he was coming. Pierre expected that the Baron would have met him in the parlor for a formal discussion. Yet, here he was being led onto a work site to shake hands with a dirty, sweaty man. Pierre wasn't afraid of a little dirt on his hands but it was surprising that a man with such a new title would not wish to present himself in as formal a light as possible. Sophie's profile gave nothing away but Pierre could already guess at the answers knowing the infamous woman at his side as well as he did. The Rhovnik heir knew what she was doing. This was yet another message. They were too confident in their combined resources and power to put on a show for him... nor probably anyone else. She refused to dress him up and parade him out to Pierre. This was the Baron of St. Aldwin and he would not change for anyone.

A vaguely amused smile settled on Pierre's lips as Sophie waved to Alain to get his attention.

Alain was only too happy to hand off the shears to one of the workers, who muttered a filthy name at him in Newbreton French (a compliment Alain instinctively repaid in kind). Hopefully Pierre would not hear it, or at least be unable to decipher the strange dialect resembling Quebecois: Parisians themselves had shown up to New Brittany in the past and stared in wide-eyed confusion at the babble on the streets. The younger of the two barons mopped at his brow, then wiped his hands carefully clean with a handkerchief before stashing it in his pocket. A subtle message was one thing, but Alain did not wish to insult the Baron of Albany by sullying his hand. He offered it over, giving him a warm little grin.

"Baron Laroche... it's good to see you again."

"And you as well, Baron." Pierre did not hesitate to reach out to shake the hand offered with another warm, friendly smile, making a point of using DeMuer's title. With everything his youngest daughter, Zoe, had done and (if accounts of her current actions were true) continued to do to put the ancient Laroche-Rhovnik friendship on rocky ground, Pierre did not want to appear to be a part of the crowd that did not recognize the young Baron's title.

"I was hoping that you and Miss Rhovnik had a moment to speak with me." All he wanted was a moment. He did not wish to linger long. He didn't want any part of the damage he knew would result from this visit.

"But of course." Moment or not, if it were not important and private, he imagined the man would have simply sent a letter or placed a phonecall. Alain drifted his way to a currently more private corner of the orchard, a stretch that had been cleared in weeks past. Once they were well out of earshot, and partly out of the workers' line of sight, Alain turned to face Pierre.

He was smiling still, but the thoughtful edge behind it was more pronounced now. He'd entertained ideas of bringing the Laroches "back into the fold," so to speak, but had not expected the Baron of Albany to make the first move.

"I, of course, have heard of the brazen attack on your life, Miss Sophie," he began, shifting a glance to the daughter of one of his oldest and dearest friends.

In spite of herself, Sophie shifted her weight uncomfortably at the mere mention. It was an unexpected reminder of her failure that day -- her failure to have handled the situation appropriately, her failure to have foreseen the attack, her failure to have dealt with the threat that the former Directors posed to her family's welfare some time ago. Her lips pursed into a thin, tight line, pushing those thoughts away and, instead, focusing on the man before her.

Pierre's usual jovial face took on a somber expression as he pulled a sealed, unmarked envelope from his interior breast pocket. "The Rhovniks and the Laroches have shared a warm personal and business relationship for centuries. When the possibility of obtaining information as to Fawsett and Valastro's whereabouts came up in passing, I felt the need to make the appropriate inquiries to obtain it and confirm its validity."

The gears in Alain's head turned rather quickly. By the time he reached out for the envelope, he had already submitted his conjecture: "They reached out to you?" On thanking the man for this offer, he would follow Sophie's lead.

"Through an emissary. An old friend who has taken up their cause." There was a bit of tightness to his tone. Although, he was cooperating, there was certainly a line he was unwilling to cross. His words were chosen carefully. As a man with four daughters and a lifetime in politics, it was a task he was quite versed at. "I'm sure you are aware that the Directors are hardly the only ones who feel as if a union between the DeMuers and the Rhovniks might be... unwise."

Sophie jumped in and while the matter was one that caused panic to twist in her gut, she kept her tone polite and her voice low. "We thank you for your assistance, Baron. We are aware of the concern but we feel that not only is it unfounded but it is being stirred by the former Directors themselves."

Pierre gave a somber nod with a guarded expression. "It is being stirred, yes, but friends are honest with one another and as your friend I must tell you that the concern is not limited to those under the Directors' influence. Your rather rebellious nature has a tendency to create anxiety and a young couple in charge of both the DeMuer fortune and resources as well as the Rhovnik fortune and resources is troubling to some. Yet, these are troubles in which old friends can gather to discuss and come to a mutually beneficial understanding."

"Of course, Baron," she responded with a respectful nod. "After this current situation is handled."

"Exactly. After this current situation is handled," Baron Laroche repeated with a knowing smile climbing on his lips as he realized that the pair understood.

Alain nodded slowly. The look in his eyes and on his face, and the fact that there was no jump or significant change in either, was perhaps enough on its own to show that this was an agreement he and Sophie had reached already. "Perhaps the next time you come, we can discuss these concerns at greater length, and reach that understanding... and maybe then I'll have a chance to show you around, give you the grand tour." His expression was warmer again, and the message clear:

We won't forget this favor.


((Adapted from a scene with the talented player behind Sophie Rhovnik.))

It was not very hot in RhyDin on its own, but enough to bring in muggy air from the river and the sea: when the thermometers hit ninety for the first time this year, an oppressive, barely visible haze settled over the city. Alain pushed his sleeves further up his arms as he stepped out of the brewery in Old Temple and hissed something impolite in Newbreton French when the heat wave blasted him.

His eyes ticked back and over to Sophie curiously, eyebrows rising with a hint of amusement as he wondered, Did she understand that?

By the flicker of a disapproving frown that briefly settled on her lips as she stepped out behind Alain, it would seem that she had. Newbreton French was a subject she had dived into eagerly. French had long been one of her favorite languages and the Newbreton swing to it was an oddity considering the staunch purity of the Francophonie in her own world.

It wasn't that the heat didn't effect Sophie. The humidity, after all, was often cursed in the mornings for what it did to her hair. It was just that she was used to it. Nobody had the market cornered on heat and humidity like the American Southeast.

The Newbreton French -- much like their Parisian cousins -- were also the master of turning a facial expression and body language into a single action. Alain grinned his way into a helpless shrug, then looked ahead as he reached back for her hand. It was the middle of the day, which only added to the heat, and the streets were crowded in this part of town. It was the most common road taken to cross the river in RhyDin.

"Lunch?" he asked.

His hand in turn got a gentle squeeze as her eyes swept over the crowd before turning back to him. Her reproach for the language didn't last long. A smile formed when she found his eyes. "Can I meet up with you? There's an antiquarian and rare book store a block from here that I've heard about. I hear the owner is completely crazy but a total genius. I'm hoping he can help me get my hands on a copy of that Clouet diary I've been looking for."

"Always knew you'd leave me for an artist. All right," he said, giving her hand another squeeze and letting it go. "I'll see you soon." His eyes traced over her face with a smile, but the smile turned to a frown as he looked north. There was a traffic problem up ahead, as the moving human (and otherwise) mass bottlenecked to one side of the road.

With her mind already full of the what the Renaissance miniaturist may have to say on his patron and her obsession, Catherine de Medici, she paid little attention to the traffic to the north. "Meet you at Tori's? You'll feel better after a milkshake," she teased as she turned to head south.

Alain waved an 'affirmative' over his shoulder and slipped into the crowd, already thinning again as people detoured along side streets. It was the thinnest on the left, away from the delivery van parked along one side of the road, and that's where he headed. There was something odd about the van, though. Something was not quite right, and he turned his head to stare. It occurred to him, the spoken thought paired with a short laugh: "They got the RPS logo wrong."

Then it exploded. Alain's eyes had a fraction of a second to realize fire was erupting from the vehicle, and Kael screamed the warning in his mind too late. He heard only the first thundering note of the blast, then only the ringing in his ears; something hit him hard in the torso, and blue sky, thick smoke, the eaves of the buildings and the cobblestone street all flashed through his vision as the explosion tossed him aside with a dozen others.

Windows shattered up and down the street; people screamed and panicked as thick black smoke billowed from the intersection.

The tavern was quiet for the afternoon. It was between the lunch rush and the early eve drinking. It always had a perpetual haze to the air as if no matter how much the barmaids cleaned, the dust from the people coming and going liked to linger awhile. Gaston knew he?d find O?Brien there. Afternoon in the middle of the second day of an investigation? The Westbridge Rifleman would be at the bar, questioning, having coffee, and grumbling about the lack of information.

Gaston preferred to take the side entrance, and Jemma never minded. The side entrance allowed him to enter with a wall on the side where he was blind. There was an ache coming on in his knee. He had walked too far that day, but he had to. That explosion had been in the area of Port South holding house?s patrols, and one of his patrols had just been around the corner when it happened. The Westbridge Rifles were a good crew, but poorly manned and they did not have Port South?s resources. Gaston was not about to let O?Brien flounder, not after that statement in the paper.

Just as he thought, the Lieutenant was there sipping from the mug of a brew still steaming. Not been there long, then. Gaston sidled up along side him, gave a nod to Jemma but shook away the silent question for a drink. He felt O?Brien?s eyes track over to him, and heard the sigh. ?And good to see you, too, friend.?

?I saw three of your people there at the scene, helping. Thanks for that.? O?Brien started, only looking away to his mug as he did so. The man had pride. Gaston could not blame him. He had his own measure, but this was not going to help.

?Paper says you already know the target of the attack.?

?Had to be him.?

?Couldn?t be case of wrong place at the wrong time??

O?Brien paused, but Gaston was not convinced he was actually thinking about it. It was not there in the eyes. What was in the eyes was frustration and that same pride souring his mouth into a frown. ?No, no it was him. Meant to look like an accident, and it was dirty.?

Dirty. Not in the moral sense, Gaston knew. No, O?Brien meant in the construction. ?Gotten leads??

?Not as yet. Busy corner, everyone pays mind to their own ways. Same damn thing every time. People just don?t know what others are doing is wrong when we?ve got all walks roaming about.?

Gaston folded his hands together on the bar and eased his leg to rest. The ache was creeping up to his hip. He should have sent Pei or one of the others, but a man does not ask to take over an investigation by proxy. Just isn?t done. ?O?Brien, I know you have good people on your roster. But you have too few to spare for this and keep up your routes. I have more resources, and you know my people have certain talents yours lack.?

O?Brien bristled and his fist clenched on the counter. ?I made a promise to the people.?

?And it is going to be fulfilled.? But Gaston could see that was not going to be enough. There had to be more for O?Brien to see reason. There had to be a way to save face. ?Give me one or two of your people then. I will set them in with three of mine. Do not hamstring yourself on this. We want the same thing here.?

In this, O?Brien did pause to think. His fingers uncurled and set to drumming on the countertop. A struggle was going on with the man. It was seen in the way his lower jaw started to creep out as if fighting against a decision to be made. Gaston waited him out. As long as that jaw was forward, the lieutenant was considering.

At last, the man scratched at that jaw and nodded. ?Two. And they have to be in on everything your people do.?

Gaston nodded. ?They will be part of the team, learning what they do when they do.?

It was a quiet nod from the man, and Gaston did not press by patronizing thanks or telling the lad he made the right choice. That Gaston was thankful or knew that O?Brien made the right choice did not need to be spoken.

With a nod only in return, he pushed up from the lean and left the tavern squinting with the one eye into the bright of the day. Now it was time to set his people from Port South holding house onto the matter, and track the dirty bastards down. What he would not give to be twenty years younger. His aching leg scoffed at him with each step.

"Talk to Gaston," O'Brien had said, and it wasn't long until Seamus found out a few things about the man he referred to, including his name, likely location, and a hint that he was open to 'negotiation.' Remaining unseen at every stage of this operation was key, and with the evening rush in full swing, the knight picked his way across WestEnd by alleyways and rooftops. From a brothel's fire escape he reached the roof of an old stone church, and from its steeple a leap of faith placed him on the city walls, dividing the city's temple district from the ghetto behind him.

Seamus kept low, squinting over the edge at the hundreds of darkening silhouettes spread out before him. Buildings, carriages, trucks, people of every race and creed... He chuckled quietly at a half-remembered joke, took two steps back, then sprung off the edge.

Leather gloves and soft boots muffled his scrabbling at the brick eaves of a goblin temple; he dropped down to a sconce, kicked back to the wall, and slid the rest of the way down. It was a dead end alleyway and a long one at that, giving him the time and the privacy to catch his breath and make his way closer to the Port South Holding House. He was out in the street for only a moment, coinciding it with an overturning cart that had most of the crowd's attention. Then he pushed inside, hoping his intelligence was correct: that he could see Gaston here, and that, with a little luck, the man and any companions within could be encouraged to forget this visit ever happened.

Port South Holding House stood fresh cleaned among the other buildings. It reached back twice and half again in length as it was in breadth. The doorway lead into a singular cream painted hallway where three could walk abreast. The light from the open doorways on either side took advantage of that light color to lessen the lamps used. It was from a bygone time, where gas lamps were the edge of progress. In the rooms, employees of the Holding House gathered around tables and desks, reviewing papers, speaking to subjects. A chalk board in the left hand room had a writing all over it, but the very top had a calendar of days each with a number from one to seven listed in the box.

Three of those gathered in the room took a look to the tired, woodboxed clock on the wall and then to each other. Smirks and smiles to their comrades they stood. One was an obvious fighter and dwarven if the beard and stout stature were running true. The movements told many tales on him, as did the double bladed battle ax on his back. The others in his company were of less degrees certain, but to one who knew the established company of patrols -- fighter, mage, and runner -- the signs could be seen in shoes and adorned hands. The sure shod slender woman paused on passing to the door and looked to Seamus. "Somewhat the House can do for you, sir?"

This about had to be Gaston's team. If Seamus could make it worth the man's time, then these people would likely keep their silence. His was not a spy's manner by nature, but he'd had to learn, and "on the job" thoughts like this ticked through his head regularly.

He gave the woman a grin, bowed his head and replied, "I'd like to see Gaston Gasquet, if he's around. I've heard a few things... just wanna try and do my civic duty, y'know."

The runner grinned, a chuckle and look to her companions waiting for her at the door. "That'd sure be a change, and you have our thanks. Gaston is down the hall, third door on your left. Go too far and you'll end up in lock down, so I'm sure you won't lose your way." She gave a wink, and then called down the hall as if it were the nature of message sending around the House. "Gaston, got company coming."

She did not wait longer and headed out with the others to start patrol. From down the hall, a shadow broke the plane of the doorway and then the figure casting it followed. Gaston was a grizzled old soldier. The hobble of a bad leg and the milk-white of an eye he was concealing with a patch were age and abuse plain on him. But he had lived through campaigns that scarred his hands, and he had narrow-eyed sharpness to his good eye. "Come in, sir. What can I do for you?"

Seamus was reminded at once of his Order's commander, Zakharias Loe, which added another upward kink to his grin. Still, he kept up some level of manners as a counter-balance to his apparently constant amusement at his surroundings and everything that transpired in them. He touched the hilt of his sword as he bowed his head: "Captain Seamus Morvan of St. Aldwin's Holy Order, at your service."

The knight straightened and stepped into the man's office, adding, "Heard stories about Port South... mostly about busting heads and solid sleuthing... and knowing the kinda length a body's gotta go to if they wanna solve a case in this town." He set his left thumb to one side of his jaw and stared thoughtfully at the grizzled old soldier, before he continued. "I also heard you guys took on one hell of a case. That bombing in Westbridge turf."

Gaston was openly studying Seamus. Through his opening comments, the one eye never once wavered from Seamus's face. He was weighing the young man. It was not only what he had to say, but how he said it, and what his body said in his gestures. At the mention of stories of Port South, Gaston's lips turned down. It was only a moment before they relaxed into a line once again. A lean against the desk with its reports and scraps of paper. Big knuckled fingers uncurled to indicate one of the two chairs for Seamus to take a seat. "Westbridge has not the manpower to take on the case and see it done swift and proper; proper, yes, but slow and that won't do around here. Not near our patch." He rubbed knuckles at the edge of his knee. "And what's your tally in the matter, Captain?" There was something more in the way he spoke that title. A pause, just a beat, before he said it as if it were an afterthought. "Is it you have some word to who placed that vehicle there? Saw someone tampering with it? Lost a loved one in its blast, or just curious as to how far we've gotten in bringing the persons to justice?" That lone eye narrowed on him. "We aren't the Watch, lad. While some of them are doing their work, there is no 'some' here. We all do our job, we all do it right." It was clear Gaston had gotten in the habit of making it clear the difference between Holding Houses and The Watch and defending his people.

If DeMuer weren't still out of commission, Seamus got a feeling he'd be dealing with this himself -- and would probably be better suited for it, too. But the knight from New Brittany would have to do. He licked his lips carefully as he sat down, clasped his hands together between his knees and leaned forward to smile at the man:

"I won't disagree with ya, Gaston. You're not Watch. You do things right, and that's why I'm here. I've got a personal interest in the case. Friend of mine was targeted, and I know who ordered the hit. I figure with your resources, your ken, you've got your hands on some informants, low-level associates of what you hope are the conspirators. Just a guess. You and me..."

Seamus gestured between them. "...we've got a hold of different ends of the same thread. If we share, I think you'll find it a lot easier to reach the middle: get the bombmaker, the driver, even the son of a bitch who set this thing off. In return for what I know, I'd like to see everything you get, and the... latitude to see to the man who planned this on my own terms. Public holds no knowledge of my involvement, nor my colleagues', and Port South gets the credit for cracking this case without any meddlesome knights."

"Interested?" Seamus raised his eyebrows, grinning across the desk at Gaston. The young man looked like walking trouble in a light-hearted way, looked like he had a strong sense of humor, most times, but today there was no mistaking the wrath in his gaze. One way or another, he was dead set on seeing Salazar Valastro murdered.

Gaston nodded. "So if I'm hearing you right, you know who's behind this, but instead of bringing him to justice you want to met it out yourself." He rubbed hard at his chin, wrinkling up scars that were usually hidden within scruff. "You've got revenge on your mind. Could be you're just watering a reblooming bloody flower. Stir up a wretched mess, bring his own people into focus more on your crew -- or maybe mine." It was plain fact. If the knights remained hidden, and the demise of someone came floating up connected to the case, well the eyes would turn to the Holding House. Questions would arise; just how far did they go? Were they just as corrupt as everyone else?

"You're right in that I have some informants." His eyes ticked to the wall that butted up against the lock down area. "They've said some. I will share what we know, you tell me what you know, see if we can't find that middle you're talking about. But here's what I want: you take him, her, whomever down, you do it in a way that doesn't lead back to this case or my people. You keep it off my patch, you hear? Because if it rises up, it starts to stink up my House, I'll hunt it out." It was cold conviction. Old as he was, he would keep his House clean, even if he made such deals for his own self. He could understand the need to get things done the swift and silent way. Information was information, afterall.

He smiled. "I have heard only a little of your knights, Captain." The title used with the deference it deserved that time. "Only to stay out of your way if I saw hint of your lot. I put my faith in your talents that you've kept underground for so long that you can meet my demands." He seemed very confident of it. "I will see you have what you need, though I wonder at you needing to see it if you already know who did it. Oh, as to the driver?" He tilted his head to the door, a full indication he had that one. There was a glint to his eye, ready to see this well done and get those that set that bomb, killed those people. If nothing else, maybe those that looked for such jobs would think twice even if he could not get to the one behind it all.

Seamus followed Gaston's eye to the door, and a grin grew: "I'll be god-damned... pardon the blasphemy." His gaze returned to the desk and the old man behind it, and he considered it. Gaston's informants, especially the driver, would lead the knights straight to their target, and clean-up would be an easy task: in the process they could comb over the safehouse for evidence of whoever else was hired for this bombing and send it to the Holding House 'anonymously.'

It took about ten seconds after Gaston's words and the knight's cuss for him to make up his mind. His smile took a grim turn. "Sounds like you and me understand each other perfectly. The man's named Salazar Valastro, and the society he used to belong to doesn't exist. Usual story," he waved it off. "Anyway. The target was Alain DeMuer, local businessman and noble injured in the blast. So you're not looking for zealots or fringe groups, not unless they're the 'forward-thinking' kind that'll do their usual task your way for the right price. Probably already figured this out yourself from the driver, but you're looking for professionals here. Our friend Sal's an outsider, so the people he hired had to advertise enough to turn his little old head. The fact they mocked up an RPS truck, from a business that hasn't seen much light in some years, I'd guess these boys are locally-grown assassins, too. Just a theory."

Gaston nodded. He wrote nothing down for the moment. It would have to come out of the contacts, or else people would fish around for how he had learned about this information. There was a simple work around for that, of course. Speak it to the driver, one Geoffrey Meews, and have him say it right back. A bit of a run around, but there it was.

"What you say makes sense. Don't want to scrub out the possibility of an outside group, new formed, come along some old derelict vehicle. Local team might think twice about drawing eye by picking a company that has, as you said, gone a little quiet in use. But could be both. We will know when there's a tickle up the food chain, so to speak."

Opening a file, Gaston pulled out a piece of paper. Paper was his style no matter what fancy schmancy tech floated around the city. On it was a clear report that he scanned over. "Mr. Meews, or handy driver, started from a brownstone located in the 23000 block on Old Humble Road. Payment pick up at the back of the empty Aston House close to the city walls in the south. They seem to like the southern wall for their contact places."

Gaston handed over the report for Seamus to review. It had the usual requirements of an official report, date, time, subject's name, claimed profession, claimed residence, all continued on to where he had finally broken with a small symbol to the side and the name 'Gavin Wallis'. It was a simple marking that a bit of magical influence had been employed in the questioning, and who had done it. "I had planned on sending out two teams, three each as our custom, to those places and see what they can't trace back. Perhaps you've a mind to take one or the other?"

"I'll take the drop point at the southern wall," Seamus murmured as he frowned over the report. "It's more what we're... suited for..." He trailed off into further silence, more from distraction than any real effort at evasion, reading over the report in enough detail to recall it when he needed to. Having it in his hands would be awfully incriminating for everyone involved if he was found out: he handed it back.

"We have a few of our men on the explosives used, trace to source such thing." It was obvious that part of investigative technomancy was not his forte. "Unless you think otherwise, I'm going to keep them on it. Best to have solid evidence linking the culprits than just hearsay, no matter how true it is."

"Mm-hm. If you want a leg up on the explosives, I know a few folks better on the forensic stuff than me and my boys... but I figure the quieter we do this, the less of these little chats your people and mine do for a while, the better. If you really do need contact, leave a message for me with Friar Teothir, at Sin-Matt's Healing," Saint Matthew's House of Healing. "I'll send my letters by pigeon, so don't be surprised when one comes knocking on your window," he added with a grin as he rose to his feet.

"Happy hunting, Gaston," he said, offering the man his hand. They shook. The deal was done.

"Ah," Valastro said delicately at the sight of Seamus Morvan perusing through his address book, and began to smile, for the moment ignoring the seven other knights lingering in the corners of the room. "I was hoping you and I would meet again, young man."

Seamus' quirked his lips at the greeting. For now, the former Director's papers were replaced on the desk. "Didn't figure I'd get so warm a reception, seeing you're you and I'm me," he began with a grin, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword as he and the old man began to circle each other, trading places in the large office. "Last time wasn't quite... friendly."

"You could have made it a lot worse then," Valastro replied, folding his hands in front of him, "but you did not. Do you know why that is, Captain?" He lifted his chin, and the knight did so in turn.

"No... but I'm thinking you're about to tell me why, aren't you." Seamus chuckled; so did Valastro.

"You are no murderer." He let the words hang in the air for a moment, sparing a sharp glance to the corners, knowing many of these men were more hardened killers than their soft-hearted leader. "You and your master are not alike in this regard. Surely you have seen his great capacity for evil, how many lives he has taken without hesitation."

"Maybe so," Seamus replied, watching his quarry's every move with the same clever grin. "My boss and me... we're not so much the same. Fact is..." The knight let go of the hilt of his sword, relaxing his hands. "There's one key difference."

Valastro smiled pleasantly. If this was what it took to bargain for his life, then he would continue to ply this impressionable young knight with his carefully-practiced charm. "And what, pray tell, is that, Captain?"

"I believe in second chances. In fact... I'm gonna give you one, right now." Seamus bowed his head slowly, and Valastro returned it in kind; then, at a quick flash of his hand to his comrades, the nearest knight to Valastro surged forward and shoved him away from the desk, stumbling into the center of the room.

The old man fell to one knee with a groan, braced himself with his hands and scowled up at his captors. "What's the meaning of this, young man?!" he sputtered. "This is how a Knight of St. Aldwin treats the weak and wretched?"

Seamus tutted and shook his head. There was the same smile, but his eyes... they held nothing but wrath, terrible in its purity. Valastro could almost see the flames of anger leaping in the eyes he had taken for perpetually kind. At a single beckon of his fingers the other knights moved forward, until they formed a loose, wide circle around their quarry. "You didn't let me finish, Mr. Valastro. I'm still giving you a second chance. All you've got to do..." He stretched his other hand back over his shoulder, and smiled. "...is walk through that door. And I'll forget this ever happened. You'll be free to go."

Valastro's wide, distrustful eyes jumped between the knights directly in front of him, the gap between them, and the door beyond them. "I... have your word on this?" he asked Seamus, his tone a desperate plea, as he pushed himself to his feet. He saw the fire in his eyes... but perhaps, the kindly knight was fighting his thirst for vengeance?

It had to be. Seamus nodded to the question, and Valastro attempted to slip by Malcolm. He was one step out of the ring, bringing his other foot forward when Malcolm's iron grip tightened on his shoulder, shoving him back into the center of the ring. The old man stumbled, staring incredulously at the knights around him, and imploringly up at Seamus.

The hounds' eyes offered no sympathy in return. More hands from behind urged the Director forward again, and he chose a different path, swinging wide of Malcolm, between Seamus and a knight he did not recognize, only to be hurled to the floor. He growled out his anger and scrabbled to his feet, launched himself at what looked to be the widest gap, and he heard the familiar hiss of a steel weapon being drawn before he felt its bite.

Seamus' knife nicked his arm, and he drew back to the center by choice this time, grasping the wound tightly. He stared in open terror between the knights as they drew their weapons in kind. "You... you can't..." Valastro stared up at the Knight-Captain: "You can't do this to me! Not you!"

"Seems you misjudged me just a bit, Mr. Valastro," Seamus replied, and his smile grew. "There's a monster in all of us... even me."

The longer he stayed put, the more blood he'd lose, the greater the chance he'd die here... Left with no other recourse, Valastro hurled himself at the widest remaining gap with a desperate cry of, "Please!"

But there was no mercy left for Salazar Valastro. One knight cut him and hurled him back across the circle into the arms of another, who dragged his blade through the man's fine silk shirt and the flesh underneath and shoved him again. The circle tightened with each blow, the gaps closing as the man fell to his hands and knees, crawling for a way out until the moment they descended on him.

He had been driven beyond his desperate pleas, even prayer, giving his final moments over to the primal terror closing in on him. His final breath was a scream of pain, silenced by a knife swinging across his throat.

* * *

The embers of Mr. Rudd's cigarette finally reached the butt, their orange glow beginning to wink out. The drugged, unconscious guards had been scattered to brothel parlors across WestEnd, and every scrap of paper removed from the building. No sign was left of Salazar Valastro, nor a single drop of the copious blood that they had spilled on the office floor.

The deserted WestEnd manor returned to its deafening silence once more.