Chapter 8 - part the first

Leni returned home with his bride. As he rode in the coach, seated across from her, he marveled at her as he so often did. How she could constantly surprise him was a true delight, and a complete mystery. He adored her for it.

They lived together in the apartments they had let from a very wise and extremely wizened old woman named Gert. These were on Susio Boulevard, a posh neighbourhood where only the most extravagantly wealthy could afford to live. It was a far cry from the little room he'd had above the Odeum, but that was Leni's skill: to surprise everyone by defying convention. Somehow – presumably by magic – he had acquired riches in a very short time. Whenever asked, he gave always a variation of the same explanation:

“I always had the money; I simply didn't have any reason to call it to me – that is until I met this radiant beauty! Look at my wife-to-be! Isn't she perfect? Such a face, as like a goddess, or a spirit of the sea that sings men to death upon sharp rocks, but never ages herself, for she is not truly flesh! But lucky for me, she has flesh, and it is hot to the touch!”

So Amos would become the distraction, and if they were men inquiring – as they most often were – all thoughts of discovering the source of Leni's unimaginable treasure were driven clear out of their minds by the much more sensual ideas of discovering Amos'. And while Amos might burn the toast and drop the kettle and tear the linens and stub her toes, she was never clumsy in her manipulating of a man.

Women were much more shrewd at times, but far more discrete. They would infer from answers much more than they would pose direct questions; but Leni knew how to charm them all, for he was a quick study when it came to judging what a woman wanted from a man. His trick in handling them was to become that, or at least allow them to project their desires onto him.

Amos said to him one night, “Between the two of us, we could fuck our way through the Flood Gate.”What she meant of course was to take over Caza. To be Lord and Lady, King and Queen, to live in the Spar and oversee all.

Leni, laying naked next to her, considered her comment and conceded that she was right. “But all that responsibility...” he murmured in her ear. “I wouldn't have the time to fuck your soft little salt gate.”He patted her ass, played a finger between her hitched legs in her vulva that still seemed to be vibrating.

Thinking about these things, Leni knew what he wanted when they got indoors. He would get her drunk. He would take her up to the rooftop garden. He would kiss her, and treat her just the way she liked, as a servant. She loved it when he dominated her, when he clapped the chains on her. These were strong chains with trick locks that he used in his show; but he never showed her how to open them with the hidden latch, and she never asked.

They arrived at home close to eight o'clock, for the traffic was heavy that evening: a fire in [district] had caused the many competing brigades to fill the streets with men and muck, where onlookers cried out and looters went to work. Leni helped his bride out of the carriage and together they ascended the steps to the luxurious home, sold in an estate sale when old Count Levy died with no heirs.

Leni paused on the stairs and let Amos go ahead of him. He pretended to look up at the sky which held the last of the day's light like a wine lover holding up a sample of a golden vintage to examine its legs and consistency. Really, he just wanted to watch her wiggle in her dress, and admire the shape of her bottom as he resumed climbing at just the right time to bring it level with his face.

Within, it was a strange menagerie of whimsy and ridiculous manifestations. Amos had started a game with her chosen mate some time ago, and he had bested her at it to date, much to her frustration. One night, when he'd spent a good deal of time with his face buried in the ass he loved so much, he emerged to announce that he would do anything for her, be anything for her, and give her anything her heart desired.

So she decided to test him on this: the following day, she demanded a rare bird: an ossoplot, that is found only in the high peaks of the faraway Mali Mountains. Three days later, one arrived in a cage.

After this, Amos knew that he was challenging her: Leni was daring her to dare him once more.

She took one look at the bird with its great plumes and prideful hunter's eyes, and said, “Release it. I desire now a circus of mice.”

Three days hence, a man came knocking with seven trained rodents that could juggle, sing, cavort, tumble. Amos shook her head and clapped her hands in delight seeing the show they put on – and Leni was glad that night for pulling it off, for she used her mouth in a blissfully magnificent way to pull him off. 

In the morning, Amos smiled at her love and said, “I want you to win me a Faoro.”

This was an impossible feat, something which only the truly blessed could achieve. Over two hundred years hence, a contest had been created in Caza, in which the best athletes could compete to see who was the strongest, the lightest of foot, the most aquatically adept. From there grew a contest for the elite among them, and the most prestigious of prizes was won by completing a brilliantly designed and perfectly confounding obstacle course.

The last, and one of three alone that ever managed to make it through the gauntlet, to win one of the Faoro – an exquisite trophy made of finely wrought silver and polished jewels of green – was the gladiator of legend, Naxa. He had trained for years to increase his stamina, endurance, acuity, and reflexes; and they say that he made it through to the end only by sheer luck, for his movements at certain moments through the course were timed to the second, and had they been off by just a hair – a hundred times over, with each new hazard, he would have fallen; he would have failed.

Amos in demanding this was calling Leni's bluff, or so she thought.

He took her out of bed that very night and led her to the entrance to the course. It was locked, of course, but he could be kept out by a simple padlock. They stole through the dark toward the gate. No one had tried this in decades, for it was quite an investment of time and energy to train for it, and the only thing that really came of it was empty celebrity. There was no prize besides the trophy, and those who tried and failed – and those three who by some miracle had won – made their attempts only for the prestige, and the coveted title that only the winners were honoured with: Honn.

At the gate, Leni looked at her and gave her a wink. “I'll be back before you know it,” he said.

Amos held him back a moment; she nodded her head at the gate. “You're really going in there?”

“Of course,” Leni smiled. “I'm a man of my word.”

Amos gazed into the dark passage.“Is it dangerous?”

“Do you think I would bother if it weren't?” he answered. Then he grabbed her, pulled her close, and kissed her with passion and utter devotion – the kind that all women dream of finding in a man, but rarely do, for mostly they are surrounded by overgrown boys who have no concept of how to please the more sophisticated sex.

Leaving her a little breathless, somewhat dizzy, and decidedly moist in her panties, Leni bounded away into the gateway where he grasped the lever that would let him into the labyrinth where some had died, most had failed, and all who entered despaired and lost hope at least once.

An hour later he reappeared with the trophy in his hand. There was not a scratch on him, but his grin was enormous.

“I think I deserve another moment in your mouth,” Leni said with happy smugness. “That thing you do with your tongue is to die for!”

Amos was speechless; but luckily she didn't have to say anything to tickle his balls with her tongue.

The Faoro was noticed missing, but Leni never came forward to reveal himself as the one who had bested the labyrinth. He went without any title. He put it away in a high room behind lock and and key, and gave the key to his flustered fiance.

“How did you do that?” she asked him then, and for weeks afterward. Somehow, she was unable to accept this one. All the other tricks, stunts, and exploits he did she felt must have some explanation. She didn't need to know his secrets, so long as she felt she could understand them if ever he revealed them; but this was inexplicable, incredible, impossible.

Leni refused to tell her how he'd gotten through the maze unscathed and all the way to the end to claim the prize; and this drove her mad, to the point where she broke into his study when he was out one day and discovered the locked tome, the big book that he would pore over for hours on his own, a huge album that wouldn't be unhinged, pried open, or picked.

Ever since then, Leni had been forced to hide the book from her; but no matter where he put it, sooner or later, she would ferret it out. She tried again and again to penetrate his secrets, and failed. Tonight, however, before he penetrated her, he had to deal with some troublesome secrets of hers.

Who was this Wizard she says she spoke to in the caves? Was he even real? Or was he just a diversion for him, something to distract his focus while she pulled some trick on him? How could he have the same face?

He knew the possibility existed that it was exactly as she'd described it: that it had been Leni and no other that had caught her in that cave. It was not, however, part of his past, and existed as nothing he could remember; so it was only possible that these events would come to pass in his future.

This idea made him feel sick in his stomach; it was not the first time he had considered it, and he did not like to dwell on the notion long. It was for this reason as well that he had never, despite having heard the story numerous times already, ever ventured to the Azot to investigate the caves to see if Amos' story was true.

Chapter 7 - finale

In the stairwell Veon saw a dead rat being eaten by one that looked only marginally more alive. There was a smell of sulfur, acrid and metallic. Veon wished to hasten up to the loft; however, with his bulk, he dared not move but prudently on the narrow steps – several of which were already visibly cracked or disintegrating from rain-rot.

Ascending to Osuf's loft always reminded Veon of the climb he'd made with Amos when he was a boy of twelve nursing a sprained ankle, leaving the caves into which he'd tumbled, according to his sister. They had crawled through deep, dark, narrow ways which Veon was barely able to squeeze through, and had found their egress in a split fissure along the side of the Prow where a cleft in the facade let in some light. At that time, they had crawled out of the foul place towards the light of day, and now Veon was climbing once more, toward the crack of lamp light which emanated from beneath his cousin's door – only this time, he was climbing towards a place more foul.

As he reached the top of the stairs, and reached for the knob on the door, he heard a great explosive noise come from within, followed by a cry and a great clatter, as if an entire banquet table had gone over, collapsing under the weight of all with which it had been laden.

Veon waited a moment, reconsidering, listening to what was happening within the loft, as well as within the chambers of his own heart.

Do I really want to see what's on the other side? Veon asked himself. He feared few men, and dreaded no fight – but coming to see Osuf working was a thing of a different sort entire.

He had too much momentum now to turn back, however – and also he knew he could not brave these stairs again until he was right drunk. His hand closed around the doorknob, turning it with determination – which proved too much for the door, which was also in an advanced state of disintegration. The knob twisted and came loose from the rotten meat of the door. Veon extracted it like pulling a spoon of out thick porridge.

“Third for the best,” Veon muttered, thinking once more of Amos – for this was something that she liked to utter. He didn't believe in it much, himself; there was little place for superstition in Veon's life, which was dominated already enough by mystery and suspicion; but he finished the saying off anyway: “And worth more than the fourth.”

He let the knob drop from his hand, and heard it rattling down the decrepit steps, followed by a loud squeak at the bottom from an angry rat. Veon ignored all this and pushed the door open; it nearly fell from its hinges, and as he entered, he feared for a real moment that the whole thing would fall right on top of him.

“Hora?” Osuf called out with a raspy voice. “Did you bring me my dollop?”

“I doubt very much you've got a taste for my dollop!” Veon replied with a booming voice. He felt he could perhaps with forced pluck and some bravado rally his cousin out of the loft for some drinking – especially since he planned to pay for all the rounds. Getting out of this stinking hole was definitely his first priority at this point.

Osuf – pale, gaunt, all angular lines and wobbling bones – appeared from behind a free-standing chalk board. He squinted, and saw the dark-skinned gladiator who stood grinning gladly before him; then he grunted, nodded, and receded back to his work.

“They once called me Virtuoso!” Osuf cawed like a crow, his voice shot as if he'd been smoking and shouting curses all day – which was highly likely. “Do you know what they call me now?”

Veon had heard this rant before; he knew the answer; but he said nothing.

“The Vincible!”

“They call me either Victim or Victor,” Veon reminded. “We all get two names each, cousin – but which we choose to believe we are is up to us.”

“Save me your platitudes!”

“Of course. So sorry.”

“Ha! I need apologies even less!”

“Then I am at a loss for words.”

“Good. That is how I like you!”

Veon snorted. Coming around the blackboard, he scanned the area quickly to see what state his cousin was in. He saw three opened bottles of wine and an empty glass. Upon the blackboard was a great diagram with many labels in a scrawl which Veon doubted even his cousin could read – drunk or sober! The picture in the center looked like a saddle of sorts, but there were springs and cogs that were clearly meant to drive some kind of engine.

“What's this, then?” Veon pointed with only a cursory show of curiosity. This was a test, to see how well Osuf had worked. If he'd been at it many hours already, and had found a good deal of creativity, it would mean that he would not budge from the loft until the project was complete and he had formulated a prototype; but this would never happen, as he always abandoned the children of his imagination.

The only issue now was, how deeply invested was he? How hard would it prove to tear him away from this one? How much would it hurt him when he finally set it all aflame, effaced the board, and resigned himself once more to ineptitude, and sweet inebriation?

Osuf gazed upon his design and a crooked smile cracked upon his haggard face.

“It's a machine for traveling back in time,” he said with some pride.

Veon's eyebrow arched and he looked at his cousin. “Does it work?” he asked. He didn't need to ask why: a man with nothing but regrets in his heart thinks only of the past.

Osuf shrugged. “How should I know?” he said. “It would require a power source three times greater than the sun to initiate it.”

Veon turned back to the blackboard. It looked as if he was studying the diagram, but he was really thinking about his unfortunate cousin. Then he said, “If you went back and saved her – if you managed to keep Ella from being stricken down – would that not put you on a track upon which you would never invent such a machine? Isn't that a paradigm?”

“Paradox, Veon. You're right. I couldn't save myself these years of grief – but I could save her! Don't you see? If I went back right after she was shot – right after I saw her fall – then I could save her, spirit her away to a place where she could live, live without me.”

“Until you went back, that is,” Veon interjected. “The younger you would miss her, but from the time you went back, you could continue to enjoy her company.”

“No, Veon. She loved that other me, that naïve version of myself that could never imagine tragedy would touch me; as I am now, I am not very good company. Nobody could love this!”

Veon wanted to disagree with Osuf, but he did not wish to lie to him, so he said nothing, but gave him a meaningful look as if to say that love was out there, life was out there, if only he could climb out of this pit, climb down out of this tower, disconnect from his misery.

“You're lucky,” Osuf said with bitter vehemence. “They killed your family, but at least you weren't alone. You have Amos.”

Not anymore, Veon thought. Aloud, he said, “It is because of Amos that I have come, cousin. I am entreated by Count Opho, son of General Obho, to join the assault on Mozo in order to find definite proof against Leni, her betrothed.”

“A spy,” Osuf spat.

“Yes, that is what Opho was inferring – that Leni is a spy.”

“No, my good fool! Opho is the spy! Who is he working for, I wonder?”

“We have many enemies,” Veon muttered, “but few I can think of that would benefit from placing me in the army.”

“What if the goal is to divide you and your sister? Or to match you against her mountebank?”

“I am already those things,” Veon murmured.

“Then there is only one alternative: the spy is telling the truth. Whomever is his employer must have reason to hate the magician more than you.”

“The truth?” Veon said, dubious.

“Of course,” Osuf said, certain of himself. He seemed these days only to achieve genius in the state of drunkenness that only just preceded total stupor. “That is the spy's true weapon, after all, not the lies they use. They are trained very well to conceal the truth, but only to the point where it most effective to reveal it.”

“So I am to be used as a tool,” Veon surmised.

“I am sure it would not be the first time for you,” Osuf said with some derision.

“You are the master of tools,” Veon countered. “Do you see how I can be so useful?”

“No, I have no use for you at all!” Osuf waved his hand dismissively. “But clearly there are others who feel quite differently.”

“So there are documents you think that can reveal Leni to be a traitor, an infiltrator, and a scoundrel?”

“I'd bet my life on it,” Osuf slurred. “But then, that's not saying very much,” he added morosely.

“And you think there's a chance I could locate these sensitive data?”

“I believe they will be put in your path. One does not set the rat in the maze without first placing in it a piece of cheese.”

Veon frowned. He did not like this analogy. “I am no rat,” he said, scornfully.

“Then you are even worse off,” Osuf said dryly. “For that can only mean that you are the cheese!”

Chapter 7 - part the second

As had every man of Caza, Veon, once he'd turned eighteen, served his three years of mandatory military service. At that time, he already had some local status as a brawler, in the country, where he'd been raised on the Cape by his uncle; but it was only when he joined the armed forces that he became a skilled combatant. He never killed anyone, however, until he had served his term, and found himself in the vicious circles of the Cazortium where, due to his ferocity in fighting, he quickly became a celebrity.

Being surrounded by young men during those three hard years of training had also afforded Veon a chance to develop his taste for them. He joined the ranks of a group that managed through boyish bullying and brash coercion to cultivate a gang of submissive types which they endlessly dominated and inseminated. Some of the unabashed debauchery that occurred in those years remained with Veon as his most prized memories, and reminiscing about these liberating experiences – following years of unrequited lusting after a pair of provincial twins that sailed in the bays of the Cape – always put a crooked smile on his face and a stiff rod in his pants.

Now however his thoughts were troubled, and he desired no longer the solace of penetrating a sweet boy's ass; nor did he wish to sit idly at a bar counter, drinking and thinking about all of the day's ugliness, trying to suss it all out. Veon could perceive when he was in danger, and he thought not for the first time about the old joke he'd heard in the country so many times:

When I was six, I convinced my parents to change my middle name to Danger, but when they later changed my sister's name to Trouble, I knew that I had made a mistake.

Old farmers and barons alike enjoyed telling him this one when they heard he had a sister he was orphaned with, but none of them knew the reality of his situation was exactly as the joke described. It was appropriate, and it even led Veon to use the moniker the Deacon of Danger when he first began wrestling, although this was soon changed to his current, and much more iconic name: Fire-Spark. With his gold and black tattoos, dark skin, and a costume decorated with flames and scales, he looked like a character perfectly draconic. He had even spat fire on a few special events, using a foul-tasting fuel distilled from apsa berries. Since he nearly sprayed one unfortunate lady's hair off once, however, his sponsors and promoters had suggested he stick to showing off his muscles and swinging about his baton, which he had secretly named Dangerous.

Veon traveled down into New Quarry by hired coach – although his destination now was entirely different than what had first drawn him there by impulse: the bordellos, and a bottle of Burgundy Falls. He was now moving with a burning desire, a sort of brute inspiration, and his every thought revolved around finding his cousin, the sot.

Of course, there was a very good chance that this new course would no doubt include heavy drinking as well; in all likelihood, he would imbibe far more in Osuf's company than he would have done on his own, in the company of a smooth-bottomed call-boy.

Veon knew that we would pass by these establishments – his favourite being the Quorum on Ferio street – but these places did not appeal to Osuf, who had no desire to be with members of his own sex – nor with one of the opposite, in fact. There was no desire in him for anything but drink, and the oblivion it would bring him.

Therefore, Osuf would be located in one of several dive bars that sold cheap polohj, like the Pick, or the even more ominously named Crack. These crude names appealed to the local quarry workers of miners and masons – a brash lot, always drinking themselves into brazen displays or raging fights filled with typical shows of male bravado.

There was another sort who drank alongside them that did not fight or flaunt. These were the truly broken, men who worked in the dredgers down in the Drift – and this had earned them the nicknames Drifters or, collectively, the Adrift. These sorry fellows had no ambition, and were resigned to being bottom-feeders, because through a series of misfortunes they had allowed themselves to become convinced that they deserved no better than eating the shit that others let drop to the dingy depths.

Osuf was one of the worst of these, famous in his own pathetic way, if only because he was still alive, despite everything that had happened to him since the accident that killed his wife, as well as everything that he had since put himself through.

Veon and Osuf had a special connection, like foreigners, prisoners, or outsiders will always share – a powerful bond made for the sake of survival and which cannot be severed even if there is a falling out between parties. As boys, they had played together, taking hand-gliders off the cliffs of the Cape and sailing over the sea, or else hunting in the Olyesso hills where the woods were thick with deer and shaggy-maned oddurio – but this activity only took place whenever the Mad Composer – Osuf's father, and Veon's uncle – decided to take them on such a venture.

As soldiers, they had trained and drank together. Now that they both lived in the capital – one a misunderstood gladiator, the other a drunken misanthrope – their bond had grown twisted, like a misshapen tree felled by wind, burned by lightning, but never killed entirely. They both saw themselves as victims of fate, but while Veon fought on for some ultimate and nebulous victory, Osuf had surrendered long ago.

As such, neither of them had to hide what they were in the presence of the other, and in admitting they were both pitiable, they were somehow elevated.

Veon checked in at the first of many possible bars in his attempt to find today's locus of misery – those were Osuf's words in describing his regular haunts. Off of Vantner avenue, this little hole had greasy windows tainted by years of smoke and sweat, where no joyous drinking songs were ever sung, for those who came here wished to drown their sorrows in perfect solitude. The sign above the door was cast brick in which the worn the letters spelled out the name: The Stick.

As Veon entered, he spotted a few denizens of the down-trodden hunched over the polished bar made of stone. These were serious drinkers who didn't even turn to spy who had entered, completely indifferent. The tender of the bar alone looked at Veon with his one good eye, which the gladiator noted also gleamed with recognition underneath the grizzly eyebrow. The other eye was covered with a red patch, a glaring effect that made him look inhuman, almost a machine. Red however was apparent everywhere in the décor: the jambs of doors were painting this way, and there were big stacks of wood carved to look like dynamite painted a garish red on top of the barrel heads of beer behind the one-eyed man.

The bartender said nothing, even though he knew the gladiator by sight, for he knew equally well that he didn't belong here. He didn't look away, and his eye was like a lit fuse burning in a dark shaft underground where depressed cave-in survivors had finally opted for suicide.

Veon said not a word, and made no move to find a seat. He scanned the figures at the bar and determined quickly that Osuf was not among them. With a nod to the barman, Veon backed out the door and found himself grateful to be back in the narrow, piss-reeking alley where the Stick was situated.

There are some depressing sights to see under the sun! Veon mused to himself, as his skin crawled and his spine quavered from some inner disgust. And the Quarry is the worst spot of all if you've no wish to espy them!

He tried to shake off the feeling that he'd been touched by the bad energies of this place, and as he hurried on he reflected how fitting a name the bar had, for everyone in there was stuck – and only a stick of dynamite could upset any of those men sitting within, who had lost all cares save those that separated them from their sorrows.

Hoofing it now, Veon ventured further into the district, hoping that he would have enough luck and sufficient pluck to find his cousin before he was entirely inebriated. It was only seven in the evening, but this was late in the day for a serious drunk to find any semblance of cohesion.

Veon went on to check three more of Osuf's usual haunts, only to then be struck by a truly disconcerting prospect:

What if he is in his workshop?

The possibility that Osuf – true son of the mad composer – was putting himself to work was a wonder and a worrisome affair. It presented a lot of puzzling and potentially dangerous options for progress – but whatever glimmer of hope existed in this move that the poor, broken, destitute man sometimes acted on, Veon knew that the progress he would make was all too likely to be deeper into his downward spiral. From years of experience, he had observed that such episodes invariably and inevitably led to his cousin's destroying whatever work he'd begun, and returning to the depths of despair and habits of wanton self-destruction.

So it was with a sense of growing dread that Veon saw, as he turned down the lane at Apner's Mission, the light streaming out of the high loft's windows where his cousin had some quarters above a stinking fish-dryer's.

He hesitated only a moment before proceeding toward the dilapidated door which led to the rotting stairs.

After all, he told himself, my middle name surely isn't Daunted!

Chapter 7 - part the first

Veon awoke in the armchair where he'd been snoring for the past half hour in the anteroom where, it appeared, he'd been abandoned.

A cry of fury had brought him to his senses, although he woke with a start from a troubling dream to a troublesome reality. He forgot quite where he was for a moment, and was seized for just a moment by a terrible panic that he'd been captured by the Harzia; then he seemed to half-recall where he really was: inside the Red Scarp.

Was he in trouble? He knew someone was...

And if it wasn't he, then it must be Amos.

Veon leapt to his feet, slapped his face a couple of times, hard, to drive the sleep out, and then bolted for the door. As he made the corridor, he heard once again the agonizing cry of ire that had woken him. He knew who it was making those noises of fury, and he knew also that it did not bode well.

Down to the left, he crept, and peeking through the busted hole in the door where the doorknobs had been torn off, Veon could see the Commander in Chief pacing about his room, holding his head as if it ached terribly. His assistant was speaking in soft, cowed terms – but apparently the more he said, the more his superior officer became enraged.

It didn't take but a second or two for Veon to guess what had happened here: Leni was up to his old tricks. Somehow, he had played the Commander as a fool, and slipped right through his fingers.

Veon knew Leni better than that, however, and he knew better than to let him get away with it! He pulled away from the damaged doors, feeling now a bit guilty for ravaging them; then he remembered that he still had one of the knobs in his pocket; so he reached in to retrieve it.

The knob was no longer there.

His fingers, probing to the very bottom, thrust into a soft squelching mess, the nature of which he could not discern – but it was surely something vile. Veon withdrew his sullied fingers, sniffed at the grey gloop, and grimaced.

“Bird shit,” he said, mystified.

Veon found the magician and his sister as they reached the bottom of the great stair that led down from the Red Scarp to the streets of Sala district. They came down on the eastern side, and Veon was huffing and sweating once more, pulling up behind them.

“You came down...the collar...to avoid me,” the big man said, trying now that he caught them up, to also catch his breath.

“Nonsense,” Leni replied, putting on his most winsome of smiles. “We felt like stretching our legs some after being cooped up in the Scarp all afternoon.”

It was late now, the sun nearly set, and the heat of the summer's day was only now beginning to wane. An early moon was in the sky, pale and shabby, like the first whore out on the streets of the Drift.

“I saw how you left the Commander,” Veon said, sticking an accusing finger up in Leni's face. “What poisons did you give him?”

“Sometimes the cure may be more severe than the ailment, my brother. I think that you mistook what you saw, for you like to invent motives for me which, quite frankly, just don't suit me. I'm a philanthropist; and you are just a buffoon. It would be best if we both accepted that, and perhaps you would no longer feel the need to misjudge me.”

“Buffoon, is it? I'm just some clown?”

“You're just like me, Veon – a showman. We just put on different acts, you and I, but our goals are the same: we want to share what we can do with the world, because we believe it can bring us back some of the love we lost so long ago. In my case, it has worked. That is really why you hate me so.”

Veon's temper flared up at the mention of his dead family, and he also found Leni's brazen comparisons to be quite irksome. He almost dared to put a hand on the magician, but he remembered what had happened last time, so he held back from fear.

This was no small feat, for Veon's great fault was that he had no ability to hold his passions – especially his anger – in check. He had no moves when wrestling down his emotions; which was the main reason why he was so good at wrestling other men to the ground.

“I'm going to keep my eye on you!” Veon scolded the magician, waving his finger menacingly, but also impotently.

“In that case, there is quite a likelihood that you'll overlook a critical moment when someone else's hand sneaks into your pocket – a hand far more eager to steal than mine, although certainly much less adept. It's natural to envy me, Veon. Everyone does. Just as it's natural for everyone to admire you. But don't fall in love with the glamour about me, and don't be fooled by it. All I want is what any man wants: to find a beautiful, loving wife, and barring that a little meaning in life. I found the latter so that the former could find me.”

Amos continued gazing at her brother with a hard sort of pity, like a clay fired in a vehement oven. That look was like a knife, and she meant it to be: a slashing blade that would cut with deliberate cruelty the tie that bound her to him. She was a kite, a sparkling thing of beauty and colours, and she would fly free, tail rattling in the high breezes, leaving him standing on the grass holding a lifeless string.

As Veon turned to go down Aesochio avenue, heading toward his own flat in Dazio Gardens, he was hailed by a man he knew, but greatly disliked: Opho, the boorish Count, who had lately fallen somewhat from grace.

The Count, once one of Amos' suitors, was dressed in fine, expensive garments, but did not look well. There was a sickly look to him, as if he had been abused, or was eaten up by anxiety. As he approached Veon, however, he affected a smile, and held out his hand.

“Well met, my old friend,” Opho said, as he and Veon shook. Opho's grip was painfully tight, and Veon, who was no stranger to pain, winced and withdrew his hand. He knew he was meant to think of this as a chance occurance, but there was something about the Count that said he'd been waiting for this encounter, or had arranged to make it come about. “Allow me to offer congratulations on your fair sister's imminent marriage.”

Veon knew very well how disingenuous this sentiment was, coming from one of Amos' spurned suitors of the past; and the reminder that she was soon to be wed to that infuriating magician was not very welcome either. He grumbled the appropriate reply, while at the same time eyeing Opho to see what it was the Count really wanted. The wrestler, while born of high blood – albeit blue blood – was always off his footing when it came to dealing with these society types; he far preferred the blood and shouts of the Wrings.

“I cannot say that I approve of her choice,” Opho said with obvious distaste, “but it is at least apparent that she has chosen a man of means.”

“What do you mean by that?” Veon demanded. “What means do you speak of?”

“Magic, of course,” Opho said with a sneer he could not conceal. “He is a dangerous man, for certain, although he hides his true nature with a veneer of comical theatricality. He pretends at being what he truly is: a Wizard!”

Veon was never slow on the uptake, even if he couldn't always fathom the corruption of intent, and the conniving plots woven by greedy minds of those he had to deal with in Caza. It dawned on him, as he untied the little knots of spite and hate within the Count's rhetoric, that he knew about the attack this afternoon.

“You know he saved her once more,” Veon stated flatly. He figured things out better when everything was on the table, and he functioned always to bring everything to light, if only to put off-balance those sneaks who fancied so much keeping things in the dark.

Opho didn't miss a beat. He knew, or had been given instructions, on how to handle the championship fighter. “Yes, yes,” he said. “It is quite remarkable how quickly news travels in Caza!”

When you are the spider, Veon thought, you receive all sorts of vibrations on the webs you spend your time squatting upon.

But he said only, “I thank the Tides that she is safe. My sister is the light of my life. For that, I am grateful, even if it is the Wizard I must thank.”

“I see he is no friend of yours, either,” Opho commented, off-script, with an apparent relish.

“I do not think he has any friends,” Veon muttered. He wanted now to leave this man, this petty little politicker, and rush down into Old Quarry where he could drink and find some true clarity; speaking with Opho was like wading through a reeking mire, with boots filled with heavy muck.

With a word, however, Opho caught the Espalite in his net.

“Pray,” he said, “and we will see your sister safe at last.”

Veon recognized the syntax, and the threat that went along with it. Opho knew! Somehow, this little weasel had been let into the hen-house!

“Do you imply, Sirrah, that she is not safe in Leni's care?” he asked.

“He is a man of means, said I,” Opho drawled with some satisfaction, “but what end do his means lead to? Do you know? Do any of us? Where does he come from? Who is his family? We know nothing about him, and he cultivates this aura of mystery, remains aloof, and we are all meant to accept this about him.”

At this point, Veon erred. He knew that trusting Opho was a mistake – as trusting anyone always proved to be – but his burning desire to set Amos free of Leni's grip was too intense. He came closer to the Count.

“Is he involved with the Harzia?” he asked. “Is he some spy they've sent to unmask her?”

Opho smiled, and made a little shrug. “How can I know these things?” he said, confessing to ignorance. “But there is always one way to find out.”

Veon, his mind racing, found himself careening towards a dead end. “What way is that?” he asked, with a tingle of dread. The moment he spoke the words, it was as if a part of his mind perceived the trap; but knowing that he was already trapped, it propelled him onward; the only way out now was to push on through.

“Is there not a campaign to retake Mozo?” Opho said, matter-of-factly. “We all know the Harzia are behind the fall of that city to the Ferrolo, who have driven it into the mud. Surely, any high-ranking guard who manages to breach the City of Droves would be able to lay his hands upon all kinds of sensitive data; or perhaps those who composed and transmitted it.”

Veon's jaw clenched. “I am no soldier,” he said. “I am a fighter.”

“Indeed,” Opho said, shaking his head as if he'd forgotten. “Forgive me, but I forgot you had station here. Entertaining the Oligarchs must be tremendously taxing. I would hate to deprive them of their moon-glorious events if my words sent you from the Tournaments into a tour of duty abroad.”

“I would never manage to do these things you speak of,” Veon replied tersely. “I could go, and fight, but I would have no idea who to track down, or how to find any of these 'sentive data', as you say. That is up to the officers, not the lowly fighters.”

Opho looked into Veon's eyes at this time, driving home his final, victorious point. “You are a beloved celebrity, Veon,” he said. “Although you have merely done the minimum and mandatory military service, as have we all, men of our generation, do not you think that you would be installed as a high-ranking officer? You think incorrectly if you think they would send you out with the vanguard, to die in the first wave of attack. You would be well-placed; and I could help you attain such a position.”

Veon swallowed, and said nothing; Opho went on, and it seemed as if a cloud passed over the sun as he spoke, or some object obscured the warmth and left the poor man, now more sure than ever of his victimhood in this exchange, chilled and shivering.

“You know quite well you would have been drafted already, if it weren't for your celebrity status,” the Count murmured, conspiratorially. “The one thing that you use as a shield can also be used as your sword, Veon. You could go, and save your sister once and for all from all threats that may come down the road.”

“Down the road...” Veon repeated, staring off down the length of Aesochio avenue, as if he could see the road winding away, and his path drawing him along it.

Opho, thinking the fighter might be dim of wits, said, “You know, in the future. Who among us knows what the future may bring?”

“The Wizard knows,” Veon muttered darkly.

“Does he know, truly?” Opho said. “Or does he make it appear so, by orchestrating events and using his wiles to fool men into thinking he is the opposite of what he really is?”

Veon looked at Opho, knowing in that instant that the man was playing him to his own ends – but who was to say that the Count's ends were not parallel to his own? They both hated Leni, and they both coveted what he had: Amos.

“Your father is a Colonel in the Caza army, no?” the fighter asked.

“He was promoted this year to General,” Opho replied, with a quiet pride. “There is no question about it, my friend: I can raise you from the pits of the gladiators, to the ranks of a true hero. Your sister has thwarted the Harzia with her prayers and potions, but you could come home as a true victor, conquering them once and for all. Does that not sound appealing, Veon?”

Veon made no reply. The only thing that really appealed to him at that moment was driving his fist into the Count's guts, seeing him bend over breathless, face flushing red a beet. The etiquette of the Wrings was far more civilized in so many ways than the cloak-and-dagger stratagems composed by the quarreling factions of Caza society.

Aesochio avenue was long, and filled with activity, colours, and coaches; but Veon knew that it now led no longer to the Old Quarry, nor even to the New. It would take him much farther, out beyond the Walls of Caza and the High Gate, into the steppes where his destiny awaited him.

Chapter 6 - finale

No one came to fetch her from below the stage, and so she stayed there until the act was over, laying in the darkness, hearing the applause. At that time, the Wizard of Lazu, as the papers and billboards called him, joined her in the musty-smelling cache where things hidden were cast. He crept down there, observing her unseen – but not unsmelt, for Amos was able to detect through the musty scents of the hideaway the man's natural musk. He'd been sweating a lot onstage, in those bright lights. His odor excited her.

“It is a good thing I was standing on the trap door,” she remarked in a most seductive tone.

“It was as fortuitous as your dropping the box was unfortunate.”

“This is the second time you've been there after I've fallen,” Amos said.

“In my experience, that means there will most likely be a third,” the Wizard replied, coming closer. “How you do you like it here, in this 'parallel dimension'?”

“It is cozy; but a bit cold.” Amos patted the cushion next to her. The Wizard came to stand next to her, but did not climb up next to her. He took a good, long look at her.

“You must be the one my mother warned me about,” he said, with a smirk.

“And you must the one the Wizard informed me of,” Amos answered.

Her companion smiled, his eyes twinkling with lively notions, a myriad of mischief. “And what Wizard would that be?” he enquired.

Amos cocked her head. “Don't you know?” she replied, coquettishly.

The Wizard shrugged. “I know so many; as I know also very many of their female assistants. Let me say that few if any of them have made such an impression on me as you have done tonight.”

“My clumsiness is an art form,” Amos said, quoting what her Aunt Mere always said about her. “I've been cultivating it for years.”

“I know talent when I see it,” the Wizard said, still grinning. It wasn't the same lonely smile he'd shown her in Aulo Phonox. This was almost a younger, more boyish version of that man – but perhaps it was just another part he was playing, another disguise.

As if reading her mind, the Wizard pulled off his fake beard. He removed his top hat, too, so he could place the delicate hair piece, as well as a few other props, into it. Amos watched as he put a pocket watch in there as well, and pulled out a wad of colourful silk scarves from his britches in order to add them to the collection.

“How did you manage to infiltrate the odeum crew?” the Wizard asked next. “Are you a spy?”

Amos caught her breath. Carl had warned her that this man – Leni, he had named him – would know things that most would say was unknowable.

“It didn't require a lot of spying,” Amos confessed, dodging the demand for a direct answer to his question. “I could spy right away what your employer wanted in exchange for my admission.”

Leni considered this with a moment of thought as he removed his cufflinks and, one by one, tossed them into his hat, which sat now upon the cushion next to Amos' naked thigh.

“I'm impressed,” he said. “Carl is usually only compelled to feed his seed to women when he visits the cabaret, never here, in the odeum. I hope he was gentle with you; I hear his member is quite large!”

“He is thick in the knees, as they say; and also, he knows how to bend them.”

“In that case, can I offer you something to freshen your breath? Some wine?” Here, Leni produced a bottle of sparkling wine from his top hat, which held no longer any of the articles he'd placed in there, but only a cluster of glistening cubes of ice.

“I've had enough to drink already. Your patron is most attentive.”

“Very well,” Leni put the uncorked bottle back in its place.

“Why do they call him the Caul?” Amos asked as she watched his movements.

“The reasons are three, although only two are well-known. The first, is that he wears a skull-cap to keep his bald head warm in the cruel winters of Caza; the second is that his theatre is exactly like a press where veneers are laid – in fact, the theatre was called the Cauldron when it first opened – were you aware?”

“Yes, I knew that. And the third reason?”

“Well, I would be no magician of any worth, if I gave everything away, now would I?” Leni said, smirking at her.

Amos slid off the cushion, getting on her knees for the third time that night and said, “What can I do to compel you to confide in me?” She knew that Leni wanted to play, was excited by her promiscuous aptitude.

“You can put this on,” Leni said, tossing her a black hood, which was used during his tricks whenever he needed a blindfold – either for himself, or a volunteer.

Amos, confounded by this, and a bit confused, did nevertheless as she was bid. Inside the hood, all was dark. It smelled of some faint and pleasant perfume.

She heard Leni speak to her then in a whisper. “Now you are in my net,” he said. “I can choose to remove what keeps you in the dark, or I can let it smother you. Which choice shall I make?”

“If you must make the choice, then you don't deserve it.”

“Well said, my dear.” Leni then tore the hood from her pretty head, displacing her hair, which was already hopelessly mussed from her fight at the door, from the rain, and from the activities that granted her access. “But consider this – you must first make the choice to have the caul removed. You must choose Life, by coming into this world and opening your eyes. You must deserve the gift that you have been given; otherwise, you will find your light extinguished!”

Leni fucked her that night, for the first time. Under the stage, upon the cushion where she'd landed, he spent long, blissful moments with his face pressed between her legs, in between bouts of sticking it to her where he'd made her so wet with his tongue.

As he thrust into her, devouring her with those intense eyes of his, he muttered and mumbled some few things over and over again:

“That's it; it's so warm. What a good princess you are!”

Or, when he turned her over, and gave her a slap on her behind:

“That's a sweet, pretty arse you've got.”

Amos noticed that his accent had entirely evaporated: gone were the funny 'v's in place of 'w's, and there was no more brogue about his 'r's – although she swore he did purr a little after he came within her.

She smiled then, beneath him, playing her hand through his sweat-soaked hair.

“I'm quite the little strumpet tonight," Amos told her new lover, reflecting on her two different men had given her their seed in two different place.

“In my experience,” Leni murmured once more, “These things always tend to happen in threes.”

“I wonder if that means someone else is going to violate my 'sweet, pretty arse' before the night is through? That Folo wasn't bad looking...”

Leni chuckled. “I've already invited him to,” he said. “He should be here any moment.”

Amos snorted with laughter, thinking he must be joking. She slapped his own ass – which was also rather fine – with the hand that wasn't entangled in his hair. The Wizard wasn't expecting this, however, and he jumped; still semi-hard within her, Amos felt him flex his member in a most satisfying way.

It was at that moment that the door to the hideaway opened and Folo appeared carrying in some props. Leni lifted his head to look at his little strumpet, his princess, and he gave her a wink mixed with a grin; then he rolled over, bringing her on top, commencing a second round for himself, while simultaneously inviting the usher over to give Amos her thirds.

Afterwards, Leni and Amos retired to his accommodations above the odeum. He cracked some oysters fished out of the Lapsiam; Amos knew what that meant, and ate a good number of the slimy, shucked shellfish.

“I can see you're something of a modern woman,” Leni observed with a sly smile.

“You mean that I like sex?” Amos asked point-blank. “My parts feel just as good when you touch them as when I touch yours.”

“Is that what you want, to touch my parts?”

“Hey, baby – you can hide your rabbit in my hat, anytime!”

“That's my girl!”

Amos could sense immediately that this was the place she belonged – not in the haunted House on the cliffs, not in the employ of Sevo Sala, and certainly not married off to some lout or fool like Opho, or worse! She knew that Caza was the place for her; but only now did she perceive that its motley underbelly was where she would fit right in.

“It's not like a gentleman to esteem a girl who declares herself easy.”

“Easy? I wouldn't say that. 'Determined' is a better word.”

“You're not exactly a man of the times, are you?”

“Ha! You can say that again!”

That was when the shucking knife slipped off the knobby shell of the oyster and sliced his thumb open. Leni winced and put wrapped his thumb immediately in a clean kerchief.

Amos liked seeing him like this, vulnerable, injured. She liked to know that he couldn't foreseen everything, including his own pain; and also that he couldn't make anything he liked – or in this case, disliked – disappear.

“I'll have to teach you the art of being clumsy,” Amos said as he went to fetch some tonic to disinfect the wound. She grabbed the last oyster he'd managed to crack and slurped up its juicy, salty contents. “The trick, you see, is to save up your until it explodes forth in the most spectacular of ways.”

She put a heavy accent on the word explodes.

Leni couldn't believe his luck!

“I'll teach you a few tricks of my own, in exchange!” he called out from the other room.

Amos smiled. “It's a deal,” she declared. “Shall I sew you up? I'm actually quite good with a needle and thread.”

“Not necessary.”

“Then I can help take your mind off of it. I know that your eager for your third of the night. Can't stop at two, now can we?”

“Haha – you've got a point there – I am a point behind you!”

“Is it a competition?” Amos asked. “In that case, I think if you really want to tie me in my score, you'll have to go back down into the odeum to gratify your manager with your mouth!”

“What makes you think I haven't already?” Leni joked.“I only got this gig in the first place by gagging!”

Leni came back into the room with a bandage wound round his thumb.

Not too long after that, he climbed on top of her right there at his little wooden kitchen table and got the third and best round in. In their thrashing, they knocked over the plate of oysters which went clattering to the floor, while the shellfish – both shucked and non – were scattered about underfoot.

Leni glanced at them. He was known to be a reader of futures. He had given the ministers, princes, and queens of all Oaga their fortunes by reading tea leaves, cards, and bones – but while those had all been shams, he found that now the oysters in their seemingly random fall displayed upon the wooden floorboards a future that meant he would face more wounds, far many more because of this girl, but that Amos would be there, and she would make good in her promise to furnish him sutures.

“The following morning,” Amos concluded, “he asked me who Sevo was, and whether he was to be considered as competition. He wasn't worried about Carl or Folo, of course. He knew he had me; but he wanted to know if anyone had me, also. I was, quite naturally, still under the thumb of the very powerful mobster-”

“The Lobster!” Colm sputtered, snickering like a schoolboy.

Amos glanced at the Commander, who by this time was utterly wrecked on brandy and whatever Leni had administered to him; then she looked at her husband to say with a sly look of the eye that maybe he shouldn't have gotten their new ally completely plastered!

Leni of course was also quite drunk right now, and his pupils were dilated. She could only imagine what he had taken to bring on this state of muddled euphoria – but she knew at least that he had a sound reason for doing so. He always did, and no single act of his did not serve a multitude of purposes, which were often only partially revealed, if ever at all. Amos suspected in fact that Leni moved with a certain grace that he put absolute faith in – like a cat that takes a leap, with complete trust in its whiskers to sense dangers, claws to catch a hold, and tail to strike a balance; and that perhaps some of his motives were actually unclear even to him. Life was a dance, an act, and Leni knew all the moves perfectly. He coordinated every limb, invoked every word, and provoked a host of gestures just at the right time. How he had this ability to see everything before it happened, Amos in her two years with him had not yet figured nor reckoned, cajoled, coaxed or conned out of him.

She didn't always try that hard. She enjoyed the surprises that he led her toward, and the tricks he pulled to delight her and others. She loved him for these things, for this was the dance that he was leading her in. No one else seemed to be alive like he was; no one else could hear the music. Luckily, despite having two left feet, Amos proved rather apt at keeping up. She was a skilled follower.

She had Sevo Sala to thank for that.

Naturally, Colm knew all about the Lobster Mobster, for he was one of the richest, most cunning, and minacious men in all of Caza. His family, with a wealth built generations ago on lobster fishing and importation, with many corrals constructed on the rivers both to the languid west, and the langostina-infested east, past the cataracts, and as far out as the Falls.

Looking once again at Colm, who was so red in the face from the drink and mirth that he looked almost like a cross or cousin of the claw-fish that cooked up a brilliant scarlet, Amos shook her head. She had seen men like him lose themselves in such ways; the most modest and tightly-wound men sometimes became devils or dervishes when they'd imbibed enough to bring on a state of unbridled libertarianism and immemorable inebriation.

Amos needed to get out of here. She looked at the boy, Obuc, for sympathy or perhaps some breed of help. He'd been lost in a reverie that no doubt involved a string of sexy cabaret dancers in slinky costumes being sodomized. The poor lad came to his senses when Amos cleared her throat loudly, and he shook his head in an entirely different way than what Amos kept doing. He didn't, however, have the presence of mind to cover up the prominent erection that was poking up within his trousers.

Amos stood up, as if that was her cue.

“Well, I don't need any Stanzas or Wizards to tell me that the time has come for me to take my leave of you all. Commander, I trust that you've received enough information from me to begin your investigation; if you need to call on me, I'm sure you'll be able to trace my location.”

At the mention of time, Colm struggled to sit up. “What's the time?” he barked, as if suddenly concerned that he might have missed a crucial appointment.

“It's the same time that it always is,” Leni lamented. “It is neither then nor when, not afore nor after, only now, or near-about, anyway; only now it is time that has forgone what it has not entirely forgotten, for it is for tomorrow that we begin practicing for what goes on before today.”

“I think you have forgotten something,” Amos said, extending her gloved hand to her husband, who was horizontal on the divan, or near-about, anyway. “You told me when I first met you that I was to take you home immediately, if ever I caught you spouting poetry.”

“You've been poetry-izing all evening,” Leni slurred drunkenly.

“In this case, what is good for the goose, is poisonous for the gander.”

“Good thing, then, that I'm a drake!” Leni said as he took her hand and sprang from the sofa. He put his arm around his bride's waist, letting it be known to the Commander and his inspired but somewhat baffled aide that he planned to go directly home and reenact some of those unspeakable acts that Amos had so easily spoken of.

Colm, oblivious, was muttering to himself. Holding his pocket-watch, he moved now in an agitated state, trying to collect his thoughts. “She's going to flay me tonight...” Amos heard him say. The Commander picked up the broken mermaid that Leni had placed on the low table by the hearth. “I can't believe I lost track of time!”

“Not to worry, Commander,” Leni said with a flourish of his hand. “Luckily, Time is keeping very good track of you!”

The magician smiled at his wife then, showing her lips and teeth that were stained blue from the nanpria residue, in what he hoped was a winning leer but had in its wise a look grisly that gave her only repugnance and grue. Had he planned for this, too, she couldn't say – but she sincerely hoped he had a cure for it, as there was no way she was kissing him, or letting him go down on her with that mouth as it was.

There's no way I'm waking up tomorrow with a pussy that looks like it belongs to a corpse, she thought as they left Colm, left his assistant – one in a stupor, and the other stupefied - and staggered out of the office. Here, Leni poured out a pungent potion from a glass vial into his pocket handkerchief. Inhaling its fumes, he came to himself, and stood upright once more, entirely sober now, but still stained in such a way as it looked as though he'd been kissing with a lascivious squid.

“That's a pity,” Amos intoned girlishly. “I was hoping to ask you some pertinent questions before the sooth-serum wore off.”

“You can always ask them now,” Leni replied.

“But the answers will vary so greatly. There are times, my sweet, when the truth interests me more than a little mystery.”

“Barter then, shall we? I'll answer every one of your questions, if you answer me all of mine.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Who is the man in the cave?”

“I've told you: a Wizard.”

“But I was not there; I did not catch you. So, what – have you lied?”

“No, I told the Commander the truth: the Wizard is you – or at least he looks and acts like you.”

“Most intriguing.”

“Is it my turn to ask now?”

“Indeed! Ask me anything except what you know I have no answer to.”

“You have an answer for everything, Leni – but that's not the same as telling me the truth.”

“The story is often more interesting than the history, my love. People aren't moved by the truth; they want something far more fascinating.”

Amos decided to cut right to it. All of this circumlocution was just Leni being ridiculous. 

“What's written in your great Book?” she asked.

“Words, mainly. The occasional lewd drawing of you and a horse.”

“Leni!”

“Well, sometimes it's a donkey. I've animated parts of it, so that if you flip through the corners of the book you get to see a little cartoon depicting you leading the beast on with a carrot in a most creative way.”

“Leni, please!”

“What? It's done very artfully. I don't do anything half-assed when it comes to donkeys.”

“Har har. You're not going to tell me, are you?”

“Will you tell me the rest of the verses you learned in the cave?”

“When the time is right.”

“Who decides when that is?”

“You do, I suppose. You gave me the stanzas, down in the dark.”

“I did no such thing. I was not there.”

“Your eye is quick, and you can perceive the veil; but I don't think that you can spot yet what lies behind it, no? That must just slay you, eh, Leni my love?”

“Will you not tell me, my love? What else did he say to you, this Wizard who stole my face?”

“Is that what you believe?”

“I'll believe anything you tell me.”

“How appropriate. Since you believe in nothing but what you come up with in your own mind, I shall leave you with only those ideas to play with.”

Amos strode ahead down the corridor, a little pissed off with Leni for not believing her. The magician sauntered along after her.

Neither of them noticed the figure following furtively behind, listening intently to every word.