Secrets must be concealed.

That is the principal tenet of the Mage's Association.

For an organization devoted to the preservation and improvement of thaumaturgy, that one phrase is what drives their actions. I am a member of that association, a fact I will admit, though not happily. My partnership isn't even my own; I inherited it from my Master after he passed away. The Association believes that he may have passed on his knowledge before he died. That small possibility, that the magecraft of someone who was meant to have been Sealed could still exist in the world, is the reason I'm in this mess.

No, scratch that. It's definitely my fault. Doesn't mean I can't blame everyone else, though.

Secrets brought us here. All three of us.

But for whom do those secrets exist? They are only there to serve those who created them. I protect my life. Archibald protects his pride. Moriah protects her delusions.

Right now, when there's something more important to protect, concealing those secrets is a useless habit.

The enemy we face destroys secrets. Memories are just an extension of that. Only by bringing that which was hidden into the light can we truly prevail.

But as I've found out, dragging someone out of the darkness is harder than it looks. I can only hope our efforts have been enough.

The last entry ended prematurely. A better man than I would've finished it, but I seem to have dozed off near the end. As it is, I don't feel like extending it, so I'll break this unofficial rule of mine and write more than one entry per day.

Well, it's not exactly day here.

We didn't make land. The river didn't stop, and there were no ports to serve as destinations for our passage. Instead, the Nile slowed down, going from a roaring beast to a laconic flow, giving us plenty of time to look ahead.

While Archibald and I were puzzled as to exactly how we were expected to get above ground, barring excessive force and simply waiting to be washed out to sea, Moriah outlined the plan in one sentence.

"Throw a rope up and climb."

At a certain point, the alchemist wove her strings together and cast them upwards, hooking onto a hidden latch of some sort. After verifying that the connection was secure, she tied us both to the lifeline and started slithering up the rope like a rattlesnake. The slow current gave us plenty of time to attempt the same, and I was up in a minute. Archibald took a bit more time due to his advanced age, but progressed swiftly.

As we hung from the ceiling, our vessel drifted into the darkness.

Moriah reached the top and, after a few whispered phrases, climbed into the ceiling. Her hand came back out of the illusory rock, beckoning us to follow.

We emerged into a tight space. After having grown used to amateur spelunking, it wasn't much of a surprise, though the cramped quarters, lack of lighting, and presence of what I'm fairly sure was a long dead explorer next to the trap door didn't help matters. At least this one wasn't moving. The worst part was the loss of the Nile. The river's presence had been comforting and rejuvenating, but the moment I passed through the passage all traces of it vanished instantly, as if through a spell. Even the half-dozen mana potions in my pack weren't a suitable substitute.

The Guide didn't bother with history lessons. She just led the way.

We walked for what felt like ages through the darkness. Occasionally we crawled, following our Guide's whispered directions. No light was allowed. We would soon find out why.

The first indicator was the air. No more than a breath, the fractionally cooler breeze signalled the end of our short foray. It was accompanied by a familiar, unpleasant smell that I couldn't pinpoint. When we finally emerged, barely able to stand, there was no light to greet us.

We stepped out into heaven.

Well, perhaps not quite Heaven in the literal sense of the word. I'd certainly call it a welcome sight, though.

Guns. Ammo. Crates and crates of explosives, each stamped in the Queen's English. The smell I'd scented was of gunpowder, strong enough to colour the air. I saw rifles and shotguns and pistols and grenades and mortar shells the size of a hand. The man-made room was the size of my office and was so packed full of weaponry that we barely had enough room to squeeze through. The tiny hole we'd entered through was gone as if it had never existed.

"This is…"

"A British armory," Moriah explained. "These hills have been used as store rooms for quite some time. Nothing in here seems to have seen much use, but it looks to have been delivered quite recently."

"Beautiful."

"What are you babbling about, Scribe?" Archibald didn't share my sentiments. "Guide, where are we?"

"Near Cairo. We will need to make our way through the nearby army camp to get there, however."

"Then it shall be done. Scribe, come."

"No."

"Huh?"

"Gimme five minutes."

Archibald refused.

I insisted.

He relented, standing outside the door and looking for a mouse to catch and turn into a familiar. Moriah shot me an odd look, but didn't object to my sudden request.

Oh, how wonderful it all was.

I grabbed a dozen Pineapples and a Tommygun with three different kinds of magazines. It wouldn't replace Miss Jane, who'd been lost on her first sortie, but I could get it enchanted once I made it back to London. There were a few Stens, but nothing beats the weight of a Tommy in your hands. I also swiped a Bren and enough ammo for it to put down an elephant. An enterprising idiot had apparently ordered a Trench Gun for some reason, despite it being next to useless in desert warfare, so I liberated them from the weapon with pleasure. They had a Browning, but those tend to run out at the worst possible moments, so I left it. I even took a spare Lee Enfield, in case something happened to Miss Velvet. Miss Daisy got herself a shinier twin.

There was also a strange, tube-shaped weapon there, sealed in a high priority crate. It looked for all the world like a portable mortar of some kind, but its ammunition resembled some kind of grenade designed to be propelled like a bullet. I took it and a few of its strange companions. It's not as if the Army is going to be needing any of these, and my cause is just enough that I won't feel bad about it later.

Of course, I also loaded up on all the ammunition I could carry, and enough explosives to level a small building.

When I came out of the armory and into an even larger, emptier cavern, Archibald looked me over and sighed.

"You look like a damn fool."

"It's only three packs." They were a bit heavy.

"A damn, damn fool."

Then he broke into a coughing fit. He took a seat on a stone step and tried to exhale his lungs in a most ungentlemanly matter. Moriah just stared blankly at the darkness, a dusty silhouette caked with sand. She'd never looked so beautiful.

"We proceed forward. The city is that way."

"Anything between us and it?"

Instead of answering, she showed us. The cavern linked to another, and another, and so on, each one displaying more and more signs of being regularly used. It was less of a cave system and more of a quarry, but it didn't seem like anything had been harvested for quite some time. Instead, military gear and items were strewn across haphazardly.

"The British Army."

The British Army. Well, that explained the weapons.

"Around?"

Moriah shook her head. "Through."

Archibald just nodded, too weary to say anything. I keep forgetting that he's geriatric. For a man at least in his sixties, not being tired after such exertion would be strange.

We exited into open air and were greeted by the night sky and a sea of tents before us. We had to duck back into the cavern for a moment as a patrol of five rather jovial soldiers walked by, chatting about a local bar and women, and how lucky they were to have not been sent to the front lines. It was a grim reminder of our time limit. The second battle of El Alamein was too close for comfort, as was the predicted genocide we were working to prevent.

Archibald was rather sour. "This is going to waste time," he growled. "I just know it."

Moriah nodded sadly.

Getting to Cairo was a hassle. We'd been through all sorts of magical threats, but mundane ones are much more sensitive in nature. Archibald couldn't kill anyone for risk of damning the future (not that I would have allowed it, even with my meagre influence), nor could we be discovered and thus cause a ruckus. That left a quiet approach.

The camp itself was the size of a city block and rather haphazard in construction, with a hidden organization beneath. We'd emerged from the back of the camp, where tall hills obscured the horizon. Doubling back and going around would take all night and leave us useless the next day.

Time not being on our side, "Through" remained our travel vector, even if it necessitated a bit of trouble.

We waited a quarter hour until a lone British soldier's patrol brought him near our position on the edge. In moments he was bound and gagged by string that was almost invisible in the dark. A quick hypnotism predated his immediate release, after which he proceeded to divulge anything and everything he knew that could possibly aid us.

It wasn't much, but it was enough. We let him go sans a few uncomfortable memories. He'll probably think it was a cigarette break that kept him there for so long.

More important than the man's knowledge was his dress. Two quick Projections (from Archibald, ever full sack of prana that he is) produced fragile copies of the original uniform, and some personal Alterations on top of that made them bearable, if not comfortable. Moriah was left without any disguise, but we'd planned around that as well.

We marched as a line with her in the middle. Strings bound the girl's wrists behind her back, and she glared at anyone passing by. The main road through the camp was mostly empty at night, and only a few sleepy soldiers passed by. A few did double-takes and one made to say something, but reconsidered at the last moment and hastily ducked into a tent. Even the flimsy disguises were given strength by the compulsion Archibald had placed over us.

Just as I came to that conclusion, a short, chubby, mustached officer stepped out of the large tent we were in the middle of passing. He took one look at us and didn't hesitate.

"Halt," was the command, and he delivered it with authority.

We kept going. Obviously the man was speaking to another nearby soldier.

"I said halt. Arrêtez. Whatever the word is in your language. I say this because you folks are obviously not from around here."

Archibald stopped, and we followed a moment later.

Our magus looked back and took off his hat. He fixed the officer with his strongest glare.

The officer laughed and ran a hand through thinning hair. "My god," he breathed in between fits of unmanly giggling. "Lysander! It's you! You of all people waltzing through my camp as if you own it!"

Archibald sneered at the display. "Maxwell." I didn't recognize the name or the face attached to it, and neither did Moriah.

Upon hearing his name, the officer relaxed. He brushed his extravagant mustache with one hand as his beady eyes ran over Moriah and I. "Come in," he said at length. "The tent is empty. We will talk there."

"As you've no doubt guessed," Archibald replied. "We're in a bit of a hurry."

"It can wait," Maxwell said flippantly. His hand came down, resting near the pistol hanging from his hip. "This is my territory, Lysander. As the acting Supervisor of Cairo, it is my responsibility to make sure nothing is amiss."

"Shouldn't you be in London, working on that thesis of yours?"

He shrugged. "Someone has to be here. The Association refuses to leave the war to the mundanes, as much as it despises the idea of involving itself in such an intellectually worthless event. Thus, I'm the compromise. It's a thankless job, but someone has to do it. Now will you come in, or will I fail to overlook the weaponry your lackey has stolen from my camp?"

Archibald's grip on his cane tightened. "A few minutes, then," he relented.

"Excellent. You may leave the rabble outside. I was just making tea."

"They come with me."

Maxwell looked at Archibald as if he'd grown a third head. The squat man scanned our faces again and sneered. "If you insist. I suppose every man has a right to choose his subordinates."

Archibald brushed past the officer and ducked into the tent. The squat man followed, doing a horrible job of hiding his irritation. Moriah and I exchanged looks, and then shrugs.

"Ladies first."

"You are the first to ever refer to me by that title."

"Well I can guarantee I won't be the last."

The inside of the tent was spacious enough. We had room enough to walk around without bending over, and the few luxuries present were enough to hypothesize that those of lower rank weren't allowed inside. The myriad of magical instruments in one corner, hidden a boundary field as basic as our compulsion, cemented the theory. The center of the tent was taken up by three chairs and a table, upon which rested a large map and several miniature figures and utensils. A combat knife was embedded in the wood several inches deep, carving a slice between Cairo and the Pyramids of Gaza.

"Excuse the mess," Maxwel said. He pulled the knife out of its improvised sheath with a minimum of huffing and puffing, and waved a hand over the resulting scar, restoring it to pristine condition. "Lower necessities tend to wear on the mind almost as much as higher quandaries."

"Commanding tens of thousands of soldiers to die for you?" Archibald said.

"A constant distraction," the portly man said. He sighed as he sank into the most comfortable chair of the lot. Archibald took the stool straight across, leaving Moriah and I to eye the remaining seat.

"Odds?"

"92% chance you cede it to me within the next ten seconds."

"I'll go with the majority on this one."

She settled down, leaving me to lean uncomfortably against a tent-post while Archibald and his friend spoke. They didn't pay us much attention, as if we were just another pair of decorations. I can honestly admit that the first few minutes completely fell out of my attention, with Maxwell dancing the dance of introductions like an enthusiast. Archibald's responses were universally short and to the point, but the other magus seemed to be in love with every word that came out of his mouth.

In short, it was like watching a plump turkey dancing in front of a pissed off hound.

"It's all bad business, Lysander," Maxwell eventually said wearily. "The whole thing just reeks of it. I envy the freedom old Barty gives you."

"There hasn't been much freedom at all," Archibald replied. Where Maxwell slumped, Archibald sat straight like a stone pillar, staring straight ahead. "We're still recovering from the Blitz. It's been slow going. When's the last time you went home?"

"Oh, ages," the portly man waved off Archibald's words. "Like I said: bad business. Montgomery's a good chap, for a mundane, but I'm the one who has to deal with those bloody Axis Magi. It seems like every week they're trying to send more spies and agents and who knows what into the city. Intercepting them is like trying to make tea with a newspaper!"

"From here, it looks as if you've been performing your duties satisfactorily," Archibald said. "The city doesn't seem as if it's seen any serious amount of fighting."

"Because I've been keeping it that way!" Maxwell roared, slamming his fist on the table with unexpected force. Several pieces fell over. "For every one I catch, I have to negotiate with two more just to keep them from collapsing Cairo! Just the other day some upstart Einzbern brat waltzed in here with a dozen of his abominations and demanded I give him free access to my prisoners. Before that it was the Church thinking they could establish a forward outpost in neutral territory. No respect! No shame! What's the world coming to when bloody nobodies like those two know more about the rules than people with actual families!?"

The silence afterwards was a deep one.

Eventually, Archibald broke it.

"Bad business," he agreed. "However, the Association will appreciate your contribution."

The other man nodded absently, accepting the lie with grace. Fat chance, he seemed to say. The attitude over the War was one of annoyance for most magi, and of fanatical devotion for a small minority. The Barthomelois are obviously in the former category, because they can't wrap their heads around anything other than killing vampires and running the Clock Tower in their spare time. The most Maxwell would be getting for his work was a useless medal or diploma, some small bits of credit with the few families interested enough in the war to care, and the eternal hatred of Germany's whole magus population.

"What about you, Lysander?" Maxwell asked, seeming to deflate a bit. "What brings you to the edge of a war zone? There's hardly anything worth your time here. Are you here to replace me? Make a bid for some artifacts, perhaps? Or are you simply enjoying your lack of responsibility?"

"I have responsibilities. I simply choose not to share them so freely. You can be assured that they don't involve you." Earlier I'd thought that Archibald held some kind of special hatred for me for being a first generation magus. Now I've revised that opinion. He's just a prick to everyone, even his equals. I could've done a better job at hiding my blatant distaste for the ongoing conversation.

The man smiled and ran a finger across his mustache. "Oho? Well you can certainly confide in me if those servants of yours already know. As the Supervisor, I could be of some aid."

Moriah tugged on my sleeve. I felt her string digging words and numbers into my palm. They weren't favourable.

It wasn't hard to see why. This was a conversation loaded with enough politics to fill the morning papers. Normally it'd be a long, drawn out affair, but Archibald wasn't playing the game, leaving Maxwell to keep it going himself. The natural conclusion to such a lopsided set up is obvious.

Archibald leaned back, relaxing and lifting his chin up. "Not at all," he said coldly.

"Come now!" Maxwell was sweating. His arms trembled from repressed anger. "Are we not friends, Lysander? Do you remember how we would study together in our first years?"

The older man paused and seemed to recall something. The corners of his wrinkled lips turned up slightly, and his eyebrows narrowed as he leaned forward. Archibald's words were deliberate. "Actually," he said. "I do recall a worm that tried to leech off of my talents, but I doubt someone that abhorrent would ever grow up to occupy a position as desirable as yours."

Moriah tensed, as did I. Yet instead of an angry outburst from our host, we only got a laugh, identical to the one he'd greeted us with. "Ah, there it is. I'd hoped you'd eventually wise up to your situation, but it appears that pride of yours will be the last to fall after all."

Maxwell slammed his hand onto the map on the desk. The lines that dotted the image of the battlefield lit up with faint blue light in the pattern of an intricate ritual circle. The air in the tent was suddenly thinner, as if we'd risen a thousand feet in the space of a second.

The portly man stood. The blue glow travelled up his hand, manifesting in his narrowed eyes. "Know your place, trash," he hissed at Archibald. "Your family may have been above mine at one point, but all that remains of that lineage is a legacy of laughingstocks chasing after empty myths. Any power that bloodline once held is dust on the wind. The Vice Director won't lower himself to protect a fallen associate, particularly not against the commander of such a critical area. You are in my Workshop now."

My gun was out in seconds and pointed at the Supervisor's head, but neither paid me any attention. Moriah was the one who pushed my hand down before it could squeeze the trigger. "It won't work," she whispered as she rose to her feet beside me. "He has manipulated the atmosphere against us. We cannot interfere." Her hand and voice shook like the last leaves of fall.

"See, Lysander? Even these nobodies understand the situation. I suggest you soften that hard head of yours and try to do the same."

Instead of heeding his advice, Archibald raised an eyebrow. He crossed one leg over the other and let his cane rest on the floor. "Am I supposed to feel threatened?"

"You-!"

"Disable your bounded field," Lysander Octavius Archibald commanded. "Let us proceed in peace. We studied together once, so I'm giving you a warning you don't deserve. You shouldn't squander it."

He's insane. I realized it just as Maxwell did. Archibald's a crazy bastard even by magus standards. No negotiation, no politics. This entire time he's done what he wants, when he wants, even if it meant losing out in the long run. There's being hard-headed, and then there's this. If I'd known my new boss would be so suicidal, I would've taken my chances with the loan sharks.

"You're at a disadvantage, Lysander. You can't do anything here."

"I could say the same," our magus replied, tapping out a soft rhythm on his cane. "If you die here, it will have been German spies that killed you, not our magecraft. Your family will know nothing."

A thought occurs to me as I write this. When one throws themselves out of a tall building or airplane, can you really say they seek death if it's the ground that loses?

It ended before it could even begin. The officer opened his mouth to utter an aria, and never closed it. A thin needle of sand rose up from between Archibald's feet, passing through the tent's floor, the wooden table, and the back of Maxwell's head. For a moment he gaped at the sight like a fish drowning on air, throat bulging and eyes dilating. Then there was a choked gasp, and he was still.

Archibald snorted. "Typical," he said as he stood up. He brushed a few particles of sand from his dirtied clothes as Maxwell slumped down into his chair. "The fool always did go for the flashy nonsense first. Not a practical bone in that body."

Moriah was trembling. I moved to steady her, and she fell against my chest like a puppet with its strings cut. "What did you do?" she asked softly.

"Prepared spell," Archibald snapped as he moved around to the other side of the table, an expensive handkerchief in his fingers. "A two line aria spoken at a previous time, stored in an artifact or Crest for instant use later. It's a fairly simple process, but some tend to be too attached to the grandeur of chanting to consider adopting it. At least you're not one of those people, Scribe."

"Not that!" she snapped. All the weakness in her body evaporated as fuel for anger. Moriah straightened, shoved my hand away, and took a single step forward. "Do you have any idea," she spat. "What you have done?"

The reason she didn't take another step was the same needle that had killed Maxwell, pointed right at her throat. She shook, with rage, not fear. Archibald stared at her as if examining a specimen. At length, he answered. "I got rid of something that was in my way."

"That man was a British officer," I said. I hadn't un-holstered my gun, but I sure as hell hadn't let go of it. "He was one of the people winning the war for us, asshole or not, and you offed him so you wouldn't have to share."

"Irrelevant," Archibald said. He turned away from us and started wiping away the blood slowly making its way down Maxwell's face from his nose. "Stopping Aten will win us the war."

"No, stopping Aten gets you a nice, fat favour from the Vice Director. Stopping Aten clears your crazy grandfather's name. Stopping that piece of shit gets you everything you want." I had to force myself to let go of the gun, for fear of shooting without meaning to. "Are you gonna burn down the whole city if that's what it takes to get your reward?"

"It won't come to that." Archibald ignored my near-rant. The expensive handkerchief wiped away the blood on the back of Maxwell's neck. The old man's wrinkled fingers closed the dead man's eyelids, and his hands pushed and pulled and prodded the body into a pose that made it look as if Maxwell had simply died of a heart attack or stroke instead of something worse.

Archibald looked up at me. "Helping me puts your financial worries to rest, permanently. Helping me raises your meager standing in the Association enough that every magus won't consider you a laughingstock. Helping me is the same as helping yourself."

He folded the handkerchief and placed it in his pocket. "If we are speaking on terms of who stands the most to gain, I'd say you've almost certainly reached my level. Now stop being so bloody sensitive. You're behaving like a woman."

Then his eyes shifted to Moriah, who still stood, caught in her own indignation. The spear of sand shifted, caressing the skin above her throat. "And you, Guide? You get absolutely nothing apart from my meager payment. Of us three, you are the least trustworthy. At least a greedy fool can be trusted to behave like a greedy fool."

She didn't dignify his statement with anything short of a glare.

My gun came up. "Knock it off." The spear split, and before I could blink the barrel had been plugged with sand. If I tried to shoot, Miss Jane was more likely than not going to blow up in my face.

"Quiet. The girl may have seduced you, but such petty trick won't affect me." Archibald walked right up to my face. He was almost as tall as me. "All I ask," he said very calmly. "Is that you do your job. Am I being too presumptuous about your abilities if you can't even manage that much?"

It pains me to say it, but he wasn't.

The numbers being carved into my palm made the choice easier.

The gun came down.

At that very second, the tent flap opened and a slightly overweight soldier ducked inside, blissfully unaware of the situation. Upon glimpsing the scene his eyes widened and he opened his mouth to shout for alarm.

My gunshot intercepted the spear in time. The projectile broke through Archibald's spell, returning the rigid structure to sand. In the next second my fist hit the soldier's stomach, blowing the air out of his lungs and stopping his yell short. Within moments he was out for the count, and Archibald was glaring at me like a hairless dog.

"The noise will alert the whole camp," he said.

"They were gonna find out eventually," I replied.

"Fighting will get you both killed," Moriah added.

We postponed the confrontation and high tailed it out of there.

I'll spare the needless exposition. Surely Archibald wouldn't care about a daring evasion that took us an entire hour. Even Moriah would likely think little of the scores of soldiers we had to slip past, or how the whole camp was in an uproar over the death for the rest of the night. I definitely don't want to spend another minute writing about something that means little in the end when I could be doing something productive, such as sleeping.

Eventually we slipped out of the camp and into the city proper.

I'm worried about the fallout of Maxwell's death. A leaderless army can be almost as dangerous as one governed by a genius. However, I can think of no solutions to the conundrum so I'll have to bear Archibald's insanity for now.

We quickly found a place to rest. The owner of the pub on the edge of the city was apparently either dead or on vacation. Either way, we set up a bounded field to repel people and settled in.

None of us tried to so much as speak with each other. Archibald does get cranky when he hasn't had his beauty sleep, and neither of us was willing to risk a spark burning up our fragile camaraderie.

My night didn't end there, as much as I wish it had.

Archibald took the upstairs. Moriah claimed a small bedroom on the ground floor, and I was left with a cellar full of alcohol and no one with which to share it. We parted silently.

Just as I was about to start writing the previous entry, I heard footsteps down the stairs. I turned to take a look.

It was Moriah. I hate to say it, but I'd almost have preferred Archibald. At least with him I know where I stand.

"Can we talk?" she asked quietly. Her eyes wouldn't meet mine. She fumbled with her fingers like a teenage girl. As if I could refuse. We've been doing an awful lot of talking these past few days, and it's actually making me nervous. I've found that with words and women, less is often better than more. In this case, such a thing wasn't a possibility.

"Go ahead," I motioned to another barrel of wine. "Not exactly fine accommodation, though."

She looked up and forced herself to smile. Girl was almost as tired as I was. "I'll take it."

Well, I'll spare the details. Again, sleep is a foe I'm not keen to battle tonight, and supposedly I'll need my strength for tomorrow. And every man deserves his privacy, even from his own Record. Perhaps I'll jot down the details later. Perhaps not.

The gist of the conversation, though, is that things are going to be getting worse before they get better. Specifically, more difficult, unpleasant, and generally shitty for me.

Yes, me. She was quite insistent on it. As if I needed any more bad news. This job is turning out to be possibly the most frustrating one I've ever taken, and that's including China. At least Emperor Qin was nice enough not to turn his Terracotta Army into a bunch of vampires. It'll still take a few decades just to clear the site for the mundane archaeologists to explore, but the fallout never ran the risk of ending a whole nation.

Oh, my mind's wandering. This entry's becoming messier by the minute. Might be the alcohol. Probably is the alcohol.

Okay, it's definitely the alcohol. Maybe a bit of sleep deprivation, too.

As to how that booze managed to weasel its way inside me… Moriah was also quite insistent on one other thing. If her predictions hadn't been proved accurate, I would never have even considered the idea. It was as farfetched as the image of Archie in a tutu. The suggestion was a ridiculous one by any standards.

Of course, I ended up going with it. That's how I ended up wandering alone through the streets in the middle of the night, looking for all the world like a tired soldier getting off his shift.

And, like a tired soldier getting off his shift for the night, I ended up where all such people tend to congregate.

Cairo has a strange atmosphere. I've just remembered that. It feels almost like a British city at times, with the modern architecture and cramped residences. Tall buildings, tall windows, and an overpowering feeling of close knit secureness make me feel like a rat in a cage.

Yet at times the familiar construction melts into cruder stone buildings that have nonetheless stood for years. The height relaxes and lets the skyline assert itself. Occasionally you can get a glimpse of the tip of a pyramid in the distance. I never wandered around those areas for long. The wide roads split off into tiny alleys that built upon themselves in a pattern-less sprawl that one could get lost in all too easily.

Luckily, my destination was simple to spot, and only a few minutes away from our temporary base of operations.

The music ebbed as I pushed the doors open. I felt two dozen stares on me, and the whole atmosphere of the building seemed to abate slightly as they examined a newcomer, judging silently. The musicians playing antiquated jazz tunes didn't stop, but seemed to sink into the background until their tunes were just background noise.

Then it was over, and I was just another customer in the bar. It was rather empty with most of its occupants preparing to fight and die more than two hundred kilometres away. The few soldiers that remained either nursed their drinks and spoke in low tones or danced jovially, full of gratitude they weren't the ones risking their lives.

I pushed my way past a few of the aforementioned off-duty soldiers, apologized for bumping into an out-of-place Arab with bloody bandages wrapped around his head, and took a free spot at the counter between a slight, hooded man and a shabby soldier, who seemed to have gorged himself on exotic spirits until he was a drooling mess that took a sip every ten seconds on the dot.

The bartender grunted at me. His dark beard was longer than his hair, but plaited in a fashion reminiscent of a Viking.

I nodded and pointed at one of the dull bottles arranged behind the counter.

He didn't move, except to tap a sign written in broken English, warning that all payment was now upfront.

I slapped a few coins onto the counter. He shook his head. I doubled the amount, and as he reached forward to scoop them up, I fixed him with a tired glare and held up two fingers.

After a few moments, he nodded sourly and slid two cloudy glasses in front of me, filling them with a liquid I couldn't begin to recognize. I took one for myself and slipped the other in front of the hooded stranger to my left.

They wrinkled their nose. "I don't drink."

"Then pretend to. I'm not dying alone." It went down hard, which is exactly what I needed.

The hooded person sniffed and leaned back slightly. "Disgusting."

"It is. Try some."

She did, and then started coughing after a sip. I didn't bother trying to hide my chuckle, and neither did the mute bartender.

"It's an acquired taste," I admitted. "Mind taking down the cloth? You're making me feel underdressed."

They paused, seemed to weigh the options, and then unceremoniously pulled down the hood.

I saw long blonde hair and a beautiful face wearing a decidedly not beautiful expression. The Sister raised an eyebrow, examining me as if I was an interesting pattern in her tea leaves.

"You," she said. "Are not who I was expecting."