Before my recollection continues along its chronological threads, I will take a few paragraphs to address something that may not be readily apparent. I am no writer; my personal journal is rarely professional or in any state resembling coherent organization. This rather novella-ish method I employ is a stopgap to keep everything flowing one way. Certainly, if I were to skip from hour to hour like a rabbit in breeding season, even I would get a headache from trying to read what is written in these pages.

Yet, this methodical approach is limited precisely by what is recorded and how. Many times I have read my old recordings and realized that key elements had been left out or put in a less than prominent light. No doubt I will one day look back on this piece and point out all the errors that could have easily been fixed with a minimum of attention. Until then, I'll settle for filling in a few of the blanks that have popped up, clearly and concisely.

I did not, in fact, know who I was to meet in this run-down shithole of a bar. All Moriah told me, and all she was willing to share, was that I should expect a familiar face here, and that I needed to convince it that our cause was just and we needed aid. I had been forced into the uncomfortable role of ambassador, which can be said to be the complete opposite of the more passive title I've grown used to wearing. I wasn't sure if the girl was leaning on me because I'm the only one she could trust, or because she knows she's got me dancing like a puppet on her strings. Either way, there wasn't much of a choice to be made.

So, perhaps it's now easier to see why the drink was necessary.

A dame to kill for. A pocket full of cash. A night neither young nor old, but aged like fine wine. An exotic foreign country and more than enough mystery to make even the mundane seem magical.

The perfect mix of ingredients for the perfect blind date.

Men would trade their souls to replicate such circumstances. I'd have traded mine to make sense of it all.

The Sister stared at me, unblinking. Part of me wanted to show her a quick draw the likes of which she'd never seen. Another part planned its escape, testing to see if it could get away with throwing the glass in her face and running. Yet another was trying to come up with a good way to get the rest of her clothes off before I put a halt to it with the help of a drink that'd probably be considered poison in some countries.

When the cup hit the counter again, she still stared at me.

Damn stares. I hate them. There's only ever one reason that someone will look right at you for longer than a second, and it's never good for you. It always boils down to judging. Whether it's judging you to be an inferior magus and shoddy Scribe, a silly crush that'll disappear like snow in July, or a heathen and heretic for whom no mercy should be spared, the impressions given will never really be accurate. That woman saw what she wanted to see in my mug, and found no problem with it.

If I was to have any chance of getting out of that bar alive, I'd need to shake up that impression pronto.

I put down the glass and waved the bartender away. As he retreated I eyed my new conversational partner. "If you go through life thinking everything's gonna be just fine and dandy," I said. "You're gonna have a hard time."

An invisible blade pressed against my back. The very definition of a hard time.

"T-third time's the charm, ain't it?"

She frowned. "What?"

"This is our third meeting. Maybe you'll have better luck this time."

The blade moved forward slightly. I leaned into my drink to stop my spine from being filleted. She wasn't amused. Gone was the proud preacher I'd fought earlier. This Sister had been humbled and come out of it smarter and colder.

I continued the story before she could lose her patience. "There's an old superstition making its rounds. Says a first impression will lie to you, a second one will tell you too much, and the third one's when you really know who you're talking to."

"I don't follow such pagan beliefs."

"Neither do I," I said. "That's one thing we agree on. How about we see if there's any more?"

This time the pressure was on my neck. The hand around my throat didn't squeeze. It didn't need to. The promise alone was enough. "Your honeyed words will have no effect," the Sister said. "Give me one reason I shouldn't kill you right now."

"Honestly? Because with all the shit I've gotten myself into, you'd be doing me a favour."

It was enough. My supposed intentions were enough to make the pressure vanish completely. When dealing with people that can kill you with a snap of their fingers, one needs to learn to appreciate the smaller things in life. I took advantage of the new freedom to chug half the glass.

It went down even harder.

I looked up. Ah, disgust. The Sister wasn't wearing her poker face tonight.

"I will not be an accessory to your suicide."

"If you're not gonna help, then why don't you hear my confession? Maybe you'll redeem this twisted soul and score points with the guy upstairs." My only hope was to catch her off guard. As morbid as it was, this direction held the greatest hope of survival.

"The sins of a magus cannot be cast aside so easily. Also, you are my enemy."

"Not right now I ain't. Right now I'm your contact."

The Sister contemplated her glass and took another sip. It went down as badly as the first, and she came out of it both coughing and with tears in the corners of her eyes. "I was expecting someone from Atlas," she said. "As far as I can tell, you're a magus. A horrible one, but still a magus."

"Atlas couldn't make it," I replied. "Old Archie's too suspicious of her right now, so I came in her stead."

"Why should I trust you?"

I dropped one of Moriah's armbands onto the table. There was a miniscule hole in it, from which I drew a small length of string. When I let go, it shot back into the metal like a tape measure.

The Sister reached for it and started pulling. Her fingers were dainty. If the nails hadn't been cropped short, all she'd have needed was a bit of polish to look like an upper class lady. She drew out the string, further out than me. Eventually she stopped at an indeterminable point, and ran her fingers lightly over the area, back and forth. Her eyes were closed, but I dared not try and take advantage of the fact.

"Fine," she eventually said. "You may live for now. Do not take this to mean that I've accepted your story."

"Glad to hear it. Now if you don't mind, I've got a few questions for you."

The glare came back, but without the implied threat behind it, I wouldn't be cowed. It's easy to tell when someone's got no experience holding people hostage. The Sister might've been smart, but she missed the little tricks and tells that make up the game played between prisoner and guard. By guaranteeing my life and putting importance on it, she'd practically given me free license to go wild.

I kept up the pace before she could shoot me down. "How about names, first? I give you mine, you give me yours, and we can stop making faces. The owls are getting nervous enough to kick us out of the bar if we don't finish these drinks and start acting friendly."

She took another sip. I wasn't sure if the resulting grimace was directed at me or if it just tasted that bad. Probably a mix of both.

"Jeanne." She parted with it like a miser letting go of his precious dollar bills.

"Like the one that got burnt at stake?"

"Yes."

"I don't suppose apologizing on behalf of the English will make things any better?"

"For you? Not likely."

I'll admit it. I was starting to get a bit desperate. Handling the ruins of ancient civilizations and ancient death-traps is easy. Trying to negotiate with an angry woman is just asking for it. "You know this doesn't have to be an awkward, confrontational mess. We had a fine conversation earlier, didn't we?"

She smirked. It was something. "As I seem to recall, that ended with you running with your tail between your legs after trying to court me for some insane reason. While completely at my mercy, I might add."

"I'd say a guy would be insane if he didn't try to nab a beauty like you." I meant it, too.

"Well, you're a bit late for that. If you want to challenge him to a fight, he's upstairs." Some bite to this one, but at least she wasn't using teeth this time.

"I'll settle for watching from afar. Unless you want to do business."

She didn't take the bait. Instead, Jeanne finally succumbed to the heavy atmosphere and smooth jazz, slipping off her heavy cloak and setting it on her lap. She'd neglected to wear the habit, instead taking up a military uniform I didn't recognize, but which was obviously meant for the fairer sex.

"That wasn't a good idea," I said. "These people probably haven't seen a real woman in months, if not years."

Apparently my words were amusing to her on some level. "Is this your first time in Cairo, Scribe? It is a city like any other. Hundreds ply their trade on the streets and find willing customers around every corner. For every soldier that comes here to fight, a young girl arrives to do battle in her own way."

"You're not disgusted?" I'd certainly have expected much less mild reaction from a member of the clergy.

"People are people," she said, draping her discarded cloak across the empty stool to her left. I'd have expected that lack of shame from Moriah, but not from a frail, sheltered nun. "I can deal with them. I cannot deal with this humidity. Besides, if anything else happens, I will have support."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence, but I can't keep all these meatheads off of you, especially not when they're all packing heat. In case you haven't noticed, the scales aren't very balanced tonight."

Jeanne barely looked at me as she closed her eyes and stretched her bare arms. "Who said anything about you?"

I glanced to my right. The drunk soldier wasn't there anymore. In his place was the bandaged Arab, nursing a glass of water and pointedly not looking at me. So the gang wasn't dead yet.

"Abdul?"

He grunted an affirmation.

"Listen mate, I know a guy that regrows limbs."

"Speak to me again, I shoot you."

Not an especially talkative fellow, that one.

"What information do you have to contribute?" Before I could get the conversation going, the Sister spun it back onto the proper track. Was it because she remembered that I'd hurt her allies? Certainly, the small amount of warmth that had crept into her voice was no longer present. "No distractions, please."

I grabbed for the glass to bid for time, but it was empty. I waved over the bartender and tapped the glass for a refill. He grunted and poured more in after I slid a few more coins over to him.

"Well, you told me earlier that I had no idea what I was looking for," I said after a long sip, during which I collected my thoughts. "Now I'm a bit more informed."

"Your source?"

"Personal experience. Twice."

"Of course," she grimaced. "It was you people that woke it up in the first place."

I shook my head. "I ain't too sure about that, and you shouldn't be so quick to point fingers. But it's irrelevant. I saw that thing up close, and I've got every moment stored in here." I tapped my head for emphasis. "The library's open for business, but you'll have to make a deposit before checking anything out."

She turned up her nose as if I'd been cooked well done instead of medium rare. "I am not divulging information without a similar contribution. Besides, merely the fact that you fought that thing twice and survived relatively intact tells me most of what I wish to know. If it couldn't kill you, it won't be able to put a scratch on me."

"Well then, wouldn't you say that's a good enough contribution from my side?"

She stiffened. I got her. As she contemplated her next move, the music changed from the familiar tones of American Jazz to a more local variety. A guitar wove its way into the mix, leading the rest of the instruments in a twanging, brooding melody.

I sweetened the deal. "Contract."

"Huh?"

"We'll outline a contract. Geas. Unbreakable without some nasty side effects. Is that good enough for you?" I withdrew a paper and a pen from within my coat, scribbled my signature on the bottom in one of the two blank spaces, and slid it across the counter. It stopped against Jeanne's empty cup.

While she perused it, I took the time to scan the joint. Several eyes were on me. More still had a head of blonde hair in sight. These people were the ones that hadn't gone to fight on the frontlines. Most were running on a combination of giddy relief and excitement over having less competition in an emptied city, with a tinge of guilt for not being able to help their countries. In that state, I wouldn't put anything past anyone.

"Acceptable," the Sister said before passing me back the contract, unsigned. "I have no need to enter into a blasphemous pact with one of your kind. However, since your signing of it represents a willingness to commit, I'll consider it a promise to be kept."

I nodded. "Now we're talking."

There was much talking. And drinking. Lots of drinking. I made sure to stay within my limits, and Jeanne took small enough sips that she was able to nurse a second glass for the remainder of our stay. Information exchanged hands with a minimum of fuss. I told my story, barring a few details, and in return I got a promise, an address, and a few tidbits that Archibald likely knew from the beginning.

It wasn't much, but the little there was had me wishing I could get drunk faster.

This is big. Bigger than me, bigger than any gripes I might have, and possibly even bigger than the whole damn war. Even the Sister and the Church recognize that. A truce is a rare thing, but I'll not refuse one after all the trouble this particular foe's given me. Even if she isn't exactly my friend, there's one less enemy to deal with.

I'll admit now that I'm not a nice person. I came here solely because my livelihood was on the line, and I've been betting it ever since.

But that ends here. Someone's gotta step up to the plate. Archibald is a selfish bastard who'd willingly kill off the whole city if he thinks it would help him get ahead.

He's also the only one who can stop this thing in its tracks.

Moriah can't manage him. She's young, foolish, and too inexperienced to throw her weight around. Knowing that she's been colluding with the Church this whole time changes none of that.

So it'll have to be me.

"You're putting a lot on the shoulders of someone you don't trust," I said.

We split apart for a moment. The world spun, and our feet tapped out a hundred different rhythms on the wooden floor. When we came together, the response was immediate. "It is of little importance to me," Jeanne said. Her voice had lost its hard edge. I'd like to think that she'd finally stopped thinking of how to best get away with murdering me, but with those Church types you can never be too sure. "After you deliver your message to the alchemist, our deal will be completed. This is simply advice. Think of it as a sign of gratitude, because I won't be granting much else. Of your party, Lysander's skills would best applied to the task at hand." Her fingers slipped into mine and I led us in a less crowded direction.

She leaned back, and my hand supported her. I felt no weight. If I'd let go, she would have been borne by that guardian of hers instead. "Wouldn't that be necessary knowledge?" I asked.

Jeanne looked back at me through lidded eyes. "Not to me. Archibald isn't a key component of the plan; he is merely another form of insurance should you decide to go your own way."

She came back up, and my hand followed. The music changed, speeding up and forcing our pace to increase. "You called him Lysander earlier. Is there a connection I'm missing?"

Jeanne spun. Her skirt rippled outwards, and for a moment our contact was limited to a few small points of contact. Then it was done, and the dance continued. "We have met once before, briefly. I doubt he remembers it. I was young and foolish, so the memory remains."

"You're still young."

"You're still foolish."

We split apart for a moment. As if the Red Sea had parted, soldiers passed between us. My eyes didn't waver; neither did hers. I took the first step forward and she followed. Our hands greeted each other once more. "How do you know?" I broached the final question. "I'm in no way obligated to do this. In fact, it risks my life and payment. How do you know I won't betray you immediately?"

The next song was a slow one. Jeanne leaned her head on my shoulder as the distance between our bodies vanished. Yet I couldn't relax. Instead, my body stiffened. The weight was still gone. I wasn't embracing a clueless young girl, but a steeled knight.

"Because you are a fool," she whispered into my ear. I could almost taste the French accent. "I've begun to understand you. A heretic you may be, but that misplaced loyalty of yours will carry you where it wishes. As for the reason behind it… I cannot read your soul. Why don't you ask that book in your head? Perhaps the answer is there."

The song couldn't have ended soon enough.

I excused myself first. It had nothing to do with the glares I was getting from Abdul, or the deep shuddering that had built up in my bones and refused to stop.

The last thing I saw before the doors closed behind me was a smiling woman. She blew me a mocking kiss as I lost sight of her. I'd almost prefer her as an enemy rather than an ally. At least then I wouldn't feel like a puppet whose strings are available for anyone to tug.

As if to try and cheer me up, the night wind played a melancholy tune. The moon stared down at me, fat and full from all the death and destruction. I expect it'll only lessen once all of this bloodshed is over. Except it won't be over. According to the alchemists, there are still years and millions of lives to go before this war ends.

The walk back was uneventful. I almost wish it hadn't been.

It was peaceful enough that I could reflect on some things. When there's nothing around to keep them in line, thoughts tend to wander. And if you wander without direction, you might run into a truth that's better off left hidden.

Why? Why am I going to all this trouble? Why am I risking my neck for no reason? I couldn't stop the thoughts from spinning around.

At first I wasn't sure. I thought maybe the answer would come to me after re-reading the old entries. But somehow, it wasn't a difficult decision to make.

I know now. I know exactly why I'm doing this. It's not for money, karma, or to save the world. It's not because of that young woman, or that old man. It's definitely not to save my own skin.

I do this so that one day, when my first-born child reads this story and inherits my legacy, it can know that its father did not flee when duty came calling.

I opened the door of our temporary hideout after passing through the irritating maze of bounded fields, only to come face to face with Archibald. He sat at a dusty table, smoking a pipe in silence and staring at the various bottles lining the walls.

His eyes met mine. He took a puff and exhaled slowly, letting the smoke trickle out.

"I don't suppose you would tell me what you've been doing?" he asked. "Or why there's alcohol on your breath?"

"I could," I replied. "But I'm not a child to be chastised, and you're not my father, so there's no obligation to answer."

"We will have words, Scribe."

"Yep. There's some stuff you'll need to answer for. But first I'll have my sleep. You should get yours, too. I know how high maintenance you people tend to be."

He didn't stop me as I went downstairs.

I almost wished he had. Then I remembered the headache.

One last note before this entry ends.

On its own, our foe isn't particularly dangerous. Yes, memory erasure is a troublesome side effect of its true ability, but we've largely negated that advantage. If you take everything else away, it's just a rather weak Dead Apostle. Twice now we've faced it, and twice we've survived. If nothing else, that speaks for how ineffective Aten has been.

The problem comes with that prophecy. A punch doesn't have to be particularly strong if it's hitting you where it hurts. All one needs to do is knock a single stone out of place and the whole mountain will collapse. I'd continue with the analogies, but they're making my head ache even more.

It has to be the pyramids. That's where Aten's power lies sealed. Jeanne agrees that the top priority is preventing his access to the location. Policing them would be difficult at the best of times, but with several conflicting factions sniffing around on top of a panicked military, the chaos is too great to control. One creative vampire with a tendency to go unnoticed could slip past our guard easily. If he reclaims his power, we won't be fighting a winning battle.

That is, if we didn't come up with a way to catch him in the act.

I won't be recording the exact plan here. If someone manages to siphon memories from my Record again, he could realize the truth prematurely. Instead, I've written them down on a separate piece of paper and purged my own memories of any specifics to keep the information secure.

One thing, though, I will elaborate upon: Aten.

Decay.

That's not the exact word, but it is close enough. I know little of the actual concept. Supposedly it's rooted in science, being related to something about moving towards a state of chaos, or the heat lost in a reaction.

In this context, it merely means the irreversible dissipation of order, form and function.

Memories? We were fools to think it would stop at that. The consumption of memories was merely a first step. It's said that animals can sense an earthquake hours before it occurs. They feel minute vibrations in the ground, signs too minute for humans to detect. Here's one more comparison.

Killing memories and eating their corpses is a mere prelude to the earthquake. He does it without thinking, merely by existing. Occasionally, like in our battle, Aten managed to focus that trait of his, but it was still painfully limited. If he is fully revived, flesh will melt away from bone and any living thing within his range will experience as many as ten lifetimes in one second.

In this case, the full range would have a radius of about two hundred kilometres.

The pieces to this puzzle are falling in place, but there are still questions to be asked, and answers to be found if they have not already decayed. Who is Aten? Who sealed him? How did he escape his seal?

I'll find out. Archibald will know. Archibald has to know. I'll beat the facts out of him if I have to.

Tomorrow.

No more lies. No more secrets.

I only hope I can handle the truth.