"Take him to a cell." The woman's voice came from directly in front of Mark, accompanied by three sets of footsteps and the scrape of his own legs being half-dragged along the ground. They'd wrapped something around his ankle; he still couldn't walk on his own, but at least she didn't seem to want him to bleed out just yet.

"We don't have cells," the man on his left replied in a deep, penetrating voice.

"What?" The sounds were suddenly close; they must have been passing through the front gate, voices echoing off the stone. "Damn. Find a room with a lock and stick him in there."

"There are spare rooms in our building," the man on his right said. His voice was almost gentle. "I have the key for them."

"Then that's where we'll put him," the woman said.

There was a brief pause in the conversation as their course changed. "You know," Lefty added in a softer voice, "we can't let him live."

Mark felt his pulse quicken. The woman hissed out a breath. "We'll talk about that later."

"Talk about it?" Lefty's grip on his arm tightened. "You told us we were all—"

"Not in front of him," Righty interrupted. The man's voice was low, yet it carried a great deal of weight.

Mark could almost feel the tension crackling between the three of them. "Of course," Lefty muttered.

Silence fell over the group once more. Mark wet his lips with his tongue, and took a breath. "I—"

"Shut up," the woman growled. "This doesn't involve you."

"I feel pretty involved," Mark said.

"I said, shut up."

He briefly pondered disobeying, but decided against it. Now was not the time to be antagonizing his captors.

As they moved past the gate, Mark heard more footsteps in every direction, accompanied by murmuring voices. His pulse climbed higher still; there was no way to count them all, but Matthew's assessment of an entire village's worth now seemed conservative. Did each voice belong to a morph? They certainly seemed surprised to see him. He could only catch snatches of what they were saying. "Were we attacked?" "Who is that?"

And, most tellingly, "Is that a human?"

His feet went from stumbling across dirt to stumbling across stone as the voices fell away behind him. They must have entered one of the structures of the fort. A moment later, his good ankle struck against a hard corner; he bit back a cry of pain as he started scrambling up the staircase his captors had led him to. After a short climb, his foot plummeted through air where he expected another step, telling him he'd reached the top; after that, a left, a door opening on his right, and he was shoved forward. He managed not to fall, finding a back wall and leaning against it, taking the weight off his injury. Rapid footsteps approached, and the cloth was torn from his head, revealing the woman glaring up at him. The two men were waiting in the doorway, some twelve paces away, both wearing black cloaks and fingerless gloves; one held a short sword, the other a bow with an arrow nocked. Neither weapon was pointed at him at the moment, but he had no doubt they could be brought to bear in a heartbeat.

"Don't try to escape," she growled. "I'm having a hard time seeing any reason not to kill you. Don't give me a reason not to keep you alive."

He managed to force a smile. "Trying to escape would be a tactical error. But so would killing me."

Her brilliant golden eyes narrowed. "Explain."

"I'm of more use to you alive than dead." He met her gaze. "But I'm guessing I don't have to tell you that."

Her frown just deepened, and she said nothing. The man with the bow, though, stirred a little. "What did you say your name was?" he asked. It was the one with the softer voice—Righty. Now that Mark could see his face, there was something unsettling about the man. Something almost… familiar?

He ignored the feeling, and forced a smile. "I didn't, actually. But since you asked, it's Mark."

The man's expression remained neutral, but the tightening of his fingers on the bow betrayed his surprise. "We should go," he said to the others. Lefty frowned at him, but was out the door a moment later. Righty exchanged a glance with the woman before following him.

She turned back to Mark, studying his face. Her lip curled slightly before she spun away, her braid lashing out at him as she started toward the door. He did not pursue her. The door slammed behind her, and he heard her footsteps vanishing down the hall. There were a few murmured words, the clinking of keys, and the rattle of the lock—followed by a click, and two more pairs of receding footsteps.

And Mark was alone.

It was difficult to sleep with the pain in his leg—not to mention the uncertainty of the entire situation. But he forced himself to lie down and breathe deeply. It was the correct tactical decision, he told himself; he was tired from the day's journey, and whatever the morphs had in store for him, he might as well be rested for it. Besides, there wasn't much else he could do at present. He wasn't sure he'd be able to sleep, but his eyelids shut to the chirps of crickets and opened to birdsong, so he was evidently successful. He congratulated himself on that small victory.

His first instinct upon waking was to examine his surroundings—a rectangle with a bed, a dusty chamberpot, and no windows. His second instinct was to fall back against the wall, gasping in pain and clutching his ankle. He didn't get wounded often, and dammit, this hurt. He gingerly felt the bandage over the wound, wondering how deep "Cass" had gone, and whether he'd ever be able to walk properly again.

There was a table with two chairs in the room; he hobbled over to them and managed to sit down in one, carefully pulling his foot into his lap to examine the wound. There was still blood seeping into the makeshift bandage, although not as much as he might have expected. The woman had hit him exactly how she'd wanted, avoiding any unnecessary damage. Not that he thought it was necessary to disable him like this, but, fighting through the pain, he could understand her motives.

There wasn't much he could do about the wound. He was no healer, and the morphs certainly hadn't given him a vulnerary to use. He straightened up suddenly. Where was his bag? He'd bought a few things at the market—mostly books—but realized now he had no idea where they were. He must have dropped it during the fight, which meant it was likely either in the hands of the morphs, or lying forgotten in front of the fort's gates. He doubted Matthew would have stopped to grab it for him on his way out.

Matthew. Mark leaned back in his chair, looking up at the dark stone ceiling. Had the spy intuited that the woman wouldn't make good on her threat? Or had he simply decided it was a risk worth taking? Or had there been a choice at all? After all, Matthew was now on his way back to Ostia, where he could confer with Hector and the others and make a plan. If he had surrendered, they'd both be captives, and nobody would know where to find them. It was the pragmatic decision, and Mark couldn't say for certain he wouldn't have done the same in Matthew's place.

It still hurt, though, to think of the spy's retreating back.

The lock clicked, and Mark looked over with a start. The door swung open, and Righty entered, bow pointed in the room. His eyes scanned the area briefly before settling on Mark, who held stock still as the man lowered his bow. He turned back to the door and nodded. A woman came in—younger than "Cass," or at least she would have been, were they human. Her hair swept down no further than her shoulders, curling up at the ends, and her face was softer than the other woman's piercing features. But she had the same black hair, red lips, and gold eyes that had gotten Mark into this mess in the first place. Instead of a weapon, she clutched a staff, holding it close to her body with both hands as though someone might try to snatch it for her. She wore plain black robes, the only adornment a gold band on one finger.

Mark straightened in his seat and turned his body toward them, teeth gritted against the pain in his foot. He must not have done a good job of hiding it; her eyes flicked down to his ankle. "I'm meant to heal you," she said, her voice surprisingly gentle. Or perhaps it just seemed that way because she was the first person he'd seen in a while who wasn't talking about killing him.

He smiled at her, but before he could say anything, her golden eyes returned to his face. "But only," she went on, "if you answer our questions."

He bit his tongue. This was dangerous territory. In the years since Nergal's defeat, Mark had wandered Elibe, working as a tactician for militias, mercenaries, and sometimes proper military forces. Most prominent, though, was his work with Hector. If these morphs were an attack force, they might try to get him to reveal Ostia's weaknesses. Although the last group of morphs to attack Ostia certainly hadn't needed his help to get in.

But then, maybe this was an opportunity. Just by asking him questions, they were telling him what they wanted to know, and maybe he could puzzle out their plan from that. More information was always a good thing. And cooperating—at least for the immediate future—would open up more tactical options to him later on.

And, dammit, his ankle really hurt.

"All right," he said, leaning back in his chair. "What do you want to know?"

Righty frowned, and his grip on his bow shifted. Curls approached carefully, halving the distance between them before stopping again. "Who are you?"

"I'm Mark." He motioned to Righty. "He knows that."

Her expression looked anything but amused. "That's not what I meant."

He winced, and pulled his foot in closer. "I'm a tactician, currently in the employ of Ostia." It wasn't strictly a lie, and he didn't think it was worth explaining he spent most of his time wandering.

Curls looked back at Righty, who nodded once. "I see," she said, turning back to Mark. "How many current military actions is Ostia involved in?"

"None," he answered. There didn't seem any harm in answering that one truthfully.

She frowned. "None at all?"

"There are no major conflicts going on in or near the Lycian territories," Mark said with a shrug. There were rumblings from Bern, of course, but there were almost always rumblings from Bern.

"Then what need have they for a tactician?"

This one was trickier. The challenge Mark faced was to give them enough information to make himself valuable, without doing anything that might really hurt Ostia. "Well, just because there are no major military actions doesn't mean there aren't skirmishes. Bandits have always plagued the Lycian League, and I help Lord Hector assign the units to fight them."

Curls cocked her head—an unusually human gesture, and not one a seasoned interrogator would use. "You know Lord Hector? Personally?"

"We… frequently work together, yes," Mark said.

She opened her mouth to inquire further, but Righty cleared his throat. She glanced back at him, and something indiscernible passed between the two. She turned to Mark once more, her expression as neutral as ever. "Where is the nearest garrison of Lycian troops?"

He wet his lips with his tongue. "I… can't answer that. Because," he went on quickly, noticing the tension in both their faces, "I don't know where we are, exactly."

Curls opened her mouth to protest, but was interrupted from a sound behind her. Righty was—chuckling? Mark hardly believed it, but that's what was happening. He was smiling, eyes turned down, shoulders rising and falling with his soft laughter. "Wait here," he said, meeting Mark's gaze. "We'll find you a map."

Mark could only gape as Righty exited the room. Curls turned to him, still wearing the same frown she'd had since entering. "What's wrong?" she asked.

He managed to close his mouth. "I just… I've never seen a morph show emotion like that before." He paused, noting the way she raised her eyebrow—another very human gesture. "I mean," he went on, "I've seen condescension, anger, cold indifference… but never mirth."

"You've met Sonia, correct?"

He winced. "Well, yes…"

"Then you know morphs can simulate human emotions convincingly enough, even the positive ones. Perhaps we're only pretending to feel things to make you more comfortable."

He looked her over a moment. She didn't seem like she was faking—but if she was doing it well, how would he know? "Perhaps," he conceded.

"Or," Curls said, a bit of an edge entering her voice, "perhaps you don't know as much about us as you think you do."

He looked at her with wide eyes, and she smirked at his reaction. It certainly seemed genuine… "Perhaps," he said again, settling his face back into a neutral expression. He let a moment's silence pass before speaking again. "How did you know I'd met Sonia?"

Another surprise: a hint of red touched her pale cheeks, and her eyes widened slightly before she spun away from him. "Do you want your foot healed or not?"

His feeling of triumph was quashed by the reminder of the pain in his ankle. "I do," he said. "Sorry."

Curls said nothing, and was still for a while. Then, her arm extended, the staff held out toward him even as she faced the other direction. The gem at the tip glowed softly, and the pain in his foot increased—only to be replaced by a rush of relief as he realized his tissues were reconnecting themselves. "That should prevent any further damage," she muttered as she lowered the staff. "I'll take care of the rest once we're finished here."

He carefully tested his ankle. It still hurt, but he'd be able to walk again. "Thank you," he breathed.

Righty returned soon after; true to his word, he spread a map out on the table before Mark. He quickly took in as much of it as he could. It was a simple commercial map, most useful to merchants or travelers, showing very little in the way of military information. It contained most of Lycia and parts of Sacae and Etruria. "We're here," Righty said, pointing a short way west of Ostia. The spot he indicated was a break in the mountains separating Lycia from Etruria. Truthfully, Mark had mostly figured that out for himself, but having the exact position did help.

He took a slow breath. "I see. This must be an old Etrurian fort, then. I don't think Lycia has anything in this spot."

Righty lifted an eyebrow. "What do they have, then?"

Mark bit his lip, studying the map. "There's a garrison… here," he said, pointing to a spot northeast of their position. "It's tucked in-between some of the smaller mountains."

Righty followed his finger, and muttered a curse under his breath. "How have we not seen that before? It's practically on our doorstep."

Mark nodded, his heart sinking. It must have been hours since his abduction. If Matthew had gone straight to the garrison, he would have been back with troops by now. If he'd gone all the way to Ostia instead, considering how long it had taken them to get here in the first place…

It seemed Righty wasn't going to take that chance. He straightened up, and motioned to Curls. "Finish with his foot. I'm going to tell—" He broke off, looked back at Mark. "Well… you know."

Curls nodded, and held out the staff again, keeping a wary eye on Mark as his muscles and skin began to heal over the wound. Righty went for the door—but had only just opened it when they heard the shouts. Mark and Curls both looked up. "What's going on?" she asked.

Righty didn't get the chance to answer. Running footsteps down the hall were quickly followed by the appearance of "Cass" and Lefty in the doorway. The woman—who Mark was growing more and more certain was in charge—took in the scene. "How's his leg?" she asked.

"It should be all right," Curls replied. "I haven't healed it fully, but—"

"Can he walk?"

The healer blinked, taken aback at the interruption. Could morphs be taken aback? "Yes, but—"

"Cass" nodded to Lefty, who crossed the room where they were sitting, one hand on the hilt of his blade as the other looped under Mark's arm—his right arm, confusingly. Righty quickly took his left, and the two of them pulled him to his feet.

"Come on," the woman said as they started to bind his hands. "Your friend's come back. And he's brought company."

Sanders continued to eye the blond man at his side with skepticism. Spies were always a shifty lot, and he'd never heard of any Matthew in service to Ostia. Of course, as the man pointed out to him, that was rather the point. And the papers he'd presented seemed genuine, as far as Sanders or anyone else at the garrison could tell. But the commander absolutely did not appreciate someone showing up as his doorstep and demanding he immediately send troops to some abandoned fort at the foot of the mountains, no matter who it was or who they worked for. Strictly speaking, he'd had no choice but to obey. And, given the figures he could now see scurrying around the fort walls and the shouts coming from within, it was clear that the man had been right about the fort no longer being abandoned, at least. Now to see if the rest was true.

"And do you care to tell me how Lord Hector's pet tactician managed to wander into a hostile fort?" Sanders asked.

"I don't, thanks for asking." Matthew shot him a smile. "And if he is a pet, he's one who does a horrible job of staying on his leash."

Sanders raised an eyebrow. "And I suppose you are that leash?"

The spy's smile remained, but his face twitched just enough for Sanders to know the insult had hit home. "All you need to know," he said, turning back to the fort, "is that Mark's in there, and we need to find a way to get him out. How long will your rider take to get to Ostia?"

"He's riding one of our best horses. He should arrive within two hours."

Matthew nodded. "Then the others will be here by day's end."

Sanders shrugged. He still wasn't sure what the message meant, but it didn't give him the same confidence the spy felt. "I'm still not sure what a morph is, but without certainty of Mark's abduction, I doubt Lord Hector will send reinforcements anytime—"

"I don't give a damn about reinforcements," Matthew cut him off, "and neither will Lord Hector. He'll leave orders to organize a squad, and ride out himself as soon as he gets the message."

Sanders frowned. "Do you truly believe our lord is so impetuous as to—"

Matthew's finger, his eyebrow, and the corner of his mouth rose as one. "You don't want me to answer that, friend. Just trust me."

Sanders stifled a huff, and turned back to the fort. "My men are in position," he observed; the garrison's troops had spread out around the entire fort. Hardly a siege force, but nobody was getting in or out without a fight. "But we've still seen no sign that Mark is in there."

"He's in there," Matthew replied.

"A fact of which we've still seen no sign," Sanders repeated.

Matthew's eyes lifted to the edge of the wall. "I think you're about to get one," he said quietly.

Sanders followed his gaze. Three more figures had joined the ones at the wall. No—four; two of the men up there were holding someone between them. He was being held partially up by the others, clearly a captive, though at this distance, identifying any of them was difficult. The fourth figure, standing to the right of the others, motioned, and suddenly the captive was forced to his knees. The man—the woman, Sanders realized with a start, noting the lightness of her figure—drew a blade, glinting in the morning's light, and held it to the captive's neck. Matthew tensed almost imperceptibly at his side.

"Any closer, and he dies!" the shout echoed out at them from the walls. A woman's voice—the one holding the sword, almost certainly.

"Does that convince you?" Matthew said, his voice deathly cold.

Sanders clenched his teeth as he peered closely at the figure kneeling atop the wall. There was no way to tell who it was for certain—and he personally had never met Mark. Still… someone was in danger up there. Questions of identity wouldn't stop Hector from doing the right thing; nor should they stop his men.

He motioned to runners at his left and right. "Spread word to maintain the perimeter," he said. "We aren't taking our eyes off this fortress, but as long as they have their hostage, we do not approach."

The two men nodded, and took off in opposite directions to relay the orders. Matthew gave him a slight nod. "Thank you."

The words sounded strange, coming from him. Sanders shrugged. "Will you be attempting to scout the area?"

Matthew smiled grimly. "Level terrain, a clear view from the ramparts… even I couldn't approach undetected. There's nothing to do but wait."

"Cass" let Mark stand after a few minutes. "We're going back to your cell," she growled. She shouted another warning to the assembled Ostian troops, then started leading him away. "Masked their approach in the sunrise," she mumbled. "Stupid…"

Mark smiled to himself. Matthew had seen him use similar tactics in the past, and must have picked up a thing or two.

They returned to his room, but she did not leave this time. She paced back and forth, Righty and Lefty flanking him. Curls had vanished at some point after they'd hooded him. "Are you truly so important to the Ostians?" "Cass" demanded at one point, spinning to face him.

He shrugged. "I hope that Hector wouldn't leave me to die. But if protecting his people meant sacrificing me, he'd do what he'd have to." He swallowed; saying that last part had been harder than he'd expected.

Her steps faltered as he spoke, and she caught his eye. "Is that truly all he wants? To protect his people?"

Mark blinked. "Well, of course. Any Marquess worthy of the title would want the same."

Her lips pursed, and she tore her gaze from him, continuing to pace. Righty leaned down a bit. "Noble sentiments," he said. "But what of Darin? You saw firsthand how he failed to live up to such ideals."

Mark frowned, and looked over at the man. Sonia, Darin… these morphs certainly knew a lot about what he'd seen. "Hector was part of the group responsible for taking Darin down," he said. "Everything he does, he does for the betterment of Lycia."

Righty lifted an eyebrow, and again, Mark felt something uncannily familiar about the man. "And what of his friends?"

Mark looked away. "I guess we'll find out," he said glumly.

"I guess we will," the woman echoed, grip tightening on her blade. She nodded to the others. "Get him presentable. It seems Hector will be here soon."