AUTHOR'S NOTE: At last, an update. Those are evil times for me, and I thank those who reviewed and cheered me up a bit. I hope I'll have all the time in the world once February comes, but there's some chance I might be forced to study some more (ye gods, I'm growing sick of it!), or maybe I'll be working for court, putting people's petitions into the proper form, maybe even writing verdicts, but most of all running to get documents copied and messages carried… I can't tell you yet.
Morleigh: Yes, life's very hectic, but I hope that'll be over a few days into February (see above). I'm really sorry about the slow pace. As for Aminta, I'm afraid you'll have to wait for some time yet.
jtbwriter: We'll see about that visit in the next chapter…
Pertie: It seems you got the point of the chapter; don't doubt your ability to understand it. ;-) Sometimes it's necessary to provide you readers with some information that leaves even more questions open, but in the end they will be answered (oh, I know, this is only Book Four yet…).
Beregond's Girl: I don't expect anyone to like Créon, though I do so myself, as his "creator". See for yourself about Aeternus; it won't be of any help if I tell you I like him as well. g Yes, of course it's a lot easier for those who have read The King of the Catacombs; I'm trying to make it understandable, but of course I can't re-tell the whole story. Well, as long as you understand everything that's going on, no reason to worry. :)

Bea: What's wrong with a pervy Erik? Now that's not quite like you… Actually, I never associated Erik with Boromir, that's just you being obsessed with Sean Bean (who sadly got killed in The King of the Catacombs already – I do love my little cast lists…), but I can see your point. No, indeed not a surprise, since I sent you a whole bunch of spoilers…

-.-.-

III. My Power over you

Throwing his head, César left the road, still at a gallop, his hooves throwing up stones and mud from the morning's rain as he raced out into the fields. There was no cover to be had here, yet as long as it was dark, the Phantom knew that he would be nothing but a shadowy speck among other shadows now. Besides, his awareness of anything living around him told him that there was no-one close who could see him.

It also told him where he had to go.

Getting out of the city had been even more difficult than he had expected it to be, but where he had not used his manipulation tricks, he had pretended to be a scout, and there he was now, riding through darkness and danger, on his secret mission, the errand no other could fulfil. Chateaupers's letter was safely hidden in his inside pocket; he could feel it against his chest. Had he been caught at the gates with it, in that corridor of pits and quickly erected ramparts, it would have been a certain death sentence for him as well as for the chief of police and his fellow conspirators – among them the little fop boy's parents, he reminded himself – and for everyone near them, too, most likely. For Christine. As he had slipped out through that sortie gate in the city's defences at last after dulling two guardsmen's senses, leading César by the reins, the letter had felt so strangely heavy suddenly...

But they would never catch him! Not the Opera Ghost! Even though he had to admit that as yet he had no idea how to get back in past all the guards. He was convinced that he would be able to, but how precisely… Getting in would be harder than getting out, for sure, since nobody would expect anyone to leave the city, apart from scouts and lookouts, but German spies sneaking in was what everybody dreaded…

He could do it, damn it! He would not be forced to live outside the city walls from now on! He would find his way back in, and he would bring Chateaupers and his fellow conspirators the answer they were waiting for. He certainly would not give Raoul's mother the satisfaction of being right.

And once this was over, he would go home to Christine.

César was happier than he had been for a long time, it seemed. For so long nobody had taken him outside the city, where he could gallop over the open plain. The stallion had missed it, the Phantom knew. And although he had come to the stables regularly to check on him, he sensed just a hint of a feeling of betrayal in the horse's mind. Of course, how should an animal understand?

And Senta. She had followed him and his friends to the stables, and she had wanted to run after him as he had left, and as he had communicated to her that she should stay, the feeling of disappointment and indignation she suddenly exuded had been all too easy to interpret. And maybe a little jealousy, because César was allowed to go.

Well, there was nothing he could do about it.

Reining César in gently, he slowed him down to a loose trot. He had been riding for some time, and ahead of him a shape came into focus in the foggy night, a large, looming shape, just as his awareness of a large number of humans increased. There he was, then. There were camps all around the city's circumference, nine altogether, just out of range of cannons, but close enough to guard its gates. In a night like this, they might miss single riders or small groups of them, yet it did not matter. They would not miss supply convoys, and they would not miss a sortie. They would starve the population of Paris, at the same time as crushing any attempt of defence. And they were waiting.

True enough, there had hardly been any actual attacks on the city's defences, and those that had taken place had been rather half-hearted attempts. Walther von Nordstedt was biding his time, well aware that now Metz had fallen, he had all the time in the world.

A good leader, the Phantom suddenly thought, and at once he felt some kind of grudging respect for the man who ultimately held the city in his claws. When attacking a city, it was always the attacker's army that suffered the higher losses. By waiting for starvation and the cold of winter to do their work, Nordstedt kept as many of his own men alive as possible.

And soon enough, he would hopefully see him face to face. He had to admit to himself that he was curious.

As he felt single luminous pinpoints detach themselves from the larger mass, coming towards him, he slowed César down to a walk, and he stallion obeyed, though he distinctly felt that César would have preferred another gallop. They had found him, then.

Adjusting his black mask that hid the upper half of his face, he could not quite suppress a grin. Excitement was surging through him, and glee at having come this far unnoticed. He pulled his cloak around himself, assuring himself that it was not because of the cold wind, definitely not, and gazed into the fog-hung night before him. They must turn up soon now, very soon –

Ah. There. Four riders detached themselves from the thick darkness, galloping towards him and reining their mounts in sharply as he reached them, men in dark uniforms which would most certainly be marine blue under the light. None of the animals reared; apparently those men were good riders. Yet he clearly felt that he unsettled them, and the nervousness that hung in the air so tangibly secretly amused him.

As expected, one of the men addressed him in German, demanding to know who he was and where he was heading, and to his satisfaction he understood every single word. Take this, Vicomtesse de Chagny! Thinking I don't speak German – hah!

Well, to be honest, he had not done the actual speaking yet. But now was the moment to try. "I carry an urgent message from Gérard de Chateaupers, chief of police. Take me to General von Nordstedt." He hoped he had pronounced everything correctly; while he had learned most of his vocabulary from books, his knowledge of pronunciation mainly came from listening to German singers talking among themselves.

Two of the riders exchanged a glance, while another, the one who had spoken, shook his head. "I don't think –"

Looking him straight in the eyes, he repeated, "Take me to General von Nordstedt." He spoke gently, but his voice had acquired a commanding tone now, and his eyes were boring into the other's awareness, melting all resistance away.

"Very well," the soldier said – or corporal, judging from the shoulderpieces on his dark blue coat, though the Phantom was not quite sure how to tell the ranks in the Prussian army. "Follow me, then. Altmann, Schlesinger, back to your posts. Bucher, you come with us."

And then he was already riding past a line of sentries, into the camp, and the flecks of light enveloped him.

The encampment was rather larger than he had expected; tents were covering practically every patch of ground, in neat, orderly lines that clearly spoke of high discipline, and where there were no tents or endless picket-lines of horses, the grass was trodden down from many feet and hooves passing over it, and a little further on some cook-fires burned still, and among them, bustling like bees in a hive despite the late hour, were the soldiers, thousands of soldiers.

And this was one of nine camps only. Whatever Gambetta did, no army would be large enough to break that siege.

Chateaupers would be very content indeed when he found out he had been right.

Of course the Phantom drew the soldiers' eyes, and he picked up several whispers as he rode through the encampment after his guide, but he ignored them, just as he ignored the scent of burning wood and sometimes still of something edible from the fires, as well as the occasional unpleasant smell of sweat, horse dung and the latrine pits. Once another man, clearly an officer, stopped them and demanded to know where they were heading, but the Phantom's guide informed him that he had been ordered to take "that masked man" to Nordstedt, and the officer did not ask any further, though he shot the Phantom a wary glance as they rode past.

César was uneasy, he flicked his ears nervously as if tormented by flies. Was it the unknown environment, or the tight-packed tents, or the smell of all the other horses kept in neat picket-lines? Or was it the Phantom's own uneasiness he felt?

No, the Phantom thought grimly, César was the one being nervous. Certainly not he! Nobody should ever claim the Opera Ghost was nervous! And the one who did would most likely find himself with a lasso thrown around his neck and yanked tight as soon as he turned his back… The Phantom grinned to himself, yet somehow this idea did not quite provide the satisfaction he had hoped it would offer. What was the matter with him recently?

Passing what might be considered a patch of open ground, at least in comparison to all the tight clusters of tents, they came to a tent that was rather larger than the others, though did not differ from them in any other aspect. The staff tent, the Phantom thought. The command tent. And Nordstedt is there, no doubt, pacing along its length tirelessly, pondering his next move…

He was quite curious to meet this man, he had to admit. But not nervous, no. Certainly not nervous.

Oh, to Hell with it, why did he have to get such a queasy feeling at the pit of his stomach?

Dismounting as his guide dismounted, he threw the reins to a guardsman standing nearby. "Careful," he warned him, employing some vocabulary he really enjoyed employing. "The beast bites." And then he followed the corporal into the tent, suppressing a smirk as he went. Yes, César did bite, sometimes. But only if the Phantom told him to.

They passed through some kind of ante-room containing nothing at all, except a few folded-up chairs and spare blanket rolls, nothing but shapes in the shadows, and then the corporal parted the canvas before him. Light poured in as he saluted. "General, I present the messenger you were expecting."

And now was the time for the Phantom to take everything into his own hands. It had been easy, almost too easy. "Thank you," he told the soldier. "Leave us." And as the man stepped back, he took his place, feeling that though there were guards nearby, he and the general were quite alone –

They stood only a few paces apart, facing each other. Nordstedt was a very tall man, taller even than the Phantom was, and with broad shoulders, and the hand on his sabre hilt was a clear threat. His features were sharp, his high brow beneath the light brown hair furrowed, his bright eyes narrowed, completely focused on the intruder. His nose had been broken at least once, the Phantom noticed, if not several times. This man was not only a strategist, he also was a soldier through and through, no doubt.

"Who are you?" It was a demand, not a question. Hell, the man felt like a taut spring in the Phantom's head!

"A messenger. Since it is not in my interest, I will not harm you." If possible, the spring coiled even tighter. The Phantom almost smiled as he reached inside his cloak to produce the letter. "This is from Gérard de Chateaupers." As he held it out for Nordstedt to take, he noticed with satisfaction what a nice contrast the white paper made to his black-gloved hand. A mysterious messenger, indeed…

For a moment Nordstedt hesitated, his eyes as narrow as ever, then he reached out with his left hand to accept the letter. The right hand remained on the sabre hilt, however. Studying the blank front of the envelope for a moment, his gaze quickly returned to the Phantom. "You did not answer my question yet," he stated, in French this time, mustering him with clear suspicion.

"I have answered it as far as it need concern you." Just read the message, curse you, and give me a reply so I can be on my way again!

All the same… impressive man, that one.

"You know," Nordstedt said slowly, speaking softly and with a very slight accent that slurred his speech, "I prefer to settle business man to man, but currently I'm more than just me. Currently I'm responsible for this camp and all the others, for thousands of men. And I cannot afford to endanger myself, even if this is the way it should be. So don't force me to call for help. Have you understood?"

The general was threatening him, then, because he seemed dangerous. Very well. He had understood perfectly, and it made perfect sense. Besides… it seemed he had managed to scare him, or else Nordstedt wouldn't talk that way. Or would he?

Not that it mattered, to be exact. He was here to deliver a message, not to scare a general, enemy or not.

Enemy? Was Nordstedt still an enemy, after Chateaupers had written this letter?

"I take it you have," Nordstedt said as the Phantom did not react. "Now. If I'm not very much mistaken, you claim to come from the chief of police, who resides in Paris, as far as I know. I have heard of Chateaupers, before you ask. Do you mean to tell me you come directly from Paris? And while you're at it, do explain how that poor man who brought you became so… confused."

"I have power over others' minds." He said it easily, as if it were a natural thing – and to him it was, somehow, because he had been doing it for so long.

In Nordstedt's face, not a muscle moved. "That would explain quite a few things," he said dryly. "I happen to have seen a hypnotiser show his arts, but that it could go as far as leaving a heavily guarded city unnoticed…"

"It was dangerous, but I took the risk." The general should know that this was important to Chateaupers.

"Then tell me… how does a man like the Comte de Chateaupers become a traitor?"

"Through a city falling into a mad tyrant's hands," the Phantom replied simply. He did not like Nordstedt's scrutinizing gaze. Not that the man could read minds, but his sharp stare somehow gave the impression he could.

"And no allies to be found anywhere." Nordstedt nodded, his bright eyes never leaving the Phantom. "I've wondered about that myself."

Quite naturally. "And you've come to the conclusion that it makes things easier for you?"

Suddenly a little smile appeared on the general's features and made them more lenient. "In fact, no. The Commune will not negotiate."

"So you've tried it." Not surprising, really, though the Phantom had not thought that he might have.

"What kind of man do you think I am?" The frown was back, and once more Nordstedt's features were hard. "If there is a way I can save my men a battle and maybe even spare civilians' lives, I will take it if it leads to the desired result." Letting go of his sabre's hilt at last, he tucked his thumb into his belt. His gloves were as white as his uniform, the Phantom noticed, or at least they had been white once, before they had acquired that slight shading of a dirty yellowish-brown. Old gloves, and often worn. The uniform, however, doubtlessly a gala uniform, was immaculate. Seldom worn, perhaps? Somehow Nordstedt did not seem the type for gala uniforms.

Still watching the Phantom warily, Nordstedt continued softly, as if to himself, but certainly addressing the Phantom, "What kind of man are you, taking me for what you think?"

"A suspicious man." The Phantom suppressed the brief flare-up of anger; there would be no need for any demonstration of power. Chateaupers had asked him not to. "Why don't you read the letter?" And Nordstedt had to do so of his own free will; for if the Phantom manipulated him now, he might agree with everything Chateaupers suggested, but as soon as the Phantom was too far from him, he would be free again, and everything would have been in vain.

Oh, curse people's free will!

"Why don't you take your mask off?" Chateaupers asked calmly, not even glancing at the letter in his hand. "Or else I might have to take you for a coward."

This time, the anger was very hard to suppress, and the Phantom almost reached for the dagger at his belt, but he controlled the beast roaring dire fury inside him just in time and forced it back down into the darkness whence it had come. Not a coward. Never a coward. Very well, if that Prussian wanted to be scared, he would make him understand… His features stony, he slowly took the black mask off, willing his hand not to tremble. No, he would not think of that terrible moment now, of that moment when Christine had snatched just this mask from him on stage, leaving him bare, unprotected, for everyone to see… "Why don't you read the letter now?" Despite his efforts, his voice had a rough edge to his own ears.

"Clearly, you're not a very patient man." Surprisingly, Nordstedt wore a smile of amusement, and not the slightest sign of disgust or shock at the Phantom's scarred features. "How did that happen? Battle scars, maybe?"

At once images filled the Phantom's head, smoke and flames, the Pillars of Heaven burning, bolts of lightning tearing the black clouds, and in the yards and on the ramparts shapes fighting, and others lying still, some in strangely distorted positions… and where once a dome had been, the Hunter stood waiting under the fiery sky, by the Ever-Burning Flame… the Ever-Burning Flame… "Yes," the Phantom said quietly, "battle scars."

"Ah. I had the distinct impression you might be a man of war." Nordstedt's fingers wandered towards the seal, but he did not break it yet. "Do you have a name?"

"Call me…" Here the Phantom hesitated. Which name should he give? Opera Ghost? Or better Phantom? Certainly not Erik; that was too private. But suddenly he felt that those other names were too well known; if Nordstedt knew Chateaupers, then he might know the one of whom the papers had written so many strange things just as well. Not very likely, yes, but still possible. Should he really allow the general to know about his connection to the Opera House, to the only home he had ever had? He could not trust him, even though he was trying to win him as an ally. Nordstedt was a Prussian, an enemy, about to take the city. And he might not accept Chateaupers's offer of a bargain. He might not become an ally after all. Suddenly the Phantom felt that he would be endangering the Opéra Populaire if he gave his true name and Nordstedt recognized it… and just then another slipped into his awareness, a name he had banished to the farthest place in his mind he had been able to find, together with those other stories. "Wraith," he finished.

"How fitting," Nordstedt remarked. "Did you just make that up?"

"Old nickname," the Phantom said darkly. In a way, it was – but he refused to believe it was.

And if Nordstedt showed one more hint of sarcasm, he would… do nothing. He was not supposed to harm him, and it would be rather unwise to do so in the middle of an enemy camp, even though he might have a good chance of slipping out.

Oh, damn. This was not going the way he had hoped it would.

"And you've probably come to carry another letter back past the watchers on the defences, am I correct in this assumption?"

"Exactly." So read that accursed letter, damn you!

"Well then." Nordstedt sat down on a foldable chair, by a map-strewn, rickety table in a corner which held a lantern, but so that he could keep an eye on the Phantom, and broke the seal at last. "I can't guarantee it won't take long; if this is a serious offer, I might have to consult with others first, and it does not seem an easy matter to me. For that time, you're my guest, and we'll find you accommodation somewhere where you can rest, and for your horse as well."

"Thank you. But how do you know I came on a horse?"

Nordstedt looked up from the sheets of paper filled with Chateaupers's neat handwriting, smiling. "You smell of horse."

Ah. Not unexpected, of course, but maybe he should be careful the next time; it might spoil his dramatic entrance a bit. "If you can't answer it tonight," he changed the topic, "I'll have to wait for tomorrow night to get back." The night was his time, after all, the time when he was strongest.

"Agreed. I'll finish reading this – I must say it caught my interest – and then provide quarters. I might need you later on, though, when I discuss the matter with my staff. They'll want to hear about the situation in the city first hand. Say," he asked, lowering the letter once again, "do you know anything about the city's defences?"

The Phantom shrugged. "Certainly not everything, but I might know a few important details – if I'm ready to tell you, that is."

This time, Nordstedt truly smiled. "I might have taken you for a common traitor if you had answered any differently."

The Phantom was not sure how to take this, but he answered the smile. It was best for all involved, certainly.