Far above Vassal sat his king. Completely obscured by the darkness that filled the cavernous chamber, the torchlight that flickered meekly against the pitch black did not reach the center of the room to illuminate the throne. A massive, imposing stone chair, hewn from the ancient rock that sat, forgotten in the bowels of Lumiose, bore his king, who stared down at the figure. A deep, rumbling tone echoed out into the chamber, and it dripped with disappointment. "The torch in the northeast has flickered and died, Vassal. What say you of this?"
The pained expression upon Vassal's face mixed with a horrible sense of guilt. He mumbled to the ground, "An extraordinary error on my part, mon roi, I will see to it that it is immediately corrected." A pause hung in the air, broken only by his own breathing and the sound of Karan, a weavile, sharpening her claws and purring contentedly.
"You would do well not to disappoint your king again, Vassal. My forgiveness is given freely but once." Another pause. The voice boomed in his ears and made the man quake. "Find another trespasser, redraw the circles and ensure that my path to ascendence is not impeded again."
Vassal backed away on all fours from the throne, muttering all the while, "At once mon roi, it will be done. Your Vassal is endlessly grateful for your forgiveness. I will not fail you." Now a respectable distance from the throne he rose and turned to leave when a horrific thought struck him. What if someone knew the purpose of the hearts? Of the hidden chambers and King's Brands? He froze. There could be no way. It was paranoia swallowing him whole. The history was old, muddied and almost inaccessible. No man alive could possibly know why that cavern existed. Why any of the caverns existed. Yet, they could very well simply find it queer. Unnatural. What if the old human fear of the unknown was ruining his king's rightful ascendance? Should he tell his king?
He turned slowly and gazed at the throne, still wreathed in shadow, though three circles would glow a dull purple at times, floating in the dark. No. There would be no need to worry his king. Karan could deal with finding another trespasser to punish on his king's land. He would keep watch upon the other two torches, and have Karan light the final two after she rekindled this one.
"Karan. With me." he said aloud, his voice carrying in the air like the crack of a whip. The weavile followed him out of the room and down a long tunnel towards a false wall in the sewer system beneath the city. Vassal's voice became a deadly whisper as he explained, "Foolish men walk upon the sacred land of your king. Eliminate them and take their souls to the cavern below. I will arrive later to inspect your work. If the room has been desecrated beyond use, return to the torch in the south. Understood?"
A wide mouth of razor-sharp teeth unzipped in the ether, and the red irises of Karan's eyes gleamed. She nodded once and sped off, the claws of her feet leaving an echoing staccato in their wake.
Vassal's thoughts drifted to his apartment. He would need his poignard for this.
As the echoes of Vassal's footsteps died in the chamber, the inky black that pooled in the center of the room fell quiet. No voice came from the stone throne for a moment and all that could be heard were the distant echoes of dripping water. Then, all at once, the silence exploded, and gave way to the same booming, otherworldly voice that had commanded Vassal to investigate. The sounds swirled out of the darkness, crashing up into the slick stone ceiling and walls and falling down onto the wet and cracked floor. It crept across the ground and dissolved like the surf across the stone floor. "Peasant, step out of the shadows. Your king demands a service of you."
A gengar materialized from a collapsed stone pillar with a grimace. "Peasant? My name is -"
"Enough. Your title is Peasant. The torch in the east must now be lit. The intruders that happened upon the spirit plane have begun their attempts at unseating me. Gone is the time for caution. We move with haste to my ascension."
The gengar leered at the darkened throne. "And my end of deal will be fulfilled when?" he asked bitterly.
"When the torches are lit and I am restored, so too shall you be." A tag flew from the shadows and landed at the pokemon's feet. "Affix this to your body as usual. It would be a pitiable shame to see such a useful Peasant reduced to ash and energy, forever locked away in a heart of ascension."
"Terrence." spat the gengar, "My name is Terrence. Say it and I will do as you ask."
"Now, Peasant. Or you will be doomed to wander this plane as you are now, forever." The imperious tone was now tipped with an evil sneer.
Terrence scowled and sank into the ground. "Fine." He rematerialized deep into the passage to the east and began to stomp his way towards the manhole that would let him out near the King's Brand. He phased through the walls that stood in his way, slipped through grating and occasionally sunk partially into the ground as he made his way forward. He was preoccupied. Perhaps this deal he'd taken was too good to be true. The so-called "King" was out for his own good. This "ascension", or so he called. And he'd been cryptic about what exactly it would do, only that following it, the King would have access to a tremendous power and could put Terrence right at last. Or so the King had promised. He growled. He knew his type. He wouldn't be cheated.
The gengar stopped and stared into the pitch-black sewer tunnel. Flashes of now incomprehensible scenes erupted in his mind, making him ache all over and leaving a stabbing pain in his head that was so intense he felt like it might explode. He felt himself fall backwards and inwards, sucked up into a hole that opened in his forehead. Glimpses of strange shapes he couldn't explain drifted across the ether of his thoughts. The distorted sound of a woman's laughter that twisted around itself and shattered like glass in an empty room. Odd, almost pained shouting from a man whose face had melted to become indistinct but frustratingly familiar. The strange sensation of his thoughts swirling in a great basin and out a small hole in the bottom. Him along with it. Falling, falling, down into oppressive blackness. The blinding white floor beneath him.
And afterwards, as he picked himself up from the ground spread-eagled as he always was when these episodes struck him, came the terrible, roiling realization of loss that shook his body to its core. He rubbed his head and sighed. Echoes of things long lost, perhaps, but he wouldn't know until the King had his way.
He scowled as he walked. The king would make good on his promise to restore meaning to these scenes. To make him whole again. He would make sure of it.
"Hey, come on, what are you doing?" mumbled Ignace to his arcanine. He looked down at the creature, splayed out across the floor of the apartment, stacks of books and sheafs of papers scattered about him. With a low whine, the pokemon rolled onto its belly and looked up at Ignace with a low whine and wide, innocent eyes. He sighed. "Yeah, yeah, alright arcanine, alright. You're sorry you knocked everything over and made a mess, right?" The arcanine barked and rolled onto its back. Ignace knelt down and rubbed his belly for a short while before standing up again. "Just don't make anymore of a mess, alright?" With a happy bark, he rolled back over and curled up.
He returned to the small drafting desk he had tucked away into the overstuffed living room, where it sat beside the only window that allowed more than a crack of light in. Instead, it allowed two. He picked up his whittling knife and the block of wood he was working on and blew the shavings off the paper atop the desk. It bore a drawing of d'Artagnan that he'd made himself. While far from professional (indeed, it was perhaps not even amateur) it was a good enough guide for whittling a stylized wood sculpture in the shape of a totem. He figured Ricard would enjoy a handmade, totemic representation of d'Artagnan for his birthday at the end of the year. He sure as hell wasn't going to be able to buy anything Ricard couldn't. Ignace squinted as he deepened the grooves he'd carved to shape the eyes and then shaved the totem's body to smooth it out and make it more cylindrical. He was half dreading actually etching in the designs for the body of the totem. Still, he had months before his little project was "due".
He blew more wood shavings from the desk then checked his watch. He had to be leaving soon. He contemplated his arcanine, now napping on the floor nearby, and his drifblim, still sitting in her pokeball on his belt by the door. He had to let her out more, but what would she really do once out? All her line did was float about. Damn useful for escaping places, but he'd rather not leave her to the mercy of the wind anymore than he already did. He heaved himself from his chair and set his materials down. The drifblim wouldn't be much use in a house, and his arcanine was a tad too large to bring along as well. As it was he dominated a sizable portion of the floor splayed out as he was. That left Charles, who'd he'd have brought along anyway.
Ignace walked into his bedroom and pulled his shirt off, then threw it into a corner with countless others. He opened his closet and stared into it, contemplating the stab vest he had hanging inside. He doubted otherworldly spirits would be in the possession of a gun, but there would likely be plenty of sharp objects to toss at him if the ghosts became more dangerous than just murderous whispers. He pulled the vest from his closet along with a shirt and shut the door. He looked into the mirror upon it, and his eyes scanned the myriad of old wounds that marred his chest, sides, shoulders and arms. Stab and bullet wounds peppered his sides and chest, and a jagged, irregular scar ran across the length of his torso.
He ran a finger across a part of the scar. Two whole fucking years already. He pulled the vest on and then a black button-up and smoothed it out, wondering what new "decorations" he'd have by the end of all this.
He walked out into his living room and muttered, "Don't think my back is particularly fucked yet, maybe by the end whoever did this shit will cover that." He dug around in the chest of drawers by the door for his boot dagger. "Charles, let's get going." He glanced around, specifically at the same spot on the couch his partner always sat, complete with cuts, tears and punctures the bisharp had inadvertently caused over time. "Charles?"
His bisharp appeared from behind the wall dividing the living room and kitchen, clutching a bowl filled with Liechi berries and tossed one into his mouth whole.
"We still have those? I thought they'd have gone bad by now..." asked Ignace, distracted. He shook his head. "Fuck, that's unimportant. Grab one to go or something, we need to get back to that abandoned building and break in." He looked at his chest of drawers by the door and shook his head. It was dark, no need for a wig this time.
Charles tossed another berry into his mouth and took three from the bowl before setting it down on the living room coffee table, lined with papers and books and nodded.
Ignace ushered his companion out the door. A weight pressed against his back and a low whine filled the air. He turned around and gave his arcanine a pat on the head. "Too big for where we're going. Maybe if you were still a growlithe." The pokemon's eyes drooped and he whined again. "Hey, I didn't build the house buddy, it's just how it is." With another pat on the head and scratch of his chin, Ignace added bracingly, "We have to break into a bigger place you'll be first on the list." The arcanine's ears perked up somewhat and it walked away and curled up in the center of the living room.
He closed the door with a snap and locked it, then crossed the hall and threw Ricard's door open. In the middle of his living room, alternating between adjusting his tie and smoothing out his blonde hair, stood Ricard. Classical music was drifting in from his bedroom and Ignace noticed a bottle of wine and a half-empty wine glass upon an immaculate coffee table.
"Ready?" signed Ignace. He looked Ricard up and down. "You look awfully fuckin' snazzy for a break-in." The accountant wore a pure white suit, complimented with a deep blue shirt and handkerchief to match his eyes, accented with impeccably polished loafers.
d'Artagnan flapped into the room. "Because he is to play the part of the tactful one, Mortician. And you, as always, the brute."
Ignace scowled at the xatu for an instant before turning his attention to the bottle of wine on the table. He lifted it up to read the label. "Vintage Aquacorde." He looked at Ricard and signed, "Nice suit, nice shoes, and nice wine. Don't hold back at all do you?"
Ricard smiled and pulled a polished, ivory-gripped pistol from within his suit jacket, pulled the slide back partially to check the chamber and then tucked it away. "We live in two separate worlds as much as we share one, Ignace. You know this. d'Artagnan is not far off. Like this, I appear as nothing more than your average affluent man on his way to enjoy some time in whatever the quartier rouge has to offer." he signed, "Should we be caught, I'll have an excellent answer to offer any prying eyes." He walked to the coffee table and picked up his glass. "Cheers."
Ignace watched him take a sip. "And that is?"
With another grin, Ricard set the glass down and responded, "We were simply looking for a fine establishment for me to lay my head alongside some other comely woman for a short while and couldn't they help us find one? I explain your presence as the result of being in my service and thus responsible for interpreting for me. Given that I am deaf and quite incapable of expecting everyone to understand sign, of course. If they look like they might be less than willing to overlook the entire ah, misunderstanding, I need only flash them a few bills. Or perhaps ivory." He strode to a wine cabinet and pulled a glass from it. "Can I tempt you with some?"
Ignace was impressed. "Thanks, but I'll pass." He sat down on one of Ricard's immaculate couches and sighed. "Nothing?" When they had returned to the apartment, Ricard had made it a point to go over every last note he'd taken down on the heart, the sigil, the shifting walls, the accusing whispers - all of it was painstakingly noted down. Ignace spared him no detail, but once he had finished recalling all he could, they entered a realm where Ignace was left to wildly guess and grasp: speculation.
The heart, its use in the occult, the strange sigils - these all the usual trappings of some kind of strange ritual likely soaked in long forgotten history. It was also probably related to ghost pokemon and the powers they possessed. Yet nothing that Ricard nor d'Artagnan could glean from the accountant's vast store of books could shed much light upon what they were dealing with. There were mentions yes, the heart and its importance would crop up, and the idea behind sigils, particularly a king's sigil, had plenty of documentation, but it was all historical references, instead of information that dealt with any sort of occult practices. It sealed letters, marked property - it told a story, as Ricard had explained.
It was no unfortunate surprise to Ignace then, that his friend shook his head and signed, "Not a thing. Neither I nor d'Artagnan could find anything after examining my not insignificant library. It is likely that we may need to venture out to another library or…" He paused and rubbed his chin. "There is always the black market. Priceless historical texts and artifacts alike have a way of popping up through less savory channels. My funds, however, are not unlimited, and it is unlikely that I could outright buy any text that could help us. Something akin to leasing instead. I will investigate.
"I've also been monitoring the reports going out about the murder here, Ignace," continued Ricard, "Other than the savaged corpse the perpetrator left behind, there isn't much else to link it to the one near the cafe. It could be coincidental. I reviewed notes on the scene myself, dug into the files I procured for you and everything. The reports weren't much to go on because the body was found a day after it happened or so, not within hours; but there was no sign of blue hairs, to say nothing of the lack of scales, fibers and the miscellanea that murderers leave behind during the act."
"I know. But the body was fucked, and two bodies that were as fucked up as they were have to be connected. Especially since the third scene from a few weeks ago had a similarly ruined corpse. That's more than coincidental, that's related. I couldn't be on scene for that one either, but you got me reports and info on it just the same, and the case here and the case over by the retirement home had tons of similarities. No traces on scene that linked a perpetrator to anything that could leave traces. Or rather, that was capable of leaving traces - except that body was also found a day late. Which leads me to this theory that might explain what the fuck that dusknoir was doing."
Ricard's eyes widened. "I'm prepared to hear something outlandish." Behind him, d'Artagnan voiced his agreement.
"There has to be more than one pokemon doing the killing. I don't know if there's a person involved too, but there has to be a sneasel or weavile and some kind of ghost-type doing shit. They leave traces, don't they? But-"
"They don't leave traces for long, which would explain why the body seemingly had no evidence left on it when the police arrived, yes," signed Ricard, interjecting. "That is all well and good Ignace, and it aligns very well with how bizarre the circumstances that surround us are, but they're just conjecture. A crazed ghost could just as easily be killing people."
"Rather desperate, insane conjecture at that. The leaps you take between the blotted patches of the tapestry are completely blind, Mortician. You link them solely by grasping at frayed threads and trying hopelessly to tie them." d'Artagnan paused to flap his wings. "This strange landing we find ourselves upon is not to be made whole on the back of desperation."
"But the dusknoir that showed up and said some shit that made it sound like he was there to collect dusksoul or whatever. That rules it out of the murders by Ultimo Cafe, but what if it's killing people too? It could be your crazed ghost. It's taking the souls and shit of the people it kills." Ignace rose from the couch and began to pace. "So whoever died by Ultimo left that behind, right? But it was taken, the dusknoir said. By the king. So that's the heart. The heart has the soul in it. The dusknoir don't take the heart physically out of the body because that would make every burial ever a fucking pain. So they take the soul out, right? Suck it up or something, who the fuck knows."
Both Ricard and d'Artagnan looked to each other and then back to Ignace. They nodded, though a bewildered expression was plastered across Ricard's face. d'Artagnan, for all his face allowed, at least looked bemused.
Charles too was watching Ignace, and while he looked puzzled as well, he was nodding more frequently than the others were. Whether it was out of genuine understanding or reassurance, Ignace did not know, but he appreciated it just the same.
"So. Person killed. Heart taken. Heart sucked up the ghost-traces - not all of them, but most of them. If the dusknoir was the one that actually did the killing, it might have even sucked up all of them." Ignace faltered. "And that's all I've got."
Ricard rubbed his chin. "Why are dusknoir killing seemingly random individuals? There are a variety of interpretations as to their role, but I would believe they would ferry souls, not rip them from a person. We also have no reports of sightings of the duskskull line in the city at all really. We would try to find out if the police have picked up on these traces and have their own ideas in mind, but I'll have to call in a favor." He smoothed his suit out. "And I've just about exhausted my supply of favors with the Lumiose City Police Department."
"I know it's a stretch, but it's all I've got right now. And don't think I forgot about that little comment about me being your help. You're a bit of a bastard for turning me into your servant boy, but I'm surprised you're willing to flash that thing, Ricard. Hopefully it doesn't backfire."
"Provided you play your part expertly Mortician, I hardly see any issue arising." The xatu flapped his wings and then added, "Shall we be on our way?"
Ignace nodded with a scowl. "I'll play my part just fine. You ready Charles?"
Charles shoved the last two berries into his mouth and nodded, cheeks bulging. Ignace gave his friend a swift smile and then signed to Ricard, "Let's get goin'. And keep your mouth shut d'Artagnan."
The xatu bristled at this remark but under the unusually sharp gaze of Ricard said reluctantly, "We move."
The band of four stared down the building that loomed before them. There were few passersby on the sidewalk and virtually no traffic navigating the streets. Ignace looked around and let out a sigh of relief as he looked up and down the sidewalk. "Looks like getting in should be easy enough Ricard. Not many bodies out." He entered the alley to the left of the building and pointed up at a set of boards covering one of the windows above a dumpster. He glanced at Ricard and signed, "Anyone coming?" The deaf-mute shook his head and so Ignace added aloud, "Get that open Charles."
The bisharp climbed atop the dumpster and cut away the boards covering the window after a few hacks; the window behind it was broken open already. Charles ducked through the window and crunched several shards of glass beneath his feet. Unperturbed, he let out a low growl to signal Ignace.
"You can start looking for the heart if you want Charles," he called to his bisharp, "But be careful." He turned to Ricard and d'Artagnan and waved them over, signing as they walked towards him, "Through this window. Hope those loafers have thick soles. Glass on the ground." Ricard nodded in acknowledgment and signaled to Ignace to head in first.
What glass didn't break under Charles' feet crunched and cracked under Ignace's boots. He swept a foot across the ground to clear the glass from the makeshift landing and stuck an arm through the window to signal Ricard. He crept up behind Charles and mumbled, "Any sign of other people in this place?"
The bisharp peeked around the corner of the hallway and shook his head. He let out a soft, inquisitive growl and rounded the corner to stalk up the hallway.
"Awfully brave of you Charles," mumbled Ignace with a smirk. He turned back to watch d'Artagnan float through the open window and land beside Ricard. He signed to the two, "Alright, if there's another one of those weird fucking things here it'll be glowing purple and blue and it'll probably be downstairs where the light can't filter out of windows. Let's check the rooms on this floor to be sure, then head downstairs. We can try upstairs and the attic if we don't find anything downstairs."
Ricard nodded and d'Artagnan clicked his beak in affirmation. "Lead the way," signaled the former.
Ignace rounded the corner and saw Charles peeking through doors then shutting them with a disappointed growl. He caught up to his pokemon and asked, "Nothin' goin' so far?" His partner pointed to the door behind him. Upon opening it, Ignace was met with the landing for a set of stairs leading up. "Well at least we know how to get up. I'll check back near where we entered." Sure enough, the door closest the window they entered opened into a set of stairs that led down into the bowels of the building.
The stairs led out into another hallway that bore only three doors - and behind each door the motley crew of trespassers found no signs of strange lights or symbols, much less pedestals bearing human hearts.
The building was empty - or so it seemed as they worked their way from the lowest floor to the uppermost. A series of unlocked doors that led into empty boxes filled with dust and sometimes debris - once a scattering of clothing that betrayed the long destitute home of a vagrant, but no pedestals. No floating hearts and pulsing sigils. The number of doors available to them dwindled, until at last the four came to a stop beneath a hatch that led to the attic. "I don't see any fuckin' light come through the cracks in the hatch," he signed in irritation. "But the murder happened outside of this building. In an alley, just like the one by Ultimo. Well, fuck it. D'Artagnan, you've got wings and psychic energy on your side, you mind doing a quick check of the attic?"
The xatu floated through the air up to the hatch wordlessly. As he approached it, the hatch flew open and d'Artagnan disappeared into the attic. A few minutes later, the xatu returned, somewhat dustier but looking thoroughly unimpressed. "Nothing at all, Mortician. Empty but for the dust."
"Figured as much. Well, this place is a bust I guess. Maybe it's another building. Or in the sewers again..." mumbled Ignace.
"Let us be rid of this place, Mortician," interjected d'Artagnan, "and then we may continue to deliberate on our next course of action. If what we seek is not in this building then we will have destroyed only one of the three in our conquest to unseat this would-be King."
"If there are only three, that is," signed Ricard, a grim expression on his face. "There could be more. Illumis est un kabuto poli, as they say."
"Yeah, but who fucking polishes a kabuto." Ignace paused and then gestured to the door that led down the stairs. "I should check the sewers. There could be something in there. I'd just have to find a manhole cover that drops me into a tunnel that'll take me here without any fucking grates getting in the way," signed Ignace as they made their way to the window they broke in through. The group clambered out one by one into the alleyway and then made their way towards the sidewalk. "Though I should probably wait for tomorrow. Last thing I need is to come across something in the sewers given where we are right now."
The four arrived at the sidewalk and waited for a cab to flag down. A thought struck Ignace. "So do you think you'll be able to pull that favor with the police in, given what we know and what's happened?"
"Perhaps. They're in dire straits at the moment. Three murders in the span of a month, all savage and not at all like what has been taken as the simple product of city life." He stopped signing and began to wave down an approaching car.
The cab came to stop before them and the window rolled down. "Where to?"
"Museum."
The taxi driver nodded and motioned for them to get in.
"Charles, up to you," began Ignace, unhooking a ball from his belt and tossing it lightly in the air. "Shotgun or ball?" Charles opened the front door of the cab and threw Ignace a smirk.
With a laugh, Ignace continued, "You're sitting in the middle, d'Artagnan." The bird's retort was drowned out by a protest.
"'Ey this guy's gonna tear up my seats!"
"You work the rouge, is that really the worst thing that could happen?" The taxi driver scowled at the remark. "Anything you mind telling us about the backseat, come to think?"
With a somewhat nervous shift of his eyes, the driver relented. "Whatever, just get in."
The four of them now on their way, Ignace signed to Ricard, "The police not taking the whole thing well?"
"Not at all. They're capable enough of dealing with a variety of pokemon and human related crimes, but ghosts have always been a very strange sticking point. We just don't know enough about ghost-types, and the division between mischief and malevolence in their kind are sometimes unclear to us. The police are impacted particularly hard by this. It's part of the reason so much funding is poured into technology that focuses on ghosts. It's why you see traditional tags peppering the walls of every pokemon center, and why that differently colored tag hangs above the front door."
Ignace frowned and looked over at Charles, who had turned around in his seat and was watching the conversation. "Sit down right Charles, what're you gonna do if we hit something?"
Charles rapped his knuckles against his helmeted head and gave a harsh chuckle.
"I mean us. You'll be fine, but what's gonna stop you from turning Ricard here into thinly shaved ham if you get catapulted back here?" Charles chuckled again, along with Ignace, who then turned back to Ricard. "Newer centers are being built with those fancy new walls though, aren't they?" His friend nodded. Ignace scratched his chin. "Well more to the point, I think the impact the involvement of ghosts has had explains the lack of stakeouts on the scenes."
"I would imagine it is very difficult to monitor an entire typing that is excellent at avoiding notice unless desired, yes," replied Ricard.
"They do not slip entirely without notice. Those of similar persuasions such as my own are not unfit for detecting the departed - human, pokemon or otherwise," interjected d'Artagnan.
"They've also got fancy devices for that kinda shit too." reasoned Ignace, "Why wouldn't they just throw resources at that?"
"Because they are the Lumiose City Police Department," replied Ricard, a dismissive look on his face, "A band of men, women and pokemon dedicated mainly to preserving the city's primary source of income. They have their orders, their priorities, their livelihoods and families to consider. Is it any wonder the police that help the average citizen of the city are always so haggard looking? Baggy eyes and scruffy faces accompanied with a cup of pure espresso and a yawning pokemon. We've a reputation to uphold as one of the most desirable tourist destinations in the world, and we, the average citizens, suffer for it."
"Good to know your tax dollars are hard at work ensuring that tourists always find this city a place worth visiting. So do these seemingly random murders not fall under their purview or something?"
"They haven't been visible enough to really keep people from wanting to visit. Vicious murders are worldwide, but they aren't flaunted on the news if doing so would incite some sort of panic. They're quietly reported after everyone that only cares about the savory goings-on of the city have finished watching. The last ten minutes of the news are for people like you and I, Ignace."
"Outlaw detectives and wealthy accountants?"
"People that care."
Ignace frowned and looked out the window. "And look where that's gotten us. Look where it got Ana." he said aloud. He paused and sighed. "We need Ana for this. I need Ana for this."
Ricard did not and indeed, could not hear him - and d'Artagnan, hearing sorrow in the man's voice, did not deem it necessary to translate.
Vassal watched the two men, the xatu and the bisharp file out of the taxi and disappear around a corner. A white suit, blonde hair, and talking - no, signing with his hands to another fellow, taller, short black hair, dressed in a more subdued manner. He paid the driver and exited the cab, then set off to follow them.
He had been right to spend most of the day in that (fortunately) empty dumpster. You can start looking for the heart if you want Charles. The comment bounced about in his head. He was signing to the man in the suit - that couldn't be Charles, the man was clearly deaf. It was the xatu or the bisharp. He continued to follow them, but stopped as he saw them cross the street and unlock a gate that led into an apartment building.
It didn't matter. He knew where they lived now. Between himself, Karan, Terrence and the will of his King, these pitiful obstacles would be out of the way soon enough.