See? Now this is what you get when you bother me with comments. Thanks, guys!

The usual: don't sue, not mine; my Chinese is nonexistent, but for clarity's sake is in italics.

Knight, Interrupted

by katyclismic


Chapter 5: Xiao Sheng You Liao
"The Challenge of Chasing Girls"

The next morning, it took the trio less than a half-day's ride to make their way to the bustling trading city of Coombe. As they came out of the last of the trees, the walled city was visible for the first time. Bevier watched for Shampoo's reaction out of the corner of his eye as they approached, but she seemed more fascinated than afraid. Coombe was one of the largest and busiest cities in Eosia, and folk fresh from the smaller villages tended to goggle when presented with its massive walls and throngs of people. Shampoo was either made of nobler stuff or was familiar with large cities, because she was observing the crush with bright, interested eyes.

The teeming crowd of farmers, traders, soldiers and common folk was waiting to enter the city, siphoned through the three checkpoints that allowed entrance on the north side. The closest gate had a long, ragged line of people queued up, chatting, hawking wares and entertaining themselves as best they could. Heads turned as they approached, and the crowd let the Church Knight and his companions through in good humor.

A curious silence began to build in their wake, however. Whispers traveled faster than they did, and though they still made way, the mood was much less forgiving. Heads in front of them turned, finger pointed, and brief murmurings sputtered to life and stopped just as abruptly. Bevier's neck itched, and he flexed his axe hand nervously. Never had he seen such a reaction from the people of his homeland before, and the ill feeling in his gut made him wish fleetingly that they could have continued their journey through less crowded lands. We should have covered her hair, he realized belatedly, glancing at the striking young woman. Moving his mount closer to her palfrey, he was glad of the surcoat and armor that clearly identified him as one of the Cyrinic Order.

Shampoo was obviously aware of the attention, if not the exact reason for it. Her back was ramrod straight, her expression impassive apart from wary side glances into the crowd. She glanced over at Bevier, expression indecipherable, and he found himself nodding at her in reassurance.

At the guard booth even the unobservant city watch had noticed that something unusual was headed their way. Two young guards stared slack-jawed at the oncoming trio, finally snapping to attention as the knight's destrier kicked up clods of earth toward their feet. Bevier nodded cordially. "Good day, gentlemen."

"Good day, Sir Knight. Headin' to the Chapterhouse?" The man's tone was casual, but the naked curiosity in his gaze gave the question added meaning.

Bevier's response was courteous but brief: "Yes, I am. Good day." The guard hesitated, obviously wanting more, but stood aside to let them pass when no obvious reason to halt them presented itself. Bevier moved forward with alacrity, grateful the man wasn't inclined to casual prying. Shanpu and Delric passed through with little comment.

Once inside, Bevier sent his servant off with a quick word to find a piece of cloth for Shanpu's hair while he and the girl idled just off the main causeway. Bevier kept up a muttered commentary of their surroundings, though he doubted she understood. The last thing he wanted was for someone to hear her foreign tongue. They got enough attention even in this less populated quarter than Bevier was comfortable with, so when Delric returned bearing a plain brown scarf Bevier welcomed the man eagerly. "No problems? Excellent. Any news on the street?"

Delric frowned as he handed the scarf to Shanpu. "The people seem a little uneasy, M'Lord, but I couldn't figure why. They almost seem… depressed."

Bevier cocked his head for a moment, thinking, but quickly decided that the best course would be to ask at the Chapterhouse. The details were less likely to be muddled from a reliable source. A dark mutter at his side made him look over at his ward. The mechanics of scarf-tying was giving Shanpu a minute's pause; the massive amount of hair that cascaded from Shanpu's shoulders needed to all be tucked away, and she did not seem familiar with the idea of bundling up her tresses. Shanpu made a face as she struggled, and Bevier hoped that she understand the reason for it.

Finally it was done, all the wisps tucked up underneath the edges. Shanpu looked at Bevier doubtfully, touching the fabric with a curious hand. The fashion was that of a farmer's wife, and while her features were still foreign, at least it was a normal sort of foreign. There were enough travelers that came through Coombe that Bevier doubted that she would get a second look. He gave her a reassuring smile and they set off.

He was grateful that this minor alteration of costume seemed to forestall unwanted attention toward the threesome, but he had to admit he didn't like it. The drab color hid the startling blue of her hair, and Bevier found that he missed it flying in the breeze behind them and catching occasionally on his armor. Apart from her violet eyes, which took in the bustling trade being conducted on the cobbled streets with calculated interest, there was little to distinguish Shanpu from any other young, beautiful foreign woman. Though, Bevier reflected in self-amusement, that in itself may turn some heads.

They turned into the final street leading to the Cyrinic chapterhouse only a short time later. Taking in the massive gates and curtain wall, her mouth slightly agape, Shanpu asked, "Ni zhu cheng bao?" Her astonished voice carried, and Bevier cringed to see heads turn at the foreign sounds. He cleared his throat quietly, and when she turned to look at him he gave her a warning look. She crossed her eyes at him, a mannerism so like a young child's that it made Bevier blink, but she remained silent.

The traditional Cyrinic greeting welcomed Bevier into Chapterhouse, though the brothers at the gates peered curiously at his companion. Delric and Shanpu were allowed through in short order, and for a moment there was the normal business of dismounting, organizing and exchanging greetings. Bevier felt some of the tension leave his shoulders at the homecoming, so long delayed by his travels.

Reality soon sunk in, however. Shanpu was getting more inquisitive looks in the Cyrinic chapterhouse than she had on the streets, though Bevier suspected it was more because she was a woman than because of her alien features. Bevier ushered her up the stairs to a guest room in the south tower, which had windows looking out over the inner bailey. She stepped into the room hesitantly, then looked back over her shoulder at Bevier. She was smiling, but her eyes were uncertain and her hands gripped the heavy fabric of her skirt.

He guided her to a chair, saying, "You stay here, understand?" He knelt in front of her and took her hands gently in his own. "I've got to talk to my superior about you, so we can figure out what to do. Understand?"

Her gaze was lowered to her lap where his hands engulfed her own. She was perfectly still, apart from the blush spreading across her cheeks. "U- understand," she whispered.

Mentally kicking himself, Bevier patted her hands in what he hoped was a fraternal way and rose. "Stay here, right? I'll come back in a few minutes." He paused in the doorway and switched to Putonghuan. "You stop here. I go now, later come here. Yes?"

"I understand," she said, regaining some of her composure. She smoothed her skirts and smiled at Bevier, but it was more tremulous than he would have liked. His hand tightened on the doorway as a vision washed over him – taking two strides forward and hugging her tightly to him, caressing that golden cheek and kissing all her fears and doubts away-

Shanpu's eyes widened, perhaps seeing something of it in his expression. Shocked at himself, Bevier turned abruptly and stepped outside the room. He took a quick, deep breath, then leaned in to wave goodbye at Shanpu, not quite meeting her eyes, and pulled the door closed after him. He stood for a moment, one hand still on the door handle, thoughts somehow frantic and stopped dead simultaneously. The clang of sword practice in the courtyard broke his reverie, and he headed down the hall.

Had Bevier been able to see through walls, he would have been quite alarmed to see Shanpu's expression gradually transform from surprise to an extremely smug grin.

.o.

Dagan, the Cyrinic Interim Preceptor elected after Abriel's death, was a wiry man in his fifties. Salt and pepper hair topped from a clean-shaven face made leathery from his years out in the Arcian sun. Bevier met the man in Abriel's old quarters, where a brisk fire made the chill stone walls of castle less severe. The younger knight had changed into the traditional cassock, as had his superior.

Greetings were exchanged, and Dagan poured a glass of wine for Bevier and instructed him to sit. "Feeling better?" he asked Bevier mildly. The word must have been passed that Bevier had spent some time in the chapel before their meeting.

"I do, thank you." Bevier's expression was troubled, however, and it did not go unnoticed. "We've got a bit of a mystery on our hands, Preceptor. You've heard mention of the girl I escorted here?"

"Indeed," Dagan replied, eyebrows raised. "But no one seemed to know whether you plan to turn her over to the Church or marry her." Bevier gave him a level look. Dagan raised his hands in silent defense. "Boys will talk, you know that, Sir Bevier. So tell me," he sat forward in his chair, "what is the story here, my boy?"

Briefly, Bevier summarized the incidents over the last week, including the curious discrepancies he had noticed in Shanpu's behavior. "The communication barrier is still the most frustrating obstacle in this whole affair," he concluded thoughtfully. "I believe we will know a lot more about the situation once we can have a real conversation with her."

Dagan grunted. "I thought you said that she had difficulty with our language."

"Oh, yes," Bevier said wryly. "Difficultly is an understatement. Although," he said thoughtfully, "she seems to understand more than she actually uses. In any case, I've made a great deal of progress in her language, so that may be another avenue of possibility."

A small smile flickered on Dagan's face. "What is that, the fifteenth language you've studied now? Isn't your head getting full?"

Bevier chuckled. "Sixth, actually. It gets easier after the first three, don't worry." He sat back in the wooden chair, looking around at the study in a preoccupied way. "I'm… not certain, exactly, what needs to happen here. Are we supposed to send her home? Or was she brought here for a reason? What are we supposed to do with her?"

Dagan looked troubled, and he sat silent for a moment before answering. "I think that we can agree that the Hand of God has somehow affected this situation?" Bevier nodded in agreement, relieved to hear his suspicions confirmed. "The question now is: what are we to do about it?" Dagan gave him a measured look. "How sure are you that she is not dangerous, Sir Bevier?"

Bevier snorted. "Not sure in the slightest." At Dagan's alarmed expression he gave a dismissive wave. "I don't think she's apt to kill us all in our sleep, if that's what you mean. She can definitely take care of herself, though."

"Isn't she on the small side for physical confrontations?"

"She's fast, Preceptor, faster than anything I've ever seen. Believe me, it makes up for the lack of muscle mass."

Dagan gave a hhmph. "Perhaps, then, my question should have been, how sure are you that she is working for the forces of good? From your tale, I gather that she spent a good while preying on honest travelers. It does not make me inclined to trust her."

Bevier hesitated. Instinct told him to defend her, but her actions were indeed a problem. "I think she was mostly trying to survive, Sir Dagan. Granted, she could have found refuge or work at the nearest town, but that presumes that they would be willing to accept such a strange character. Since we have traveled together, she hasn't shown any predilection for violent or unethical behavior."

Dagan grunted, noncommittal. "Nevertheless, I would keep an eye on her, Sir Bevier. If she truly is from another world, even if she's not a mischief-maker then her ways may be very different from ours." At Bevier's rueful nod, Dagan continued, "Getting back to the question at hand, I think it would be best to contact wiser heads than ours. Archprelate Dolmant will want to know about this, I'm sure."

"Granted, but it may be a while unless we can contact Sparhawk or Sephrenia," Bevier told him. "I doubt anything can progress until we can really converse with Miss Shanpu, and we either need Sephrenia's language spell or six months of serious study to do that."

Dagan nodded. "Very well. Rest for a day or two, but you and the girl should head out as soon as possible for Cimmura."

Bevier blinked and was silent for a moment. When he finally spoke, Dagan had to strain to hear him. "You don't think that perhaps someone else should accompany the girl from now on? I can teach someone what I've already learned, several people if necessary." Bevier gazed intently at the wine glass in his hands, tracing the etched glass.

Dagan looked at him piercingly. "Why should you, when you have already begun? Does she not trust you?"

"That's not the point," Bevier retorted. "I simply do not think it is wise for me to be in her company for an extended period of time."

There was a short silence when the men simply stared at each other. Then a sly grin slid its way onto Dagan's face. "I think I am beginning to understand."

"Do you?" Bevier replied, his tone low but intense. "She may not even be human, Sir Dagan, and she's made it very clear that she wants to go home. Doomed infatuations may be fashionable, but I've never been one for stylish stupidity."

Understanding dawned. "Ah," sighed the Preceptor. "I do apologize, Sir Bevier; that was unworthy of me. I was tickled to see you at last affected by one of the fairer sex and failed to consider the whole situation."

"It would be this one, wouldn't it?" Bevier told him dryly. He let out a sigh, fixing his gaze on the fire.

"Your faith will serve you in this as it has served you so well before, Sir Bevier. You'll also have a proper escort this time, so the proprieties will be preserved." Dagan regarded him intently. "Personal feelings aside, my gut is telling me that this is important – important enough to warrant the attention of the Champion of our Order. You have a duty to follow this through, for I believe it was not mere coincidence that you were the one to bring this strange girl to us."

Skeptically, Bevier commented, "She's certainly different, but Miss Shanpu doesn't seem so significant as all that."

"Ha! How many beings from other worlds have you run across lately?"

"Two," answered Bevier without much thought, "not including Klael's army." At Dagan's exasperated look, Bevier said sheepishly, "All right, maybe it has jaded me a little bit."

"I would say so, yes. Taking care of those other beings took the combined efforts of all four Champions and several armies, as I recall."

"True enough."

.o.

Bevier made his way to his quarters with a lighter step, now that he had some guidance on the situation. The burden was still on his shoulders, but the responsibility felt good to share. Delric had obviously been busy; the suit of armor was polished and hung on the stand, and his Lochaber leaned against the wall. His quarters were sparsely furnished, as befitted a Church Knight, but one indulgence filled a small shelf in one corner: a small collection of leather-bound, musty books that had a tendency to fall apart at the spine.

Bevier ran finger across the top of the collection fondly, then gently snagged a large tome from its place. The old copy of Anojis' Byrds and Beasts of Eosia had been bequeathed to him from an old professor of his, one of the few that had encourages his move to the Church. He let it fall open randomly, and looked down at a penciled badger depicted in three different postures. This will help, I should think. He folded it closed, coughing a little at the dust, and took up the chalk slate he kept handy.

Presents in hand, Bevier jogged back up to the tower where Shanpu was staying, making his ring mail jingle musically. At the landing, he stopped and caught his breath for a moment – and remanded himself for his self-consciousness. Then Bevier strode down the hall and knocked on her door.

He knocked again when there was no answer. "Shanpu?" he called. "It's Bevier. May I enter?" She wouldn't know that. "I come, yes?"

Still there was silence. Perplexed, Bevier cast a look down the hall as if it would provide some immediate answer. It wouldn't be right enter the room without her invitation, particularly if she was somehow unready for visitors. The silence worried him, though – what if something was wrong? He couldn't have been gone for longer than an hour. There would be no females nearby, either, not in the Cyrinic Chapterhouse. He hated the thought of wasting the time to go find a respectable woman to investigate. He knocked one last time. "Is everything all right in there?"

The lack of answer made the decision for him; Bevier reluctantly put a hand on the door handle and pushed the door open a crack. "Shanpu? It's Bevier," he announced himself. "Are you awake?" Silence greeted him, so he finally poked his head in, keeping his eyes averted. "Shanpu?"

Nothing moved, and the bed was unoccupied. She's gone. Dismay washed over Bevier. What could have happened? Did she just go off again, of her own free will, or was it something more sinister? God, please, watch over her. He dropped his things on the table and hurried back down the stairs, nearly running down a novice.

"Sorry, sorry - did you see a girl go by earlier?" The boy shook his head mutely and Bevier continued down the stairs two at a time. He skidded to a halt at the ground floor, not caring about the consternation of the knights who were gathered there talking. None of them had seen her either. Maybe she didn't leave by the stairs– but what else was there? The roof, he realizedbelatedly. Turning, he went back up the stairs, passing the confused novice again, up six flights to the top of the keep.

A cursory view of the battlements told Bevier all he needed to know. There were two of his brothers on watch, however, and his hopes rose; they had a decent view of the whole Chapterhouse from here. "Greetings, Sir Garin, Sir Pavial. Have you seen a girl running around anywhere? She's gone from her room."

Sir Garin's welcoming smile faded a little. "Sorry, Sir Bevier, nothing of that sort. We're glad to have you back, by the way."

"Thanks," Bevier responded distractedly. "Did you see anything unusual at all?"

"Bird or something," shrugged Sir Pavial. "Flew off over the rooftops a while ago."

Bevier groaned to himself. "That had to have been her."

The older knight shook his head. "Couldn't a been-"

But Bevier was already gone, the door thumping behind him. The two knights on watch exchanged bemused glances. Curious, they watched for Bevier as he emerged down below, his robe discarded somewhere on the stairs, and called for a horse. A small group gathered around him, listening as he mounted. The champion trotted out of the castle gate a second later and the remaining group milled around for a moment, then dispersed in several directions.

"Strange," rumbled Sir Pavial.

"Makes you wonder, doesn't it?" mused Sir Garin. "I'd trade my good tunic to hear this story, once he gets back." His companion grunted an affirmative.

.o.

Upwards of an hour later, Bevier was still looking – and carefully reigning in judgment until he knew whether he needed to turn the wayward wench over his knee and swat her a good one, or start an investigation into her disappearance that would be primarily conducted with lengths of pointed metal.

At last, when Bevier started asking questions in the trade quarter he found someone who had seen the 'short foreign girl'. Several wary merchants informed the looming knight that yes, she had come by and no, they didn't know exactly where she went. It seemed that she wandered the length of the street, still in her peasant garb, only drawing attention to herself when she tried to speak. At the end of the row, however, one merchant gave a story that made Bevier pale.

"Oh, yes, that's something I couldn't forget," the fat spice seller told Bevier. "That hair! Well, that scarf she was wearing got pulled off by some boys, and did that make everyone stare! Don't see hues like that every day. Even on clothes, yeh? She started to run away, but some of the castle guard stopped to question her. She started cursing in some foreign tongue, and the guard, well, they took exception to that. Can't blame 'em."

"Did she go with them?" Bevier asked urgently.

"Go with them? I suppose. Not like she had much choice, although I have to say, she sure acted like she did. Thought about the order for a good minute before she started walkin', I wasn't surprised when they were not too pleased about that. The look she gave 'em when they prodded her though!" The man gave a nervous chuckle. "Ya coulda roasted a hen over that glare."

Bevier thanked the merchant, and quietly thanked God for a lead at last, even one that he wasn't happy to hear. He mounted, getting ready to ride for the castle, when another Cyrinic novice rode up, looking relieved. "Sir Bevier! There's been a message for you," the lad told Bevier, handing him a square of parchment.

Bevier rapidly scanned the lines within, his heart sinking at their terse content. Sir Bevier, it read, the girl was captured and taken to the castle. The chancellor has summoned you, as your name is the only intelligible thing they have been able to get from her. Step lightly, Markova has a hand in this. –Dagan Bevier crumpled the scrap of parchment in one fist, needing some immediate outlet for his fury. Markova.

The Patriarch had retreated in seemingly quiet contemplation after the armed, failed, and quite public attempt to put Annias on the throne two years ago. Markova's complicity in the affair was not enough to oust him from his position, though the man's influence and fortune had dwindled noticeably after Dolmant's election. Having such an easily-bought man not only as a member of the Church, but one of the leaders, had always rubbed Bevier the wrong way. Perhaps now is the time to correct that, he thought grimly. Ignoring his instincts, which told him to gallop to the castle and demand Shanpu's release, he directed the horse back to the Chapterhouse to pick up his equipment. The reminder of his official status as the Cyrinic Champion would not go amiss in the court of Coombe, he reasoned. Old Baron Lukas was a devout man.

The brothers at the gate them him pass without the traditional greeting, and Bevier realized as he dismounted in the courtyard that the news had spread fast. Concerned faces peered out all around the bailey, from stables to second story windows. Dagan intercepted Bevier on the stairs. "You got the message, I take it? Good. We need to get her back in our care as soon as possible."

Bevier gave him an assessing look. "You sound overly cautious, Preceptor. Markova isn't likely to offer me any favors, but is there something you've failed to mention?" He pushed past the entrance to his room and immediately began strapping on his armor.

"The situation at the palace has changed drastically since you left, Sir Bevier. Although I'm surprised you hadn't heard of Kadal's death, blessings on him, even coming back from Daresia."

"Kadal?" Bevier paused in surprise, one greave only half fastened. "The Baron's heir? So that makes, what, that lackwit nephew the new heir?"

Dagan's brows shot upwards. "What, you've not heard even that? Baron Lukas died over six months ago, Sir Bevier. 'That lackwit nephew' isn't just the heir, he's the new Baron of Coombe."

Bevier stared at the grey-haired Preceptor for a moment, mental gears freewheeling. "May God have mercy," the knight breathed. For whose sake, he did not specify. "What happened?"

"Lukas, God save him, was an old, old man. This last winter was a rough one on him, and he caught an ague that lingered and eventually took him. As for Kadal, though, that was a bad business." Bevier, finished with his armor, gave him a prodding look. Dagan went on heavily, "He went on a short hunting jaunt, and there was an accident – one of his lords caught him in the arm with an arrow. That wouldn't have been enough to fell a man in his prime, normally." Dagan scowled. "But the physician somehow didn't see the infection until it was too late. They tried to take off the arm, but he was already weakened, and…" Dagan made a tipping gesture with one hand, as if sand were escaping.

"Somehow, indeed" said Bevier grimly. He snatched up the Lochaber and strode out the door, the Preceptor following close behind. "What was the nephew's name – Kirial? He's surely not fit to rule by himself, is he?"

"Kiarl. He brought a chancellor from his estate, called Hursa, and an advisor of his mother's, called Jupta. They're related somehow, we've heard. It would be, ah, prudent not to put much trust in them. And of course you know of Markova."

Bevier's face was grim. "I do. Is he a kept man again, or has he gone so far as to orchestrate the plotting this time?"

"We haven't got any information one way or the other. All we've been able to discover is that he's in very thick with these two new advisors and seems to have, ah, improved his fortunes somewhat."

Bevier gripped the handle of his beloved axe in fury, wishing for something to demolish. Markova hadn't learned his lesson, it seemed. "Are these advisors as inclined as Markova to do the Order mischief?" His destrier, Bevier was glad to see, was saddled and waiting in the courtyard.

"Possibly even more so. Baron Kiarl has developed a distaste for our 'meddling' in his more outrageous proclamations, and we're fairly certain that both the distaste and the proclamations were direct inventions of his councilors. The boy is a powerful tool." Dagan's face was grim, his jaw set. As Bevier heaved himself atop the saddle, the Interim Preceptor warned, "We don't know yet what they're after, though. There is much of the mysterious in this situation, Sir Bevier. Please watch yourself, and do try not to behead anyone important."

The ensuing flash of teeth possibly could have been called a smile by someone who did not know Bevier. "Never fear, Preceptor. I believe I can deal with another mystery without parting too many necks." Unless they've hurt her, he almost continued. After a second's consideration, Bevier decided that while this qualification was perfectly reasonable, it would not do to clutter the conversation with non-essentials.

"God speed to you then, son," Dagan said formally. The Preceptor clasped Bevier's hand. "Bring her back safely, if it is at all possible."

"I shall. Possibilities are a moot point." Bevier's tone was dark, and the comment was not entirely directed at his superior.

.o.

The tree-lined boulevard that led to the palace was one of the broader (and cleaner) streets in Coombe, but in the Arcian fashion it still twisted and narrowed at odd intervals, giving defenders sufficient space to wreak havoc on possible invaders. Bevier went as fast as he dared in the busy streets, alternating between a canter and an impatient trot. The long shadows cast by the trees and buildings were interrupted by blinding, golden shafts of sunset that snuck through the alleys and avenues to fall on the sandstone cobbles under his mount's hooves. It was getting late, and Shanpu had been at the palace for perhaps three hours. If there was ever a time someone needs Your protection, it is now, he pleaded silently. I am your sword, You are my shield. Let it shelter her as well.

His prayer echoed peculiarly, most unlike the usual divine entreaty cast out into a non-answering void. The words seemed to hover in his mind, shining and resonant, crystallized somehow from plea to diamond certainty. I am His sword, He is my shield. It will shelter her. Bevier's eyes lit up, delighted. Few and far between were such answers provided. He sent another prayer winging upward, one of gratitude, and urged his mount to greater speed.

The palace gates stood tall and well-repaired, guarded by two clean-shaven men in the baronial livery. Bevier could see the their eyes widen beneath their helmets as he cantered up and, in a fit of childishness, reigned in only when he was nearly on top of them. "I believe I'm expected," he called to them.

"Aye," one said simply. He was taller than his companion, but just as burly, and his accent had a tinge of the northern districts. "Need you directions?"

"Unless they've moved the throne room, no."

The two guards exchanged glances, something Bevier noted with wary interest. Perhaps they did move it? Then the shorter man turned and called for the seneschal, which echoed through the courtyard as the message was passed. They let him by, and Bevier trotted into the grounds and dismounted. Axe in hand, he set off in the general direction of the keep, knowing that the seneschal would catch up.

Sure enough, a round little man intercepted him on the ground floor, puffing and slightly red from the run. His curly dark hair was thinning and he was pale from too many days indoors, but his brown eyes were bright with intelligence. "Sir Bevier!" he panted. "So glad they found you... If you'll just come… this way. The baron's staff is waiting for you in a private room. Oh, beg your lordship's pardon, my name is Faric," he introduced himself hurriedly.

Bevier regarded him curiously. "What happened to Hwatha? The old seneschal," he qualified, seeing the man's blank look. Curious.

"I take it he retired with the old Baron's death," the little man shrugged. "I was brought from Baron Kiarl's estate. Here we are," he said finally, ushering Bevier through the large wooden doors of a receiving room. The little man announced Bevier formally, giving him a chance to observe the interior.

It was well-lit and well-furnished, with plush Cammorian rugs and dark wood paneling. Two desks sat exactly opposite one another in the room, both piled high with missives and reports. One desk was occupied by a bland man of middle age, his hair of mop of brown curls; he was introduced as the new chancellor, Hursa. The other, a muscular fellow with close-cropped hair, was leaning against the window sill, taking advantage of the late afternoon light to read lengthy report of some kind. Though Faric introduced him as the advisor, Jupta, he had more of the look of a fighter. He glanced up as Bevier entered but returned to his reading, disinterested.

Hursa sat up as Bevier drew close, but did not stand. He gave Bevier a polite smile that did not reach hazel eyes, and greeted him, "Ah, Sir Bevier. Good of you to come. Please, take a seat." Bevier glanced at the plush cushion – nearly a footstool - in front of the desk, carefully designed to make the seated look as ridiculous as possible, and decided to remain standing. "No? Well, as you please. I take it you've heard of our little, ahah, problem." The man gave Bevier a harried smile, as insincere as the first.

The phrasing made Bevier hesitate for a moment. She's not your problem, she's mine. "Indeed, the message just reached me. I trust nothing is amiss?"

"Just a few, ahah, technicalities that should be easily solved. We couldn't get a coherent word out of her, except for your name, Sir Bevier. Pray tell, what language is that exactly?" Hursa took up a quill and held it over a new sheet of paper, eyes expectant and calculating. "Some Rendor dialect, I think?"

"Rendor?" Bevier repeated in astonishment. Is this man a fool? "No. I've been studying her language and I don't think it's one that we've ever come in contact with." Or ever will again, in all likelihood.

"That's interesting. My scholars seem to think otherwise, but then, perhaps you are right after all." The doubtful, feigned acquiescence made Bevier's skin prickle uneasily. "We must keep careful watch on such things, I'm sure you'll agree."

"Such things as what, exactly?"

"Well, the Rendorish threat, obviously. Did you know that they are starting to band together now? It's quite shocking." Hursa leaned forward as he said this, as though imparting a juicy bit of gossip to a friend. "We hear that they even have weapons this time."

Do rocks count? "That's odd, I hadn't heard anything of the sort," Bevier replied, wondering where this strange tangent was leading.

"My dear Sir Bevier, you have been in Daresia. Is it any wonder? Well, you are now updated on the situation, so I'm sure you'll agree that we have to take precautions, being the trade center of the nation as we are. We must think of our families, after all, hmm?" The advisor gave another little chuckle, presumably at some witticism he thought he had made. The man's creepily false expressions of good intentions set Bevier's teeth on edge. "So she'll be staying here for the duration."

"She-?" Bevier blinked. "You mean Miss Shanpu? She's not in any danger. What do you think you need to keep -"

"No, no," Hursa cut Bevier off with an apologetic wave. "I'm dreadfully sorry, you misunderstood me. I meant to say that we must keep her in custody until we can ascertain her intentions here."

There was a moment of blank astonishment, and then Bevier asked incredulously, "You believe that a little girl is leading an invasion of Arcium?"

Hursa laughed again. "Oh dear, no. Or at least, not really. We just think that it's safer all round if we do some checking first. You never know, do you?" He picked up the quill again. "So what language did you say it was again?"

"I didn't," Bevier snapped. "This is asinine. Even if she could talk to these conspirators you seem to be envisioning, she hasn't. She's been in my presence for the last week, and will remain so indefinitely." At Hursa's skeptical look Bevier gripped his axe in frustration. "You have my word as a Church Knight. If you'll take me to her-"

"No, I think not," cut in Hursa smoothly. "We still need to gather all the information we can. You have my word that she will be properly taken of."

"Where is she?"Bevier growled, his temper finally frayed beyond stability. His knuckles were white and beginning to creak ominously around the haft of his Lochaber.

Hursa seemed unaware of this. "She's safe, is all you need to know," he told Bevier, his fidgeting hands tidying some loose papers.

Remembering Dagan's advice, Bevier quite deliberately released his axe and instead gripped the little pest by his neck. Hursa went pale, eyes bulging a little as they flickered between Bevier and the man by the window. A sudden movement in Bevier's periphery belatedly reminded him that there was another person to consider, but just as the thought registered a cold steel blade pressed against Bevier's neck. "Let go," came a cold instruction.

Bevier released Hursa and edged carefully away from the blade. The steely-eyed Jupta relaxed his stance, but the bastard sword he held was unwavering. Bevier had not seen the weapon earlier, as the man had apparently kept it between the wall and himself as he stood. The military look was real, it seemed. Finally the 'advisor' spoke, "Patience is a virtue, Sir Bevier. Remember that before you threaten my cousin again." His tone was low but crisp, an understated officer's bark. Bevier held his gaze for a moment, recognizing the lethal chill of a trained fighter. This was a man to be wary of.

"This is far from over, gentlemen," Bevier said softly, meeting each of their gazes in turn and burning the memory into his mind for posterity: one brown and calculating, the other gray and cold. "Count on it."

Dun dun dun…

A/N: This chapter title is actually a movie in Cantonese, but I thought it was weirdly appropriate.