"I'm afraid I have nothing substantial to report, Your Majesty." Kain Scisco stood once more before the council. To his credit, in spite of being forced to stand in front of the twelve most powerful men and women in the kingdom and admit that no progress had been made, he never wavered.

"The investigation of employees?" Regis asked.

"None seem to have an particular loyalty to Phoenix, Sire, but all they are able to give is word-of-mouth evidence. Though far from ideal, it is something. Many of them are prepared to swear that they did receive correspondence from Kurick on the topic of dumping waste, but, of course, these are all people who have reason to hate him, as well. In any case, it seems they were ordered to delete their emails. It seems a sort of purge took place."

"Have none admitted to being involved in the disposal, itself?" Regis steepled his fingers and looked down the long table at Kain. If they could establish one reliable link, perhaps that could be their foot in the door.

"No, Your Majesty," Kain said. "Though I'm not surprised at that. Anyone who was involved isn't going to be forthcoming with that information, after everything that has happened."

"You may offer them immunity in return for information that will help us bring Kurick to justice," said Regis.

"I will try, Your Majesty." Kain bowed.

"It stands to reason that those who were in contact with the waste may have had a harder time of it." Clarus sat forward in his chair, looking between Regis and Kain. "You should concentrate your efforts on those who had the worst exposure symptoms. Requisition medical records if you must."

"Very good, Master Amicitia." Kain took the dismissal and, with one final bow, turned toward the door.

Regis dropped his hands to the arms of his chair. What they needed was one person—at least one person—who had been involved and was willing to trust in the crown for amnesty…

A thought struck him. He sat up straighter in his chair. Someone who had worse exposure than the others. Someone who was just crazy enough to put his freedom on the line for justice. Someone who was disconnected from Phoenix, and maybe—just maybe—hadn't been part of the email purge.

"Hold." Regis spoke and the room stilled. Kain stopped before he could open the door. "Find, first, a man by the name of Spero Perdita, former employee of Phoenix Incorporated. He may well have valuable information."

"I'll track him down at once, Your Majesty."

"When you do so, pray, be gentle. He is not in good health," Regis said.

Neither physical nor mental, I suspect, he added silently.

Two months had passed since the day Spero had tried and failed to waltz unceremoniously into the king's private study. Regis hadn't heard a word from him since, though he had received confirmation that Phoenix was paying out the appropriate money to recompense him. Given the state that Spero had been in then, Regis found the silence foreboding. True, he had promised to wait for justice for his wife and he had even hinted at a renewed intention to finish his book. On the other hand, he had also implied that he heard the voice of his deceased wife and that he hadn't seen any of his friends for months. Neither of those things sat well with Regis.

For now, there was nothing to do but wait.

Information from Kain's team usually came in the form of a regularly scheduled, physical meeting every other week, supplemented by written reports that found their way, in some form or another, to Regis' desk nearly every day. So, in spite of his impatience, he was resigned to waiting at least a week to hear news of what had become of Spero. Much was his surprise, therefore, when Kain requested a last-minute meeting only two days later.

As it was impractical to assemble the whole council on such short notice, it was arranged that he should meet with Regis and Clarus privately in the king's study that evening.

"You're worried about him, aren't you?" Clarus stood by the window, blind to the stunning views beyond; instead he looked at Regis.

"Whyever should I be concerned for Mr Scisco?" Regis tapped his fingers on the arm of his chair.

"Not him." Clarus sighed. "This man you met in the hospital."

Regis grimaced and looked away. It was as much of an answer as he intended to give, but it was as much of an answer as Clarus would need. He knew the silence was an affirmative.

The truth was, there were a great many things about Spero to be concerned for. Regis knew very little about psychiatry, but it seemed clear that he wasn't of sound, nor stable, mind. There was the way he discussed death with such nonchalance. There was the fact that he kept smiling in that mad way of his that never implied any sort of joy or amusement, but something much darker altogether. And there was the fact that, in spite of his keen observance, he either had no notion of how close to self-harm he bordered… or he didn't care at all.

Someone knocked at the door.

"Enter," Regis said.

It opened to admit Kain, as expected. He came to stand before the king's desk and bowed low.

"Your Majesty."

"What news, Mr Scisco?"

"We were able to track down Mr Perdita, as you requested, Sire, and earlier today I went myself, along with Lieutenant Ackers of the Crownsguard. Unfortunately, we were unable to speak with him. He appears to have barricaded himself in his home and, while he spoke to us briefly through the door, he would not open it and would not grant an interview. As per your instructions, we decided to withdraw rather than press the issue." Kain stood in an almost military pose with his shoulders squared and his hands clasped behind his back. He fixed his eyes on a point over Regis' left shoulder, rather than looking directly at the king.

Regis' brow furrowed. He sat forward in his chair, putting his elbows on his desk. "What, precisely, did he say."

Kain cleared his throat. " 'Go away, you mangy, dimwitted curs, or I'll skin you alive,' Sire."

If it hadn't been so worrisome, it might well have been amusing. As it were, Regis couldn't be certain that Spero didn't believe they were dogs, nor that he wasn't prepared to follow through on the threat.

"The trip was not entirely wasted, from a reconnaissance point of view, Your Majesty," Kain continued. "We were able to talk to some of his neighbors who claim to know him quite well."

"And what did you glean from them?" Regis asked.

"It seems that he has not, to all appearances, left his home at all since returning from the hospital, two months ago. None of them have had much more success contacting him than we did, but some neighbors noted that his lights are often on through the night with signs of motion inside."

Regis strummed his fingers on the desk, this time. "Do they note whether this is unusual behavior?"

"Yes, Sire. Apparently before the death of his wife, Mr Perdita was friendly and outgoing; the pair of them were the heart of the social neighborhood and not a one of their neighbors had ill to speak of him."

Regis sighed. "Very well. Thank you, Mr Scisco. I will see to this matter myself. In the meantime, you will follow up with the current employees."

"Yes, Your Majesty." Kain bowed and saw himself out of the room.

Regis stared at the closed door for a while, tapping his fingers rhythmically on the desktop. "I mean to see him, Clarus."

"Your Majesty, that may be unwise." Clarus took a step away from the window until he was very nearly in the place vacated by Kain. "This man is clearly disturbed. He may well be dangerous."

"No, Clarus," Regis rose from his desk and re-buttoned the bottom button on his suit jacket. "He will not harm me. I believe he is expecting me."

At least, he hoped that was the case. Spero had said he hadn't seen, nor heard from, his friends and yet he had sought out Regis and been—if odd—perfectly amicable. He had also asked for something. Whatever else was wrong with him, Regis couldn't believe that Spero had forgotten about justice for his wife. Not with the way he had looked when he had asked for it.

"You can't possibly know that," Clarus said.

That much was true, so the only response Regis gave was to fix Clarus with his level gaze. "Tell Cor I require his services to reach the outer city. We will depart as soon as he is ready."

Clarus' jaw tightened. He wouldn't object to an order—he was too fiercely loyal for that. The most he would ever do was express his own doubts, and he had already done that.

"I'm coming with you," he said.

"Very well," Regis sighed. "See to it that both of you are ready."

It had been a long time since Regis had stepped foot in this part of the city. Long enough that he had forgotten what it was like. Too long, by his count.

Inside the Citadel, everything was polished gold and gleaming tile. Too much time inside and he lost track of the real world—the world that was dirty and gritty and harsh. The world that was more than a little bit dangerous for some people. From the Capitol he did his best to change that, but he couldn't save everyone.

The neighborhood where Spero lived was one of the poorest inside the Wall. Most of Lucis was paved in carefully laid brick and interlocking tiles, accented by glass and glistening metal. The stonework was subtle and masterful, but unless one had something to contrast it to, it was very easy to go day by day without ever noticing the details.

Here, everything was different. The streets were unswept, the stone crumbling and in need of repair. The metal was rusted and corroded. Ventilation pipes, an unseemly sight that would never be spotted in upper Insomnia, ran along the edges of buildings. Chain-link fences took the place of glass walls. The streetlamps hissed and buzzed, flickering in the dark. This was the part of Insomnia that no one wanted to admit existed.

But it was not abandoned. Indeed, it was far from it. The apartment buildings pressed up wall-to-wall and stretched five stories up, connected by rickety metal stairs and raised walkways.

Just the sight of a nice car driving past was enough to attract eyes, never mind the fact that it was the king's car, marked by his personal plates and custom design. By the time Cor stopped outside the given address, there was a crowd on the street.

"Are you sure about this, Regis?" Clarus paused with his hand on the door handle, turning in his seat to look at Regis.

"Quite sure."

"I should have brought more men." Cor peered out the driver's side window as the people outside inched closer to the Regalia. "This could go south quickly, Your Majesty."

"Do you expect they intend to mob me?" Regis asked derisively.

Cor fell silent. Clarus opened his door and stepped out before holding the door for Regis. It was a little bit unsettling how quiet the crowd was. There were dozens of them lining the dirty street and standing in doorways. When Regis exited the Regalia, however, a murmur ran through them, then a bow. Some knelt, others bent at the waist while still others simply bowed their heads, uncertain what the precise protocol was for an unexpected encounter with the King of Lucis. He didn't fault them for that, but he did hesitate.

"Your Majesty!" A voice called from the crowd and the silence was broken. All at once everyone was clamoring for his attention. Overhead, windows opened and apartment occupants looked out onto the street.

Cor stepped forward, putting himself between Regis and the vast majority of the crowd. Clarus took a stand at Regis' side.

"Stand back," Cor ordered in a clear, ringing voice. "You do not approach the king without an invitation."

Regis sighed inwardly. He should have been able to walk among them as he pleased—as was necessary—but Cor and Clarus would have made such a horrendous fuss. These people were, on the majority, excited rather than dangerous. They wished to see their king up close. Was that so bad? He understood, as he had done for years, that he was a symbol to them. If that symbol brought some light into dark lives, who was he to deny them a glimpse?

The crowd didn't press inward, whether because they had no intention to in the first place or because they didn't want to invoke the wrath of the Immortal, Regis couldn't be certain. Either way, it didn't stop them from calling out to him.

"Your Majesty—!"

"Will you hold my son, Your Majesty?"

"King Regis—!"

Camera phones flashed. Hands waved. Arms stretched out, as if hoping to brush his arm from five feet away.

Regis stepped out from behind Cor and took the offered child into his arms. He looked to be about two, or not quite. "He is a fine young lad. What is his name?"

"Your Majesty." The disapproval in Cor's voice was clear.

"Acis, Your Majesty." The breathless awe with which the boy's father beheld Regis might once have unnerved him. Now he took it in stride.

"Well, Acis." Regis studied the child severely and Acis returned the favor. "Mind your father; I have no doubt you will grow into a fine young man."

"Your Majesty, Spero Perdita's apartment is in this building." Clarus leaned forward to speak in Regis' ear, indicating the building that stood just behind the crowd, practically at the edge of the street.

No rest for the wicked, Regis sighed inwardly again and hpassed the boy back to his father while Cor split the crowd for them.

They passed through without incident. Regis walked closely enough to them that he could exchange handshakes and smiles with the people in the crowd. That elongated their short walk up the metal staircase to the main doors, but he didn't mind. This was important, as well.

That wasn't to say that his concern for Spero had vanished. It was still there, hanging in the back of his mind like a shadow fleeing from the light—stretching. He did want to insure that Spero was well, or as well as could be expected. From the sounds of things, that would take some effort.

Inside, the apartment building was no better than the exterior insofar as it was lined with crumbling walls, chipped paint, and a persistent smell of mildew. There were fewer people here, though some doors opened as they passed, the occupants inside crowding around to have a look at him. He treated them all with the same hospitality as the others, though the farther along they walked the less he stopped. They were nearly at Spero's apartment, now, judging by the numbers above the doors.

Spero's door was like any of the others in the hall: stained, a little crooked, with a numeral stamped in peeling paint on the wall above. The main difference was that it was closed. It was not, however, silent. From within, came the wild screech of a violin: not a soothing tune nor a mournful melody, but frantic notes played rapidly, one after the other, until they blended to form a whole.

Cor stopped to one side, turning his back to the wall as if he didn't like to have so many people behind him. Regis stepped up to the door and knocked twice, firmly and without hesitation.

The sound of the violin ceased and the response, after a moment, came clearly from inside: "Go away! I've already told you: I will skin you alive!"

Across the door, Cor and Clarus exchanged a look. It was the sort of look that meant they were conspiring to do something rash if Regis didn't step in.

"Your Majesty?" One door down, a man stepped into the hallway. "Are you here for Spero? He won't come out. I did tell the others."

Regis pursed his lips. As concerned as he was, this was getting ridiculous. He lifted his hand and knocked again. "Spero Perdita, you will do nothing of the sort. Now open this door at once or I will do so, myself."

This time there was no response shouted through the door. The silence stretched. Down the hall, Spero's friend stepped farther into the hallway, watching.

And then the door opened.

Spero stood on the inside, holding a violin by the neck in one hand, along with the bow. Regis' first impression was that he was smaller than he ought to have been. His head looked too large for his neck, his eyes too big for his face. The wrists that showed at the edges of his sleeves were bony and angular. Though the bandages that had once wrapped around his neck and chest appeared to be gone, underneath his skin was rough and pale with broad scars.

"Your Majesty! Should've known you would track me down, eventually—come in, come in." He stepped aside, holding the door and waving his violin. "Don't mind the mess. We've had something of a… rearranging."

The second thing Regis noticed was the madness.

At first it was just a feeling and nothing he could ascribe distinct characteristics to, but as he stepped into the small apartment, his brain put the pieces together for him.

Spero's eyes were rimmed with dark circles, almost sunken in his face and accented by the protruding cheekbones. But it was neither the appearance of too-large eyes nor the dark rings that set Regis' nerves on edge. It was the fact that he wasn't blinking. He just stared, with a manic sort of focus, at Regis—his gaze hardly flicking to Cor and Clarus as they entered as well.

Of course, there was the fact that his home was in shambles, as well. It certainly looked as if he hadn't left in two months. Mostly it was paper. Paper strewn across the floor; piles of it on every horizontal surface: the moth-eaten sofa, the rickety dining table and matching chairs, the desk in the back corner; paper balled up and discarded forming a heap in the corner. The only place that didn't have paper was the single chair by the desk, atop which sat an old typewriter. No computer, no television, in fact, so far as Regis could see the only electronics were the lights and whatever kitchen appliances had come built-in.

If that wasn't enough, there was the way he had referred to himself in the plural form. Previously he had admitted to speaking to his deceased wife and, evidently, hearing a response. Did he believe she was there with him?

Out in the hallway, Spero's neighbor had come to poke his head around the corner of the open door.

"Spero—"

"Yes, thank you, doing fine. Goodbye." Spero slammed the door in his face. He turned and crossed to the sofa, dropping his violin unceremoniously among the papers there and tugging at his sleeves. "So. Have you come for a story? It's not finished yet."

"No, Spero. That is not why I have come—though I am pleased you have picked up your work again." Perhaps pleased was too strong of a word. Regis would have been pleased to have found Spero struggling—but at least trying—to reclaim his life. Instead he found chaos.

Spero waved a dismissive hand.

"Yes, yes. The book will be finished. Never published, in all likelihood. Finished, though. Finished."

"Spero—" Regis took a step forward.

"You owe me something as well, I think, hm?" Spero picked up a stack of papers from the couch, flipped through it, and dumped them all on the floor at his feet, then dropped onto the couch beside his violin.

"That is why we have come." Regis took a step forward.

"Have you got him, then?" Spero turned sideways on the couch to face them, resting one arm along the back of it and tucking one foot up.

"Not yet. I need your help. Tell me: were you involved in the dumping? The exposure you suffered—"

"Well of course I was." Spero rose to his feet again, not, Regis suspected, through any sort of agitation. It was almost as if he had forgotten that he had only just sat down.

Regis glanced at Clarus. Here was someone who had been involved and was willing to say at much. It might further their cause.

Clarus, however, gave the tiniest shake of his head. For a moment Regis wasn't certain why.

"It wasn't far from here, you know. That's what did it. Doesn't help that I came home covered in the stuff. Killed her, myself." Spero dragged his fingers over his forearm, scratching at it through his shirt without looking.

"That was no fault of yours," Regis said automatically.

"No… no." Spero's eyes flicked toward the closed door in the back of the room. The bedroom? "Do you plan to arrest me, then?" He looked back at Regis, his eyes wide and wild as he flashed teeth in a smile.

That was what the look Clarus had given him was for. Perhaps they did have a witness—an active participant willing to give full disclosure—but it was clear he wasn't of sound mind. Who would believe him, besides Regis?

"No, Spero. But I do need to know if you have access to anything that could tie Kurick to this." Regis chose his tone carefully. He had no idea what to expect, but it felt like one wrong move could have sent Spero fleeing… or leaping.

"Oh, might have. Might have." Spero tugged at his curls and his fingers came away with a clump of hair. "Have to look, you know. Did you talk to her?"

He changed the subject without even a breath in between. Regis blinked, taking a moment to catch up.

"You did. I see you did." Spero flashed teeth again. It was hardly a smile, but on another face it might have been. "She didn't smile before but now she does. How was it, then?"

Regis opened his mouth, then shut it without a word. Had Spero just said Aulea was smiling?

"It was… helpful." That wasn't entirely true, but anything less seemed liable to set him off.

"Mm. It hurts, doesn't it?" Spero asked. The look on his face almost suggested that was a good thing.

"Yes," Regis admitted. The whole truth, this time—though maybe he didn't mean it the same way Spero did.

"Well, well… yes… yes it does." Spero tugged at his sleeves. "I'll find that connection for you. Emails. Hm. Yes, there were. I'll drop them by when I do. Maybe your guards won't try to throw me out, this time."

"I will insure that they do not," Regis said.

"Good!" Spero stuck his hand out to shake. The sleeve of his shirt, too big on his shrunken frame, fell away to display angry red lines down his forearm, both new and old. Some had formed fresh pink scars that mingled with the the others that scattered his skin; others were so new that there was red blood on the sleeve of his white shirt.

Regis took the offered hand and pushed Spero's cuff up to his elbow. They ran nearly all the way up, criss-crossing and overlapping.

"You did this to yourself?" Regis looked up at him.

"Mm. It looks quite nice, don't you think?" Spero looked down at his arm, a mad little smile tugging at his lips. "Though sometimes I think I should mix things up. A great line straight down the middle." He traced the index finger on his off hand along the veins that ran parallel to his arm. "But then you'd never get to see the end of the story, would you?"

"Clarus." Regis kept his voice level and his eyes fixed on Spero. He didn't let go of Spero's hand. "I want you to call a doctor."

"Yes, Your Majesty."

"Spero, I will give you two choices. Either you check yourself into a hospital or you come back with us," Regis said.

"To the Citadel?" Spero gave a bark of laughter. "Can't look if I'm not here, can I? If it's here, it's here: not there."

Regis pursed his lips. "There are people at the Citadel who can help you. People you can talk to."

"I have people. Person," Spero said.

"People besides Elaisse," Regis said. "We would make certain you had sufficient food and a place to work if you wish to write."

"No, no." Spero waved his free hand again, as if swatting away invisible flies. He still made no attempt to pull away from Regis. "No food. Just ash."

Ash. That was what Regis' had likened the taste of food to, when his appetite deserted him, but he had understood it was food and that he did need to eat. Did Spero?

"Spero… when was the last time you ate?"

Spero shook his head and scratched at his exposed arm. "Who knows?"

Regis' jaw tightened. He had the resources to see to it that Spero received the necessary treatment at the Citadel, but the hospital was not without its own benefits.

"The hospital or the Citadel, Spero. Those are your options. I will not leave you here unattended."

Spero sighed, but he flashed his teeth again, nonetheless. "Take me to the nuthouse, then. So be it. Always should have been locked up."

It was better than Regis had hoped for. He had expected, at least in some form, resistance. Yet Spero was docile and uncomplaining. There was no hint that he might try to make a sudden dash for the window or door. Then again, Regis wouldn't have put it past him to do something completely unexpected. As such, he kept one hand on Spero's arm as they moved toward the door. His other hand settled on Spero's back. Beneath his palm there were only bones and fabric.

"I can't write without my writer, you know." Spero paused in the doorway.

Regis glanced toward the desk with teetering piles of paper surrounding the typewriter. "I am certain it can be arranged for things to be brought to you. Is there anything you need immediately?"

"My violin. So that I might keep the other psychos awake with my inane screeching."

Questionable motivation, but it seemed, at least, to be a personal desire—which was more than might have been said for anything else in his life.

"Cor." Regis motioned to the sofa, where the violin lay, and Cor picked it up. To Spero, Regis added, "I had no idea you played."

"I did, once." Spero allowed himself to be guided out into the hallway without objection.

"I should like to hear you do so again," Regis said.

"Perhaps you will." Spero turned to give him an unblinking smile. "Perhaps you won't."

Something about the way he said it implied that the lack thereof would not be from happenstance.