Chapter 3

Sulla Cervidus was not a man who liked to keep people waiting. He liked many things: elven women, power, a good brandy and gambling. He really liked gambling. It was the last which was his current mission. He was on his way to his monthly game, only this time he had agreed to a buy-in that was nothing short of extortion. All because the last time he had patronized the establishment he may have, slightly, ruffed up one of the slaves working the pits. But that was what they were for, wasn't it? To be used? Still, Naso Dulcitius didn't approve of his property being damaged. Maker knew, if Sulla had had any other joys in his life he would have pursued them. But this was the last one, and even it had been tarnished. This wasn't going to be a night of pleasure either. He needed to go to this game. He needed to win these hands. It was all planned out. And if he didn't someone was going to take him down. Better to play the role which he had been assigned.

Generally Sulla was a man of efficiency. He took his jobs, did them, and got paid. He never ran late, he never arrived to early. He was a machine of industry. But, of course, on a night when timing was as important as it had ever been, everything had all gone to utter shit. Naso had a strict rule about locking the doors. If anyone arrived past the agreed upon time they wouldn't be admitted. So he had to make it to the venue and he had to play tonight. Truth be told he'd lost a lot of hands over the past season. Really, it was… it was a suspicious number of losses for a man who had been known to be a fair player. But with the Trade growing ever more expensive he was going to run out of funds without something to stopgap and agreeing to throw the assigned hands was providing that stopgap. This was the last one. One huge job and he could go back to playing, and winning, for pleasure.

He'd left his home in the upper ring with more than enough time to arrive. He'd chosen his route, picked his traveling companion – everything was arranged. But no sooner they had turned down the main street into the middle ring did they find not one, but two entire caravans full of nugs had tipped. The street had been swarming with the ugly naked pink things, running and squealing. And of course it was. Because this was the middle ring, full of working-class slaves and laborers. It was too much to ask that they maintain order on something as simple as a harmless food-stock. It quickly became clear that the mess was going to take some time to resolve, and the caravans had fallen so they nearly covered the entire width of the road, even if Sulla had been willing to push his way through the animals. So, they had detoured.

But then they'd had four robbery attempts. Four. How did such a thing even happen, surely they had to branch out more for any of them to make any real coin. What were they all doing on this single, blighted, side street? The first had been a small child, curled into a dirty ball on the corner, hand out, begging. He didn't even spare the urchin a glance. Which, as it turned out had been folly. Once he had passed the wicked little thing darted at his back grabbing. It was clumsy and a back-hand from his guard had been enough to dismiss the child.

The next two had been run of the mill threats with knives, easily dissuaded by a sword and a few dangerous words. But the last one had seen Sulla's brooch snatched and his guard had been forced to give pursuit. It was no matter. He was nearly to the venue, and with blood magic he was more than capable of fending of thieves himself. Any who dared attack him net would not escape with their lives as the previous criminals had. Then it had been quicker to let them flee. Now if he was going to make it to his game there would be no time for negotiation – Sulla would prick his finger with the needled ring he wore and dispose of the trash with little more than a wave of his hand and an exertion of will. One could almost pity anyone who got in his way now.

He turned down the last street, the one that would lead him back to the main, and deposit him right before Dulcitius' establishment. It was emptier than the other two, which was some small blessing, as it meant it was quiet and there was little place for pickpockets to hide, but it was in terrible repair. Those buildings had to be abandoned, didn't they? They looked like one squall-breath from the Waking Sea would send them toppling. Yet, he could see candlelight, hear chatter… Fasta vass, these people lived like chattel and were content… little more than beasts, in his opinion. He noted several particularly decrepit buildings for the future. There was good work to be made in demolition, and maybe some of the tenants would be desperate enough to sell themselves into his service once they knew they were going to be homeless. He would save money on Trading, and make money tearing an eyesore down. Perhaps the detours had been worth it after all.

He was running figures when he heard the strange sound, like wind rushing. Perhaps a storm was kicking up. He heard a scream and stopped in his tracks, concentration broken and looked for the source of the high-pitched annoyance. "Do shut up," he bellowed, "I'm trying to –"

…

As the spy watched, he had to admit, the splatter the magister's head became was quite satisfying. It sprayed across the walls of an old brick building, offering it some much-needed color. He supposed he'd give the little dragon this: when he planned, he didn't go by half-measures. The entire event had been extraordinarily well crafted. Right down to what happened next.

People swarmed the side-street, drawn by the woman who had screamed from her window. Interestingly, he hadn't been able to spot her, which was a shame really. If she had spotted what was coming she might have been a good connection to make. Whispering and pointing swept through the crowd, people swapping stories even as hands covered mouths in shock and horror. The four "pick-pockets" from before returned, accompanied by twice as many children. He'd suspected as much. If you saw one urchin there would always be even more you didn't. They descended on the body like a swarm of carrion beetles, picking him clean. The observers didn't seem to care, though they obviously noticed. Magister Sulla was left in nothing but his robes. His belt, boots, and personal items had been removed. If he wasn't a great beast of a man, the children might have left him completely naked, but as was he was too hard to shift.

A voice of authority boomed into the alley and the children scattered, each taking off in a different direction as soon as the backstreet split ways. The onlookers dispersed as well, all of them going to spread the news. It was so rare one had gossip like a magister's untimely demise in your alley to share. Usually they had very posh deaths – with wine and assassins. One thing was for sure, there was no chance of house Cervidus keeping this out of the press until the next vote.

"Not much left to see," he muttered to himself as he eased back on the roof and removed a crusty roll from his pocket. He'd taken it from a party and, he had to admit, it was quite tasty with its crunchy crust and fluffy, herbed center. He munched as he thought back over all he had seen, analyzing the Dragon's plan point by point. He had to have miss-stepped somewhere. After all, he'd had less than a day to plan.

First, there had been the carts with the nugs. He smirked. That had actually been hilarious. As far as he could tell it had been done by recruiting a vendor to poke one of the pull-beasts with a pin. It had started, running straight into the cart in front of it, and they both ended up on their sides. The impact had knocked the simple latches loose and dozens of the naked pink quadrupeds tumbled into the streets. People scattered, nugs charged this way and that, it was utter, beautiful chaos.

Next came the pick-pockets. They were easiest to figure as they had been nothing more than distractions. They had clearly been paid, and from the looks of them, this wasn't the first time. They looked tattered, sure, but not as tattered as they should have. It was deliberate. Made to make them look like urchins, and maybe they used to be. But he'd seen urchins. Urchins were fast, but always too thin. These children, on the other hand, had been enjoying regular meals for some time. Urchins tended to be dirty, but not in the smudged face dirty hands way of this group. It was dirt that got into the creases in the skin and stained it for lack of regular washing. These children were dirty, but not that kind of dirty. Again, it was strategic. Most street rats had more pressing matters to see to than hounding a magister. That was a high-risk endeavor with little chance of reward. Urchins tended to steal food or beg coin. No, given all of the things he was seeing one was very clear – someone had to have been employing them. Interesting. There weren't a lot of assassins who liked to share their coin. Scavenging the magister seemed to be a part of their reward but they had obviously been getting regular food and shelter for some time. He'd have to look into that.

Lastly, they had the very public accident. It was glorious really, a single very loose, very heavy brick. It fell from a great height. Or, rather, it had been thrown. He had only caught a glimpse of the thrower but they must have been very sure of their aim. The brick was released and the perpetrator slipped away before it had even landed. He, himself, had only caught sight of the figure's back and he had been expecting something. Maybe not that something, if he was honest, but he still had more to go on than anyone else had. To them it merely looked like a terrible freak accident. He could hear people now: "if only he hadn't turned down that street" and "how unfortunate" and "I guess it could have happened to anyone." It was a good kill. There would be no one to blame. No one who could even, slightly, be brought up on charges.

Of course, plans were one thing, even excellently crafted ones. How the baby assassin handled things off the cuff, now that was information worth knowing. He'd knew Ataashi had come pre-vetted and that had been enough to pique his interest. But all his fine credentials ran in circles, leading to no one. Not for nothing, that was impressive in and of itself – it was what had made him decide to observe this job. He'd have to do more, though, and waiting to spy on another assassination was going to take longer than he'd like. He'd have to come up with something else. Some kind of, of test.

He finished his "meal" and took off across the rooftops, jumping, rolling, and climbing with ease as he headed toward the docks to make some plans of his own.

VVV

Dorian couldn't help the shiver than coursed through him when the rift came into view. A jagged green rip in reality. The sight of it brought all sort of unpleasant memories to the forefront of his mind. They came in flashes: falling off the bridge, fight after fight in the wilds, demons pouring from the gash like blood from a wound. Sights and smells and sounds overwhelmed him and he was lost. His heard pounded, his head spun, he felt untethered.

And then a hand grasped his shoulder, pulling him back, grounding him. Something cut through the anxiety and panic, clear and cool, soothing and invigorating. "Dorian!" He blinked, turning to the source of the voice. "Are you okay?" And just like that it was gone. All of the sights and sounds and smells. Everything but the steady thrum of the bond, pulsing with affection and concern.

He nodded, rustled up a lopsided smile, and lifted his hand. It draped over Fitzwilliam's, squeezing gently. "I'm fine, Amatus," he said. It didn't really ring true, and it was clear the Inquisitor wasn't convinced either, but the moment had passed, for now.

Graciously, Fitzwilliam let it go, removing his hand and making his way closer to the rift. "There's something different about this one," he said slowly. Dorian's feet wouldn't move. He tried, really he did, but he felt trapped. His silence had betrayed him. His lover turned around and caught his eye. "C'mon Dorian," he said with a playful grin. "That big brain of yours and you can't see it? I guess I brought the wrong mage."

That smile tugged at him, and his feet finally moved. "You," he said slowly, forcing one foot in front of the other to close the gap between them, "wouldn't know a demon from a wisp, Fitzwilliam. You need me."

The Inquisitor smirked, his gaze turning heated. "Oh," he purred, "I always need you, Serah."

"Naturally," Dorian said with a dismissive wave. "However, we came here for a different purpose." He put his mind to work. Perhaps if it were busy it would stop torturing him. "It looks like a normal rift," he drawled slowly. He walked about it in a circle, inspecting the odd way it cut through the air without having any substance. "Try closing it with the mark."

Fitzwilliam walked nearer as Dorian backed away from the tear. Fitz reached out, pulling the black suede glove off his left hand before he lifted it above his head, wiggled his fingers, and boom. Nothing happened. Sure, the mark flared to life with Fitz's exertion of will, but it didn't stream toward the rift, it didn't do anything. And the rift didn't either. "I didn't feel the vibration when we approached," he said, lowering the marked hand. "I usually feel a vibration in my hand when we near a rift. Like a - like a warning." Dorian watched as the man flexed his fingers, staring at the scarred palm. "Maybe - maybe I'm just out of practice? I haven't had to close a rift in months."

Dorian shrugged. "It's worth a shot," he agreed.

Fitzwilliam repeated the process and for a moment the effect was the same – nothing. He split his attention between watching Fitzwilliam and inspecting the rift, trying to see any subtle change. Fitz's face was going red with strain, his eyes narrowing and jaw clenching as he focused all of his effort. Dorian set his eyes to the rift, wondering, considering. A thousand theories of magic spinning around in his head. They were hard to untangle and trying to do so was distracting him. So, when the mark jutted out a stream of green it startled him.

"Oh, there it is," Dorian said, grinning and turning to look at Fitz.

"Uh, I think something's wrong," Fitzwilliam said, voice warbling uncertainly. And it was. The mark was throwing the fade energy at the rift but it wasn't closing it. It was making it bigger. Dorian's smile vanished.

"Stop!" Dorian shouted.

Fitz shook his head. "I can't," he yelled back, face panicked. "It's just - I can't!"

Dorian could feel the fade like a palpable thing now, roaring to life around them, the rift glowing brighter and brighter until it was blinding. He tried to run, tried to think but that terror held him in its grip again, clenching. He felt boxed in. He clamped his eyes shut against the light. He fell to his knees. Behind him he could hear Fitzwilliam yell his name.

And then it was over.

The light faded behind his eyelids as the pound of Fitzwilliam's running feet filtered into his awareness. "Dorian," he heard, the voice mixing with the sound of shifting gravel as Fitzwilliam knelt beside him. "What happened, are you okay? I-I don't feel any pain but…" Hands reached out, one cool and clad in leather, the other naked and hot, the mark humming against the flesh of his face as Fitzwilliam cradled it.

Dorian nodded, letting his eyes flutter open, blinking against the light. They sought Fitzwilliam's face first, struggling to focus. Brilliant blue eyes filled his vision as he looked upward. "You're being very dramatic today," the mage said softly. The blue eyes narrowed, glaring even as the hands shifted to help the mage up.

It wasn't until he was standing that he noticed. There, just over Fitz's shoulder, was the rift. Or, rather, where it had been. Dorian grabbed the Inquisitor's shoulders and turned him gently. "Maker," he gasped. Dorian just nodded silently.

There, replacing the harsh emerald tear in reality, was a beautiful slivery opening. It shimmered like a mirror, glittering in the sunlight, but not reflecting their world as it ought to have been. What it might have shown inside it Dorian never got to see. His view was obscured by the thousands of little lights floating out of the … well "gate" was the only word he could think of for it. It was like they had been freed. Tiny orbs, some bigger than others but none larger than a fist, flew over the blades of grass and around flowers and hovered over stones. They seemed… curious. There were dozens of colors. Some were vibrant, some were subdued. Some held a steady glow and some pulsed.

"Dorian," Fitzwilliam whispered as a very small periwinkle wisp fluttered about his head. "What are they?"

Dorian watched, feeling his own awe and wonder amplified through the Lenen'hima'sa. "I think they're spirits," he replied, voice pitched just as low.

"What are they doing?" Fitz inquired, turning back to look at him.

Dorian let his hands slip under the man's arms, sliding down the expanse of the man's back before wrapping about his waist. He held him, dropping his chin to Fitzwilliam's broad shoulders. "I think they're exploring," he said, feeling the smile creeping across his face and into his voice. "I don't how you did it, Amatus, but I think you set them free."

He felt the anxiety stab through the bond as Fitzwilliam's body tensed in his embrace. "That's bad, right?" the Inquisitor asked, "If they can get out can't demons get out too?"

"I don't think so," Dorian said soothingly. "I think, whatever you did, it healed the rift. I don't think demons will want to use it anymore."

"But you can't know that," Fitz insisted, voice quivering.

Dorian pressed a kiss to his temple, the soft brunette strands there tickling his nose. "Not yet," he agreed. "But I'll look into it. We know where this place is and for now, at least, it's clear these little fellows aren't doing any harm."

He could feel reluctance from the man he held, but also trust and… appreciation. Dorian smiled, a soft secret little quirk of the lips. They really ought to have gone then. Back to the manor to research and solve riddles. But the sight of the dancing lights was very beautiful, and he held in his arms the man that he loved. Then Fitzwilliam nuzzled his face into the mage's shoulder, resting it there, and he couldn't help the contentment that overwhelmed him. He pulled him a little closer and resigned himself to the moment.

He supposed they could stay just a little longer.