The following few days, Arlene’s rage abated, though she still maintained a measure of distance from me. In a surprising turn of events, the half-elf started spending more time with Maapu, Taltil and the rest of the goblins, often sharing meals and training simple exercises with them. The few attempts that I initiated to converse with Arlene met with stubborn resistance from the ranger. Once she excused on the pretext of treating the ill Theko who felt the aftereffect of gobbling one too many candied flowers.

Each day dawned demanding my attention to the various mundane tasks camouflaged as administrative and logistic part of running a mercenary company. Reservations still held sway over her emotions as Antilorwe avoided us every time when we paid a visit to their office. Gratitude triumphed over precaution, in the case of Silvaniel. The elf volunteered for the prosaic task of registering The Aberrant Irregulars with Sarenthill as well as the contract from Westerleygates Merchant's guild. Vitalia’s time was spent unfruitfully, pondering over lengthy legal contracts and debating over grey ambiguous words.

The third day, with the exultant company of Silvaniel and Vitalia and much to the vitriolic gaze of the oathreeve, I signed the required formality to officially register the mercenary company. Two days later, Sir Gladwin officially took his leave in the company of Lamont. In his possession, the newly signed official contract with the merchant guild of Westerleygates. The afternoons were spent mostly in the company of Dar and Sir Lamont, whose company I had grown to enjoy. For once, the peddler had simple priorities and his contorted words held candour. If Dar personified Joviality, Sir Lamont dazzled with congeniality. Neither of them was the type to attempt the risky, even a calculated one. But the most important quality that made me revel in their company was that I never had to rethink and reformulate my words in their presence. Most of the conversations revolved around simple themes such as the sommeliering, hunting and racing mounts.

The only one, who seemed unperturbed by the recent turn of events was Rodo who still maintained his cheerfulness. Even Ellie who always had her spirits high had difficulties processing the revelations. Anselm surrounded himself in a shroud of stoicism, hiding his inner turmoil. But the one who took the most collateral damage was Lady Jessbeth. Her actions, monitored by the Justiciars and her freedom, only a whimsical construct. Where she expected protection, she found imprisonment.

On the seventh day, after a long uphill battle with the slave to bureaucracy Justiciars, granted my request under special conditions to meet with Lady Jessbeth. The hapless girl was physically unarmed but distress and despair weaved through her face. When she lifted her amber eyes to greet, the pain still flickered in them.

“She is not under arrest. We are merely ensuring that she has not been under any influence from forbidden planes,” eloquently answered the chaperoning Justiciar without any hint of emotion.

I knew better, not to argue with those mechanical words.

“I feel like trudging blindfolded and alone,” Her voice carried over her anguish.

She raised her hand to reach out to me but yoked her desire in the last moment. If she was looking for a surrogate mother, she made the wrong choice. I failed my own daughter, I would be a terrible person to fill those shoes.

I examined her fatigued face and noticing the keen ears of the Justiciar perk up, heaved my chest and spoke to her.

“Alone is just a state of perception. Allies can be found when you look with the right mindset. Even those who appear to be enemies can be allies in disguise.”

Her face brightened slowly as she caught on the inner meaning of my words dawned on her.

“I lack your tenacity,” worded Lady Jessbeth.

“shush,” I made a sign of silencing her,” not tenacity, just careful planning and prioritizing. The Justiciars cannot keep you indefinitely here. You are a noble, not just in the title. A land to govern. Duke Lothmar will not simply sit by.”

“Duke Lothmar will rush to my aid. Lord Lucille in Westerleygates will certainly not sit idly,” replied the girl with a mischievous twinkle in her eyes.

The Justiciar scowled in contempt. Our words were just empty threats for him.

“The real threat is those Pruning hands. While Duke Lothmar’s attention is diverted and the Justiciar are otherwise engaged. That is when they will strike and they will have their victory,” I elaborated.

“Sarenthill is my safe haven then. The Justiciars are here. I should worry about Westerleygates then,” she followed my lead.

“You catch on quickly. The Pruning Hands know that you will inevitably come back to Westerleygates. All the efforts of the Justiciars are in vain if they cannot hold you for an indefinite period of time. In fact, even as of this moment, they have secured valuable time for themselves. Time to plot and open those nasty breaches.”

The stoic Justiciar moved uncomfortably in his pristine seat.

“Then we will take you under protective custody. We have sworn to stop those nefarious ones who seek to commune with daemons,” boomed the loud proclamation of the Justiciar.

“But my absence in Westerleygates cannot be explained? Thank you Venerable Justiciar but it is very little you can do,” excused Lady Jessbeth, her hands clutched together to stop herself from shaking.

“You could alternatively, take her to Westerleygates and keep her under Justiciar custody then?” I innocently voiced my opinion.

“But what about my status? I cannot be a prisoner in my own city? There would be riots. The Duke might be forced to mobilise his personal army then,” pleaded Lady Jessbeth, after a brief moment to let her words sink in, she continued, “Also the presence of Justiciars does not mean that they would gladly lay down their lives for nobody.”

“As long as you are in our custody, I swear no harm shall come to you,” declared the Justiciar with zealous rage. The honour of his office at stake.

“You swear on what? the badge of a Justiciar means nothing to a drow and a human,” I scoffed at his attempts.

“I swear by the divines,” he screamed.

I squinted hard at him and shook my head.

“I swear by all the divines. Drow, does the oath of a Justiciar upon every divine means nothing to you?” his words twisted and contorted in fury.

“You mistook me, Venerable Justiciar,” I sniffled, “I have been to Westerleygates. Lady Jessbeth can be protected there but would take a bit more than a paltry force.”

“You would be surprised. I could procure two mounted gryphon riders patrolling Westerleygates at any time and with ten more knights to spare,” uttered the elf.

“Make it ten more and five more Justiciars-in-training and you could hope to reasonably achieve what you swore,” I snorted intentionally at the Justiciar, igniting his abating rage.

“Venerable Justiciar, in that case, let it be known that House Wysteria is not lax on its hospitality. Accommodation, a grand feast worthy of royalty will be served every meal, will be provided them to your people in Westerleygates,” played Lady Jessbeth. She was blessed with a remarkable talent to learn fast.

Justiciar inhaled a deep breath and an expression of smugness graced his face.

“Do not forget to write the Duke about the oath taken by the altruistic Justiciar, their presence in Westerleygates and their enduring effort to protect you. Lest the Duke takes offence to a foreign presence in his territory. I am sure the good Duke will even thank the Justiciar for this effort to safeguard the life of his valuable subject,” My twisted words rang and echoed through the isolated room. A knowing grimace passed between the two of us, while the oblivious Justiciar bathed himself in self-congratulatory radiance.

The Justiciar moved his lanky build to reach out for the summoning bell, marking the end of our meeting.

“Remember, Your head carries the crown now. Suppress your tears, for if you shed them, you will find that there will be no one to wipe them,” My stern voice sent an icy pang of discomfort in Lady Jessbeth. This would be the last piece of advice she would receive from me. However I would love to comfort the poor child, she needs to awaken to the brutal reality.

---

Back with The Aberrant Irregulars, Colby was in the middle of a commotion with Maapu. The object of their struggle, a strange contraption of spinning rotor blades, twisted and conjoined at impossible angles. Three of the spinning axles connected a few sets of blades to the uneven canister. Dwarven engineering evident on the strange device’s tiny moving parts and the strange alloy that made the strange device possible while, the finely etched engraving along the joints of the axle, a feat only boasted by the gnomes.

“Liar, it does not,” rumbled Maapu, “no bird inside.”

“Of course, it does,” countered Colby loudly with his arms crossed, “and I don’t need a bird to fly. “

Colby’s word brought a hearty laugh from Maapu, mockery evident in the gesture. An action that set Colby on the edge as he grabbed the long hollow pipe that he carried on his back. With a long flared edge and the wooden handle on the other end, this was definitely not something that a child should be trusted with. Only one person could be so gullible enough to trust Colby with a blunderbuss, Syrune.

“You hit me with your strange club,” taunted Maapu, ignorance still guiding his words.

“What is this ruckus?” My voice carried clearly despite the surrounding noise.

“Dark Mistress, the little one tells lies,” accused Maapu,” tells strange metal flies. Goes up but not bird and no wings.”

“The gyrocopter definitely levitates. See these blades, their rotation creates the pressure gradient. It is all calculated. These foolish goblins know nothing,” screamed Colby who was on the verge of his temper tantrums.

“We are not foolish. You not trick us. Stupid gnome,” retorted Maapu.

I considered the gyrocopter which was no bigger than Colby’s waist and Colby was small even by gnome standards.

“So Master gnome,” came the smooth melodious voice of Arlene, “if this gyrotor is large enough, can you not use it to make people fly?”

Curiousness and excitement danced in her eyes.

Colby’s anger evaporated as a dew under the sun at being addressed as “Master Gnome”.

“Yes, if I could manage to get the suspension coils fabricated for such an appropriate support and a suitable repository of the energy,” explained Colby with a grimace, “and it is gyrocopter, not gyrotor.”

“So what brings you here Colby?” I asked.

“We came to ask your help. A formal contract,” answered Colby while he packed the blunderbuss on his back.

“For?” I raised my eyebrows.

“The suspension coils require a particular type of alloy. Malleable, tractable, ductile and lightweight. Must be stronger than steel but also lighter. Also bigger attunement crystals,” said Colby with the oblivious knowledge that most of his words were lost to the rest.

“So you are going to survey deep inside some mines and need escorts?” I asked.

“Actually, we know where to obtain titanium. We are more interested in the fabrication process, itself,” flowed the voice of syrune like dark velvet.

“If such a process exists,” I responded with a smirk, “shouldn’t you be the second most capable person.”

“Alas, being second does not equate to being the first,” replied the mage with a relieved smile.

“So you are paying a visit to Old Vangere?” I asked. My gaze was fixed on Syrune.

“No, actually, we are trying to collect some notes of my Master. To help Colby with his experiment,” proclaimed Syrune loudly.

My mind reverted back to octant laboratory and Arlond, the curseforged city.

“If you are digging through dirt in your Master’s chambers, I believe we could be of very little assistance,” I denied the mage his request.

Syrune pleaded with moist eyes as the mage's long fingers held the hem of the robes tightly. The emerald green eyes strained under nervousness.

“Let me offer you a drink, a sign of our hospitality,” I laughed with mirth.

---

Safely tucked away in the corner of an alehouse, with a loud drinking revelry in full swing all around us, I leaned closer to the mage.

“We should have enough privacy here. Something tells me that You had something more to say,” I whispered.

In response, the mage slowly pushed a folded letter.

“Dear Esteemed Mage Syrune,

It pains me to explain my absence at your august lecture on ‘The physiology of Baatezu,” at the college of sapiarch. Certain mundane events, as is expected in the venerable position of an archivist, which is nothing but a glorified librarian, kept me away from enjoying your exposition.

It has been brought to our attention that you are in possession of certain works and treatise of Grand Alchemist Vangere. It should be no surprise to you that very few of Vangere’s treatise is in circulation and you being his only protege, would have few more of Vangere’s work in your private repertoire.

As you might be aware that gathering and preserving knowledge is one of the sacred duties of an Archivist and hence it is with this conscience that I write to you, imploring you to offer your personal collection for the purpose of archiving. We, the mages collective and the divines above would be thankful should you oblige to our request.

May the divines guide your path,

Archivist Renorian.

“

I skimmed through the contents of the letter and passed it back to the mage.

“Looks like they want your books,” I took a mouthful of the frothy ale and chuckled, “Please don’t tell me that you want my protection from a librarian.”

“Please read it again, between the lines,” stressed Syrune. The scholar’s voice dropped to a low whisper and their manicured fingers slowly tapped on the table.

The second paragraph, ‘It has been brought to our attention', so the archivist is not acting on his own free will. In the third paragraph, the archivist goes at extreme length to explain the role of an archivist and his compulsory inclusion of the word ‘conscience’. What Syrune received was no simple letter of borrowing books but a heavily coded message in plain words.

“The archivist is being forced against his will to write this letter. You have any idea who could threaten the archivist of the Mages collective?” I asked and drew myself to full attention.

“Someone has been collecting or rather confiscating all the works of Vangere. I am not sure who or what is behind, but if they think they can force Renorian to comply, then they are in for a surprise,” Syrune gave a very calculated smile, the sort that did not reach the ears.

“You have any idea? I am obviously missing something.” I confessed.

“Renorian dropped two clues. The one about the grand lecture at the college of sapiarchs, Physiology is not my area of expertise. That was Serinimae’s field. Also, he dropped the divines twice in his letter. In the last concluding paragraph. I think whoever is involved, they are bigger than the mages collective but still within the domain of the divine,” concluded Syrune.

“well, that just rules out daemons, archfiends, daedras, Ethereal planes, Elementals, Archons but still not much. I think it is safe to leave out most empires as well. That would leave us with,” I took another sip of the cool liquid, wetting my dry throat, “Religious orders?”

Syrune nodded in silence.

“What about Serinimae? How you got anything?” I asked.

“Nothing. All my attempts to contact her were in vain. As a first priority, we should collect all the surviving records and notes of Vangere. Camorien’s ride is three days journey from here. Vangere owns a mansion and his Laboratory is below. I could get us past the wards. But secrecy is of utmost concern,” cautioned Syrune.

“I understand with an adversary of this sort, unwilling folks would be used as spies. We would need a rogue and spymaster with a certain uncanny ability to mask our purpose,” I uttered my thoughts unconsciously.

“I might know just an elusive eel for this job if only I could capture that filthy whore-begotten halfling.”