Liadon sighed. It wasn't that he hadn't been listening, because he had been...but, somehow he didn't expect 'errand boy' to be among the duties of Commander of the Red. Nonetheless, he found himself riding through the streets of Rockaxe with Zirane, carrying the gold, no matter how much his newfound sense of position might rebel.

Zirane glanced at him as he sighed, but ignored him, focussing in steering his charger amongst the people in the street. A beggar boy tugged a little at Liadon's leg as he rode past; Liadon flipped him a coin, and this did prompt a reply from his Blue counterpart.

"You shouldn't have done that," Zirane said quietly. "Encouraging them. By the time we get back to the castle they'll all be on us, as thick as thieves."

"But..."

Zirane raised an exquisitely slender red eyebrow. "But what?"

But you used to be one of them. "Nothing." Zirane snorted faintly through his nostrils and turned back to the road.

The beggar boy ducked into an alley and vanished into shadows that devoured the sparkle of the gold coin.

In front of the house, Zirane extended a hand to Liadon and he handed him the pouch. The new commander of the Blue swung down from his saddle and, as he did so, he saw a man, bearded and dressed in simple peasant's clothing, across the street. Normally this would never attract Zirane's attention except that this particular man was staring, intently. There was no awe or fear in his eyes. There was...something. Then the man was gone, lost in a momentary press of bodies and movement of the people. He glanced up at Liadon, who stared down at him, oblivious.

You should have said it, Liadon. "But you used to be one of them." Do you think I don't remember? Does a blind man forget that he is blind, and need to be reminded? For a moment, Zirane's disgust was so intense that he could smell it.

He turned and walked several paces to the doorway, rapped on it with steel knuckles. The man who answered it was tall, and thin, ascetic, dressed in a fine suit. "You are Zirane?"

"I am Commander Zirane, yes." The man said nothing, so Zirane shook the pouch in his hand ever so slightly.

"Yes," the man replied, "I see it." From somewhere off to his left, where the door obscured Zirane's sight, the man produced an ornately carved rosewood box, gilded with gold and locked with silver. A small key lay on top of the box. Zirane took it in his hands; it was heavier than it looked, due to whatever it contained. Something old and buried tried to make Zirane shake it, to see if it rattled like gold, or money; he ignored the old impulse. The door, as soon as the box was free of the man's hands, shut quite firmly in Zirane's face and he heard a key turn in the lock.

"Rude," he commented to Liadon as he swung into the saddle, and tucked the key into a pocket on his horse's tack. Liadon shrugged and wheeled his horse.

"I wonder why the Lord sent us both," Liadon commented to no one in particular.

Zirane shrugged, not in the mood to try to understand Gorudo. "It must be important, I suppose. I'm sure we will find out whenever Lord Gorudo deems it necessary."

"Hmm," Liadon replied. "It must be nice."

"What must be nice?"

"That attitude. The ability to coast along and have faith, and not always be looking ahead. Me, I'm finding everything very exciting right now...my life is full of surprises. First, I became interim commander of the Red, and now Dayne Mott is staying in our castle. Dayne Mott! Life's...an adventure, don't you think?"

"I suppose. Dayne Mott? The mercenary captain, you mean? How do you know him?"

"He's only one of the most renowned mercenary captains in recent memory," Liadon explained, obviously eager to dispense his knowledge. "Well, to me at least. He was kind of a personal hero of mine, growing up...I read about his campaigns in the Grasslands, Zexen. He may be a mercenary but according to the stories, he always acts with valour and honour. Almost...Matildan."

"I guess so. But he's still a mercenary." A faint flicker of something caught Zirane's eye and he turned to look at it. There was someone staring at him from the side of the road, a male peasant of some kind, bearded, staring intently.

Where have I seen him before?

Zirane was still contemplating the question when someone grabbed his cloak and yanked him bodily from the saddle.

Liadon was still recalling his boyhood fondness for stories of Captain Mott when someone grabbed Zirane by the cloak and yanked him bodily from the saddle. Someone from the crowd yelled "Down with the servants of Gorudo!" and someone hit Zirane with a rock; Liadon heard his friend's cry and swung from the saddle, drawing his sword, as a crowd of men surged forth from the streets to surround him and Zirane.

Laying about with the flat of the blade and occasionally his fists and feet, Liadon pushed back a rough circle around Zirane, who had managed to drag himself to his knees and was spitting blood.

"Down with the servants of Gorudo!" someone shouted again. Liadon was conscious that he was getting a headache.

"What's the meaning of this?" Someone threw a rock; it bounced off of his chest with little force, and he ignored it. "I don't understand."

"What's not to understand?" a bearded man with fiery eyes shouted back. "Gorudo lives in his castle in the clouds, while we labour, cold and poor and hungry in the streets! We are dying!"

"The Greenhill rice..." Liadon began.

"You," Zirane coughed, rising unsteadily to his feet and staring at the man, "are in no danger of dying, actually." A murmur went through the crowd. "No matter how liberal Jowston's immigration policy is, I rather doubt that a Harmonian nobleman - or priest, or whatever the equivalent - would abandon the high life in favour of serfdom. Your accent isn't that well hidden, sir...not from someone who's studied up a little. I guess I should ask who you are, but I doubt you'd answer." Zirane looked over the heads of the crowd, and Liadon became conscious of the sound of approaching hoofbeats. "That would seem to be the city watch. I suggest that you all disperse while I'm still seeing double."

"Trust me, Liadon," Zirane replied. "There can be no mistake. He was from Harmonia, not Matilda. He was hiding his accent, but it was there; a little bit of emphasis on the plosives that a Matildan wouldn't have." He winced. "Be careful!"

"Sit still, then. I've got to clean this cut for you." Someone had hit Zirane in the face with a rock, and it had gashed across his forehead above his eye; lots of blood, as was common with head wounds, but nothing serious. When he and Zirane had arrived back at Zirane's quarters he'd sent a page for hot water and some cloths. "Why was a Harmonian inciting the peasants to attack us?"

"Not us..." Zirane began.

"Lord Gorudo! They're trying to put together some sort of uprising..."

Zirane nodded slowly as Liadon dabbed at the wound on his face. An ugly bruise was rising on his cheek. "Against Lord Gorudo."

"It might mean that Harmonia has allied itself with Highland, then...we should warn the Lord."

"My guess, Liadon? He already knows."

Genshu stalked from the chaotic realms of the forested woodlands surrounding Matilda, his long robes snagging on the offensive branches as he did so. It was not as if he prefered to dwell within the darkness of the forest, skulking forth like a common thief or dirty ninja, but his reputation and presence in Rockaxe were far from welcomed, and he knew, above all nature of man's own ignorance, it was always best to err on the side of caution. That was at least one lesson he cherrished from the Temple of the Silver Moon.

As he weaved his way expertly between low hanging branches and protruding stumps, Genshu came to a clearing by which his mind was shocked with a sudden memory of his undesired past. These lands, he knew all too well, for this was the small village he traveled to, several times as a young man. Where fate would direct him to the lives of the abrassive Laos, the excitable child Oulan, and her family, but more than all of his thoughts on those who showed him true acceptance, was the memory of his meeting with a young woman, Marai, who would forever capture his heart and own his soul.

Yet, the small, dusty hamlet once remembered no longer existed. The dank, moldy inn nor the simple bakery stood as monuments to what had once been a feable town, distinguished by poverty, but happy none the less. But the village was gone, and nothing seemed to exist of the memory except a large chateau standing in the center of what would have been the main road. It was tall, expertly constructed, and seemed to almost boast its own existence. This, "plantation" as it were, was all the remained of Genshu's fleeting remembrance of his humanity. And now it was gone, and he could see by the patrolling guards, that they were of Knights of the Red. This, sadly, has been reverted to another man's home, and those who once lived here were but whispers of time's own recollection.

Genshu stared at the towering mansion, his eyes narrowed at the greed that filtered from such a construct. His mind grasped the conclusion before him, yet denied his fears. He had, for all these years, had wondered what had happened to the young, red headed child who once called him uncle, the tall, commanding man whom he called master; and the beautiful woman who opened her house to him, despite the fear the existed just below the surface. He had wanted, all these years, to return and beg forgiveness for Marai's death, yet now, it seemed he would never get that chance.