He sat in the parlour in a large, leather-clad chair, and parsed through his Trumps, finally setting on his Uncle Delwin as the right person to call.  Not that he didn't trust Sand.  Well ... he didn't.  At least, not where Delwin was concerned.  Which made his calling her in the first place a bit odd, too, but, there you go.

As he held up the Trump to begin concentrating on it, he spotted something he had not before.  A door.  Idiot.  He slipped the Trumps back into his pocket and moved over to it.

It was a sliding door, not immediately visible as part of the wall, but enough so amongst the wood paneling and such that he should have seen it far sooner.  He no longer felt the ever-present eyes of the staff on him -- on reason he had chosen to sit there in the first place.  That worked to his advantage, as he carefully slid back the door.

It was a study.  Large desk.  Chair.  Lots of bookshelves.  Nice view of an inner courtyard.

He wandered over to the bookshelves, both out of curiosity and on the off chance that he was still being watched.  The selection was interesting, but did not bear much further examination.  He picked up a volume at random -- something about the procedures for butchering whales -- and plopped himself down in the desk chair, twirling around a few times.

No alarms.  No servants solicitously asking if he needed help.  No sign of any observation at all.

Nothing of any note was on the desktop.  He took a letter opening from a small holder on the desk -- nice blade, good balance, effective weapon, he noticed -- and used it to open each drawer.  They weren't locked, and no poison needles snicked out and no grenades dropped to the floor.

After methodically examining the contents and finding them utterly conventional, he took the next standard step of measuring drawer length.  Indeed, as he had spotted almost immediately, one drawer was significantly shorter than the others.  Pulling it all the way out, he could see a small safe at the far end.

Now this was more like it.  He examined the safe, disarmed a small trap, noted and saved a hair that had been pasted over the edge of the door, then picked the lock.  Child's play.  It might all be a setup, of course, but Sand didn't seem the type to entertain too many guests, and she might have only gone through the motions.

Inside ... a diary.

Read it now, or later?  Prudence dictated now.  Edward had close enough to an eidetic memory, when he put his mind to it, to make it far better that he skim through the diary now than that Sand find out later that he had stolen it.  Yes, indeed.

Unfortunately, it was a relatively new volume, and most of the entries were rather mundane -- personnel notes, weather reports, movies she'd seen.  He flipped to the end, and found ...

Edward Trumped in with Delwin over his shoulder.  Quite unexpected, as was my reaction to him.  Delwin was trundled off to someplace safe where he could be cared for.  Edward said the wound was from the Unicorn.  Don't know how D. got mixed up with her again.  I need to talk with S. about my misgivings over the current plan.  I'll leave an excuse for Edward.  Hopefully, no one will follow.  I'll have to see how things go, afterwards.

Fascinating.  Delwin seemed indeed safe.  But who was "S"? 

Of course, there was no question that he was going to follow her.  He just had to think of a good excuse if -- unlikely, but always best to consider the possibility -- she caught him doing so.

Based on what he'd observed of his relatives, ego played the predominant role in their actions.  So, playing that card would work best.  Enraptured by the quality of their lovemaking, he had no choice but to follow her to the ends of the earth.  Or something like that.  She might not believe it, but ego wouldn't let her dismiss the possibility out of hand ...

In the meantime, he wrote her a letter -- on the assumption that he would not get caught -- thanking her for the wonderful time, etc., and suggesting she ring him up sometime.  He tracked down the majordomo and instructed him to give it to her.

He bid a loud farewell in absentia to the other watchful, hidden serventry, and headed out the front door, across the moors ...

*     *     *

He walked far enough to find Muerte again.  No point in being silly about it.  He continued to work the Pattern to pursue Sand.

*     *     *

Some time later, he received a Trump call.  He fanned through his deck, and determined it was Breann.  Indeed?  He had her on his list to call, should he be unable to reach Delwin, but ...

"Hello?"

Breann proceeded to tell him that she was contemplating breaking into Utumno, the Unescapble Fortress that they had escaped from some time back.  She was clearly demented, but nothing he could do to convince her of that had any effect.

What would Deirdre say?  Right.  He couldn't let her go get herself imprisoned again.  That made a good enough reason as any to conjure with.   And Breann's need for weapons -- the reason she'd called -- was a good opportunity.

Besides, it occured to him that Delwin had been in Utumno.  How had he come to be at Lora's -- his mother's -- burial site?  That might be worth pursuing.

And, besides -- it would be -- oddly -- interesting to -- do such a thing with Breann.  Annoying, irritating, aggravating, all those things -- but also ... possibly ...

Well, enough of that.  He told her he'd find some weapons for her and the other two (!) with her.  He rode the moors for a while longer, until he came to an abandoned safe house, which, by Pattern-induced coincidence, had a cache of high quality weapons inside. 

He picked up a half-dozen gas masks as well, loaded up the cart that was conveniently nearby, hitched it to Muerte, and called Bree ...

Journal #72, 21 June 1999
"A Delightful Love of Weapons"

Edward Trumped Breann.  "So," she said, "what did you bring me, Santa?"

She had such a delightful love of weapons.

Once through, Edward tried to elicit a plan from Breann.  Did she know what kept the barriers up?  No.  She figured they'd just find some way to take down the barrier or its power source.  If they could.

Stupid, silly and dumb.  Edward considered, briefly, who was the greater fool -- the fool, or the one who knowingly followed her.

Edwards also had a sudden mental flash of cold-cocking Breann, to keep her safe.  He had no idea where that came from, especially since the flash included his saying, "My Queen, we must go."

Though he'd had the earlier impression that there was a more sizeable party going, the expedition looked to be just Breann, Vaughan, Marcus (a mage associated with Finndo), and, of course, Edward.

Edward pulled out Delwin's Trump.  If he could find out how he was doing -- or, more importantly, how he had gotten out, it could be useful.  The Trump came cold, but there was no contact established.

An inspiration hit him.  With a slight chuckle, he pulled out the Trump for Lanten, his old employer in Utumno, who had escaped with them.  Lanten had given him his Trump as they left.  Now ...

Lanten's face peered at him.  Recognition dawned, though it had only been a month or two.  "Edward?"

Edward queried him as to whether he had ever done any research on the source of the spell or its power that so effectively kept folks in Utumno by blowing them up if they left.   It turned out he had, some.  It was some sort of biofeedback extracted from tortured prisoners.  It was a moment-by-moment thing, though, so if they could interrupt the flow of energy, the barrier would go down.  The source would be towards the top of Utumno, in the administrative block.

He only knew about it in the abstract, though, and was curious about the particulars.   He was not interested enough, however, to accept Edward's invitation to join them on their expedition.  A wise man indeed.

*     *     *

They reached the gates, and entered, feeling pins and needles runnnig down their spines as they did so.  Whether it was psychosomatic or some real tingling of power was unclear, but they all knew that they were now trapped inside.

Kethos, it was to be assumed, would fairly quickly advance upwards.  They had merely to descend until they ran into him.  And any guards would have their backs to them -- who would be going down in Utumno?

Indeed, they did kill a number of guards, before Breann suggested that they try to Trump Kethos.  It seemed like a good idea to Edward, and it seemed an even better idea that Bree was doing it when she collapsed to the ground in pain, leaching through the contact.

Hmmmmm.  Kethos.  An Amberite constitution.  In serious pain.  Edward recalled Lanten's speculation about the power source.  And realized that they needed to move ... upwards.

Journal #73, 05-Jul-99
"I Really Don't Like This"

They killed them and went on.

Edward, Breann, and Vaughan worked their way upwards through Utumno, as Marcus, at the rear, magically directed them toward Kethos. Utumno's defenders were weaker up above -- and little could stand before the quartet of Amberites.

At last, Marcus identified a door for them to turn into. It looked -- thick. There was a handplate there, obviously for access. Just as obviously, it was not a human hand. Instead, it was a long, wide, three-fingered ....

Edward considered. He knew he could change his form, his face, his complexion -- but, this?

He made a face. He made another face. It didn't seem to be accomplishing anything. So he changed his hand to the appropriate shape, gave it the whorls and loops his enhanced vision could see as prints on the handplate.

And the door opened to the chamber of horrors. Body after body, hanging from a weirdly techno-organic ceiling, suspended by tendrils that seemed to penetrate into varius places on their bodies. Larger tubes seemed to provide sustineance, and take away wastes. And the room was huge; there must have been thousands of victims.

Horrid. Edward was both fascinated and appalled.

The bodies closest to the door, still clearly alive, were dessicated, nearly worn out. Marcus pointed out a direction, and they entered.

After a while, they spotted Kethos. He looked -- fresher, perhaps, than the prisoners around him. He feebly writhed in pain, oblivious to his surroundings, perceiving only the agony which Breann had detected. Now she drew her blade, as though to cut him down.

"Wait!" shouted Edward. Breann, amazingly, complied.

Edward drew his own blade, and cut down the prisoner hanging alongside Kethos, who looked like he'd probably be harmless if he revived. Strange fluids, and worse, sprayed and dripped. The man fell to the ground, and immediately went into convulsions, dying within the minute.

Edward smiled, mildly, at Breann, who frowned. It warmed the cockles of his heart.

Edward and Bree examined the body, looking at how the implants were put in. Aside from the food tube to the stomach, and the mechanism to draw away waste, each tendril seemed to be attached to a chakra point. Interesting.

Edward worked on the next prisoner more carefully, tying off and severing the tendrils one at a time. Vaughan, with ill grace, held the unfortunate chap up as the supports were cut. And -- success. The man lived, albeit still unconscious, as Vaughan lowered him to the ground.

Bree and Edward started off doing the same for Kethos. They had all but the last chakra tendril cut when the second man convulsed, and died. Edward looked at Breann. Breann looked at Edward. There was nothing to do now but to work faster.

At last Kethos was down. Vaughan lifted him, and they lit out for the exit. Even if Kethos' life was not in the balance, it was highly likely that some sort of alarm had been triggered. But, of course, rescuing Kethos was only part of the equation. They had to disrupt the power supply that fueled the spell that slew everyone who tried to leave.

So, as they paused as the door, Edward threw the nerve gas grenades as far as he could. He didn't know if it would affect the biotechnology, but if it killed the torture victims, that would accomplish the same task. Some might have even thought it a mercy, though that could have very little to do with Edward.

As he did this, Breann was letting loose with lightning bolts, severing tendrils and, collaterally, killing victims. A similar result was had from Marcus' wave of fireballs.

Leaving the room a smoking ruin of death behind them, they started running for the exit.

*     *     *

Along the way, they saw a prisoner standing in the corridor, staring at them. Breann smiled, and grabbed him as they ran. They would need someone to toss out the front door, to see if their strategem had worked. Edward had thought he could send Marcus ahead "on point," but supposed Breann's idea was -- well, if not better, then perhaps more politic. And it reminded him of something.

They rounded a corner, and ran into a set of guards running in the opposite direction. Edward grabbed the one survivor, after the brief melees, and dragged him along as well.

Breann was annoyed, which seemed a perpetual state for her, except when she was being smug. Edward didn't point out that he hadn't objected to *her* dragging along a prisoner.

"So, my good man," he said, "do you keep up with gossip?"

"Er -- yeah?"

"Good answer."  Edward smiled.  "So, what have you heard about the prisoner, Delwin?"

"Delwin?  The prisoner?"

"That's  the one."

The guard stumbled, but managed to keep on his feet.  "Uh -- he's gone."

"I know that.  How?"

"Uh -- nobody really talks about it.  He was here by his own choice, and he was able to payoff someone in management, to get out."

"Ah."  Edward mused.  "Any idea why?"

"Well, no, I didn't really know him, and, like I said, the management doesn't want people really talking about it."

"Of course."  Edward's eyes widened, and he stared over the guard's shoulder.  "My goodness!  The warden!"

"The warden?!"  The guard turned and looked and Edward slipped his dagger into the man's back, letting the body drop as they ran on.  Breann made a noise.   Edward ignored it.

*     *     *

They reached the front door, at last.

"Please!  I don't want to die!  I don't want to leave!  I like it here! I'm paying to be here."

Breann kicked the prisoner out the door anyway.  Edward smiled, then smiled even more as they saw that the prisoner still lived.  They all looked at each other, then dove out the door as fast as they could.

*     *     *

"We need to get to Finndo as soon as possible," Breann was saying.   "Even if Kethos is tougher than those other guys --"

"We can't Trump him from here," Marcus noted.  "We'll have to get to Ygg. And that will take hours."

"Edward," Breann asked him, "do you know of anyone near here who would have good medical technology?"

Edwward was mildly amazed that she was asking him, but, after a moment's thought -- "Lanten.  The gent with whom we escaped from here before, and whom I was talking with earlier.  He's from the Courts, of some prestige there."  He pulled Lanten's Trump back out.

"Lanten, long time no see."

"Edward!"  Lanten looked surprised.  He was standing in a courtyard.   "When do you begin your little incursion?"

"Begun, executed, and finished."

"You're out?!"

"Yes, and I'd love to come through and chat with you about it.  I -- one of my companions needs medical treatment."

Lanten looked at him for a long moment.  "So you're looking for a favor."

Edward sounded wounded.  "If you want to look at it that way.  May we come through?"

Lanten hesitated.  "Hold on."  The contact went dark, but remained in place.

Time passed.  One minute.  Two.

"I don't like this," said Breann.

"Probably has company," Edward said.  "Or getting the living room picked up."

Another minute passed.  "I *really* don't like this," Breann said.

Edward considered that it was odd that Breann was being paranoid and he was being trusting.  Indeed.  He considered.  And recalled Lanten expressing interest in how Utumno's spell was powered.  And Kethos would provide him with evidence of it -- and a test subject. "Ah --"

"Edward," said Lanten, coming back on line.  "Sorry about that.   Please, come through."  He extended a hand.

Unable to think of any reason how he could back out, he accepted, and they all passed through the contact.

*     *     *

They were in the courtyard in question.  To one side were several guards, at attention.  They were led by a stoic, bald gentleman, with an odd creature nested against the back of his head.  Lanten smiled and nodded to us, and the bald gent and guards turned and left.

Kethos was hustled off to the medical center, and we all sat down to tea.

*     *     *

The atmosphere was friendly.  The tea was tasty.  And the report on Kethos was not promising.  Indeed, his condition was deteriorating.

Breann abruptly stood up.  "I have to leave.  Quinn might be able to help."

Edward was not altogether comfortable with being left there, though Vaughan was going to stay a while later.  Breann and Marcus departed.

*     *     *

And, some time later, Edward felt an odd, sudden chill ... and the sense of something stirring...

#74, 12 July 1999
"Regal, Isn't She?"

For three days, Edward fretted at Lanten's keep.  He kept himself occupied by revisiting old times in Utumno with his erstwhile patron, and watching Kethos slowly fade. 

Neither passtime thrilled him.

Nonetheless, Lanten's staff seemed to be doing all they could for Kethos.

On the third day, Miriel Trumped Vaughan.  The contact was shaky, and Edward had to help him.  She was offering to bring all of them through to Aretia, where, apparently, less than a day had passed, and where more high-tech facilities existed for Kethos' care.  Edward quickly responded in the affirmative.

Lanten, surprisingly enough, invited himself along.  Edward, pleased that his concerns over Kethos' safety (not to mention his own) had been poorly founded, had no problem with this.  Of course, the alarms went off when Lanten arrived, signalling an unauthorized shapeshifter.   Quinn apologized for the commotion, pointing out the problems they had had with shapeshifters in the past there in his personal shadow, Osric in particular.

Kethos was installed in a regneration tank, and began to take a turn for the better.  Edward was ... relieved.  Given Kethos' gruff nature and physical prowess, he'd have hated to be the one to inform Kethos' father, Finndo, of his son's demise.

*   *   *

Wandering about the castle, Edward found Breann and Quinn conversing.  Breann was just saying, as Edward entered the room, "... someone needs to go to the Fire Pattern to let Finndo know where his son is."

Edward twirled on his heels and exited, before he found himself so drafted.

Then he hesitated.  He had not had a chance, of late, to catch up with Breann, especially since he had learned of the Baron's death and Deirdre's grave wounding.  Concerning the Baron, it was Edward's opinion that it could not have happened to a nicer fellow (though the thought caused something dark and terrible to stir in the recesses of his mind).  And, he understood from Quinn, Dworkin was not happy about the Baron being dead.  Odd.