"Silas. We all call him Silas."
Mao Hai offered the name with an almost disarming naturalness; the concept of discretion, it seemed, was entirely foreign to him. This Lothlan, he clearly thought, possessed an extraordinary personal magnetism, an innate ability to inspire unconscious trust. The man's very brow seemed to exude an aura of unimpeachable righteousness.
"My thanks," Lothlan responded, his demeanor one of profound respect. He even inclined his head in a slight, deferential bow, his eyes radiating an almost overwhelming sincerity. "I shall endeavor to find him, then."
Silas, clinging precariously outside the window, felt his fingernails bite deep into the wooden frame. He was on the verge of unleashing a torrent of curses.
*That blithering IDIOT!* he roared silently, a storm of frustration raging within him. Mao Hai, that incorrigibly good-natured, trusting old fool, was being played like a finely tuned lute and hadn't the faintest inkling. Lothlan's performance was, Silas had to admit, masterful; a few carefully chosen words, a gesture of feigned concern, and Mao Hai's guard had crumbled. In the old spice merchant's naive estimation, these noble, shining knights were undoubtedly Silas's last, best hope for salvation.
At that moment, the mayor, who had been fidgeting and looking uncomfortable for some time, finally seemed to gather his courage. His hands, resting on his knees, clenched and unclenched repeatedly. At last, he could contain himself no longer. "Mr. Mao Hai," he began, his voice a little too hearty, "if you would be so kind as to return to your rest. Commander Lothlan and I still have certain… pressing matters to discuss."
Mao Hai hesitated, a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. But Lothlan offered him a gentle, reassuring nod, a silent signal that all was well. And so, Mao Hai, his face suddenly alight with a renewed, almost desperate hope, turned and departed.
The instant the door clicked shut behind him, the ingratiating smile vanished from the mayor's face as if wiped clean by an invisible hand. He mopped at the beads of sweat glistening on his forehead, his voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial whisper. "Lord Lothlan, your arrival at this particular juncture… it is, shall we say, most… inopportune."
Lothlan arched an eyebrow, a silent, eloquent "Oh?"
"The Church," the mayor continued, his voice barely above a breath, "had already, in fact, informed me, in advance, of their intention to personally… *suppress*… these bandits. In the very near future. Your… pre-emptive action… Well, it will undoubtedly prove rather… difficult to explain to certain quarters within the Church."
Lothlan chuckled then, a soft, almost dismissive sound. He reached for the teacup on the nearby table, took a slow, deliberate sip, his demeanor as relaxed, as unconcerned, as an old man idly discussing the vagaries of the weather. "A most regrettable coincidence, it would seem. To think that I have, inadvertently, stolen the Church's thunder. I must, of course, make a personal visit at the earliest opportunity to offer my most profound apologies."
From the deep, concealing shadows near the window, a new voice, cold and sharp as a shard of ice, sliced through the room's heavy air: "Apologies will not be necessary."
Silas's body went rigid. He hadn't sensed him. Hadn't detected the slightest sound, the faintest hint of another presence. Someone else was in the room, mere feet away, separated from him only by the thin barrier of the wall.
The figure detached itself from the shadows, stepping slowly, deliberately, into the dim light. He was clad in the severe, black robes of a Church cleric, a polished silver inquisitor's insignia pinned prominently to his breast. His face was gaunt, ascetic, his eyes holding a dark, sinister gleam. He fixed Lothlan with an unblinking, predatory stare. "This… *target*… was, from the outset, designated for eradication by the Church. The identity of the instrument of that eradication is… immaterial. What *is* of consequence, however," his lips stretched into a thin, mirthless smile, "is to whom the credit for the accomplishment is duly assigned."
Lothlan remained silent, but his adjutant, her patience clearly exhausted, could no longer restrain herself. Her hand tightened on the hilt of her sword, her voice trembling with a barely suppressed fury. "The Church lifted not a single finger to aid us! Yet now, when it is time to claim the glory, you scurry forth faster than rats deserting a sinking ship?"
Silas, listening intently from his concealed position outside the window, felt the tight knot of tension in his own shoulders begin to ease. He had, it seemed, grievously misjudged these White Dragon Knights. They and the Church, it now appeared, were not allies. Far from it.
Lothlan reached out, casually taking the half-peeled apple from his adjutant's unresisting hand, and took a crisp, deliberate bite. His gaze, however, never wavered from the Church emissary, an unnerving, almost amused scrutiny, as if patiently waiting for the man to continue his little performance.
The cleric let out a series of short, dry, humorless coughs that might have been laughter. "The Purity Army," he said, his voice dripping with disdain, "not only indulged in murder and arson, not only grievously insulted the sanctity and dignity of the Holy Church, but more importantly—" he paused, his gaze, now alight with a sly, knowing malice, flicking to Lothlan, "—they also abducted eleven children. Children who were being held captive within their very encampment. Did you, perchance… *see* these children?"
A heavy, suffocating silence descended upon the room.
Lothlan offered no reply, merely continued to stare, his jaw working rhythmically as he chewed the apple. The sound, in the sudden, profound stillness, was unnaturally, almost obscenely, loud.
The emissary pressed on, his voice now taking on a sharper, more overtly threatening edge. "The Church, as you might imagine, places the very highest importance on the welfare of these innocent children. A full and rigorous investigation into their whereabouts has already been initiated. And yet, now… not a single one of them is to be found." His voice hardened further. "Tell me, Commander. Were they all… *tragically*… slain during the heat of battle? Or were they, perhaps… *sold* by you and your men to those… *heretical cultists*… who indulge in such unspeakable sacrificial rites?" His gaze, sharp and accusatory, flicked towards the door. "Like that… *Mr. Mao Hai*, for instance. His presence here… it strongly suggests he was… *liaising*… with you, does it not?"
The adjutant's sword, with a sharp, metallic *Zheng!*, slid a good half-inch from its scabbard, her knuckles white as she gripped the hilt. "You dare—!"
Lothlan's hand shot out, his fingers closing like a vise around her wrist, forcibly pushing her sword back into its sheath. His eyes, Silas noted, remained outwardly calm, yet there was a new tightness around his mouth, a subtle tension that belied his casual posture. His earlier, easy confidence had visibly… frayed.
"My esteemed friend from the Church," Lothlan said, his voice now smooth as silk, though with an undercurrent of something cold and hard, "we are in full agreement. It was, indeed, the Holy Church that personally, and with great wisdom, issued the directive for me to… *annihilate*… the Purity Army. And all of this," he inclined his head in a gesture of mock humility, "all the glory, all the credit for this… *accomplishment*… belongs, naturally, entirely to the Church."
The emissary nodded, a slow, smug gesture of satisfaction, as if this outcome had been a foregone conclusion. And why not? Could this fledgling, upstart order of knights, however ostentatious their armor, truly hope to oppose the might, the unassailable authority, of the Church? He casually brushed a speck of imaginary dust from his robes, then turned to depart. "Very good. You are, it seems, a reasonable man after all, Commander."
"Wait."
The emissary paused, turning back, a flicker of impatience in his cold eyes. "Is there… something further?"
"Those children," Lothlan said, his voice quiet, yet carrying a new, steely edge. He, too, now rose to his feet. His back was to Silas, his expression unreadable. "Where have they gone?"
The emissary's smile widened, deepening into a sneer of pure, unadulterated mockery. "The Church, as always, has its own… arrangements. You so-called 'knights,' you mercenary lapdogs, are scarcely qualified to interfere in such delicate matters."
Lothlan's renowned good temper, Silas sensed, was finally, irrevocably, fraying. When he spoke again, each word was a carefully enunciated, precisely delivered hammer blow:
"In a short while, I shall go out. And I shall announce, to those very same townspeople who have lost their children, that after decisively defeating the Purity Army, we, the White Dragon Knights, handed over *all* the rescued, captive children directly to the care and custody of the Church. That they were taken by *your* agents. And that they will, therefore, be returned to their homes. Immediately."
The emissary's smile froze, then curdled into a mask of pure, venomous fury. "Lothlan! Do not be a fool. Do not court disaster. You would dare to make such baseless, slanderous accusations? Without a shred of proof?"
Silas, listening, felt his own teeth grind with rage. He hadn't imagined, even in his darkest moments, that the agents of the Church could be so utterly, despicably shameless. They had clearly, demonstrably, colluded with the Purity Army to abduct those children. And now, they had the audacity to turn on their erstwhile allies, to deny all involvement, and even, with a breathtaking cynicism, to attempt to shift the blame, to sling their vile mud, onto the White Dragon Knights!
But then, in that same instant, his fingers, fumbling in his pocket, brushed against a folded piece of paper. The letter. The one he'd taken from Davitt's table.
*Evidence!*
In the chaotic moments when he'd nearly been skewered by the archer's arrow, he had, by sheer, unthinking reflex, stuffed the damning letter into his tunic. But how to get it to them now? Toss it through the window? Too crude. Too abrupt. That Church dog would instantly denounce it as a forgery, a fabrication, creating even more complications, more delays.
Silas, silent as a breath, slipped into the adjoining, empty room. He vaulted through the open window, landed lightly, then, after a quick, cautious peer into the corridor, pushed open the connecting door. All the guards, he saw with a surge of grim satisfaction, were still occupied downstairs, struggling to hold back the surging, fanatical tide of townspeople.
*Perfect.* With swift, silent steps, Silas reached the door of the room where the confrontation was taking place. He flung it open, strode in, and, without a word, extended the letter towards Lothlan.
"Commander. We found this… in the Purity Army commander's pocket."
The female adjutant reacted with lightning speed. The instant she registered Silas's sudden, unannounced appearance, her sword was already half-drawn. Lothlan, however, was clearly, visibly, stunned. His mouth opened, then closed, then opened again, as if struggling to form words, to process this new, unexpected development. Finally, ignoring his adjutant's instinctive, protective move to block Silas, he stepped forward, a slight, almost imperceptible curl of his lip betraying… what? Surprise? Amusement? He took the offered letter, his gaze locking with Silas's, a silent, searching question in their depths. But Silas offered no explanation, no acknowledgment. He simply nodded, once, then turned and strode from the room, giving no one a chance to react, to question, to detain him.
"Your subordinate, Commander, is exceedingly ill-mannered," the Church emissary, finally recovering his composure, sneered. "Barging in thus? And reeking of common spirits, no less. It would seem your reputation for… *managing*… your underlings is perhaps… somewhat inflated."
Lothlan, already unfolding the letter, merely offered a thin, dismissive smile. "Ah, yes. Our chief scout. Rather… fond of his drink, I'm afraid. A bit too much ale today, it seems. He has… lost his customary decorum. You must excuse his… rustic exuberance."
He scanned the letter quickly. His tightly furrowed brow gradually, almost miraculously, smoothed. A flicker of something – triumph? relief? – passed through his eyes. He passed the letter to his adjutant, who read it with a similar, dawning comprehension. Then, with a slow, deliberate movement, Lothlan placed the damning missive on the table, directly before the stunned, suddenly ashen-faced mayor, and the now visibly sweating Church emissary.
"I believe," Lothlan said, his voice now cold, hard, and utterly devoid of its earlier bonhomie, "there are certain… *matters*… that you will need to explain. In considerable detail. In the mayor's presence."