He hadn't considered the possibility they'd send someone to go get the librarian, though he should have. Mistress Freja Heyerwif's character sheet was buried several windows behind the front of his computer screen, and he didn't even have a print-out for her yet. The only reason she'd appeared at all was because Uncle had felt sorry after some low rolls had extended that research section for too long.

  "Ahem. Yes. Good work, ladies... and gentleman," he finally forced out. "That was... s... snrk, very well done."

  Shelby managed to continue the nonverbal theme one step further by expressing all her annoyance with a single raised finger. That made the entire table lose it, and the game had to be paused for laughter.

  "In... in any case... snrk. Ahem. Yes, in any case, you just spent a full turn trying to communicate with one another, but everyone else has been busy. The witch-hunter's got his followers back in order, mostly, and they're coming in from the front." He positioned those markers on the battle map.

  "The knights have been doing their duty and keeping people on the far end of the market safe. They should have it evacuated in three more rounds, after which time they'll head your way." The group of chess knights took their places.

  "The bards are currently freaking out." Uncle pulled out a d4, a little black four-faced pyramid, and tossed it. There was a light clatter, and then it stopped with a 2 at its topmost point. "Okay, two more rounds till they're calmed down enough to do anything."

  "What about the crazy lady?" asked Cynthia.

  "Oh, yes," said Uncle. "Her..."

  Little Bianca was seeing combat from a whole new perspective: ground level. She couldn't really appreciate the view. There was a good reason why she preferred to fly her broom everywhere, after all. She hoped that idiot in the blue cassock hadn't done any lasting harm to it with his spellbreaker staff.

  Her shoulder ached under the weight of her bag, and the only consolation was that soon it would be much lighter. Pulling out one of her bombs, she cat-stepped over to the witch-hunter's huddle, but then realized how stupid she was being. Nobody could hear, right? So it made no difference if she ran fast over the cobblestones and screamed muted curses at two of the men's boots as she rolled the small explosive between their legs.

  The boom was quiet, too. Bianca was disappointed, but that didn't keep her from readying her next trick.

  Cassie saw the bad guys break from their huddle as it got burst from the inside out, but she wasn't sure how she felt about them running towards her and the others. The natural panic caused by the unnatural silence fed into something else, a heart-pounding, pulse-thumping frisson of excitement that made her want to run, scream, and punch stuff, all at once.

  Mistress Madonnel, in her lessons on natural philosophy back at the academy, had described this sort of thing as a "fight or flight" response. The moon princess hadn't understood many of the details of that lecture, but in the here and now she knew one thing.

  "Bunnies don't fly!" she shouted silently. No one could hear her to correct the error in her etymology, and she would not have cared anyway. Even a mama bunny could be fierce when her baby conies were threatened. From the pounding of her heart, something new arose.

  She had the presence of mind to loosen her belt and shuck her shoes before it arrived. Power coursed through her limbs, forcing her muscles to bulge and fil the loose-fitting homespun. Feet expanded and bent, changing her stance and balance. Ears grew long and straight, stretching far from her head, while in her mouth her front teeth grew long and sharp. Blonde hair turned white, and matching fur covered everything. Though she could not see it, she somehow knew that a dark crescent patch adorned her forehead.

  One of the witch-hunter's men had rushed towards her, only to stop and gape at this sudden transformation. The bunny girl's shriek was frightening even without sound, and the rabbit punch to his gut laid him low.

  Flora was stumped. The enforced silence hit her doubly hard, because not only would her bardic skills be practically useless without anyone to listen, her druid magic relied heavily on her being able to recite spells correctly. Doing that without a working pair of ears was problematic.

  As an example, she was now on her fourth attempt to enchant her squirrel. The power was there for the spell, and she could feel it responding, but the magic kept fizzling. Some point of inflection was tripping her up, and the frustration and stress only made it worse.

  She gripped the lute, feeling the hum of its strings as she ran her hand across them. Nothing had stopped the sound; it was just the ears that failed. There was something important to that bit of insight, she knew, and she'd almost gotten it figgered out when the crazy stripey lady popped from nowhere to hit her with a knife.

  Nothing stopped a scream, either. She could feel the sound ripping through her throat as she instinctively pulled away from the strange woman, holding her wounded arm and glaring.

  The stranger never even gave her a backwards glance as she strode onward.

  Gwen was doing her best to keep her eyes on the woman's approach. The Stalker in Silence was not in a rush, moving languorously as a jungle cat through the chaos she'd provoked.

  It was interesting to see how the two half-elves differed. The princess was tall, but the Stalker had her beat by another three inches. Both had athletic physiques, but the other half-elf was more mature, perhaps twice Gwen's age. That was still quite young for one of their kind, and the Stalker's silvery-grey hair marked her not as elderly, but as a member of a certain caste.

  Some half-elves, like Gwen, were born of a natural liaison between their parents, but many were the children of two humans who had pleased their liege, to be rewarded with magic that would change their child in the womb. Such sterling hair was a sure sign of that granted status, and the bonds to their elven godparent.

  All this the princess knew well, and it gave her some insight into the woman's motives and allegiance. None of this, unfortunately, was pertinent to the fight.

  The Stalker in Silence had stabbed Flora more as a simple object of opportunity, with little intent in seeing if the druid stayed down. Likewise, she spun around Selvi's attacks, bringing the half-orc low with some well-timed jabs of a deceptively dainty fist. As the barbarian hacked and wheezed upon the paving stones, Gwen prepared for the worst.

  Her eyes bored into the Stalker, not trusting herself even to blink, not in this aching silence. Her ears hurt from the strain of clenching upon emptiness.

  Ten feet away, the Stalker paused her step, bringing up a hand to form signs of import. NOTICE, implied the first, followed by the mudras of conflict, necessity, and confinement. Every motion was with the utmost grace -- a formal declaration of intent, within the hallowed rules of the Imperium.

  Gwen was not as well-versed in the mudras of political discourse, and the hand sign she chose in response would have made Selvi proud with its crude directness. If the other half-elf felt insulted, no hint of the emotion crossed her painted face.

  With the reddened tip of her lips pursed tightly, the Stalking brought up her hands to frame her face. Reality remained unchanged, but the perception of it shifted radically, as that white-painted visage seemed to divest itself of the flesh behind it, to become a ghastly, free-floating mask of death.

  Her throat rippled with the force of her frightened screams, though her ears still caught on nothingness. Blinded by panic, she did not see the Stalker make the next move until it was far too late.

  Using the flats of her palms, the grey half-elf traced the outline of a square plane before Gwen, and then to the sides, behind her, and over her head as well. The air pressure suddenly rose, forcing her eardrums to pop, and when Gwen tried to lash out at the Stalker, her fists met an almost invisible but unfortunately solid wall.

  Selvi Khan's-daughter was hacking and wheezing as she righted herself. Whoever this new elfy-person was, she hit hard. The barbarian could respect someone who could lay a punch like that. What she couldn't do, however, was forgive or forget. Miss Elfy-Pants was going down.

  At least, she would be as soon as Selvi could find her. The total absence of sound had her disoriented like nothing else.

  There, a voice whispered in her head. To the right.

  She didn't pause to question the words, or how she could hear without the use of her ears. Spinning around, she saw the grey woman, now preoccupied with Gwen.

  That was a sight to see, Princess Pointy-Ears banging and wailing on the walls of a box that shimmered faintly in the afternoon sun. Gwen was doing a warrior proud, with lips hurling expletives and curses that the half-orc couldn't make out, though their intent came across perfectly. From the heaving of her chest, the half-elf was feeling short of breath.

  Anger was Selvi's oldest friend, and always a useful one at that. In defense of herself, it was a force to be reckoned with. The khan's daughter had only recently come to understand how strong it could be in defense of another. As the world turned red to match the light streaming from the runes of her amulet, she was prepared to teach Miss Elfy-Pants just that.

  The roar from her lips should have broken the walls of Bargoczy, should have sent grown men running with fear, but the grey woman merely looked up from her task and made a dismissive gesture.

  Call on me, that silent voice told her. Let me serve.

  Her mind, so filled with wrath at this woman who would threaten her and her friends, did not give a second thought to this. Another roar erupted from her throat, an alto imitation of her father's personal call to arms. Even deaf as she was, she could feel the sound against her skin and knew it to be truly well done.

  Red light flared from her talisman in a familiar manner. In the past, her rage had called forth phantom pairs -- male and female, man and orc -- to fight alongside her with the arms and armor of her father's army. This time, the spectral honor guard was a single warrior. A red-haired phantom in gleaming armor, a fusion of western craftsmanship and eastern style. Upon her chestplate was the image of a golden condor with a rose in its talons, and by her side she carried a knightly blade which shone with cool, pure light.

  Rosina saluted, and Selvi returned the gesture. Without further word, they charged.

  Bianca was officially out of bombs, but not out of idiots she'd like to see blown up. The witch-hunter had proven to be a slippery devil, not to mention adept at letting others take the brunt of the boom. Bianca's little explosives may not have packed too large of a punch, but people definitely felt it when they connected.

  A couple of the locals had decided to attack her friends instead, much good that it had done them. Cassie wasn't looking as fuzzy or furious as that moonlit night under the dead tree, but the bunny girl had a kick fit to send a man flying.

  Farther off, that group of bards, now thankfully muted, had tried to get Flora. Their redheaded leader received a face-full of giant squirrel for his efforts, and then Flora had done her presto-change-o bit, transforming into a fearsome little black bear.

  As luck would have it, all the zealots who couldn't handle a bunny were running headlong towards the bards who feared nature's wrath, with the witch-hunter right in the middle. Opportunity made her nose itch.

  The Rod of Random had seen plenty of use that day, certainly more than was wise, but the little witch was feeling lucky. Aiming the filigreed, gaudy stick at the witch-hunter, she mouthed the word "Bang!"

  A cloud of greenish gas poured forth, filling the quarter of the square before her with one of the most pungent odors she'd ever had the misfortune to experience. The folk caught in the middle of it seemed to agree, as they all promptly collapsed to the ground, retching and flailing about.

  Turning around, the self-satisfied smirk stretched itself across her face, but it flopped off her lips as she took in the scene she'd not been able to hear. Gwen in a box. Selvi... and Rosina?

  Her ears were failing her, not the eyes, but now she was doubting those orbs as well. The phantom princess was circling around that crazy half-elf in grey, while Selvi led her usual assault, but even that wasn't enough, it seemed. The woman's arms moved with a determination that made one think that she actually had a pair of batons in her hands, and the half-orc's blade was frequently turned back by cylinders of empty air.

  Another witchy curse floated impotently, to be heard by none. How were they supposed to fight that?

  For that matter, where was Prissy?

  Run to the library. Get help. Easy, right? The Roadie thief would have assumed so. The joint was a straight run up the avenue from the market plaza, and short as they were, there was nothing wrong with her legs.

  Which was good, 'cuz they had to pump as hard as the dickens to stay ahead of the crowd of creeps now racing through her dust.

  Stupid, stupid ring of invisibility! Idiotic, deplorable streetsweepers, leaving things to trip over! Crappy, crass, cretinous creepers, with plenty of friends whose ears apparently still functioned quite well, thank-you-very-much!

  At least she'd got a good head-start on them. The heavy oaken doors with their rose motif were already parting before her as her unwelcome entourage rushed up the steps. Her voice, altered to a faux-tenor by the mockingbird charm, was screaming bloody murder loudly enough to echo over the din inside.

  "Ja, ja, what is it?" The thriceling lady was right there in the atrium -- thank the cards and dice -- and with a clear view through the front doors, the "what" of the matter was plainly obvious.

  "Um, the ladies need some help, big time?" Priscilla said. "And, er, me too?" A petite thumb jerked back towards the creeps, who'd piled to a halt at the sight of the oversized librarian.

  "Explain yourselves." Mistress Heyerwif had to duck her head to avoid hitting the stone arch of the doorframe, and she did not bother bending over to look the creeps in the cowl. Instead they were forced to crane their necks, which made for a precarious pose on the worn stone steps.

  "We are only after this one," said the tallest of them. His voice was rough and muffled by his cowl and mask. "We know not of these others, nor their problems. He is all we seek."

  "Not today, you do not," the librarian informed them. "Today, this one is allied to me und mine, und the Dvergrisi take such things with great seriousness. Where are the girls, young one?" she asked Priscilla.

  "Um, back at the market plaza, down that way."

  "Good. Let us go." The librarian offered an arm, which the Roadie gratefully clambered up. As the thriceling proceeded down the steps, the gang of creeps assembled to block her way.

  "We must protest," the leader said, clicking his tongue. "If you do not cease, then--"

  In the librarian's free hand was a thick, heavy book. This in itself was not so unusual, leaving a librarian and all, but then it opened with a snap, pages fluttering until it lay open to a specific entry. From her position on Mistress Heyerwif's shoulder, Priscilla could see it well:

  To the right of the text was an illustration of the weapon, rendered so realistically that when Mistress Heyerwif reached her hand into the page and drew it out, the thief was not surprised. The long-bladed polearm was a good two and a half yards in length, and still it looked small in its mistress's hands as she towered over pretty much everything but the library itself.

  "Du ska passa dig," she said with great seriousness. "You had better watch yourself, little ones."

  Priscilla cheerfully made rude gestures at the creeps as she and the librarian passed them by.

  Marcellia was enjoying herself. It wasn't an emotion she was greatly familiar with, so this realization was slow in coming. In her many years of being her godmother's silent terror, she had taken on all sorts of missions, killed all sorts of people, and done so with fatal precision. Rarely did she have the opportunity to stretch herself and let loose with all she had.

  This mission had been different from its inception. Capture the duchess, contain her -- but not kill. That parameter by itself had changed the way the game was played, had necessitated surveillance at that lovely little cafe. Even so, there were surprises.

  The barbarian's sword swept past, coming within an inch of her nose. Marcellia was already twisting around and back to parry a blow from the half-orc's partner, a Baragocci with a flaming top of hair, who'd appeared out of nowhere. The silvery longsword rebounded after hitting the Stalker's concentrated bar of kinetic force.

  She was not used to surprises like that. It had been a welcome change of pace, affording the chance to have a real fight for once. The kinetic batons were swift and strong, projected from her mind and through the motion of her hands. They did well to keep her safe, and the dance of her arms took her safely past the two shining blades.

  Behind her, she could hear the duchess pounding on the cage of force, but far weaker than before. A minute or two more, and the girl would be unconscious and unable to resist the ring of teleportation she had secreted away. Until then, she would entertain herself with the half-orc and the redhead... and the bear that was waddling its way over... with a giant squirrel... and the young fool in homespun, now apparently half-rabbit...

  This. This was why more surveillance was necessary with operations like the one she had here. Marcellia dodged around the duchess's force cage while her brain calculated, and her batons once more guarded against the blows of the half-orc. Of the six targets observed, only the duchess had proved to be as expected. A barbarian who called phantoms to her aid? A bard who shapeshifted? A magic-user who played the witch and unleashed forces of pure chaos? An actual beast-warrior, after all these centuries?

  And where was the thief? Her eyes spared an instant to scan the market plaza, looking for the halfling sneak or the cowled ones who chased him. Neither were evident, and she was about to dismiss that loose strand entirely when a new problem entered the fray.

  At almost three yards in height, the woman was obviously related to the Dvergrisi, but most likely a mongrel, in Marcellia's estimation. On the woman's shoulder, the thief perched, shouting and pointing a finger at Marcellia. In the woman's other hand was a northern polearm, also pointed at Marcellia.

 

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