Vero walked slowly up the stairs.

She did not particularly like Pentarch, but at least he was something familiar. Now a cloak of dread hung heavy on her. She felt a wave of nausea pass over her, and needed to stop in front of the door leading onto the mezzanine.

When it passed, she tried the door and found it locked. She knocked.

A slit in the door opened, and two yellow eyes peered out at her.

Vero waited to see if the eyes on the other side of the door would speak, but no words were forthcoming. So, she said the first thing that came into her mind. “I was asked to speak to the Curia.”

The slit slammed shut and Vero had just enough time to wonder if she said something wrong, before she heard a heavy bolt being unlatched and the door opened.

On the other side was a creature so profoundly ugly that Vero could hardly believe that it was a man, and not some vulgar homunculus. He was just over five feet in height and completely hairless, even to the eyebrows. His eyes were widely set, and very large in a way that reminded her of a fish- or more like an amphibian, as he was on land at present. It was not just his eyes which were yellow, his clammy skin also appeared severely jaundiced.

“Enter, Lady Veronique.” He had a croaking voice like a frog, and was so enormously fat that there were rolls in his jowls which moved as he spoke.

Beyond the disgusting little man were a dozen figures, or perhaps more. The room was dark and filled with smoke from burning incense, which made it difficult to see the far corners of the room and caused her head to spin. The figures shifted around endlessly, moving in and out of sight, and never stopping for longer than a moment.

If there was a method to their movements, Vero could not perceive it. One at a time, a few would approach her before backing away again. Though like the tide, they were slowly drawing closer to her each time.

When they came nearer, Vero could finally see them in detail rather than as shifting shadows. Each figure was in a deep cloak, which they wrapped themselves in tightly. They had no hoods, but on their faces they each wore a strange mask with a long beak that stretched out in front of them.

In addition to the freestanding sticks of incense she could see around her, each beak also contained more burning incense. The mask guided the smoke to the face of the wearer, where it escaped through holes drilled into the helmet-like forehead.

They reminded Vero of huge birds.

She could just make out that, under their cloaks, they seemed to be constantly twitching and squirming. When they were close enough, they would whisper to her before retreating again.

“What is it? A human? Does it carry not a drop of Sylvan blood?” The first voice she heard sounded like a shrill male, but she was not quite certain which of the figures it came from.

“Test it.” The second voice came from a woman, who spoke with firm authority.

“She’s human. And what does it matter?” The third voice was a frustrated sounding man.

“Test it.” The authoritative woman again.

“Perhaps you’d like her to undress and prove that she’s a woman as well.” The frustrated man.

“I’d like it.” The shrill man.

“Test it.” Authority.

Vero felt another wave of nausea come over her. She knelt down to try and find some fresh air under the smoke, to no avail.

“It’s no good flower, give the imp some of your blood. It won’t hurt but a pinch.” Frustration.

“Test it.” Authority.

Vero felt too sick to do anything more than half listen, but the ugly little man held out a small razor and a glass vial to her. She examined the blade and it looked clean. She ran it along the tip of the smallest finger of her left hand and bled a few drops into the vial. The ugly servant took them away from her and left.

The others gave her some peace at last, while Vero tried to regain her bearings. She wretched more than once, and would have vomited if she had anything in her stomach.

After some time, she was not certain how long, the Curia’s servant returned. “She’s human by at least seven degrees of descent. The slightest trace of elven heritage from her most distant ancestry, but no more or less than any other human. A greater portion of giant's blood than the average, but still not much.”

“Yes, human. And what difference does it make?” Frustration.

“Now it is known for certain.” Authority.

“Let’s get rid of it and be done with this.” Shrill.

“It has survived this long. It will be of some value to us. If we possess the wisdom to use it well.” This came from a cold man’s voice; one Vero had not heard before this point.

The Curia did not seem to be going anywhere on their own, so Vero posed her own question, “Why have you asked me to come here?”

“It is impertinent.” Authority.

“She’s young, and doesn’t have an eternity of this endless dithering before her.” The frustrated man spoke again.

“Youth holds vigor- among other attractive qualities.” The shrill man preened.

“But age represents endurance; the truly ancient shall live forever.” Authority responded quickly, and Vero believed she sounded concerned.

The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

“It’s no good, I’ve already changed my mind. I want to keep it and see what comes of it.” The shrill man.

“Is that empathy? Not from you, surely.” The frustrated man.

“It’s flesh is warm. What did you call it? Flower? Yes! I can see the likeness now. Like a fly trap. Why does it smell like death?” Shrill asked.

Authority responded quickly again, and sounded very severe. “When the trap draws in the fly- it closes its lips around it, and the insect is destroyed.”

“Spoilsport.” Shrill.

The cold man spoke again, and his voice cut through the cacophony to Vero. “We called to you because we needed what you brought with you. Now we must decide what your fate is to be.”

“You believe I can help you.” Vero did her best to make it a statement of fact.

“Some of us believe,” the authority corrected her.

The frustrated man came very near to her, and she could see he walked with a club foot. “The forces of darkness are gathering, flower. Striga are now hunting on the dayside of the mountains with impunity. The eternal elector is pressing his claims to be included in the selection of the next Grand Prince of the North. Perhaps he even means to have himself declared Kaiser.”

Vero scoffed. “I can hardly imagine any elector would favor an immortal candidate- besides himself.”

“Enough! Tell it no more! It’s not it’s place to know more! We have all seen it now. The flytrap will remain in the fortress until deliberations regarding it are complete. The imp will send it a message and it will return here.” Authority issued her commands, and all whispering and movement stopped for just the space of a second, before resuming.

Vero was not impressed. “When should I expect these deliberations to finish? And I want my sword back.”

“Impertinent! And how badly I want to touch it!” the shrill man managed, between wheezing laughs.

“It will take a few nights. Perhaps a fortnight. And perhaps longer. But don’t fret flower, my vote has already been cast,” the frustrated man cooed at her.

“As has mine, flytrap.” Authority. “Now leave.”

Vero felt the odd humanoid servant take a hold of her arm with shocking strength, and pull her away. She could not see any point in trying to resist, and she soon found herself back on the stairs. The door was closed and bolted behind her.

Vero took a moment to allow her head to clear.

She climbed down the stairs, and joined the small party eating in the main hall. Pentarch was seated with them, the other three were strangers. A few more who had been at the table were now gone.

One of those remaining was a woman, and a very beautiful one, from what Vero could see under her thick white fox fur cloak. She had taken off a pair of fine ermine gloves to eat, and revealed slender hands covered in rings bearing arcane signs.

She looked to be in her late twenties, or perhaps early thirties, but with sorceresses one could never be sure. She had long and very straight brunette hair. Her figure was stately, and did not give any impression of softness. Despite the conditions around her, she had found time to rouge her face, shadow her eyes, and paint her lips.

The other two were men. Under their thick cloaks and armor, all she could see was that they looked like all the other soldiers in the fortress. The only defining characteristic she found was that one was rather large and heavier set than most, and the other was rather small and slenderer than most.

“There she is!” The thinner man stood up to greet her.

“Hmm.” The sorceress, at least that was what Vero took the woman to be, examined her very closely. “I can’t quite understand the Marquis’ taste. Perhaps she makes very fine conversation.”

The small man moved over to offer Vero space on the bench beside him. “You’re being rather unkind, magister. I think the Lady Veronique is very beautiful.” His voice was not fully matured, and while he did have a beard, it was rather patchy.

Vero graced the lad with a smile, which made him blush. “Thank-you, young Ser. It seems you already know me. What’s your name, friend?”

“I’m not a Ser, only an apprentice here. My name is Conner. It’s a very great pleasure to meet you, my Lady.” He hurried to provide her with stew, bread, and black beer, which is what they all were eating as well. Besides the sorceress, who had deep red wine.

“Thank-you, apprentice Conner. I’m pleased to make your acquaintance as well.” The nausea had passed and Vero felt quite hungry.

“You’ll be very welcome company, my Lady.” Conner’s face appeared so open and earnest that Vero found herself taking a liking to the boy at once.

Age had not yet turned his youthful innocence to cynicism.

She tasted the stew. It was venison with potatoes, carrots, and onions. Simple, but very welcome. The food might be plain, but the silverware was genuine silver and the beer was poured into crystal carafes. She ate slowly, in case she began to feel ill again.

“Where do you come from, Conner?”

“Here, my Lady. My father was a slayer and my mother was one of the scullery maids. Look, I have a gold coin, my Lady, a real Republican Ducat.” Conner fished in his pocket and held out the coin to her. It was so chipped and worn no honest merchant would touch it, but from his demeanor the boy did not seem to know that. “Is that enough? Please take it.”

“Why would I take your coin, Conner?”

The young man seemed suddenly terrified. He looked towards the sorceress, who was stifling a laugh, then back at Vero.

“I was told- that is- I was under the understanding that you were a…” He stood up, glowing a deep red, and made a deep bow. “I can see I was incorrect. Please accept my apology, my Lady.”

Then, without waiting for a reply, Conner turned and fled the hall.

The sorceress took a satisfied sip from her carafe as she watched him leave. Pentarch murmured something inaudible, before returning to his stew. The third man paid no obvious attention to anything that had happened.

“You seem to find humiliating the young man very amusing, magister.” Vero watched the sorceress carefully.

“You speak as though I planned this, my Lady. In fact, I warned him a single coin wouldn’t be nearly enough for such a refined courtesan as yourself. The Marquis must have offered you a small pile of jewels before you gave up your charms to him, isn’t that so?”

“Has anyone ever compared your demeanor to a particularly ill-tempered feline before?” Vero asked.

The sorceress tried to look bored by her remark, and did not respond.

Vero turned to the large stranger. “And who are you?”

He looked up at her. He remained quiet, but he made no effort to hide the fact that he was staring at her. Vero disliked his expression.

Eventually Pentarch answered for him. “He’s Richard, one of the watch leaders for the permanent garrison here. And magister Isolde de Blois, whom you’ve already befriended, is here as a representative from the Lodge of Illusionists.”

Richard remained silent, but Isolde immediately protested her introduction. “There is no Lodge of Illusionists. It’s nothing but the paranoid imaginings of the uneducated, too small minded to understand the art, or those who practice it. I’m an independent agent.”

Vero poured herself more beer. “If you’re an independent agent, then who is your current paymaster? And what brings you here?”

“I represent a small social circle of mages who wish to see an end to vampyric incursions on our side of the Star Mountains.”

“And your principal school of study is?”

“Mentalism,” she confessed, using the polite terminology for illusionism only after making a sour expression. “As it is for many of my confraters as well. If masons, or any other tradesmen, associate with one another on matters of common interest to all their profession- it’s considered perfectly natural. Why should mages be placed under such special scrutiny? I think our stated goal is quite an obvious and practical one. Bankers and merchants often consult with one another on important issues related to the welfare of all, no one believes they’re linked together in a grand conspiracy.”

“I’m not certain I agree, magister.”

Richard suddenly rose to his feet. Vero thought he might have been about to object to something they said, but he seemed to have simply finished his meal. He never ceased staring at her.

“I’ll find you later,” he said, before leaving the hall.

“Well, that was direct.” Isolde took a sip of her wine, then smiled. “I wonder what his intentions might be.”

Vero turned back to her. “Perhaps if mages could refrain from constantly acting smug and unpleasant, they would face less discrimination.”

“Perhaps. But we find it more convenient to polymorph our detractors into frogs. Now if you’ll excuse me.” Isolde left her glass half empty, and also departed.