New Quest begins, the game voice said. Escape from Trebizond.

Diaresso ran inside the citadel, his crossbow bouncing on his back, his sheathed scimitar banging against his leg. Gontran—shaking his head—chased after him and shouted for him to wait. The halls, corridors, rooms, and stairwells inside were packed with children, elders, and disabled people. The children were crying, and the elders and the disabled were hugging them, patting their backs, and trying to soothe them, although many adults were groaning in terror. Some were hobbling to the stairs—where they could fall and hurt themselves—while others had drawn knives or were even holding candelabra. These faced the entrance, ready to die fighting, though a breath of wind could have knocked them down, they looked so frail.

Diaresso had already run up the stairwell and was shouting for Tamar. Gontran followed, doing his best to keep from running into all the people in the way.

All those shithead knights will be blocking the entrance by the time we get back, he thought, looking over his shoulder.

Gontran climbed several stories, following the echoes of Diaresso’s voice. Near the top of the citadel he found Diaresso arguing with Tamar. She was surrounded by children, all of whom were staring at them. Gontran even recognized Alexios’s two adoptees and their friend among them.

“You can go where you like,” Tamar said to Diaresso. “But I’m not going anywhere.”

“Oh my darling habibty, what I would give for you to hearken to my words!” Diaresso cried. “You know nothing of these people! They will cut you down as a scythe cuts down wheat!”

The children gasped. Tamar clutched them closer, then glared at Diaresso.

“Don’t talk that way around the children,” she said. “They’re frightened enough as it is. Now you listen to me. I’m the doux’s mother. They would never harm a woman with noble blood.”

“These Frangistanis, perhaps, yes, that is so, but the hypocrites of Rûm will execute you as a traitor, or burn out your eyes before packing you off to a nunnery!”

“What do you want me to do, Diaresso? You want me to leave these kids? I swore to protect them with my life! How could I live with myself if I abandoned them here?”

“Tamar, don’t go!” some of the children cried.

She hugged them closer and told them not to worry, she wasn’t going anywhere.

“Diaresso,” Gontran reached out his arm to his friend. “Come on. She doesn’t want to leave.”

Diaresso shoved him off. “Keep your hand away, swine-eater!”

Gontran rolled his eyes. When Diaresso got angry, he acted as though they had only just met—that all their years of adventures together counted for nothing.

Gontran gestured to Tamar. “She’s like their mother. You can’t do this.”

“I left her once, I shall not again,” Diaresso growled. “I would regret it forever.”

“Yeah, well, listen, I can’t stick around here any longer,” Gontran said. “I’m a runaway peasant, remember? Those guys are going to kill me as soon as they hear my accent. Some of them might even be from Metz. Lord Chlotar might be with them!”

This was Gontran’s old manor lord. Diaresso looked to him, then looked to Tamar, unable to decide.

“You should go,” Tamar said. “We’ll surrender peacefully. But if they see you here…”

“I can no more leave you than you can leave these children!” Diaresso shouted.

“Except I’m not a child,” Tamar said. “And I’ve been through a lot more than you give me credit for. You think it’s easy, surviving out here on your own—on the border with Persia, Alania, Armenia, Arabia, and Skythia? I’ve made it this far. I’ve seen much worse than a band of Latin ruffians. I can handle myself.”

“Herakleia told us to leave, Diaresso,” Gontran said. “She told us to find allies and come back for her.”

“Eh, who are we going to find?” Diaresso said. “Who out there will help us? No one! We are alone! And this is our last stand!”

He drew his crossbow and moved back toward the stairs. Tamar and Gontran shouted for him to wait.

“Listen to me, Kambine,” Tamar said. “I need you. Gontran needs you. The whole city needs you. You have a job to do.”

He stopped and looked at her. “How can I do such-and-such a job? It is a fool’s errand!”

“The man I love is no fool,” Tamar said.

She stepped forward and kissed him. Raising his crossbow into the air, he pulled her close, and breathed deep.

“Wallahi, I shall miss you, my soul,” he said.

“We’ll see each other again.” Tamar looked to the corridor leading to the dark stairs, where shouts from the halls below were growing louder. “But only if you get going.”

“Farewell.” He kissed her again. “I swear I shall return.”

“No one could doubt you,” she said.

“May God protect you,” Diaresso said.

“Great,” Gontran said. “Glad that’s decided. Now Tamar, uh, listen—you don’t know like a secret way out of here, do you?”

“There’s only one exit.” She nodded to the stairs. “There’s an underground tunnel, but it’s the same way.”

“Can’t beat medieval design,” Gontran said. “Must be great when there’s a fire…”

“You can go to the balcony just outside the doux’s chamber,” Tamar said. “There you can climb down the outside of the citadel to the walls. The Latins won’t see you.”

Gontran looked at Diaresso. “Come on, let’s go.” Then, just after Diaresso kissed Tamar one last time, Gontran thanked her.

“Don’t mention it,” Tamar said. When Diaresso wasn’t looking, she winked at Gontran. And Gontran, despite all that was going on, blushed.

He nodded to her, then ran up the stairs. This time Diaresso followed.

Wonder if I should tell him that she did that, he thought. She’s always been kind of saucy, if that’s the right word.

After zipping into his room—which he opened with the key withdrawn from his right pants pocket, snatching his bag of one hundred and twenty golden nomismas from under his bed—he entered the doux’s chamber. He had always hated this place, with its priceless carpets, its luxurious chairs and couches and divans studded with jewels, its pinewood tables scattered with papers, its shelves packed with books. With his merchant’s eye, he immediately put a price to every item of furniture, and hated that the Doux Bagrationi and his predecessors had been rich enough to afford such ornate treasures. All of it seemed to mock Gontran. To break off even part of a chair here and trade it for coin in Konstantinopolis would make him rich for life, at least if he managed to bring the money to a backwater like Metz.

But everything in the doux’s chamber belonged to the uprising now. The workers were keeping the last of their luxury items for emergencies; they had sold nearly all the beautiful carpets and tapestries in the citadel months ago, mostly to pay for food, which Gontran also thought a travesty.

You might as well throw the money into the sea, he thought. Putting it in people’s bellies means it isn’t working for you.

Now the workers used everything in the doux’s chamber for practical purposes. Gontran thought it obscene. Thanks to the new printing press and the manufacture of Seran paper, most of the books in this room took the form of dry economic reports and minutes from council meetings. Aside from Homer and Thucydides, which could be found in every library in Romanía, there were mystical treatises, like the Zhayedan Fighting Manual—full of nonsense, in Gontran’s opinion—but also texts detailing mechanical designs. Gontran remembered that Samonas’s engineers had been working on a steam engine for some time. As a trader these developments also concerned him. It seemed Trebizond was trying to build a world in which no one needed to buy or sell anything, since there would always be enough of everything for everyone. More than once he had wondered if he was on the right side of the conflict between the uprising and Rome. He despised landlords, yet he thought Trebizond foolhardy and wishy-washy.

Now the whole thing’s going to be destroyed anyway, he thought.

The doux’s chamber was dark and freezing; someone had left the balcony door open, and the wind had blown out the candles and scattered the papers onto the floor. It was a miracle a fire hadn’t started.

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While Diaresso locked the door to the hallway behind them, Gontran ran to the balcony so quickly that he knocked over the warm brazier and almost fell over the side. Diaresso needed to rush forward, catch him, and pull him back.

“If you are to die, at least die in battle,” Diaresso whispered. “At least send some of these polytheist dogs to hell.”

“Thanks man, I’ll try my best,” Gontran answered, catching his breath.

Once they had recovered, Gontran started looking for a way down. Diaresso stared at the city, transfixed.

“Listen,” Diaresso rasped.

Gontran looked up. All was silent except for a single noise. Someone was moving through the city chanting.

“I can’t make it out,” Gontran said.

“It is Herakleia,” Diaresso said. “She tells the city to surrender.”

Gontran’s shoulders slumped. “At least she’s still alive.”

“But what manner of life?” Diaresso said.

“One we’ll rescue her from.” Gontran searched the citadel’s dark outer walls for handholds. “One day. If you can help me figure out how the hell to get down from here.”

“I cannot discern the Paralos.” Diaresso was still peering into the dark. “It may have sunk, or the Romans may have stolen it from under our noses. We shall also need to lower the harbor chain. And then there is the issue of the crew. The Paralos is indeed a special vessel, one which almost seems to sail itself, like unto the mythical ships of the Phaeacians, and yet—”

“One thing at a time, Diaresso.”

“It would have been better to bring Alexios with us.”

Gontran waved his hand. “He has his own issues.”

“You did not even ask him.”

“Why didn’t you ask?”

“I could think of nothing but Tamar. What is your excuse?”

“I was pretty focused on getting the hell out of here. Just like right now. Plus, it’s better not to put all your eggs in one basket.”

“Enough of your wretched folk wisdom,” Diaresso said. “I fear for Alexios. He said he was traveling to the southern deserts. You know how dangerous such journeys can be for swine-eaters. In the borderlands among the Akritai, how often did we disguise ourselves as Jewish Radhanites to outwit both the Christian and Muslim authorities? But Alexios knows nothing of this.”

“He’ll figure it out. Besides, he's good in a fight. You know that. That's why you wanted him to come with us. Now listen, can you help me out? I can’t see anything, and you’re the one with the best eyes and ears…”

Diaresso stood next to Gontran and peered into the dark.

“I see nothing,” he said.

“Did Tamar say there were handholds or a ladder or something?”

“She said nothing of the sort.”

Frowning, Gontran retrieved a candle from the doux’s chamber and ignited it on the balcony with his fire-strikers. Then he went inside once more.

“There’s gotta be a rope or something,” he said as he opened the drawers in the desks and the cupboards in the shelves.

The chamber door’s handle was jiggling; someone was trying to open it. A man on the other side shouted in what may have been French, though the dialect was from Picardy, and so different that Gontran was unable to understand, even though at the same time there was something familiar about it. But the meaning was clear. A moment later, the door burst open.

It was Dagobert. Someone had freed him, and even given him armor. His face was covered with a helmet that revealed only his eyes, nose, and mouth in a crucifix-shaped hole, but that was enough for Gontran to recognize him. Dagobert also carried a sword that was almost as long as he himself was tall.

Dagobert stared at Gontran, who stared back. Both men held still.

“We meet again, villein,” Dagobert said.

“Did someone knight you?” Gontran said, regarding Dagobert’s armor and sword. “Congratulations.”

“I will return you to France in pieces for your irreverence,” Dagobert said. “Tell me, that I may send back your body parts—who is your lord and master?”

“Your mom,” Gontran said.

Growling, Dagobert stepped forward, and with both hands raised his enormous blade over his head. Gontran drew his pistol-sword and fired it straight into Dagobert’s cuirass. The bullet pierced it, and Dagobert fell forward and slammed onto the floor, dead, his sword clattering beside him.

Critical hit! the game voice shouted. The XP gain only made a minor difference, however, since Gontran’s dexterity skill with ranged weapons was already at professional level (7/10).

He flipped his pistol-sword around on his finger, then tucked it back into his sheathe.

“When will these guys ever learn?” Gontran said. “Too bad that was my last shot…”

Diaresso came inside from the balcony, his crossbow drawn, as Gontran was trying to close the door.

“You fool!” Diaresso shouted. “Now the whole of Tarabizun shall know our whereabouts!”

“What was I supposed to do? Offer him a glass of wine?”

“If you possessed the slightest hint of forethought, you might have! Perhaps he would have accepted! What swine-eater can resist a chance at quaffing the haram al-kuhl of Shaitan?”

“You don’t know these people. They’re a bunch of bastards. Every one of them. He would have killed us first, then had his wine. Now look. Here we go. See? I’m not completely useless.”

Under one of the couch cushions Gontran withdrew the coils of a large heavy rope, perfect for descending from the balcony to the wall. Blowing out the candle and setting it on a table, Gontran tied the rope around one of the battlements on the balcony.

“The rabbit goes into the snare,” he said as he attempted to knot the rope, “or—uh—”

“How can you have forgotten yet another basic skill?” Diaresso seized the rope, untied it, and then retied it—giving it an unbreakable knot. “Each of us has completed this task hundreds of times! What’s next? Shall you forget how to defecate?”

“Sorry, you know how it is.”

“Yes, you have forgotten all that is useful, and now only recall useless notions that would confound the Almighty himself! Yours is a selective memory!”

Gontran shrugged. “Well, that’s life. What are you going to do?”

“Climb down,” Diaresso said. “That’s what!”

Gontran took a deep breath and decided to throw himself over the side before he could understand how far the drop was—and before he could wonder if he possessed the strength necessary to descend without getting killed—or if Diaresso's knot (and the rope itself) could hold him.

Gontran clung to the rope tightly with his burning hands. He lowered himself as quickly as possible, but it was slow going, and he had no idea if the rope was even long enough. He and Diaresso had also forgotten to make sure they were directly above the walls.

How ironic would that be? he thought. If we went through all this trouble just to rappel back down into that courtyard? God doesn’t exist, but the devil definitely does, and he has a cruel sense of humor…

Harsh, guttural voices were yelling in the doux’s chamber. It was the French. Just as Gontran was begging god (whom he nonetheless considered a superstition) for a chance to kill a few more of those bastards, Diaresso—without a word—leaped over the side of the balcony and grabbed the rope, kicking Gontran’s face so hard he nearly lost his grip.

“Ow!” Gontran said.

“Be silent, and climb down faster, or I shall kick you again!” Diaresso whispered. “At any moment they may discover us!”

Gontran’s hands were already burning so much he feared he would lose his grip. Crying out in pain, he lowered himself as quickly as possible, until he was almost sliding down the rope. His hundred and twenty golden nomismas rang in his pockets as he moved.

“Your greed shall be the end of us!” Diaresso whispered.

“Every last nomisma was earned with a gallon of blood, sweat, and tears!” Gontran whispered back. “At least I left the key in the lock!”

“How could that possibly matter? Who cares a whit about your confounded key?”

Someone on the balcony must have heard them, because the shouts grew louder, and Gontran could have sworn that he felt a new kind of trembling in the rope—the sensation of a sharp blade slicing through the knot Diaresso had tied.

“Faster, you fool!” Diaresso shouted.

“The Greeks mean to escape!” someone screamed in French from the balcony. “Sergeants in the courtyard—attend to these miscreants!”

“You must hurry, giaour, or we are doomed!” Diaresso cried.

“I’m trying!” Gontran yelled.

Suddenly the entire world was whirling around him. He plunged into darkness, the rope floating in his hands. Then, just as he was sucking the air into his lungs to scream for all he was worth, he slammed onto the ground—and Diaresso fell on top of him, knocking the breath from Gontran's chest and making the coins in his pockets ring. His flesh was torn, and his bones wailed with pain. The game voice announced that his health had declined to 90/100. Though he could hardly stand, he picked himself up, and pulled Diaresso’s long gangly body after him.

“Are you alright?” Gontran wheezed, staggering in the direction of the sea, though he had little idea of where he was. Now even the stars were obscured.

“I shall live,” Diaresso gasped. “After a fashion.”

Feeling forward into the darkness, Gontran discovered the battlements lining the outer edge of the city wall’s walkway. The courtyard behind them was full of torches, now, as foot soldiers rushed back and forth, looking for them and shouting. But by now all the braziers along the walls had been extinguished by wind, lack of fuel, or violence, and the occupiers were so disorganized they had yet to post any guards here.

Gontran and Diaresso felt their way through the dark, over the dead bodies and abandoned weapons, sneaking toward Hadrian’s Harbor. They found the wheel for the harbor chain, and lowered it as quietly as possible, wincing as the metal creaked. Everything was so dark that the world for them was really one of sound and touch; they could only tell that they had lowered the chain when the wheel started resisting. They had turned it so far that it started gathering up the chain and raising it again.

A stairwell on the walkway led directly to the pier. Listening to the wavelets splash against each other, Gontran and Diaresso needed to feel ahead with their hands to keep from falling over the side. Even though their eyes had adjusted to the darkness of the increasingly cloudy night, they still could see nothing.

“How shall we even know which vessel is the Paralos?” Diaresso whispered.

“I’d know my baby anywhere,” Gontran answered.

He found a ship with his hands, and ran them over its surface, doing his best to keep from driving splinters into his flesh as the hull bobbed in the surf. Was this the Paralos? Gontran had no idea. He’d spent days on that ship, yet even if he’d lived there a lifetime, it probably would have been impossible for him to tell it apart from any other, despite his bragging. But this one had oars. Gontran touched them. Someone had left the oars in the oarlocks here, probably intent on a quick escape from the siege. The Paralos, Gontran knew, had its oars stored on the deck. It was so fast and sleek, the only oars you really needed were for steering, at least most of the time…

Gontran moved to the other side of the pier and felt the next ship. As soon as he touched the hull, he knew it was the Paralos. There was just something about it, almost a spiritual connection.

“Diaresso,” Gontran whispered. “Found her.”

“Are you certain?”

“Does Allah exist?”

“Even to ask such a question means that your spirit is worthy only of damnation!”

“Exactly,” Gontran said.

He climbed aboard with Diaresso. Stumbling in the dark, they cast off just as the first light of day was glowing through the clouds on the horizon. They were sailing north by the time the French were screaming at the Venetians to scramble their own ships for a pursuit.