# I, Dacien ###### A Story by Onyx Tao © 2012 Onyx Tao I, Dacien by Onyx Tao is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. Permissions beyond the scope of this license may be available at http://onyx-tao.sofurry.com.

Chapter One: Captivity * * * General Darrus Ouroborous, Master of Slave to the Mage's Council of Ouroborous, stood silently in the door he'd just pushed open, and Nestor -- once Commander of Thousands Nestor -- sat on his bunk. He'd expected that General Darrus would show up when he told the previous minotaur that he would not take the foul-smelling drought. The pale yellow minotaur had looked shocked, and then left. Nestor calculated it would take pale yellow about five minutes to reach General Darrus, and so he'd been expecting the Master of Slave to show up for ... perhaps an hour, and growl at him. But he wanted some answers, and the angrier Darrus was, the more likely the sable minotaur was to answer questions, Nestor had found. The Commander -- ex-Commander -- was puzzled over a great many things. Why, for example, he'd been included in a special draft of prisoners sent to the Ouroborous Mage's council, for one thing, or why there had even been a special draft. Apparently, an Ouroborous mage had picked out some three hundred legionnaires. With one or two exceptions, they'd been legionnaires, not even commanders-of-ten or commanders-of-fifty, and young recruits on their first campaign. Including the most senior Commander of the army with them, well, that didn't make sense, unless he was destined to answer questions for these mysterious mages. Nestor resisted rubbing his sore chest, holding himself as still as the looming minotaur. That had been his working hypothesis. But over the last two weeks, it seemed that was not the case. The youngsters were drilled in something like military discipline, although it didn't seem to include any weapon training, just complex marching and competitive training. He, Nestor, joined them in the morning for the running and general calisthenics, but the afternoons he spent in his cell -- his remarkably single cell. The legionnaires had barracks, and were housed in groups of ten, but he was kept in what he thought was some kind of repurposed military prison. At least, everything was sized for a minotaur, although it would be a little confined. For a human, it was almost spacious, and even comfortable. He had to admit that the minotaurs were taking good care of his soldiers, and even himself. The bedding was warm, the blankets were clean, there was a bathhouse for their use -- he got to use it after lunch, when it was deserted other than his single minotaur guard -- a smaller pale off-white minotaur whose name he hadn't yet overheard. Names; there was another minotaur oddity. Humans addressed minotaurs as either 'Sir' or 'Master', and minotaurs addressed humans ... however they liked. In Nestor's case, it was generally as 'Feral', which seemed more than slightly pejorative. Still, he hadn't been touched, or questioned -- and he was beginning to think they didn't consider humans worth questioning. That seemed short-sighted to Nestor, but then, the minotaurs didn't seem like they needed all that much from humans beyond shut up and do as you're told. That wasn't really an option for Nestor, though; he'd never been one to just shut up and take anything, and that included the thick brown glop the pale yellow minotaur wanted him to drink. He'd put up with the examination, and the poking and prodding, but he had to draw the line somewhere, and besides, he thought there just might be a chance of getting Darrus worked up enough to answer a few more questions. It was a tricky thing; too angry and Darrus had proved himself willing to -- for example -- throw him bodily into a bathing pool. Not angry enough, and the General would simply ignore the question. At least, Nestor thought, he spoke Greek; he'd never have gotten anything out of Darrus if he only spoke Latin. "I will point out that strapping you to a table, forcing your mouth open, and using a hose to get your medicine down your throat will be painful to you, not to me," Darrus rumbled. The deeper voices of minotaurs, coming from those larger chests, took some getting used to, as well. "Not to mention that it will irritate your throat, and if you resist too stubbornly," as you are wont to do, Nestor heard clearly although the minotaur didn't actually say that, "could result in a broken jaw." The minotaur produced the flask the pale yellow minotaur had wanted him to drink. "That seems like a lot of trouble to go through for one feral human," Nestor parried. "And I didn't refuse to drink it, I just asked what it was." "Medicine," Darrus repeated. "I seem pretty fine," Nestor said. "Medicine for what?" It was best to throw the questions in casually. "You collapsed yesterday while running," Darrus said. "Or have you forgotten?" "Yes," Nestor said. "But I was fine. Would have been better if that fellow hadn't beaten me." "Beaten ..." Darrus repeated, puzzled. "Someone beat you?" "The brown .." Darrus snorted with either humor or anger; Nestor was still having trouble reading minotaurs. "Feral, if he had not ... beaten ... you, as you put it, you would be dead." That was ... "Dead," Nestor said, doubtfully. "Yes," said Darrus with an exasperated certainty. "Dead. And that would be inconvenient." He paused for a moment. "You have butchered an animal?" "Yes," said Nestor. "Then you know what the heart is." Nestor nodded. "Your heart was -- is -- damaged. I do not know if that happened yesterday or earlier, but yesterday, it stopped -- and that is why you fell. The overseer was not beating you, he was trying to restart your heart." Darrus paused. "He succeeded, although he broke several ribs doing it. The healer reset and bonded your ribs, but the heart is ... difficult. He put a short-term correction on it, but that cannot last." "Why can't it last?" The black minotaur's face tightened. "Drink." "And why is it so important to keep me alive?" "Do you not wish to live, then?" "I do," Nestor said. "I don't understand your motivation. Why do you care if I live?" "No," Darrus said, and Nestor heard the irony in the reply, that infuriating sense -- certainty -- that the minotaur knew something he did not. "I suppose you don't. Drink." "Why is the heart so difficult?" Nestor could sense the tightening of anger as Darrus took a step forward, and then the minotaur stopped, much to Nestor's relief. The tension didn't vanish, but Darrus brought it under control. For a moment, Nestor thought he might have pushed too hard. The black minotaur set the flask down, by Nestor. "Drink it, and I will tell you, curious feral." That seemed like a fair compromise to Nestor, and he drank the bitter liquid quickly, setting the flask down only when he'd finished it. "I am neither mage nor magician nor healer, feral, so what I tell you is my understanding." Darrus said, and Nestor nodded. He wasn't sure if every minotaur was so careful to maintain the distinction between direct knowledge and received knowledge, but Darrus certainly was. Nestor could wish his own officers had been so careful. "The heart is, in theory, no harder to fix than anything else," Darrus continued. "The problem lies in activity. The heart and the brain are active, always, and to heal them requires stopping them. The heart can be stopped, safely, for no more than a minute. The brain cannot be stopped safely at all; such procedures are greater magic and require a mage's attention, not merely a magician. And not just any mage, it must be a mage with the right talents to heal, and sufficient skill to keep the patient alive while something so critical -- heart or brain -- is shut down." Darrus's voice dropped to an even lower register. "Three months ago, the Lord of Tongs had the right talents and sufficient skill to do such a healing ... do you know what happened to our Lord of Tongs, feral?" The tension of anger was back, and that made the answer fairly clear. "I can guess," Nestor said. "We killed him." "You did," Darrus said, and he picked up the now-empty flask, and turned back to the door. "I expect you will drink your medication without trouble from now on. The apothecary will deliver it daily." "It was a battle," Nestor said. "Humans -- and minotaurs -- die in battle." "So they do," Darrus said. "That does not answer why his pelt was recovered from one of your command pavilions." The minotaur started to close the door. "That wasn't my idea," said Nestor. Darrus paused, the door half-closed. "No? You disclaim responsibility, then?" "I ..." and it was Nestor's turn to pause. Obviously that had been offensive, but, just as obviously, minotaurs had a complicated and rigid honor code. It wasn't as if he could deny the deed. "My advice was to treat the bodies as we would our own fallen, but I was overruled, and I carried out the orders I was given. So no, I do not. But it was not done as ... as I wanted. Or as I would have, if, in honor, I could have done as I wished." Honor, Nestor had discovered, was a loaded term for a minotaur, and it, too, could draw responses, and everything the minotaurs said, everything they did, everything he could learn was a tool for his hand. He could not outrun them, nor outfight them. All that was left was to outthink them. If he could. They had seemed so ... bestial, in the field, like cattle that had decided to stand upright. How clever could beast-men be? The answer, Nestor had learned, was very clever. But their reticence to talk to him, or answer his questions, seemed to come from a sense that it was a waste of time talking to a human. It was clear to the human that a minotaur could be just as smart -- and possibly smarter -- than a human. But was it clear to the minotaur that a human could be every bit as clever? "A strange sort of honor," Darrus said as he closed the door, "that leaves one feeling shamed." There was a click as the door locked. A strange sort of honor that leaves one feeling shamed. Nestor thought about that for a moment. The truth in that ... hurt. He turned back to the window, overlooking the green field outside, and watched yet more minotaur drilling the selected legionnaires. It was important to them, he thought glumly, but he had no idea why. They obviously didn't need an army of humans, that was clear. Something -- and Nestor guessed it was the potion -- woke him up in the middle of the night. His skin itched and prickled, and it was hot -- horribly, uncomfortably, hot. It passed, eventually, and he got back to sleep, but he still felt tired when his guard -- the pale white minotaur showed up. He went through the morning -- no more running with the younger men, but the stretching exercises were the same. He didn't mind that much; at least it was an opportunity to get out his cell and move. He missed that. He asked the apothecary about the heat and the itching, and apparently that was an acceptable question. He didn't get an answer, but the apothecary did leave and return later, and told him that it shouldn't happen again, but it might, and if did, to tell him tomorrow. It wasn't anything to worry about, just an adjustment, and ... had he noticed any dizziness or blurry vision? Nestor hadn't, and the apothecary watched him drink the potion -- which was just as bitter and nasty as he remembered it, but then the apothecary produced a flask of honeyed water to take the foul taste away. Nestor found a momentary feeling of gratitude before he realized this was just another minotaur way of reinforcing their control. Drink willingly, and get a treat afterward. Refuse, and be stuck with the foul taste that water hadn't quite been able to clear. They were good, very good, at this. "Does that medicine taste bad on purpose?" Nestor asked. The pale yellow minotaur just looked at him, and left. No answers there. Nor for the next nine days. He discovered that Darrus wasn't there, from an overheard conversation, Darrus had gone to consult with the Lord of Bones. Nestor figured that must be one of their mages -- their great mages, as opposed to mere magicians (whatever that difference was), but why the Lord of Bones was coming, he didn't know. Perhaps the minotaurs didn't know either; they weren't even sure exactly when he would arrive. Although he did overhear the Lord of Bones' name: Nicohorus. Nestor first saw the Lord of Bones on the field, inspecting the legionnaires. They were lined up, on display, like a parade inspection, although parade inspections generally involved gear -- tunic, pants, shined armor and helms, spears or short swords, sometimes packs. A naked parade inspection was a first for him, even after all his years in the legions. He guessed it was Nicohorus; the minotaur was gaunt -- the first gaunt minotaur Nestor had seen. Minotaur seemed to be broad, muscular, and large. Nicohorus was thin, as if his skin had been stretched out over the frame of a minotaur, and he was the same midnight black as General Darrus. Nestor brushed grit off his hands absently as he watched Nicohorus walk leisurely down the assembled men, stopping to inspect one or another, occasionally tapping one of them, who kneeled down almost instantly on the grass. Was the minotaur accepting or rejecting them? He seemed to be tapping about one out of four of them, and ... whatever criteria he was using, Nestor couldn't tell what it was. He counted quickly, fifteen rows of twenty men plus eight more. By the time Nicohorus had gone through all of them, he'd selected -- or rejected, depending -- almost eighty-five men. Minotaurs led the eighty-five in one direction, and the other in another, and then the field was, uncharacteristically for the afternoon, empty. When the day faded, it was still empty, although Nestor could hear groups of men -- humans, elsewhere on the grounds, doing something, but what, he could not tell. His dinner was late, though, and that spoke to the military commander that he had been of disrupted schedules and significant chaos. Armies were organized so that, even in the middle of chaos, everything would work, and nothing was more fundamental to order than food. Feeding the men was the first problem, almost as great as getting them where they needed to be. For a meal to be late ... something significant had happened, and probably in a bad way. Nor was it delivered by the white minotaur, but a brown-and-black minotaur who had taken the opportunity to look him over, very carefully, much the same way Darrus had when they had first met. That, too, was ... different. Maybe his late meal wasn't an accident? When the door opened later to show Darrus, Nikohorus, and the brown-black minotaur he'd seen earlier, he was sure it hadn't. "My Lord, the feral." "And?" said Nikohorus. "I don't know, My Lord. I have observed him, as you requested, but ... I do not know what makes him special." Special, Nestor thought. Really? "We are out of time," Nikohorus said. "It is ... unfortunate, but ... we cannot delay any longer. It bothers me, though." "Perhaps the heart condition ..." "Perhaps," agreed the gaunt minotaur, stepping into the room. Nestor started to take a step backwards, and then froze into rigidity as Nicohorus laid a skeletal hand on his chest. "No. The problem is subtle, and the patch is holding, and will hold until he is delivered." Delivered? "It's a great leap, but perhaps you ..." Nikohorus's voice trailed off as he turned to the third minotaur. "I don't know either, My Lord," the brown-black said. "But ... if I had to guess," he said, and paused. "Guess," said Nikohorus. "As you command. Te ... I mean, Lord Fog, likely values something that ... we do not. Whatever the answer you are looking for, My Lord, I suspect you already know what it is, and have discounted it as unimportant." Lord Fog? Nestor wondered what that meant. Wasn't Lord Fog the minotaur at the parley that had gone so ... poorly? Apparently so did the other two minotaurs. Darrus spoke first. "I don't understand." "He ... does not see the world as we do, General, My Lord," the minotaur said after a moment. "I don't know how he does see it, but ..." "No," said Nikohorus. "He sees what we see. He ... he sees more. Deeper. Connections we miss." "Yes, My Lord, that is a better way to say it." "I am not criticizing, just ... yes." The minotaur paused. "Perhaps you are right; he does see things we miss, and so ... but I want to know what he sees about this human." Lord Fog has claimed me, thought Nestor. Obviously these minotaur didn't know why either, but it was an interesting question. "My Lord," the brown-black one said, "have ... you asked him?" "Lord Fog, you mean." "Yes, and ... the feral." "Lord Fog, no. And what could he know about it?" "My Lord, pardon me for saying this, but that would be the point of asking," "He's uncooperative," Darrus said, breaking in. "I doubt he'd answer." A general silence followed this, and then Nikohorus sighed. "Perhaps. Regardless ... feral, I am transferring you to Benelaus. You will obey him as you would me." "But I don't obey you," Nestor pointed out. "Then you will obey me better than you did the Great Lord," Benelaus said, warningly. "My Lord, I accept the human." "Then you leave in the morning?" "Tonight, My Lord." "Give this to Teodor," and Nikohorus handed a sealed envelope to the brown-black Benelaus. "And no other. And ... you are prepared to leave tonight?" "Yes, My Lord. All is prepared." "We have been giving him lantail extract. He'll need ..." "I have a sufficiency ready, My Lord, until I can deliver him to Lord Fog." The gaunt minotaur paused, as if wanting to say more, but he just nodded. "Good luck. And ... remember. You serve me, personally, unless and until your service is placed ... elsewhere." "I am aware, My Lord. Does My Lord have additional instructions?" "No," said Nikohorus. "You know what I want. Get it for me." "Yes, My Lord." The other two left, and Benelaus looked around the cell. "Ready to go?" "Go where?" "To Lord Fog," the minotaur said. "And we'll go a lot faster if I don't have to explain to everyone why you're not addressing me as Sir." Nestor looked around. "I don't see anyone." "I'm trying to explain it to myself," the minotaur said. "Is there a reason why you won't address me as Sir?" "Yes," said Nestor. "Then I would request you to tell me that reason, and any others that you might have," Benelaus said. "I'm nearly fifty," Nestor said. "It seems ridiculous for me to address a ... how old are you? Seventeen? Eighteen?" "I am one hundred and twenty-six," Benelaus said. "Although I will grant that is young for a minotaur. I have been serving as a sworn warrior of Clan Ouroborous for ... hmm, about sixty years, a little more." Oh. "How ... how old do ..." "We can start dying as early as nine hundred years, or beyond three thousand," Benelaus said. "What do you mean by start dying?" Benelaus smiled. "Wouldn't it be easier to discuss this on the road?" "What do you mean," he said again. "I meant, wouldn't it be easier to talk about this on the road to Lycaili, which is ... where we need to be." "Easier how? This seems pretty comfortable to me." "Yes, but I'm not going to answer any more questions until we're on the road, so ... if we're going to have a discussion, it would be ... easier if we're both willing to talk." Nestor nodded. "A point. Let's go." Benelaus didn't move from where he was standing in the door. Nestor paused. "So if I agree to call you sir, we can go, is that it?" "I'm open to other suggestions," Benelaus said, calmly. "Suppose I just don't say anything?" "It would be hard to have a discussion that way," Benelaus said. "But that would be acceptable." Nestor nodded, saying nothing. Benelaus shrugged, turned, and left. "Come on then." Traveling was one thing, traveling without talking was another. Minotaurs were a little too large for horses, so they used coaches -- Benelaus held the reins, and Nestor sat next to him. In silence. There was no way to ask Benelaus all the questions he had ... for example, just how far apart were Lycaili and Ouroborous? How fast could one of them come to the support of the other? They'd marched nearly a week from their capture to reach ... whereever it was they reached. Was that Ouroborous, or nearby? Or had they been taken somewhere else, for ... whatever reason Nikohorus had. And ... how did minotaurs live so long, anyway? Nine hundred? To three thousand? Nestor thought about that all night, and then through the rest of the day. Every four hours or so, they'd come up on a remount station, and Benelaus would trade his now-tired horse for a fresh one. Apparently the brown-black minotaur intended to press on without stopping, although he'd offered (and Nestor had accepted) some of the ubiquitous oatmeal and dried fruit. At least Benelaus was eating the same thing, and Nestor, old soldier that he was, had no problem dropping off to sleep as they rode, or at least closing his eyes. It helped keep his mind off the road. It was at least twenty-five feet wide, and made of thick slabs of rock. The road was slightly convex, and water would just sheet off it. The Empire built roads. Sometimes, when there was a good enough reason, the Empire would even build roads like this, for a short distance. Roads sort of like this, with smaller rocks, and not as neatly fitted, and not as straight, and not as uniform. It looked like someone had drawn this road with a ruler, and it went on for miles and miles and Nestor tried not to think about it, and what it meant for how quickly Ouroborous and Lycaili could move troops. Although if the two clans weren't as close as the Imperials had thought, maybe ... just maybe it wasn't as bad as Nestor thought, and then he realized it was just as bad, and probably worse. The senatorial idiocy behind this disaster looked even more foolish, and he hadn't realized that could be possible. He counted the remount stations, and after about twenty four hours and six remounts, Benelaus finally deigned to speak. "We'll be stopping here for a real rest. They'll be a room, and a bed, and real food." He looked ahead at the station. "It's also possible that I could have you gagged and secured in the stable, with all the oatmeal you can eat, which would be an adequate excuse for your rudeness." The warrior paused for a response. Nestor nodded. He might not like it, but ... Benelaus was at least clear on what was expected, and it wasn't unfair. And, it would be interesting to see how a remount station was run. Or rather, it would have been interesting to see how it was run. Benelaus walked in with Nestor following, curtly ordered his coach to be cleaned, and then headed for a tiny bathhouse. He rather casually shooed the two humans who were using it out, and then used the small hot-pool himself. "You, too," he said, and Nestor had no trouble understanding that he was meant to bathe as well. The huge, minotaur-sized towels were nice, though -- dry, amazingly clean and smelling of grass and sunlight. Dinner was brown bread, roasted pork, gravy, and cooked greens. Benelaus peered at the wilted leaves, and said, "Those are fine." The minotaur must have seen Nestor's puzzled expression, because he added, "We can eat a number of plants humans ... er, shouldn't. Eat." That was almost the entirety of their conversation, however, for the next fourteen remount stations. Benelaus didn't bother stopping again, driving on under the bright light of a full moon. They'd eat quickly as the horse was changed, and then get back on the road. Nestor had expected to see the capital of Lycaili -- Labyrinth, or Lycaili Labyrinth, he wasn't sure which -- but the road ran into a massive tunnel bored -- no, it couldn't have been bored; something on this scale could only be magic. The road was still twenty-five feet across, and the wall rose almost vertically for fifteen feet before gently curving together into a graceful arch, and the stone walls themselves were carved with an amazing decorative frieze of flowering vines and trees. The tunnel was lit magically in a hundred different ways, by motionless globes of light near the ceiling; by the wall itself, formed into a waterfall that shone with a cascading blue radiance that seemed to give motion to the stone, by huge crystals jutting up along the wall, carved stone flowers that reflected light, even, in one section, candles wrapped in vines, casting a reddish almost-candlelight into the tunnel. It was amazing. "It is amazing," Benelaus agreed, and Nestor realized he'd spoken aloud. "Before they made this tunnel, we'd have to either go over a mountain pass that's usually blocked, or a two hundred mile trek around," Benelaus said. "So it's pretty convenient, too." He looked at the elaborate decorations on the walls. "The Lord of Tongs -- the old Lord -- Lord Green, Lord Winter, and Lord Ember worked together, for over two years, to make the tunnel." As the coach moved forward, the carving on the walls changed abruptly from the tangled vines to smooth, flat planes of glistening blue-white. Nestor leaned toward the walls; they were slightly transparent; he could see into them. He looked closer, trying to see through to the rock underneath, but he couldn't. "It's a trick," Benelaus said, knowingly. "It's just about an inch thick, but Lord Winter and Lord Ember did something to make it look like it had depth. Something to do with the light; Lord Winter and Lord Green did the stonework, and Lord Ember worked with both of them on the lighting." "I'm impressed," said Nestor, partly because he was, and partly because it was something to say. His voice sounded a little strange to him after the long silence. "Me too," said Benelaus. "How long is the tunnel?" "About two and half miles," Benelaus said. "And all ... like this." It wasn't a question. "There are the airlocks, too." "Air ... airlocks?" Benelaus looked over at him. "I thought you were going to be silent." Nestor paused, and shrugged. The brown-black minotaur was quiet, and then said, "Well, you'll see them, I suppose. We should be coming to the first one pretty soon." The corridor branched to the right and left, and arrows made it clear that they were to stay on the left side. Another twenty feet brought them to a huge cylindrical wall that blocked their path. No. It wasn't a wall. It was moving, slowly, to the right. Huge numbers were cut into the wall, and drifted, slowly, quietly across the tunnel, counting down. "This is the airlock," Benelaus said. "But what ... what does it do?" "Without them, there would be a wind in the tunnel," Benelaus said. "Strong enough to blow us back out the tunnel. So I'm told." Nestor nodded, and wondered if perhaps this was something that could be shut down, to block the tunnel. It seemed odd that he hadn't seen any guards. The numbers continued to count down, and finally an opening in the wall came into view. Benelaus steered the coach into it. The inside was a huge circle, and what had looked like a cylindrical wall was a huge dome, slowly turning, around the stationary inside. This room -- if it could be called a room -- was lit with spiky hovering globes of white, blue, green, and red, and they cast diffuse shadows on the floor. The floor to the sides was the soft gray of stone, but a huge chord of blue stone where they had entered, and an equal chord of red stone directly across. The colors extended across the floor, meeting in a purplish area in the very center of the room. Benelaus just waited for the opening to rotate to the other side, and steered onward. The side-tunnel Nestor expected to veer sharply to the right joined up with their tunnel another fifty feet down, and they resumed their trip down the tunnel. Nestor looked back, through the other tunnel, and he thought he made out another moving wall, but he wasn't sure. It seemed odd, though. They hadn't met anyone else in the tunnel, and if it were used that infrequently, why would the minotaurs have chosen to have two separate airlocks for each direction? Maybe the tunnel was busy at other times? The stone of the floor didn't seem worn, but the magicked lights along the tunnel made it clear that minotaurs -- Lycaili minotaurs, at any rate -- had magic to spare for that sort of thing. And that their mages worked together. And an earlier comment, from Darrus, came back to him. What were magicians? The tunnel stretched on, the walls as lavishly and thickly decorated as before. Nestor finally asked, "Where is everybody?" Benelaus shrugged. "I don't know. It's usually busier than this. We are coming through at night." Nestor pondered that for a bit. It seemed to suggest that something ... something wasn't quite right between Ouroborous and Lycaili, if travel and transit were down. If they were down, which was just a guess. Nestor stared down the empty tunnel. Still, a plausible guess. Eventually, they reached the second airlock, which looked similar to the first, and from there it was a short trip out into Lycaili Labyrinth. It was well-named; the city was built in a chaotic assemblage of canyons, and the buildings extended into the cliffs and across them. Occasional bridges provided access from one cliff to another, without the need to go down first. Benelaus seemed to know where he was going -- House Gray -- but when he got there, a short conversation sent them to the Patriarch's Height, the center of government for Lycaili. Apparently Lord Fog was at a ceremony there. By the time they arrived, however, the ceremony was over and Lord Fog had gone, either to House Wide or Gray Hote. It took nearly two more hours for Benelaus to determine that Lord Fog was at neither of those places, nor expected there, and he went back to the Patriarch's Height, to request an audience with Lord Chimes, backed by his letters from the Ouroborous Patriarch. Although that got him attention, it did not fetch Lord Chimes for yet another several hours, although they were shown to a comfortable waiting room. Benelaus had closed his eyes, and was possibly sleeping, when the door opened, and the brown-black minotaur blurred and was standing upright before the doors finished opening, and a cream-colored minotaur in a sapphire-blue outfit entered. "Lord Chimes!" "Warrior Benelaus Ouroborous, please be welcome to Lycaili," the cream-colored minotaur said. "I beg your forgiveness for having kept you waiting. Since your letters were not addressed to me, or Lord Cresphontes, I'm afraid my secretary didn't quite pay proper attention -- and I will have words with him on that failing. What may I do for you?" "Not at all, Lord Chimes. My letters are for Lord Fog, and I have been unable to find him. I've crawled all over Lycaili today, and ... nobody seems to know where he is, although I understand he is in the city." "Ah ..." said Lord Chimes. "Yes. He went to consult with Grandmaster Kanail, and I imagine he's there ... but let me make certain. "Lord Fog? May I have a moment?" Lord Chimes asked, apparently to the air. A short pause followed, and then he said, "It seems you have letters from Patriarch Nikohorus, and the messenger cannot find you. Are you at Kanail's?" Another pause was followed with "So I may send them on to you there?" Lord Chimes listened, and looked surprised. "I ... there may be. A moment." The cream-colored minotaur focused on Benelaus. "Is this human intended for delivery to Lord Fog?" Benelaus nodded. "He is, Lord Chimes." "Yes, Teodor, there is. Why are you expecting a human from Ouroborous?" Another short pause, and Lord Chimes responded, "Certainly, although I confess I do not know precisely where the Grandmaster lives." Another pause, and Lord Chimes said "That's simple enough. I should imagine they will be there directly." The cream-colored minotaur looked thoughtful for a moment, and then pulled a fine, thin sheet of paper from a drawer of one the waiting room stands. Another stand furnished ink and a pen, and the minotaur drew something on the paper. As he drew, he spoke. "Lord Fog is with Grandmaster Kanail, who lives about thirty minutes away. He will be there for a while and will wait on you, in any case." Lord Chimes wafted a hand over the page, and handed it Benelaus. "That should get you there." Benelaus studied the paper for a moment. "Yes, I think it will. I thank you, Lord Chimes, on my behalf and that of My Lord of Bones." "You are most welcome, Warrior Benelaus. My complements to your Lord." Benelaus paused. "I shall convey them, Lord Chimes." "I beg you to forgive my rudeness, but I am called elsewhere." The minotaur grimaced. "Several elsewheres." "I am most appreciative of your time, Lord Chimes, and would not impose on it further." "It is hardly an imposition, Warrior," said Lord Chimes, heading for the door. "I am regretful I do not have more to spare." "As am I," Benelaus said to the closing door. He stared down at the paper again. "Well, at least we know where to find him."