The streets were so bright upon leaving the dusky confines of the Prelacy Room that Iskal had to shield his eyes with his forearm for a few seconds. Despite the dome-like, natural stone cave ceiling of Embestour, a suprising amount of light made its way through the heavily guarded Western entrance to the city and, coupled with cleverly-designed white limestone and marble walkways, as well as reflective mirrors on the ceiling, daylight was mimicked with suprising accuracy. It often gave the non-natives who visited the city what locals called 'circadian confusion', in that it felt like the gleaming outdoors while in an enclosed space, save for the times when smog took hold in the air.

  Iskal set off to walk the long red flank of the Palisade, with Lesquare about one step ahead leading the way. 'What was that the Valley Admiral said about... what was it... the less-frequented contacts?' He Inquired.

  'That's where we're heading now.' Returned Lesquare quickly.

  Iskal studied his companion. A stiffness seemed to have overtaken him. He was walking not with the characteristic saunter but rather a sort of awkwardness, as if wearing wrong-sized shoes. 'That didn't really answer my question,' Iskal said.

  'No it didn't.' Lesquare sighed. 'I understand you should know what we're about to walk into. I agree, it's not a place to enter unprepared, but we can't discuss here, not amongst the commonfolk.' Lesquare searched about him, looking upon all he saw with the innate distrust of a clandestine soldier.

  'Can you at least tell me what district we're going to?'

  Lesquare caught Iskal's eye for the first time since they'd left the Palisade. 'The Fighting Pits in the Scrimmage Town.'

  Their route took them first onto the Ram's Eye - the long, flat straight acting as the central strip, and therefore focal point, of Embestour. They followed it for some time, dodging the endless stream of Colloseans travelling hither and thither, until they reached its conclusion, where it gradually narrowed to a point, at the tip of which intersected the Scrimmage Town and Spirits Town Districts. The dark buildings of these neighbourhoods seemed to sprout outwards and upwards from the flat white stones of the Rams Eye, like great black cliffs facing a frozen sea. Unlike the more colourful, pastel-coated establishments of the Materials Town, the shops and houses here looked soot-stained, with an ever-present damp sheen coating every inch.

  The two of them headed north-east into the land of the Fighting Pits. Iskal became aware of an uneasiness growing within. As a child he'd always been told to avoid the Eastern stretch of town, and he'd carried that into adulthood to some degree. He was born in the Materials Town, attended school there, played in the alleys, Married Viella there. His neighbourhood district when he was a Chieftain Constable lay deep in the heart of the Materials Town. He was a man of West Embestour, through and through. These Eastern streets that he walked now, with their mismatching cobbles and big scarred men stood leaning againsttall crooked houses with hazy windows, or the gas lampposts stuck into the pavement, it was all foreign to him.

  Soon, though, they came across the origin of the neighbourhood's namesake - the Fighting Pits. Circular basins built into the ground, some the size of a large kitchen and some a hundred feet wide, opened out before them. Each had the same layout: crater-shaped, with tiered seats made out of the stone floor, and a flat circle of biscuit-coloured sand at the centre. A merged roar from crowds of varying sizes carried in the air like a chaotic aria. It was only the midday on the last day before the week's end, so the stadiums, known by some Embestourians as 'theatres of strife', were nowhere near capacity, but there were a still a fair few professional and unprofessional gamblers that Iskal could make out as they passed one of the pits, as well as retirees and the occasional group of youths who had snuck off from school.

  They headed further east in meandering fashion, circling the pits via the curving paths that seperated them, watching in cursory glances the various contests of combat that were taking place in each one. At this time of day, all fights were of the non-lethal variety, starring either up-and-coming bruisers who wanted to climb the ladder or older, battle-scarred but still lesser-known fighters, who'd never quite reached a higher level of renown. It was only after sundown, when the children were asleep, that the true gladiatorial contests took place.

  Iskal heard a gentle smattering of cheers to his right and turned to check out the cause. In an oblong pit, made up of only a about five rows of seats, he saw a young man clad in cheap, purple-dyed leathers laying on his back, blood trickling from his mouth and nose, chest heaving. The older man standing over him, who Iskal assumed had just dealt the winning blow with his rubber-tipped wooden hammer, dropped to his knees, and turned the young fighter onto his side so he wouldn't choke, and rested a cloth from his pocket beneath the poor novice's head. Iskal smiled at the act of decency.

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  But he was growing impatient with Lesquare now, and so removed his attention from the pits and said to his companion: 'We're away from the streets now, nobody within earshot, and we're protected by the cheers from the fighting pits, can you finally tell me where we're heading?'

  To Iskal's surprise, Lesquare stopped in his tracks, took Iskal gently, but firmly, by the arm, and marched him towards the dusty yellow wall of a long-abandoned nick-nack stall.

  Lesquare leaned against the wall, head bowed just a touch. 'Before I tell you, you should know these contacts are... not the first port of call in any situation. They're not plan A but rather plan C. Plan J even. But you know as well as I how little progress we have made in terms of infiltrating the sects. It is not your fault, just to say, in case you were having such spells of self-doubt.'

  'I wasn't but-'

  'Good. You should not.' Lesquare closed his eyes for a moment, then rubbed them with his thumb and forefinger before opening them again. 'We are here to meet with Ponsonby and Cravitch Fadoon.'

  Iskal was dumbfounded. At first, he assumed Lesquare was practicing some ill-timed joke, but, thinking again on how he'd never seen Lesquare in such a state of unseasiness, such displeasure, he accepted the truth behind the words.

  'Correct me if I'm wrong, as I've only worked within the Valley Command for a short spell, but isn't our duty to apprehend and charge the gang chiefs, and not sit down to afternoon tea with them?'

  This was the first time Iskal had spoken to Lesquare with this level of irreverence, the same attitude that was second nature to him before his return to Chieftain, but he felt it warranted in this instance. He realised in the moment that, in some ways, he'd even missed speaking this way.

  'You are right, you have been in the Command for only a short spell, so you have no idea how things truly work in Collosea, in all of Oros for that matter.' Lesquare's voice was irate but still hushed, the usual smooth intonations replaced with arrhythmic lilts. 'There is this idea of virtue vs sin, the type taught in schools and drilled into to rawflesh recruits on their first day in the uniform. But for all of the four ages, order has been maintained behind the scenes, and to do so, you have to see the grey between the black and white sometimes.'

  'I think I've pegged you all wrong,' replied Iskal, 'I figured you to have more of disdain for scum like the Fadoons. Do you know how many run-ins I had with their dodgers as a constable? The things they order their men to do?'

  'I do what I'm told, Marks. Something you have oft had difficulty with, based on your files. Valley Admiral Henney ordered me to tear apart the New Becoming operation. We've exhausted other options, and if supping with fiends like Ponsonby and Cravitch results in completing our objectives, then that is what we willll do. Now, are you coming, or do you not share the same imperative to disrupt the sects as I?'

  Iskal understood immediately what Lesquare was hinting at here. For the first time, the potential underlying suspicion of Iskal's loyalty had peeked out from its hiding place. He promptly shut his trap.

  'Good, let's go, we're nearly there.'

  Lesquare led Iskal down a long, rectangular ramp built into the pliable ground until they reached a door built into the natural rockwall at the very edge of the city. It was guarded by three heavy men, and as they neared, the men tensed, their hands moved quick as cat's paws to the hilt of their swords. Lesquare stepped closer to the centre guard, and Iskal heard him speak the words: 'A dust of the auld arbour salt will melt deep the neve.'

  The central guardsman nodded, and, after looking Iskal up and down with suspicious eyes, turned to open the door, revealing a long hallway patterned with framed paintings and lit by candelabras set on plinth tables. Stepping in, the corridor felt murky to Iskal after walking the bright ground of the Fighting Pits district. Their footsteps thudded as they walked, the leather and sanded wood soles of their shoes meeting heavily with the carpet. At the end of the corridor was another door, this time unguarded, made of deep maroon-coloured wood. Iskal had never seen such timber before and assumed it to be both rare and expensive. Lesquare knocked, and a latch at eye height opened for a second to reveal an ugly, surly brow, before closing again. There was a chorus of sliding metallic clicks, and the door opened.

  The room was grand. Windowless but tastefully lit from both the flanks and above. It was tall but shaped like a flat disc, with several pillars of ashy stone holding the ceiling up. The floor was fitted with a fine carpet the colour of blood, and, to Iskal's mild surprise, the far sides were lined with bookshelves. Men and women dressed in varying degrees of finery were already staring at these alien callers, scanning them, picking out every detail of the two soldiers. Iskal became acutely aware that, despite being dressed in everyday clothes, these people could identify him and Lesquare as members of the military. They might as well have had the Collosean forgewheel tattoed on their cheeks - for most of the individuals in this room had spent their lives watching out for the representatives of the law. The place stunned Iskal somewhat. He'd stepped foot in many a gang hideout before, but none looked remotely like this. This felt more like he'd been welcomed to a luncheon thrown by members of the Collosean high society.

  The pair were escorted to the centre of the room, where they were stopped before an ornate table made entirely of charcoal-grey metal cast as a single shape. Its sides were embroidered with detailed gilt patterns of ivy, and behind it were two men of quite opposite features. Sat in a leather wingback was a younger man draped in black wool, with fat eyelids and large pink ears. On his head was a squat bowler hat. From the stories he heard, Iskal took this to be Ponsonby, the Nephew.

  Standing behind him then must have been Cravitch; thin as a blade of hay and dressed in a chocolate brown tunic and cape. Iskal could smell him even from behind the desk - a cloying stench of stale body odour masked by fermented berries. Lesquare swallowed before opening his mouth. 'We’re here to discuss a potential deal.'