Jate had nearly fallen asleep. The sofa was so soft, so inviting, so --- shoe? His eyes snapped open at the sound of a loud voice and a thud near his feet. Dante. He only half registered what the man was saying, but quickly he took notice. Sitting up higher, he turned to face him.

"Merely unlocks doors?" He huffed angrily. "Oh, so I suppose you'd rather be back," he fought back a yawn as his voice heated, "fighting those elves, eh? Or having been killed yourself?" The man went too far. "That bloody heartshard saved your life. Playing nobility?" His temper flared. "Now listen here, you bloody 'cartographer'," he emphasized the word, "I don't just play nobility, I am nobility. If you want to talk about playing royalty, well, at least I've done a better sight than you bloody well would have. What purpose? What purpose? It's not like my opinion was asked, now, was it? No! I still only have half a clue as to what goes on! If I'm lucky, I get to hear new plans. But just because I'm part of the group now doesn't mean I bloody well have everything transported to my head, now, does it? People have to tell me things! And as they don't always seem to, I can't say it's my fault when I don't have input! And before you start in on what I didn't do, Master Cartographer, I suggest you take a look at what you bloody well have and haven't done!"

Jate stood and stalked --more like stumbled from tiredness- to the bed farthest from Dante and flung himself onto it. Tired as he was though, he didn't immediately fall asleep. He knew it was unfair to yell at Dante like that. The man was still a reluctant follower, not exactly a prisoner but not a welcoming participant. He had little say in their decisions. His anger only slightly subsiding, Jate turned his mind to Dante's accusations. He hadn't done anything during the negotiations, and that galled him. But his reply had been true. Half of the time, Jate felt like he was walking blindfolded at a chasm. He was still new to this rebellion thing, hang it all, couldn't they see that? Couldn't they tell that he needed the information, that he wanted their guidance and teaching? And couldn't they bloody well see that he was going to have to know the specifics before he could be expected to make decisions? Couldn't....? He broke of his thoughts in frustration. It wasn't all their fault. He needed to assert himself, to ask questions. Still. Staring at the wall, Jate tried to block his mind and attempted to sleep.

_________________
going on a journey through my old claims

Dante half-rose from his seat, before quickly sitting back down again, out of necessity. He underestimated his own soreness.

"Oh, so you're just a victim of circumstance are you? Don't you even <i>begin</i> to tell me what people don't tell you!" His voice was loud enough now to disturb anyone's sleep. The guards outside their door could probably hear every word. Well, he thought bitterly, let them hear.

"You're <i>nobility</i>," he mocked. "I suppose you'd like us to start giving you a bit more respect, you cursed excuse of a noble! I swear, I've had it with all of you!" Old anger seethed through him, and he felt much like he had when he'd first been 'betrayed' by the upper class. "Just going around in circles like a bunch of damned donkeys! Think you've got the world by the tail, and you never accomplish a bloody thing."

He'd exhausted himself now, and turned away from them with a petty snort of derision. For a moment, he wondered if it might not have been a better idea to have just stayed quiet and gone to bed in the first place.

Stupid rebels. Folding his arms tight across his chest, he waited with a clenched jaw for the predictable speech about all the good things they'd done he knew was coming.

_________________
<center>
"The piano is able to communicate the subtlest universal truths by means of wood, metal and vibrating air."

The Phantom was silent for a minute. A monumental yawn interrupted his silence.

"Give it a rest, Dante," he said wearily, once he'd stopped yawning. "Aren't you more creative? How many bloody times have we heard the speech about arrogant nobles? There's a bedroom. That way." He pointed at one of the doors leading off the main chamber. "By the way," he continued to the room in general, "there are guards outside."

At the general lack of surprise, he came to the belated realization that they all already knew. Well then. "I'm not staying up to watch. If they kill us in the middle of the night, at least we'll die rested."

His eyelids could have been made of lead. The Phantom squinted through one of the windows at the moon and tried to calculate how many hours of sleep he had left. With an effort, he turned to Adaniar. "We'll reconvene tomorrow. Many - ah - many thanks for your help." A sense of duty forced him to add, "We likely owe you our lives."

_________________

"Yes, you likely do," Adaniar agreed without missing a beat, smiling faintly. "And I assure you, I will be able to hear if they so much as lay a finger on the doorknob. Human armor really is quite a noisy affair."

Kjan vaguely registered that he was probably supposed to say something sufficiently appreciative as well, but he was too occupied with staring at Jate's closed door. He wasn't sure he'd ever heard the young man string that many words together at once. And he certainly hadn't heard Jate swear so liberally. (Kjan made an unrelated mental note to help the poor man expand his vocabulary at a later date.) Apparently Dante had touched a sore spot.

Any further contemplation was forestalled by a rather long yawn. It was more than an hour past midnight, and it had been an exceedingly long day. In a matter of hours, they'd gone from prisoners of war being paraded through the streets to guests at the royal palace. Well, guests with their own private set of guards posted right outside. Their room was much nicer than a cell, though. And just beyond one of those doors awaited the most gloriously comfortable bed that he'd had the luxury of using in half a decade.

"I'm going to bed," he announced abruptly. "For the record, if I am awoken even a minute before dawn, I will throw things. Probably of the sharp, metal variety. After that, I may have sufficient presence of mind to throw something softer like a boot or a rock. No promises, though." He glanced in the Phantom's direction to be sure that this point was absolutely clear, then disappeared into the nearest vacant bedroom.

He tiredly fumbled with his weapons belt, laid it down where it would still be within easy reach, then all but collapsed onto the bed. He was asleep before his head hit the pillow.

Sleep knocked the Phantom over the head with the force of several crowbars. He barely remembered kicking off his boots and sprawling, dirt- and sweat-encrusted clothes and all, on the spotless bed. He fancied that he he heard his own snores.

Several hours later, everything was mostly the same. Except for the sun, which had replaced the moon and added far more zeal (the Phantom knew; it was painfully bright), he was still filthy, his limbs were still splayed in precisely the same position in which he'd flung himself down, and somehow he was still inside the palace without fearing for his life.

And he was hungry. Stomach-wrenchingly, gut-churningly hungry.

Bleary-eyed, the Phantom got to his feet and squinted at the room. Wardrobe. Mirror. Chair. Table. What was that on the table? His senses began to clue in. The aroma of fresh-baked bread escaped from beneath a cloth.

He whooped aloud. Moments later, a mug of hot strong coffee in one hand and half a loaf (rapidly becoming less than half) in the other, the Phantom stumbled over to his window.

This district of Y'rydha was composed of sparkling domes and spires climbing eternally upward, appearing as though they might be encrusted with diamonds in the early sunlight. Perhaps not so early; the sun had already climbed a fair way into the dazzling periwinkle of the sky. The Phantom yawned. Movement caught his eye.

Far away, where the city dipped into a bowl to form an outdoor amphitheater, a crowd of strange size had gathered. They were milling restlessly about like ants, and the shouting was audible even this far away and past the walls of the palace grounds. The Phantom frowned. His first instinct was to wonder if some prisoners needed saving. He could probably pull something together. Would the rest of them object to -

Then comprehension dawned. The Phantom blinked several more times. The shape of a gallows outlined itself in the center of the bowl when he craned his neck.

He stumbled into the main chamber of the suite and announced to whoever might be listening, "They're waiting for our hanging. Except we haven't shown up."

_________________

Kjan was fighting a losing battle against his own senses. He was still utterly exhausted, and he ached, and he really wanted nothing more than to remain sprawled across the bed for another day or two. But his eyes, despite still being stubbornly closed, persisted in telling him that the sun had been up for quite some time and was shining quite brightly through the window. And his nose was growing incapable of ignoring the smell of fresh bread and coffee, which in turn was making him painfully aware of how empty his stomach was.

Groaning, he grabbed a pillow and pressed it over his face. The sunlight problem was fixed, but the smell of dusty feathers was incapable of masking the far more alluring scent of fresh food. When had he last eaten, anyway? Not since yesterday morning, for certain, and that was only if a biscuit tossed in his general direction counted as eating. And before that....

His stomach protested loudly again, forcing him to concede that regardless of the details, it really had been far too long since his last meal. Grudgingly, he rolled (literally) out of bed, grunting as the impact reminded him of a few injuries. He lay there for a moment, then slowly picked himself up and attempted to survey the room. He'd gotten as far as the door and the table when his eyes fell upon the source of the intoxicating smell.

Three minutes later, there were a few crumbs on the table and a half-empty mug in Kjan's hand.

He eyed the bed thoughtfully, contemplating whether it was worth trying to go back to sleep. Tempting as the prospect was, now that he'd gone and woken himself up, it'd be nearly as much of an ordeal to fall back asleep. Especially with that thrice-cursed sunlight beaming in as cheerfully as it was. Honestly, was it so difficult to hang curtains?

Determining sleep to be a lost cause for the moment, Kjan sighed and opened his door. He found several people already in the common room, the Phantom appearing to have only recently awoken as well. The man made some comment about a hanging that took Kjan a moment to piece together. Their hanging. Right. Except they were here, thankfully, and not there. How would the crowds receive that, he wondered.

"I bet we could make it down there in time, if you're worried about disappointing them."

"Pfft," said the Phantom, snorting. "I'd rather be on the eighth level of the underworld."

All the same, he wandered over to the window and squinted out at the gathering crowd, milling about like insects by the gallows. "Wonder how he'll explain it," he said mirthlessly, thinking aloud, and turned around to gesture dramatically with half a pastry. "'Terribly sorry, the Phantom's our friend now.' The stuck-up nobles would love that."

The groggy silence - none of them had slept like this in weeks - gave the Phantom a chance to consider how exactly the current situation might pan out. They weren't going to hang. That was good. Very good. However, they hung in a bizarre sort of limbo. No longer rebels, but by no means citizens to be seen in the streets. "If I didn't know him better," the Phantom muttered to the silence, "I'd hope our beloved monarch had a plan."

_________________

"The Regent always has a plan," Silvryn interjected. "Often several, and all devised to work in his favor. The only thing that remains to be seen is whether it will end up being in our favor as well." She held the Regent in rather low regard as a ruler, but he was an expert politician. "He will not tell the public the full extent of the situation. Not now, at least. He does not yet fully understand it himself, and it would only invite panic."

Kjan joined the Phantom over at the window to watch the distant crowd. The hangings had been scheduled for dawn, and it was already rapidly approaching noon. Had no explanation been offered yet? "The people aren't stupid, though. The conspicuous lack of executions ought to suggest that something significant has occurred."

"Perhaps he will lie, then," she said dismissively. "He is quite adept at that. Adaniar, when the servant stopped by, did he say anything regarding the Regent's plans?"

"I was informed only that he has important state matters to attend to for most of the day and will meet with us later in the afternoon." A brief pause, in which Kjan could have sworn he saw a smirk. "There was also some vague mention of reupholstering the furniture and a thinly-veiled suggestion that certain individuals might wish to make themselves more presentable before any sort of meeting is to occur."

The Phantom felt his eyebrows shoot up. "Of all the cheek!" he exclaimed. "When his fat Highness has spent several weeks trekking through wilderness, then he can complain of how we smell!"

The moment he ceased to speak, he was aware - for the first time - of a strange pungent odor rising into the air around them. He sniffed and got a powerful whiff of unwashed, unshaven, grime-crusted rebel. There was a short silence in which he reconsidered his words. "Obviously, he's exaggerating," the Phantom added. He shrugged. "I'll have a bath if I feel like it."

Entirely unannounced, Eledhe let herself down by her fingertips from the edge of the roof, and swung into the window with only a slight stumble when she hit the thick carpet. Straightening, she carefully brushed herself off, and said, "Good afternoon."

The Phantom thought he detected insolence, perhaps a hint of 'you lot of lazy good-for-nothings' in her tone, but he wasn't in the mood to pick a fight. He folded his arms.

She gave a toss of her head to flick hair out of her eyes. "The people don't know anything yet," she announced. "He hasn't told them. Half are angry because you're not there, and the other half look as though they're terrified that you'll be marched out any minute. Also, the guards have orders not to let you lot out. For the sake of appearances, I imagine." She smiled thinly. "Unless you care to go across the rooftops."

_________________

"I've seen the roof several times already, and it's never ended especially well," Kjan replied dryly. "Since our appearance anywhere else would just lead to chaos anyway, my vote's for staying here until told otherwise. We can go fact-finding later, if necessary."

His primary interest at the moment was actually finding out whether there was more food soon forthcoming. Unlikely, but he could hope. His stomach was certainly protesting less now that he'd had some bread, but he was still hungry. And tired, but that could wait until later.

Abruptly, it occurred to him that it had been months - probably years - since he'd simply stood around and sipped from a mug of coffee after waking. He was accustomed to rather hectic mornings, filled with every sort of task imaginable, from the mundane to the outright bizarre. He almost felt lost without five different people stopping him to ask if please, sir, he could talk to the Phantom about this or that, or Eledhe berating him about a strategy meeting that he was supposed to be at a half-hour ago.

Granted, they did technically have a pending elven invasion and the potential eradication of the human race looming over their heads, but at least for the moment, he was content to limit his concerns to the most immediate. Like eating. And maybe acquiring a bit of pipeweed (and a pipe, since his had been left at the Keep). Come to think of it, the Regent probably had some very nice wine stashed somewhere....

Kjan sniffed and immediately made a face. "He's not exaggerating," he informed the Phantom.

Jate awoke to the sound of voices in the next room. None to pleased to have the best sleep he'd had in ages interrupted, he quickly forgot about it when he caught a whiff of rapidly cooling food. Not concerning himself with how it got there, with his dirty hands, or with the fact that the coffee was thick and lukewarm, Jate shoveled the food down his throat and gulped the liquid. Thus satisfied, he looked longingly at his pillow. And noticed dirt and grime made the white linen a nice grey. Turning his attentions to himself, Jate wasn't too surprised to find dried blood, dirt, and all manner of stains coating himself --finished off with a nice potent smell. Jate stretched and stumbled his way into the next room.

"Is there a way to get clean? Or maybe some new, non torn clothes?"

_________________
going on a journey through my old claims

Sensing a general consensus toward a bath and cleanliness, and not morally opposed but merely resentful at the implication that he was less than clean, the Phantom stuck his hands in his pockets. Then he pulled them out again, wondering what had been in there before it had deteriorated to an unrecognizable state. "Right," he said after a pause. "To the baths."

They found the servants' baths, beneath the main floor of the palace and fed by underground springs, with very little trouble; this was mostly due to the Phantom and Kjan's prior experience with the palace, as well as Silvryn's having lived there for sixteen years. The Phantom was tempted to saunter into the kitchens just to see what kind of reaction he might garner, but even he had to admit they smelled pungent.

The rooms - two of them - were low and open, built with dark slick stone and containing deep, terraced pools of water. It being the middle of the day, they were deserted, and smelled faintly of soap.

The Phantom had to admit that it had been too long since he'd had a decent bath.

_________________

Several hours later, Silvryn felt cleaner than she had in ages. True, she had changed clothes and made at least some attempt at washing up when they'd returned to the Keep (more than could be said for most members of their party), but she still could not remember the last time she'd had a proper bath like that. Soap, water deep enough to actually immerse herself in...

Ironic, given that ten years ago she would have been taken aback by the mere suggestion that she bathe in the servants' quarters.

It was still a bit unsettling, being here after so many years. She had lived here, grown up here, been through these halls countless times. Last night, seeing the Regent occupying the very room that had been her parents', that would have been hers one day... Silvryn shook her head and forced her thoughts back to the present. There was little point in dwelling on what might have been.

Getting up from where she sat on the bed, she opened up the wardrobe and found, to her surprise, several of her old dresses hanging there. She fingered each one briefly before settling on one of the simpler options. Quickly exchanging her still-damp travel clothes for the dress, she took a moment to savor the feel of it. It was still practical enough, she decided, clean-cut and far less ornate than some of the dresses she used to wear. She could still move about easily enough if any problems arose. And besides that, the folds of the skirt were better suited to hide a dagger anyway.

She located a clip and pulled back just enough hair to keep it out of her face, then went to wait with the others in the common room. "Still no word?"

"None," Kjan replied. With some difficulty, he'd found clean clothing that fit him well enough, trimmed his beard, and even made somewhat of an effort to finger-comb his hair. For the first time in months - probably years - he actually looked passably respectable. "It's nearly evening. Surely he'll meet with us soon. It's not like this issue can wait very long."

The Phantom gave a mighty tug on his too-tight starched collar, and when it failed to make much of a difference, gave a noncommittal grunt in reply to Kjan's observation.

He looked like a noble. He didn't like it.

The white shirt was too stiff. The brocade coat was heavy and embroidered and looked ridiculous, and the Phantom wanted his tunic and jerkin back. He suspected a servant had surreptitiously thrown them on a trash heap somewhere. Altogether, Phaerin Grey was rising too close to the surface for Phantom Grey's comfort.

"He'd better have a damn good reason for the delay," he muttered, leaving the mirror to pace in front of their suite's solid double doors. Dark gods, they hardly looked like rebels any more. Eledhe's apathetic garb, dark and fitted and not lacking obvious weaponry, was nearly refreshing. She was leaning against the wall, arms folded, mouth twisted down in annoyance she wasn't bothering to hide.

Silvryn did look nice, he noted past his irritation. Had the shirt not been trying to choke him, he might have allowed himself to become preoccupied with the sight of her.

Sick of pacing, he flung himself down on the nearest sofa. "If he's not taking this seriously, I wish some elf would hurry up and assassinate him."

_________________

Dante felt somewhere near human again. It had been satisfying to dispose of his old garments, shredded and stained beyond repair. He only felt a little nauseous from suddenly digesting a bit too much of a warm meal, after having lived so meagerly for so long. Every minute since he first rose in an actual <i>bed</i> had been relished.

But somehow, the current topic of interest seemed to put a slight damper on matters.

"No you don't!" he responded a little sharply to the Phantom's remark. "The Regent may not be much of a ruler, but he's a front, and without a front, everything would be chaos and mayhem. You know that, or you would have killed him yourself."

Of course Dante <i>didn't</i> know that he knew that, but he was beginning to feel irritable about the whole business. Things were too unsettled, too undecided. It reeked of last-minute plans and escapes, and in the past month, Dante had come to learn how <i>very</i> much he hated last-minute plans and escapes.

_________________
<center>
"The piano is able to communicate the subtlest universal truths by means of wood, metal and vibrating air."

Ash picked idly at a couple of loose threads on his sleeve. He had scrounged around and found trousers and a shirt that was only a bit too large on him. The garments felt strange and somewhat scratchy, but they were much neater than his own clothes, and more suited to the palace. He had to admit it felt good to be clean again, to have enough to eat, and to sit down on a surface that wasn’t rock or dirt, even if it was all courtesy of the Regent. Not that very much courtesy had entered the situation.

“We have our own front, though,” he said, glancing first at Dante, then at Jate. “And hopefully more than a front, as long as the folks out there get over their disappointment at not seeing him hung. It shouldn’t be too hard. After all,” he directed his words towards Jate, “You’re half the Regent’s age and have twice as much hair as he does. Just act like you know what you’re doing and the people’ll love you.”

Swinging one leg up over the armrest of his chair, he lounged against the padded back and added, “I guess we shouldn’t really kill him though, much as I’d like to see him with a knife in his gut.”