Copyright © 2001    By Janet Trautvetter,
Sarah Roark, and Myranda Kalis

The Tremere Inquisition
Part I

The Tremere Chantry, Florence
iii non. Apr. (April 3, 1526)

The chantry had been in a furor of housecleaning for the past fortnight. In the more 'public' rooms, ghouled servants toiled with all the dutiful attention one would expect of those sworn by word and blood to the welfare of the House, making sure every stone and tile and wooden beam, bookcase, chair, table, and piece of furniture was absolutely spotless and in perfect repair. In the sprawling underground libraries, studies, workrooms and sleeping chambers of the Tremere themselves, where few servants were permitted, the lowest ranked apprentices were actually spending time down on their hands and knees doing much the same thing.

Adam of Norwich set his hands on his hips and glumly stared at the cluttered chaos that was his own quarters — quarters he was being required to vacate so that the visiting Archon might have the use of this suite during his visit. Adam was used to being bumped out of his bed on occasion, particularly during the yearly Conclave, when all the Regents of Italy came to Florence to meet with Lord Gilbert. But given the exalted rank of their expected visitor, and the uncertain length of his visit, only a clean, refurbished, and totally empty suite of rooms would do. And since this suite, which Adam shared with his fellow apprentice Leonardo, was the largest and most private of the living quarters, it fell to them to "volunteer" it for the Archon's use, while they took up temporary quarters elsewhere with their fellow apprentices.

"What's this?" Henri D'Montagne, who was helping Adam move his belongings, picked up a curious brass lamp. "How odd...that looks like some kind of writing on it..."

"Hey, be careful with that!" Adam took the lamp by its curved handle. "It's a lamp, from Damascus. You have to keep it upright, or the oil will spill out all over everything." He wrapped it in a bit of old silk before placing it carefully in a large iron-bound chest, nestled between other similarly wrapped anonymous treasures.

"And this?" Henri picked up a glass jar, squinted at the contents. "Is that a rat?"

"It's a hedgehog. Put it down."

"You have to pack it up too," Henri said, picking up two more jars without looking too closely at the contents.

"Yes, but I'm not ready for those jars yet. They'll have to go in something else. I've got to do this in some kind of order or I'll never be able to find anything later!"

"I'm surprised you can find anything even now," Henri muttered, putting the jars back down and looking for something else to examine. There was entirely too much junk here, in his opinion. And since Adam was moving into his already-cramped suite, he was not happy about it. "What do you need all this stuff for?"

"Research," Adam said, crossly. "Look, if you want to be helpful, go fetch Rannulf. Those chests are ready to go now."

"I think we should wait until they're all ready," said Henri, eyeing the veritable mountain of articles still needing to be packed up. "Then he can take them all at once." It had also occurred to him that as long as Adam moved his mountain one chest at a time, Lord Gilbert would be unaware of how big that mountain had come to be. But if the Regent saw the entire hoard being moved all at one time, he might see fit to order Adam to reduce his worldly possessions down to something more manageable.

"I suppose you're right," Adam relented. "That way I can make sure everything is packed in the right box..." He sprinkled two generous handfuls of straw over the layer of glass vials and cordials in the chest he was filling, and then reached for the next jar on the half-emptied shelf.

"Why is the Archon coming here, anyway?" Henri asked, finding a bench near the door and claiming the uncluttered portion by sitting on it. To forestall Adam's giving him the usual pat answer, he added, "I heard he was coming to put our brother Etienne to the question. Something about that business with Taliesin in Milan..."

Adam snorted. "That's nonsense. Lord Gilbert examined him quite thoroughly when— " He paused, and then gave the younger apprentice a stern look. "Now, don't you go looking for gossip from me! Etienne is your senior, and you should respect him."

"I'm only asking a simple question," Henri protested. "Everyone knows that Etienne got on very intimate terms with Marius dell' Aquila while he was supposed to be investigating him — and now dell' Aquila's the Prince of Milan, and a diabolist anarch at that!"

"Where did you hear that bit of moldy tripe from, the Lepers? You must not have been paying them very well."

"Well, when the messenger came and told us about Milan falling to the rebels last year, I was watching Etienne's colors. And when the news was announced that the dell' Aquila Lasombra had taken Milan, he was happy about it. Then he clamped it down, but I know what I saw."

"You know how unreliable watching colors can be," Adam lectured, "or you should by now. Colors that flare momentarily in a halo can mean anything... you have no idea what internal thoughts really spawned them. Etienne is a loyal son of House and Clan, and even Lord Marcus will soon figure that out."

"They probably said the same thing about Goratrix, too," Henri pointed out. "And we all know how loyal he turned out to be."

"You shouldn't even be talking about that," Adam warned him. "Especially not saying his name out loud. Unless you want the Archon to put you to the question as well!"

"Ah-hah, I knew I was right! I knew this all had to do with what's been going on up in Milan!"

"Why, you little snot," muttered Adam in his native English, which no one else in the Chantry understood. In Italian, he said, "Rubbish. I heard the Archon's been visiting all the Chantries from here to Vienna. We'll probably hardly see him. He'll be closeted up with Gilbert the whole time, which is just fine with me."

Henri was about to expand on the rumors that had filtered down to him from the Chantry in Bruges when he heard approaching footsteps out in the corridor. He recognized those footsteps, too — the measured tread of a man who, rumor insisted, had been a monsignor or maybe even a bishop during his breathing days. He smiled.

"Well, if you think our brother Etienne is so free of guilty associations with the Lasombra of Milan," he said, just loud enough for his voice to carry through the closed door out into the corridor, "why don't you move into his quarters, instead of cluttering up mine?"

Out in the corridor, Etienne de Vaillant heard Henri's question and suppressed a bitter smile. Then he found himself listening, out of a perverse desire to hear what Adam might say, even though he held no illusions over with what regard the other apprentices held him — particularly in light of the Archon's upcoming visit.

"Because Etienne is the senior apprentice, and seniors always get private quarters," Adam replied, although under the circumstances, that reply sounded more like a convenient excuse.

Etienne took pity on him. He knocked at the door. "Good evening, brothers," he said congenially, when Adam had opened the door. "How's the packing coming? Is there anything I can do to help?"

"I think we can manage," Adam said, a bit too quickly. "Henri is helping me."

"So I see," Etienne said. Since Henri had not even bestirred himself from his bench to answer the door, Etienne could just imagine how much help he really was. "Well, this chest looks ready to go, shall I take it down the hall for you?"

"No... no, that's alright," Adam forestalled him. "We were going to get Rannulf or one of the other ghouls to help us move them all at one time, when they're all ready."

"Oh, nonsense, you know what will happen then," Etienne said. "Just when you need him, Rannulf will have been sent off on some errand or another, and you'll end up moving all the boxes by yourselves. We might as well move a few of them now, don't you think?"

"That's probably a good idea..." Adam agreed, much to Henri's inward annoyance. "Henri, if you can take this one, and that basket right there, I'll take this chest here, that would give me more room to get the other shelves done."

"I'd be happy to take one of these, if you would like—" Etienne offered.

"No, I'm sure Henri and I can handle it," Adam said. "Come on, Henri."

Grudgingly, Henri picked up the indicated chest — which was packed full with straw and who knows what else, and heavy as Prometheus' chains. Etienne helpfully balanced the basket, which contained a number of small ceramic vials, on top of that.

"Be careful with that," Adam said, hefting his own loaded chest. "If any of those break, it'll take a week to get the stink off you. They're highly concentrated."

Etienne watched as the two younger apprentices trudged off down the corridor, bearing their burdens. His own hands were empty, his assistance unwanted — as if even his proximity might implicate them in whatever alleged wrongdoing the Archon Inquisitor might be investigating. Everyone seemed to know that Lord Marcus was coming to Florence to look into the "matter of Milan." And in that "matter of Milan," Etienne de Vaillant had the dubious honor of being an intimate witness. The ostracism was an annoyance but not a surprise.

He started towards the stairs leading up to the more 'public' part of the chantry. He was one of the few who had the privilege of enjoying the fresh air, and by the saints, he was going to exercise it.

As he approached the stairs, he heard the rapid descent of someone from above, and seconds later, his brother apprentice Leonardo appeared, clattering down to Etienne's level. "Oh, Etienne!," Leonardo said, halting just shy of a collision. "Oh, good, I was looking for you. Well, for everyone, really. It's Lord Marcus... he's early! He sent a message — he's going to be arriving tonight! Lord Gilbert wants you to come, right away!"

Etienne nodded. Of course the Archon was arriving tonight. A classic Inquisitor's tactic — let the quarry start scrambling to clear the skeletons out of closets and then surprise them at the point of maximum chaos.

"Well, don't stand there gibbering, man. Adam and Henri are back that way, you can go tell them, too. I'll be right along."

"Y-yes, I will." Leonardo dashed off down the hall.

Etienne glanced up the stairs; so much for getting some fresh air. Well, at least this would soon be over...

It was a credit to Gilbert's management of the Florentine chantry — or perhaps, to the terror that the Archon's reputation engendered — that Adam's belongings were moved, the suite cleaned, and the apprentices assembled in the chantry's common hall shortly before dawn that same night in order to formally welcome their most honored guest.

Etienne was the last to arrive. As the eldest among the apprentices, it had been his task to retune the wards on the vacated chambers — a tricky and delicate task that could only be accomplished in the relative silence after the other apprentices had cleared the corridor. Now he walked briskly into the hall and took his place on one end of the line, slipping the silk-wrapped tuning wands into a purse inside his formal robes.

Gilbert, a somber specter in the deep purple robes and hood of his rank, multiple sigils hanging from a chain of office around his neck, walked slowly down the line of apprentices and examined each in turn. "Henri, I do hope you've brushed up on your proper Latin conjugations since last Conclave. Adam, retie the knots on your girdle, they're reversed again. Leonardo, I suggest you purge that aura of guilt from your face and your halo before his Lordship decides to discover what it is you've done. Etienne..." Gilbert paused.

"My lord?" Etienne responded politely. To his right, there was a keen expectant silence from his brother apprentices, all waiting to see what Gilbert would find wrong with him.

Gilbert's brows drew together, the dark eyes scanning him up and down. "The chambers are now ready for his Lordship's tenancy?" he asked.

It was an odd question — Gilbert had never before felt it necessary to ask him if he had fulfilled an assigned task. Perhaps Gilbert had intended to say something else, and then changed his mind. Perhaps Gilbert would tell him later what it was that he meant to say — or perhaps he wouldn't, but there was no use worrying about it now.

"They are, my lord," he said.

Gilbert nodded. "Good." He tilted his head slightly to one side, as if listening. "His Lordship is approaching our gates even now."

Etienne felt the tuning wands vibrating against his hip, and then, faintly, in the stillness that filled the hall, the slight shift of pitch in the chantry's outer wards as they permitted one of the Blood within.

Only a few moments later, the great oaken doors swung open with no hand upon them. A chilling draft swept through the hall, causing torches and candles to flutter and dance. A tall figure appeared in the open doorway, robed and hooded in black, with a great sword belted at his side. The figure glided forward and flowed, rather than stepped, down the three short stairs to the hall's main level, in eerie silence. The hood overshadowed his face, so that only his mouth and chin could be seen.

Gilbert bowed, and the apprentices followed suit, bowing even lower. "Welcome to the Chantry of House and Clan Tremere in Florence, my lord," Gilbert said. "All is ready for you."

"I thank you, Lord Gilbert, for your welcome," the Archon replied. His Latin carried a hint of some foreign accent that sounded strangely familiar to Etienne's ear. "But dawn approaches, and I have certain preparations that must be made before I can rest."

"Of course, my lord." Gilbert bowed again, although not nearly as low as before. "Brother Niccolo will show you and your apprentice to your quarters."

Niccolo stepped forward from the line and bowed low.

The hooded face inclined slightly forward. "Again, I thank you, brother," he said. "I am looking forward to speaking with you. I am sure my sojourn here will be of great interest.... and extremely beneficial to our House and Clan." The shadowed face turned slowly as he surveyed the line of apprentices, coming at last to Etienne. "Very beneficial indeed."

Gilbert bowed for a third time, this time without speaking, and the hooded figure of the Archon glided silently after Niccolo in the direction of the sleeping quarters. In the open doorway there now appeared a second Tremere, a slim, dark-haired young man wearing a black robe but no hood. He hurried after his master, carrying a small chest he apparently did not wish to trust to servants' hands. Behind him followed the ghoul Rannulf, bearing a huge chest on one shoulder.

"Rest well, brothers," Gilbert told them. "Tomorrow night, I daresay, shall be for his Lordship's business."

But from the nervous looks that passed among his brother apprentices, Etienne had a suspicion that no one's rest would be easy until the Archon's business had been revealed.

The Tremere Chantry, Florence
the following evening (April 4, 1526)

Etienne rose early the next evening, but had only just completed his ablutions when there was a tentative knock at his chamber door. Opening it, he saw Rannulf, the big, powerful Swiss who was one of the chantry's several resident ghouls.

"Gut evening, Maestro," Rannulf said, and bowed awkwardly. Like most of the ghouls, he was unaware of the exact ranks among the Tremere, and therefore treated them all as his masters. Not even the youngest apprentice, of course, saw any reason to tell him otherwise.

"Good evening, Rannulf," Etienne said. "What is it?"

"Lord Gilbert sent me, m'lord. He vants to see you in his chambers."

"You can tell him I'll be there directly, then. Thank you, Rannulf."

The ghoul bowed again and strode off, ducking to pass under a low archway down the hall.

Etienne finished dressing quickly, smoothing his hair into place and checking the results critically in a silver mirror, before leaving his chamber to answer the Regent's summons.

Gilbert glanced up and nodded in acknowledgment of Etienne's obeisance. He tapped a sheet of parchment on his worktable; Etienne looked and saw that it was decorated with ribbons and the seal of Domenico Manelli, the Prince of Florence. "This came today, from His Highness' court," Gilbert said. "It seems his Highness is receiving an embassy from Milan. And he wants you to attend."

Etienne raised an eyebrow. "Me, my lord? His Highness has never asked for my advice before...."

"Apparently the Milanese envoy requested you by name." Gilbert picked up the letter and glanced through it. "Signor Vincenzo Della Torre. Is the name familiar to you?"

"Yes, of course," Etienne admitted. "A Ventrue... quite likely in the confidence of the Prince. Signor Della Torre is related to the Prince by mortal blood, and they were allies when I was in Milan."

Gilbert nodded, folded the letter up again and laid it aside. "I shall have to discuss the matter with His Lordship," he said. From his tone, Etienne surmised that the Regent did not relish the idea of the Archon getting involved in what Gilbert probably considered local politics — but it was probably unavoidable. One could hardly not inform the Archon of the development.

"I shall abide by your wishes, of course, my lord," Etienne said, firmly suppressing the traitorous rise of hope in his heart... that perhaps Vincenzo had other reasons for asking for his presence. A letter, perhaps, or a message. It has been some time since he had last heard.... No, he told himself sternly. Not now. You'll find out soon enough. Patience...

"As you have no doubt surmised, his Lordship has a keen interest in Italian affairs," Gilbert said, a slight frown creasing his brow. "Particularly those of Milan. I daresay he will want to speak to you...at some length."

"That would be expected, my lord," Etienne agreed. "Given my personal experiences in the city, and those who now rule it."

"Yes, exactly." Gilbert paused, but it was clear the conversation was not yet over. "Etienne."

"My lord?"

"Is there anything concerning your visit to Milan that you, for whatever reason, did not wish to share with me before...? I am not accusing you, brother," he added, perhaps sensing Etienne's spine stiffening under his robes. "I have no doubts as to your loyalty and dedication, both then and now. However, it is the calling of an Archon to ask difficult questions, and take whatever measures he believes necessary to get his answers."

"I understand, my lord, and I appreciate your concern. But I told you all I knew upon my return to Florence." Etienne said. At least Gilbert was talking to him directly, and not whispering behind closed doors. "I stand ready to do all I can to aid his Lordship's inquiries."

"Very good, then," Gilbert nodded, sitting down at his slanted writing desk. He reached within a cubbyhole and laid a fresh piece of parchment on the steeply slanted surface, securing it with a pair of weighted ribbons, all the while continuing to speak. "His Lordship will send for you when he is ready. Until then, we will attempt to go on with our business as usual. You may inform the others that I see no reason for any further delay with their studies or their work. I don't want Lord Marcus thinking we are lax in our duties to House and Clan."

"I will do so, my lord," Etienne said. He made a final bow and left Gilbert's chambers.

He walked briskly down the corridor, stopping only to inform Niccolo, who was in the library, of Gilbert's message, and entrust him with informing the rest of the apprentices. Then Etienne retreated behind the closed door of his own workroom to fret in private.

He had no doubt that Lord Marcus would put him to the question. Vincenzo could have hardly picked a worse time to visit Florence, particularly as an official envoy from Milan's new — but rebellious — Prince. Milan was now back in Lasombra hands, as was much of Italy still — which left Florence sandwiched between Milan to the north, and the Lasombra territories to the south, a small Camarilla sanctuary in the midst of a shadowed sea. A little over a quarter century after the Convention of Thorns, the Camarilla's influence had spread throughout much of Europe but had run into stalwart resistance in the lands where the Lasombra had traditionally been strongest: Iberia and southern Italia.

Eastern Europe, the ancient homeland of the proud and alien Tzimisce, had likewise largely turned its collective back on the Camarilla's offer of alliance, but the Tzimisce dwelt in distant, inhospitable country on the border between Christian Europe and the Ottoman Turks — too remote to be worthy of immediate attention.

Italy, however, was far too important and centralized, with its Mediterranean ports, its wealth, and its trade, to be left alone. Especially since it also contained the Papacy, it was imperative that Italy be brought into accord with the Camarilla's Traditions and its policy of strict masquerade, lest there be kindled another, sweeping Inquisition that would engulf all of Europe's Kindred in fiery destruction. Or so the Camarilla's ruling elders apparently believed.

However, they had severely underestimated Lasombra pride. Or perhaps they had overestimated the destruction wrought among the elders of the Lasombra during the past century's anarch uprisings; Etienne had even heard rumors that the Lasombra Ancestor himself had been destroyed, and all of his childer. At any rate, few Lasombra or Tzimisce princes had sworn allegiance to the Camarilla's new order, and their resistance only encouraged the same from other princes — or the surviving, unrepentant anarch bands.

Etienne stole a glance at the locked chest in the corner, then tore his gaze away again, resolutely turning his back on temptation — and the letters hidden between the pages of his Confessions of St. Augustine, wrapped in a doublet three decades out of style. He busied himself instead with some copying he had promised to Gilbert, focusing his concentration on the angle of his quill and the precise, graceful sweep of lines and curves of the characters that appeared on the parchment as he worked.

By the time the summons came, he had completed three pages of elegant, neatly-spaced Latin text, and almost forgotten about the Archon.

Etienne carefully wiped his quill clean on a rag and laid it aside before rising from his writing desk to answer the knock on his door.

It was Henri, looking self-important — or rather, more self-important than usual. "His Lordship the Archon will see you now, brother," he said. "I've been sent to escort you."

"And a good evening to you as well, brother," Etienne returned mildly. Apparently Henri had lost no time in proving his own devotion to House and Clan by becoming the Archon's errand boy.

"It is a good evening. For some," Henri added.

Etienne took his formal robe from its peg and slipped it on over his shirt. He fought the desire to check his hair again in the mirror; vanity was a vice best indulged in private. "Why would some have a good evening, and some not?" he asked, settling the chain of rank around his shoulders, and making sure his sigils of rank — which numbered several more than those Henri was entitled to wear — were all hanging straight.

"I wouldn't presume to guess, brother," Henri continued. "That is for the Lord Archon to determine, is it not? Those who have nothing to hide, of course, have nothing to fear."

"Surely our brothers here in Florence have nothing to hide." Etienne sounded more confident than he felt. I have nothing to hide. Well, he amended privately, other than the letters, but that's hardly a crime — and could even be turned to our advantage, if it came to that...I told Gilbert everything else. The letters are no one's business but my own. Still, there was a nagging unease he could not pin down. What is this all about, anyway? It's been thirty-five years...

Henri merely smiled. "Are you ready, brother?" he asked.

"Of course." Etienne summoned an answering smile. "Lead on, brother."

It was really a very short distance, down a corridor and around a corner, to where Rannulf stood sentry outside the door of what had once been Adam and Leonardo's suite.

"Has his Lordship asked for us yet?" Henri asked, and the big ghoul shook his head.

"Not yet, Maestro."

Etienne raised an eyebrow. "I thought you said he'd called for me?" he asked Henri.

"He will shortly," the younger apprentice replied. "And I don't want to keep him waiting. Do you?"

Etienne did not answer. There was a bench alongside the door, and he sat down to wait. Henri stood keeping an eye on him, as if he might take it into his head to panic and make a break for freedom.

He did not have long to wait. Barely ten minutes had passed when the door to the suite opened, and there stood the Tremere Etienne had seen trailing in the Archon's wake the night before. He was dark-haired, dark-eyed, and surprisingly young, with the slim frame and smooth, beardless features of a boy not quite out of his teens.

Etienne bowed low, as much to conceal his dismay at the stranger's youth as to offer him the respect due his rank. Henri did not bow, but merely announced, "I have brought him, Maestro. This is Brother Etienne."

"Good evening, brother," the stranger said, his Latin sharpened with a German accent. "I am Master Johan von Ritten. I serve Lord Marcus. His Lordship will see you now."

"Thank you, Maestro," Etienne said, straightening up, bringing all his dignity to bear. "I am at his Lordship's service."

Master Johan made a graceful gesture with one pale hand, indicating that Etienne was to precede him into the room. Etienne nodded and went inside.

The room was dark — pitch black once the door closed behind them. Etienne's eyes flared red, picking up the hazy outlines of furnishings, a chair in the middle, a tall figure standing beside a table, a writing desk in the far corner, before he realized what he was doing and forced himself to let the darkness envelop him again. This was an old trick that Etienne had seen mortal Inquisitors use to unnerve their prisoners before questioning. Some things never changed.

"Fiat lux."

A candle flared, and then another, providing some faint light for the room, barely illuminating the tall figure of the Archon in his long robes, as well as the striking planes of his pale face, no longer shadowed by a concealing hood.

"My lord." Etienne gave his most deferential bow. "How may I be of service?"

More candles were ignited at a careless movement of the Archon's hand. "Be seated, brother." That same hand now pointed to the chair in the center of the room.

Etienne bowed again and obeyed. The candles were now at his eye level, making it harder for him to see the Archon's features clearly, although he got the impression of fair hair, a classically handsome face, and piercing eyes. Blue perhaps, or green.

Behind him, Etienne was aware of Master Johan taking his place at the writing desk, opening a book, and preparing to write.

"I have come a long way to meet you, brother," the Archon started out, in a pleasant tone. "Indeed, I have quite been looking forward to it."

"Your lordship does me too much honor," Etienne replied. "I am your lordship's humble servant."

Lord Marcus's lips curved in a faint, almost mocking smile. "As modest as always, brother."

As always?

"But I shall not waste your time or insult your intelligence with idle flattery. It is true that I journeyed here on a purpose — a purpose of great value to our House and Clan — to speak with you of your experiences some thirty-odd years back with the Kindred of Milan. Including the man who now claims the title of Prince in that city, and those he counts as his closest allies and blood-kin. You know of whom I speak?"

"Marius dell' Aquila, my lord," Etienne supplied. "The scion of House dell' Aquila, who now rule Milan."

"An interesting way to phrase it, brother." the Archon commented. However, he did not follow up on this observation. "As it happens, there are many now in our Camarilla alliance who take a keen interest in Milan and those who rule it. As it also happens, you are one of the few Tremere who have any personal knowledge of Milan's new ruling House. One of the few, in fact, who have been sent to Milan and actually survived the experience."

"Yes, my lord." This was merely rehashing the obvious — better to wait until it was clearer what the Archon was really after.

"I have studied the depositions gathered in the matter of Master Taliesin, including your own and that of Master Antonio Morrelli, at great length, brother. It was a fascinating tale — as you are doubtless aware." Lord Marcus had come out from behind the table now and was walking at a slow, deliberate pace as he talked, although his gaze never left Etienne. "However, I could not help noticing certain...discrepancies...in the accounts, as recorded."

Etienne did not flinch, physically, and hoped his halo remained likewise steady. "Discrepancies, my lord?" he echoed.

"Indeed. Not so much in the text itself, but in what the text does not relate. And, desiring to learn all I could of the matter, I then went to Bruges, and spoke at length with Master Antonio himself. This proved very enlightening, as Master Antonio's additional testimony verified what I had begun to suspect from my study of the original records."

Additional testimony... Etienne fought down his unease, forced himself to remain calm and not think about it. Whatever Antonio had said, there was little he could do about it now. And if the Archon could read thoughts — a possibility he dared not ignore — the only defense he had was to focus only on subjects already known.

Lord Marcus paused, almost as if giving Etienne time to react, and then continued. "You are a very clever man, brother."

"My lord flatters me," Etienne murmured, though he was uncertain whether this was intended as praise or an accusation.

"I'm sure you had your reasons, of course. Perhaps you desired something, and Master Antonio promised to provide it. Or perhaps he held some secret of yours... and so you found it expedient at that time to cooperate. Based on your testimonies, I suspect it was some combination of the two." The Archon turned to fix his probing gaze on Etienne's face. "Are you worried, brother? Some might be. If they feared certain indiscretions in their pasts might be brought to light, and cause certain...difficulties...in their futures."

"I can think of no such indiscretion as you speak of, my lord," Etienne said. "At least, none that should give me such cause to fear its discovery, either then or now."

"Of course, brother." The Archon did not look convinced. "How would you characterize your relationships — yours and your brother's — with the Kindred of Milan during your stay there? In particular, with the members of House dell' Aquila?"

Now, he was getting to the heart of the matter — the real questions. Etienne took the opportunity, given that he was expected to respond, to draw a deep breath. "The nature of those relations?" he repeated. "Well...diplomatic, I would say. Wary, perhaps, but willing to accommodate for the sake of peace."

"For both your brother and yourself?"

Interesting that the Archon emphasized both; clearly he felt Etienne and Antonio had not entirely shared an agenda.

"Yes, for both of us," Etienne affirmed. "Diplomatic, because we were guests in a foreign court, and were dependent on the goodwill of those around us to provide assistance and information, some of it of a rather personal nature. Wary, because it was a delicate matter, and not all were likely to wish us well in our mission."

"But it was you, not Antonio, who were the honored guest of the dell' Aquila household, following the resolution of the immediate crisis. How would you describe those relations... diplomatic, yet?"

"Oh, that," he replied. "Well, I was gravely wounded in the final conflict, and the dell' Aquila were kind enough to tend to my wounds. At the time, I didn't feel I deserved any less, of course, after what I'd gone through on their behalf as much as anyone else's."

"A matter of honor, then, perhaps even gratitude, for your efforts on their behalf?"

Etienne shrugged. "Honor is the coin all nobles must trade in, my lord. Now, granted, the actual substance of it is worth far less than the glitter, but they lost nothing by being magnanimous in this case, and indeed I would say they stood to gain."

"Of course," the Archon agreed, "some might see it so. But others might ask how much they did gain, and from whom. It would hardly be necessary for them to cause you harm in order to gain at our expense. There was the matter of the blood...."

"The blood..." Etienne suppressed a wave of panic. This topic had been investigated thoroughly and settled, at least to Gilbert's satisfaction, upon his return to Florence decades ago — although there was no guarantee what Antonio might have chosen to add to his testimony in that regard. "That...that was a necessary risk, my lord," he said, being purposefully vague, since he wasn't entirely sure what the Inquisitor was suggesting. "And as the Record doubtless shows, a risk that was well rewarded in the end, with no harm done."

"But it was your risk, and, if I am not mistaken, your idea — for surely it was not your brother's."

"Yes," Etienne acknowledged reluctantly. "It was mine." What bothered him was not having to admit letting Antonio accept the lion's share of the credit for their success — but wondering why, after thirty-five years, it mattered in the least. Antonio had his Regency; surely the Archon was not going to all this trouble simply to cast aspersions on his achievement?

"Excellent," the Archon said, "I had suspected as much. You see, brother, why I came so far to speak with you?"

"I am at my lord's service," Etienne said. There were advantages to courtly speech — ofttimes it permitted the defense of a courteous reply while actually saying nothing of substance. Especially since the Archon had given him so few hints of his real intent.

"I thank you, brother."

Lord Marcus was no longer pacing; he now stood facing Etienne, with his back to the table. The candles behind him rimmed his form with flickering light, and turned his fair hair into a veritable angelic halo. His face, however, was shadowed, visible only by the candles across the room on Master Johan's writing table. Only his eyes were bright, glittering with golds and greens, set off by the pronounced shadows that formed his cheekbones, nose and jaw.

"Milan....is pivotal to the fate of Italy's Kindred. And House dell' Aquila, it appears, is pivotal to the fate of Milan. Is that how it appears to you, brother?"

"The dell' Aquila have a long history in Milan, my lord. Starting from the long reign of Gaius Cornelius dell' Aquila, who was the Contessa's sire... there are those who claim that none have ever ruled Milan — or ruled it long — save with dell' Aquila consent."

"The Contessa..." The Archon's voice was a soft hiss. "Tell me of... no. Not yet." A muscle flickered in his shadowed jaw. "The Tzimisce...Tell me of the Tzimisce. As much as you can recall of him, any salient detail."

A little startled by the sudden turn in the conversation, Etienne adapted to the new path. Ruthven was, naturally, of great interest to the Tremere, being their most dangerous foe in past years. He did wonder, however, what the Archon's apparent interest in the Contessa might mean — why else save her for later discussion? Other than her relationship with her husband, of course.

"Well, he's not a big man... short and slender as a boy, wiry in build. Stronger than one would expect, of course. He looks young... no more than five and twenty, I'd say, though I'm sure he's seen centuries. His hair is black, worn very long and tightly braided. His face is fine-boned as the rest of him, but his eyes are set aslant, his complexion a bit sallow, maybe...as though there were Turkish or some more remote strain in him—"

"Armenian," the Archon said, his gaze intent on Etienne's face. "Continue, brother."

"I recall he was always very courteous in his speech, if not warm. He had the Tzimisce fascination with protocols of welcome and etiquette — although he eschewed court, and was in fact something of a recluse. There were those in the court in Milan who had never seen him. He seemed to prefer the country life. He did not strike me as a man of strong passions...indeed, his nature seemed to be one of melancholy. Even his halo was very tight round his body, which made him difficult to read with the second sight." Etienne frowned, trying to remember. For some reason, the image of Jovan Ruthven was hard to focus clearly in his memory. "And the scars..."

He sat up a little bit in sudden recall, as the image of the Tzimisce sorcerer suddenly became clear as crystal. And suddenly the mystery of the Archon's accent was solved...for it echoed Jovan's own, almost precisely.

"Scars?" Lord Marcus interrupted, sharply. The Archon's hands had become fists; he seemed to realize this only seconds later and forced the fingers to uncurl. "What kind of scars? Describe them."

"I only glimpsed them briefly, when his clothing was torn in the battle, for he always dressed to hide them, but there were many, on his upper body and arms at the least. Even on his hands...and he wore gloves to cover them as well."

"Indeed? Did he ever say how he had acquired them?"

"No. I assumed they were from past battles...perhaps even with others of our own House and Clan, in Hungary. He was not a man who encouraged personal questions, at any rate." Etienne paused, let the image of Jovan Ruthven fade from his memory. "Is there aught else about him that my lord wishes to know?"

"He is a sorcerer of some power, I am told," Lord Marcus prompted. His tone was quite distant, almost as if in reminiscence. "One of their koldun."

"Yes..." Etienne said, and then added, cautiously, "I see my lord has made his acquaintance?"

"Never," Lord Marcus said flatly. "Continue. The rest of House dell' Aquila?"

"The Contessa, Signor Ruthven's lady wife..." Etienne hesitated, to make certain that Marcus was now ready to hear about her, as he had not been a few minutes earlier.

"Yes, yes, the Contessa," the Archon said curtly, waving his hand. "Go on, brother. I suppose she is very beautiful, is that what you were going to say?"

"Yes, my lord, she is," Etienne agreed. "She was taken into the Blood as a fair maiden, and so she appears even now."

"Beautiful as Eve, deadly as the Serpent..." Lord Marcus murmured. His gaze was rather intent on Etienne right now, which made the Frenchman a bit uncomfortable.

"Indeed, my lord." In Etienne's experience, men who came into interrogations already knowing what they wanted to prove rarely were satisfied with less — and at any rate, it was safer than the truth.

"And like all serpents, and women, deceptive in her frailty, for she wants nothing more than to rule a man's soul...and so she does."

"There are some in Milan," Etienne said carefully, "who wonder if it is the Contessa who is bound to Signor Ruthven, or the other way around. Yet they do seem genuinely devoted to one another."

He looked up to gauge the Archon's reaction; this proved to be a mistake. Lord Marcus' eyes — and they were green, with deep black centers rimmed in hazel gold — were as compelling as the darkened mirror used in summonings, drawing him in whether he willed or no. Once so ensnared, Etienne could not look away.

"The bonds of blood are but an imitation of devotion," Lord Marcus said, slowly, as if explaining to a dim-witted apprentice newly reborn to the Blood. "Those caught in its snare have little will to resist its treacherous allure. She did very nearly trap you as well, after all — although I would hope that you have since learned your lesson."

"Indeed, my lord, and I have," Etienne replied. "She does indeed have the power to enthrall a man's soul, when it pleases her. She is a woman of strong passions; all Milan fears her anger when it is roused; though she can as easily be as cool as the Tzimisce, and wears shadows as her cloak. But, as we know, appearances can be deceiving."

"Indeed..." Lord Marcus agreed. "And the Lasombra are masters of deceit, as we know."

"Yes, my lord," Etienne echoed dutifully.

The Archon seemed satisfied. "Continue, then. The Contessa's childer."

"Her childer could not be more different in temperament. Monsignor Dantini, the eldest, is a scholar by nature, studious and even-tempered. Tall and thin. He has the build of an ascetic... I imagine he fasted a great deal as a living monk, as much from sitting up over books as religious devotion... He, too, wears the shadow like a cloak. He has a keen mind, and seems happiest when he is using it to penetrate the mysteries of God, man, and vampire..." That image, of Francesco sitting over his books in his study in the early hours of the night, was so clear he could almost smell the wax of the candles burning... it very nearly brought a smile to Etienne's lips; the Inquisitor's next comment forced him to banish the memory quickly.

"I am told that you and Dantini enjoyed a...close relationship," the Inquisitor said, almost daring Etienne to contradict him.

Etienne did not. "I will confess," he answered calmly, "that it was good to meet another vampire who had been in the priesthood, who was learned in theology and other such matters. He also hoped to preserve the peace in Milan, and so was far more...receptive for our purposes. It seemed that of the family, he was most willing to overlook prejudice and consider the truth of the matter."

"As you were also the more willing and...receptive...of our House and Clan." The Inquisitor's voice was heavy with irony.

"Yes," Etienne said, somewhat defiantly. "I was sent to discover the truth. Therefore I had to be willing to look at things as they were, not as they were imagined to be."

"A lecture in truth is not required, Messer." the Inquisitor's tone hardened slightly. "Continue. The Prince?"

Etienne paused. It was still difficult for him to imagine Marius as a Prince...although he had to admit the man could be charming when he chose. "Marius is plainly choleric, although I will say for him that his bravery is commensurate," he said. "He has his share of the Lasombra pride and arrogance. But he's not a politician; I suspect he relies on his family for their guidance in matters that require a more delicate touch. He is more apt to act from his heart than his head, and therefore he can be rash. However, as his survival and rise to his present position demonstrates, he can also persevere when necessary."

"And your relationship with him? Did you handle him as well as you did the Monsignore?"

It was clear that the question of who had handled whom was still up for debate.

"Well enough, my lord," he said. "He never thought much of me, I suspect, but he was defensive of his family, and had little use for a mere apprentice. I cannot say for certain."

"And he is likewise...devoted...to his Sire, no doubt."

"As she is to him, my lord," Etienne answered. "She has taken great pains in the past to protect him; I daresay he values her counsel even now. Particularly in political matters."

Marcus nodded, a faint smile playing about his lips. "I daresay he does." He reached over to the table and picked up a piece of parchment. Etienne was not surprised to recognize the ribbons and broken seal of the Prince's letter.

"Who is this Signor Della Torre?" the Archon asked.

"A Ventrue, and a mortal kinsman of Marius dell' Aquila," Etienne replied. "Most likely in his confidence. They were close allies while I was in Milan."

"Apparently he holds you in high regard. Why do you think he is here?"

Etienne hesitated, but only marginally. "I understand he is here as a diplomatic envoy from the Prince of Milan."

"Indeed... though for what purpose? This is a most interesting development..." Lord Marcus laid the letter down again. "I think I would like to meet Signor Della Torre for myself. There may be much he could tell us...or be persuaded to tell you."

"I am at my Lord's service, of course."

"Of course," the Archon echoed, almost mockingly. In the corner, Master Johan's pen continued scratching away.

Etienne did not respond. He had learned centuries ago when to allow someone else the last word. It saved a good deal of trouble.

Lord Marcus laid down the letter. "According to the Record, you were able to penetrate the Tzimisce's castello...even his private sanctum, where he works his sorcery. What defenses did you encounter there? How did you get by them?"

"It...it was an underground chamber. There was water there, a river, perhaps, or a lake. Underground...I couldn't quite tell..." Etienne frowned, trying to bring those memories into sharper focus. Like the image of Jovan Ruthven had been at first, it was hazy, edged with shadows. But it had been over thirty years ago, and he had been...not exactly in the best condition at the time of his visit.

Eyes stared back at him from the shadows, large, dark eyes with long lashes, but vanished when he tried to recall them more clearly. He described the place as well as he could, the secret passageway that led deep into the earth from the Castello's cellars, the traps it held for the uninitiated, the magical wards and spirit guardians that protected the sorcerer's haven. He had done this much before, for Gilbert, upon his return to Florence. But on the fine details, his memory remained vague, no matter how the Archon pressed him for answers.

"What kind of ward was it?" the Archon continued. "Tonal, as we use in our own rituals? Bound with blood? Were there symbols or sigils drawn on the door or the frame?"

"I...I do not know. I don't remember hearing anything but the river...well, water, lapping against a shore."

"How did you get past it?"

Etienne's head felt thick, his thoughts slower. "I... It was Marius, I think...he knew the key...I didn't see what he did."

"I see. An underground cavern...how very Tzimisce...." Lord Marcus broke off the questioning for a moment and stood brooding in the candlelight. In the corner, Johan's pen-scratching ceased.

Etienne, who had no real knowledge of Tzimisce other than Ruthven, made no comment. He felt tired. It occurred to him that he had not been much help at all on what should have been any Tremere interrogator's point of keenest curiosity — the magic, always the magic. Yet Lord Marcus seemed satisfied with his answers, as if he had expected no more. Why? This is all in the Record, almost the same exact questions that Gilbert asked me before. What is he after?

Marcus was silent for a long time. Etienne waited.

Finally, the Archon stepped forward, into the light. Etienne could now see him clearly, a tall, regally handsome man with strong cheekbones, a straight aristocratic nose, long hair the color of sun-ripened wheat, and glittering green eyes. Despite the simplicity of his dark robes, he moved with the all the easy grace of one born to noble estate, if not royalty.

His smile was radiant and revealed perfect white teeth, but never quite reached the eyes. "I thank you for your cooperation, Messer de Vaillant," he said smoothly.

"Not at all, my lord," Etienne replied with a weary nod. "It is my duty, after all."

"I have but one thing left to ask of you," he added, almost as an afterthought. "Regarding the Tzimisce..."

Suspicion immediately rose in Etienne's mind at the phrasing, which he doubted was as casual as it was intended to appear, but he suppressed it quickly, lest it show on his face.

"Do you know the name of his goddess?"

His goddess? What's this about? "Yes, I think so," Etienne said, slowly, "Why?"

The Inquisitor's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Answer the question, brother."

"I believe it was Kupala, Kupela or something like that. I think all the Tzimisce revere her..." Etienne filled in, a bit hastily. "Some kind of Queen-mother figure, I gather, like Hera or Diana. A pale substitution, of course, for our Lord and the Blessed Madonna." To be truthful, he wasn't sure. And he wasn't sure why it should matter, but apparently, to the Archon, it did.

"Kupala specifically? There was no reference to another deity?"

"I don't remember any other being mentioned. Kupala's bones...something like that," Etienne said. "I'm sure they have a whole swarm of gods, most pagans do, but I think that was the only one I heard of."

"Ah, excellent," the Archon nearly purred. "I thank you again. You may seek your chambers, Messere; you must be tired after such a long night. But bear in mind that I will be abiding here in Florence for a time, and may require your services again. In particular, I think I should like to meet Signor Della Torre. His presence here may be of great advantage to us."

"Yes, my lord. I will endeavor to serve as best I may." Etienne rose and bowed. So that was that — for now; and the Archon had made a point of making Etienne understand that he was not off the hook yet.

Master Johan had also risen, and now opened the door for Etienne's exit. His lips were curved in a disturbing echo of the Archon's mocking smile. This was far more tolerable coming from Lord Marcus, who at least had authority to gloat. Did Johan have a concrete reason for that knowing sneer or was he just echoing his master's attitude on general principle? By now Etienne was too fatigued to care which even in the abstract; still, he felt egged on. The smile was a silent dare.

But he knew better than to respond.

Instead, he smiled again, bowed, and left the room, heading for his own quarters. Perhaps he could get the copying done for Gilbert before dawn. A few hours of penwork was just what he needed to clear the clutter and worry out of his mind....

Master Johan blew lightly on the last few lines of his transcription to dry the ink. It was amazing how much a man could talk when his lips were properly loosened, and the Frenchman had held the Lord Archon's interest longer than most. It would take their two acolytes the better part of tomorrow, he judged, to write out the man's testimony in full from his notes.

He stole a glance at his master; the Archon stood staring at a candle flame, apparently lost in thought. "Was he what you expected, my lord?" Johan ventured softly.

Marcus turned, eyes narrowed. "What?" he demanded.

Johan took a shaky breath. "The Frenchman. Was...was he what you expected, my lord?"

"Ah." A smile teased the corners of the Archon's lips, and Johan relaxed, closing the book and holding it to his chest. "Oh, yes, Johan. He was."

"He was hiding something, my lord. Did you not sense it?"

"Yes. But at the moment, that doesn't matter — when it becomes important, then I will uncover it. For now...it is better that he thinks himself safe. The truth will come out in good time. "

"Yes, my lord."

"You will arrange with Lord Gilbert to have me presented properly in his Highness' court. As a representative of the Council of Seven, it wouldn't do to overlook the formalities. I will also wish to meet with this Vincenzo Della Torre personally. Have Nicklaus prepare a report on the Signore's involvement in our brother's last visit to Milan — and anything else we have in our records on him. Especially his diet."

"His diet, my lord? He is a Cainite, after all..."

"He is a Ventrue, my heart." Marcus gave his assistant a lazy smile. "Surely you remember... their peculiar tastes...?"

If Johan had still been human, he would have flushed in embarrassment. "Yes, my lord. I will discover what I can. Perhaps our brother Etienne might even be of some help to us, if he knows the man so well."

"Indeed, although I'd prefer you discovered a few things on your own, Johan. A Ventrue's taste should be simple enough, even for you."

Johan nodded, well shamed now. "Yes, my lord."

The Archon doused the candles in the room with the gesture of a hand. "I'm beginning to like our brother Etienne, actually," he said, although his smile was more predatory than pleasant, and caused an involuntary shiver to run down Johan's spine.

"He is so much more than that posturing fool Antonius promised him to be. He may well be our key...to unlock the gates of Milan once and for all."

Etienne was somewhat surprised that Henri was not still lurking about in the corridors near the Archon's room — although it was always possible that Gilbert had seen him loitering and found him something more worthwhile to do. Truthfully, he was grateful for it; he didn't feel up to fielding questions or snide remarks. All he wanted was go back to his own rooms, and lose himself in another hour or two of scribing.

He cut through the library, passing the elaborate astrological clock that Niccolo was reconstructing, based on the calculations of some Italian astronomer. Powered by a weight, it featured several very elaborate intersecting gears and wheels, designed (or so Niccolo claimed) to track the phases of the moon, the courses of the planets, and the hours of the day all at the same time. Etienne glanced at it, out of habit — he did not claim any understanding of the arcane mathematical and mechanical computations that had gone into its making, but the astronomical figures themselves were very well executed. He could see that the sun was in Aries, and the moon was nearly down to its last quarter, though he hardly needed such a machine to tell him that. The hour, however, startled him for a second. Obviously Niccolo had been making adjustments to the gears, and had not quite gotten them properly aligned; it was off by at least three hours.

Etienne reached his personal sanctuary and shut the door, murmuring the warding charm and slipping the bolt into place. He returned his formal chain of rank and its sigils to its velvet-lined box, and hung up his robe neatly on the peg.

He sat down at his slanted writing desk, where his parchment and pens awaited patiently. Rolling up his sleeves, he picked up a quill and a penknife, neatly and carefully slicing away at the tip until it was sharp, crisp, and just at the angle he liked.

Gésu, I'm tired, he realized, staring at the document before him. The Latin text seemed to run together into blackwork patterns; it took all his will to separate the repetitious hash-marks into letters and words. Perhaps I should rest...just for a minute...

From the streets above, the bells of a neighboring monastery began to toll the hour, calling the monks to prayers. The familiar sound brought him immediately to full wakefulness; the delicate quill snapped in two between his fingers.

Niccolo's clock had not been wrong after all.

It was nearly dawn.

Where had the hours gone?

He dropped the broken quill and stood up so fast his stool fell over behind him, but he did not notice. How long was I in there? It had been before midnight when Henri had come for him. Six hours. How could it have been six hours? Etienne reviewed the interview again in his mind, surely they could not have taken six hours for that... After so many years of this nightly existence, he'd developed a fairly keen sense for the passing of time. He couldn't remember six hours worth of questions.

He couldn't remember.

He couldn't remember — he could have betrayed himself, betrayed everything...

He crossed the room in two strides, dropping to his knees in front of a particular chest, and digging within it to recover a particular volume, wrapped in a burgandy doublet, from under a stack of scrap parchment and treatises on Latin grammar. He dropped the doublet back in the chest, took the Confessions of St. Augustine over to his worktable, and opened it up the first chapter, where a neat rectangular hole had been cut right through several chapters to create a hollow hiding place. Herein rested a dozen or so neatly folded, much-creased parchment packets; letters bearing a black eagle seal. Letters that he had kept, out of foolish sentimentality and respect for their author, who had been his friend. Letters that could damn them both, if Marcus had learned of their existence, and realized their significance.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, as he lit the brazier with a pinch of dragon's blood and sulphur, and a few uttered words. "I have to do this, you understand, don't you? It's for your protection as much as mine...."

Hands trembling, he opened the first packet, took a sheet to throw it on the fire....

..we awoke to find the Camarilla already among us, and among them wizards of your own Clan, and the battle for the night was far worse than that of the day. The Camarilla had one mighty warrior among them, one of their Justicars, a Gangrel I believe, whom none could stand against. I regret to report that Ercole de Hauteville, our most bold and gracious Prince, was slain, and also the most loyal Federigo; and the Princess Isabella and our good friend Vincenzo della Torre taken prisoner, as I nearly was myself, save for Jovan's intervention. Marius was very much the warrior that night; he and Jovan were all that stood between us and those who hungered for our blood, despite the Camarilla's official condemnation of the amaranth...

Well, that was hardly subversive, just news of events nearly thirty years past now. Surely...surely it would not seem too unusual to have gotten such news, of people he had once known. Maybe...maybe he could keep that one, at least. After all, he wasn't sure that Marcus knew about them yet. Etienne laid that letter aside and picked up another.

We Lasombra are, as you have no doubt observed, a proud and calculating folk. From the very first night of our unlife, we must prove ourselves worthy of the Dark Gift of our Sire's Blood; and indeed, I can tell you that one who cannot rise to the struggle, who does not have the strength of will to accept and master such a challenge cannot long survive among us. It comes as no great surprise to me that few among our Blood, and none of any great age, sees this new Order, this Camarilla, as anything but interlopers in our affairs, a rival to be quashed rather than a brotherhood to become part of....

Dangerous words, even more dangerous if discovered in his possession — what had Francesco been thinking, sending these words to him?

"I don't have a choice," he repeated, and held the parchment sheet out towards the brazier's little flame.

The parchment was old and dry; the corner smoldered, curled up a bit, and then a thin red line of flame caught. Francesco's words began to smoke—

And with a little cry, Etienne snatched the parchment back, using the leather cover of the Confessions to stamp out the flame before it burned those precious, dangerous words. The smoke made his eyes burn and fill with bloody tears; he wiped them away with the heel of one hand, and doused the brazier's flame with a single sharp word.

What am I going to do?

He looked around the room, the dawn already dragging at his limbs, so that to refold the letters and find a new hiding place for them took almost all the energy he had left. Finally he stuffed them under the velvet lining of the box that held his sigil chain; perhaps the wards on the box would help to mask their presence there.

"Forgive me, amico," he murmured to the shadows, as he fell into his bed and succumbed to the lethargy of the day. Forgive...me...