let me be the one you call / if you jump I'll break your fall

[impudentsongbird]

Book Four: Dark Days
1 | into the breach
2 | finding skulduggery
3 | retreat to the tunnels
4 | into the cacophony
5 | sanctuary in the cathedral
6 | reuniting old friends
7 | kenspeckle's new patient
8 | holy water and disinfectant
9 | objecting to china sorrows
10 | the roadtrip
11 | baffling guild
12 | shenanigans at the safehouse
13 | reassuring fletcher
14 | valkyrie's intervention
15 | solomon's revelation
16 | visiting the edgleys
17 | recalled to the sanctuary
18 | guild's confusion
19 | gabe is busted
20 | the psychic tattoist
21 | envisioning the cacophony
22 | angel's first migraine
23 | the morning after
24 | china and solomon
25 | detectives' council of war
26 | china's foolishness
27 | the collector dethroned
28 | finding crux
29 | skulduggery's vileness revealed
30 | sorrows in aftermath
31 | finding equilibrium
32 | the devil's number
33 | at the carnival
34 | meeting authorities
35 | solomon's confession
36 | the stray soul
37 | sanguine unsettled
38 | solomon's choice
39 | a cowboy underground
40 | in scarab's basement
41 | striking midnight
42 | craven contested
43 | emergency services
44 | on your feet
45 | and don't stop moving
46 | easy recognition
47 | a deuce of an evening
48 | engines roaring
49 | compromising judgements
50 | solomon's conflict
51 | axis turning
52 | thinking circular
53 | blasting the past
54 | reviling vile

Book Five: Mortal Coil
55 | sanctuary unsanctified
56 | shudder unravelling
57 | catching an angel
58 | layering dimensions
59 | dead men meeting
60 | when it rains
61 | power plays
62 | sing on gold
63 | the valley of death
64 | grand aspersions
65 | no evil feared
66 | new days rising
67 | angelic neuroses
68 | step-brothers working
69 | the many sorrows of china
70 | peacefully wreathed
71 | tarnished gold
72 | the secret in darkness
73 | magical intent
74 | scars worth keeping
75 | benefits of a beau
76 | grand magery
77 | lighting the darkness
78 | old dogs and new tricks
79 | flouting traditions
80 | drawing lines
81 | brothers and sisters in arms
82 | channelling angels
83 | return of the carnies
84 | the death bringers
85 | meriting agelessness
86 | knick knack, paddy
87 | give a dog a bone
88 | americans propheteering
89 | the right side of honour
90 | tailored shocks
91 | hosting angels
92 | elders anonymous
93 | rediscovered strays
94 | changings and changelings
95 | a state of reflection
96 | adding hope
97 | the devil's truth
98 | dead mens' hospitality
99 | lives half lived
100 | next to godliness
101 | devilish plans
102 | beached angels
103 | lights of revelation
104 | heroes worshipped
105 | new devilries
106 | angels under the yoke
107 | brains frozen
108 | father, mother, daughter
109 | parental guidance recommended
110 | driven round the bend
111 | ongoing training
112 | privileged information
113 | reasonable men
114 | passing the buck
115 | gifting magicks
116 | strengths and weaknesses
117 | immaturity's perks
118 | priests and prophets
119 | scaling evil
120 | blowing covers
121 | marring an afternoon
122 | lie detection
123 | five-dimensional pain
124 | reliving nightmares
125 | taking stock
126 | sampling spices
127 | sleeping prophets lying
128 | rueful returns
129 | dead men reunion
130 | medically-approved hugs

The life of an angel was a contradiction in changes and stability. On one hand, they understood very well the way the cosmos was shaped by events within it. On the other, they stood at one step apart from it—or at least had, for a very long time, up until their Master's recent wager with Lucifer. Changes in the recent past had, even for angels, been fast and turbulent, but there were none that concerned Raphael more than Gabriel's abrupt reserve.

In the aftermath of the wager Gabriel had been almost the only one to know where their Lord was at any given time, a fact which had put the Archangel very firmly under Lucifer's radar. Raphael had joked that Gabriel ought to arm himself with more jokes or worse clothes to drive the fallen angel away; Michael had offered the peace of the Garden Coast. (Rafe thought his idea was better.)

Either way, even though their Master was fair hidden, every angel knew that they had only to ask Gabriel and the Archangel would pass on a message.

Then Gabriel had simply blipped off the radar himself. Poof! Gone! No one had noticed at first, because, well, they weren't exactly in constant connection. It was just when Raphael had taken a whim to seek out his younger brother that he'd noticed it, and let it be, because there was absolutely a reason for it. Gabe did not just off and vanish, except that once with his self-exile, and that didn’t count.

But when Gabriel had come back, he had been strangely agitated and yet close-mouthed. The younger Archangel had vanished off to wherever their Master was hidden for a long chat Raphael was dying to have listened into, and yet couldn't (but only partly because it would have been rude). Now he was here, floating among the stars and examining a black hole with unnerving intensity.

For a time Raphael watched without letting on that he was there, but eventually Gabriel spoke. “I’d rather you came to join me instead of lurking, brother.”

Absolutely refusing to feel chagrined, Raphael let himself manifest with an arm around Gabriel’s shoulders and ruffled the younger angel’s hair. Gabriel threw a fond, longsuffering glance up at him, but there was something in his eyes, something distracted and sharp, which indicated that Gabriel still wasn’t truly present. Raphael only wished he knew where the other Archangel was.

“Just wondering what you’re doin’ all the way out here,” he said teasingly. “There’s a party going on down there on Earth, Gabe.” There was always a party going on down on Earth. “You oughta be down there bobbin’ for apples and switching up party-hats!”

“I can’t,” Gabriel said quietly, with a sort of seriousness Raphael had, for all Gabriel’s literalness, rarely heard from him. So Raphael fell into the same seriousness, lost his playful accent, and spoke directly.

“Why not, brother? You’ve been reserved of late. I conf—I’m worried for you.”

For a very long time Gabriel said nothing and stared into the slow-turning swirl of the black hole. Raphael waited patiently, his arm still companionably across the other Archangel’s shoulders. Eventually Gabriel spoke. “Did you know, Raphael,” he said, “that the universe you see around you here isn’t the only one our Master has created?”

Raphael was so startled that he couldn’t answer. That wasn’t what he was imagining. He hadn’t been sure what he’d been imagining, but that wasn’t it. “I’m not sure what you mean, Gabriel,” he said after a moment. “Our Lord told me the story of Creation not all that long ago, and he never mentioned anything of the kind.”

Gabriel nodded. “He told me that story as well. And then He asked if I really wanted to know details.” He hesitated. “I … admit, I declined. It’s something He said—about faith. I decided I didn’t need to know details. But it’s true, nevertheless. Just beyond this …” The Archangel reached out his hand and touched that gossamer and unbreakable fabric that supported reality. “There are other universes, even with different versions of us.”

“Different versions of us?” Raphael repeated, appalled and uncertain and entirely confused. How could that be possible? What could their Master want with more than one of any of them? What was going on? Where had Gabriel gone in that time he’d vanished? Then something occurred to him and he smiled with relief. “This is a joke, right?”

Gabriel looked up at him and smiled back with such a gentle understanding that for a moment Raphael felt very small indeed. “No, Rafe. I’m not joking. It was a shock to me too. That isn’t the point, though.”

“Isn’t it?” Raphael asked, feeling as dazed as an angel possibly could, especially when he wasn’t even inhabiting an actual physical body.

“No.” Gabriel returned to watching the black hole intently. “I met some people from other realities. One of them is in a kind of Hell, and he very much does not deserve it. I promised him that, if I could, I would save him from it.”

Which did not in the least explain why Gabe was staring at a black hole, let alone a million other questions Raphael would have liked to ask and for which he couldn’t find the words. Finally he found one. “How?”

“First,” Gabriel said with a sort of tranquillity Raphael had heard in his brother’s voice a million times but never after delivering so turbulent a piece of news, “I’m going to jimmy open a crack in the door through this hole.”

Raphael stared at Gabe, and then at the black hole, and then back at Gabe. He opened his mouth to ask whether their Master knew he was planning this and then closed it, because that was a stupid question. He opened it again to query if Gabriel had asked whether he could go around lifting the sheets and then realised that was also a stupid question, because whether he had or not, their Master probably would have told him to do what he felt was best.

It was equally clear that Gabriel very much planned to go through with this, no matter what Raphael said, and really, did Raphael have the right to object? Surely if this carried a risk, their Master would have already forbidden Gabriel from making the attempt?

“I’ll come with,” Raphael said at last, and this time when Gabriel glanced back the younger Archangel’s expression was startled. A moment later that expression shifted into grateful apology.

“I’m sorry, Rafe, but I’m not entirely certain I’ll make it through, and we can hardly leave Michael here alone.” He grinned. “Did you see what he was wearing last festival day on the Garden Coast? He hasn’t moved out of the eighteenth century yet. How would he possibly handle the rest of the world?”

Raphael laughed out loud, warm but startled, and the sound of it rang through space. Gabriel chuckled quietly beside him, and for a few minutes there was just companionable humour that faded into an equally comfortable silence.

Still, Raphael had a lot of questions. How did Gabriel plan to find his friend, let alone the universe he was in? How was he going to get back? What would he do if he met another version of himself? Or, worse, Lucifer? Finally the Archangel just asked, “Have you figured out how to crack open the door?”

“I think so,” Gabriel said, considering the black hole. “Once I figured out what to look for. I wouldn’t have gotten even that far if it weren’t for some things our Master said.”

Which meant that, in some fashion, this expedition was sanctioned by their Master, Raphael translated, and something tense in him relaxed. “Something do to with this drain here, I’ll bet,” he said, falling into his casual accent once more. “Gonna rip out the kitchen sink, li’l brother?”

“Just to see what’s hiding underneath,” Gabriel said with a grin.

“I’ll try’n keep it open for ya,” Raphael promised, and Gabriel sent him a smile which lit up the very space around them with its brilliance.

“Thank you, Rafe,” he said, and straightened. Raphael took his arm away as Gabriel lifted his hands, not exactly stepping back so much as giving Gabriel space. The youngest Archangel didn’t often reveal his power, but it was always a sight to see, a song to hear, when he did.

As it was now. Gabriel’s voice started deep, lifted high, split and wove and became more melodies than one would think a single being could possibly sing at once. The sound of it made Raphael’s heart soar, made him want to fly and laugh. It was so deep, so light, so resonating that it was physical; it touched the slow turn of the black hole and made it, for just the briefest of moments, still. In that moment Gabriel sent a carefully-aimed bolt of energy into the heart of it.

It was the kind of sight Raphael hadn’t seen in thousands of years, a play of physics and metaphysics which he hadn’t thought possible, let alone imagined. There was an eruption in the centre of the black hole, where gravity was condensed; the cascade of energy plumed upward and was dragged back down as quick, a tear in the fabric of the reality not allowed the time to widen or become a danger.

Raphael didn’t even know Gabe had moved until the younger Archangel was gone, he was so busy staring in awe. With a start the Archangel stretched out his senses and just barely managed to catch a glimpse of his brother shooting toward the hole at speeds few angels could have achieved through such a gravity well. Raphael certainly couldn’t have.

How, he suddenly wondered, was he meant to keep that open if he didn’t even have the speed of thought to track Gabriel’s movements through it?

Desperately the Archangel cast about for something to jam in the door, as it were. There was some dark matter nearby and with a thought he fashioned it into a spear and pitched it toward the centre of the black hole. It struck just as Gabriel flitted through the crack nearly wholly collapsed in on itself; the star’s gravity caught it, pulled it in, and plugged the opening like a metaphysical sink.

Slowly Raphael made every part of himself relax. For good or ill, Gabe was gone on this quest of his, and now Raphael should probably go and round up some of their younger siblings to guard the area. Just in case.


Book Four: Dark Days
into the breach | finding skulduggery | retreat to the tunnels | into the cacophony | sanctuary in the cathedral | reuniting old friends | kenspeckle's new patient | holy water and disinfectant | objecting to china sorrows | the roadtrip | baffling guild | shenanigans at the safehouse | reassuring fletcher | valkyrie's intervention | solomon's revelation | visiting the edgleys | recalled to the sanctuary | guild's confusion | gabe is busted | the psychic tattoist | envisioning the cacophony | angel's first migraine | the morning after | china and solomon | detectives' council of war | china's foolishness | the collector dethroned | finding crux | skulduggery's vileness revealed | sorrows in aftermath | finding equilibrium | the devil's number | at the carnival | meeting authorities | solomon's confession | the stray soul | sanguine unsettled | solomon's choice | a cowboy underground | in scarab's basement | striking midnight | craven contested | emergency services | on your feet | and don't stop moving | easy recognition | a deuce of an evening | engines roaring | compromising judgements | solomon's conflict | axis turning | thinking circular | blasting the past | reviling vile

Book Five: Mortal Coil
sanctuary unsanctified | shudder unravelling | catching an angel | layering dimensions | dead men meeting | when it rains | power plays | sing on gold | the valley of death | grand aspersions | no evil feared | new days rising | angelic neuroses | step-brothers working | the many sorrows of china | peacefully wreathed | tarnished gold | the secret in darkness | magical intent | scars worth keeping | benefits of a beau | grand magery | lighting the darkness | old dogs and new tricks | flouting traditions | drawing lines | brothers and sisters in arms | channelling angels | return of the carnies | the death bringers | meriting agelessness | knick knack, paddy | give a dog a bone | americans propheteering | the right side of honour | tailored shocks | hosting angels | elders anonymous | rediscovered strays | changings and changelings | a state of reflection | adding hope | the devil's truth | dead mens' hospitality | lives half lived | next to godliness | devilish plans | beached angels | lights of revelation | heroes worshipped | new devilries | angels under the yoke | brains frozen | father, mother, daughter | parental guidance recommended | driven round the bend | ongoing training | privileged information | reasonable men | passing the buck | gifting magicks | strengths and weaknesses | immaturity's perks | priests and prophets | scaling evil | blowing covers | marring an afternoon | lie detection | five-dimensional pain | reliving nightmares | taking stock | sampling spices | sleeping prophets lying | rueful returns | dead men reunion | medically-approved hugs

Comments

[skeletonenigma]

The meeting was a lot shorter than Erskine expected. As well as a lot more amusing.

It occurred to him, as he took his leave separate from the others, that this would be his last night as a free man. He should probably be using it to prepare, as Tipstaff - the Sanctuary Administrator, ever since that traitor from a couple years back - had suggested just before Erskine left. There were these books he was supposed to read, apparently. The Elder Journals. Tipstaff told Erskine he could pick up his copies from the Sanctuary in about an hour or so. Erskine had thanked the man, left the Great Chamber, and gone straight to his standard pub with absolutely no intention of leaving it for the evening.

He awoke the next morning with a minor headache throbbing at the base of his skull, a little light-headed and dehydrated, but none the worse for wear. In fact, it was all easily curable - Corrival had shown him how centuries ago, and it hadn't failed him yet. It tasted disgusting, and it... wasn't too pleasant to watch the effects of it if the hangover was bad, but Erskine considered it better than going into his first day of work irritable and depressed.

As it was, he still had to force himself over the threshold in the Waxworks Museum, and he still caught himself slowing down as he approached the wax figure of Phil Lynott.

It didn't say anything. Didn't even turn to look at him. Erskine politely cleared his throat.

"Yes, Elder Ravel?" Lynott finally acknowledged his presence with a respectful nod. "What can I do for you?"

"I, uh... I'd like to get in, if that's alright."

Lynott blinked. "Of course you can enter, Elder Ravel. You don't need permission."

They settled back into the same silence as before, and Erskine shifted from one foot to the other. When it became clear nothing else was going to happen, he straightened and folded his arms. "Right. Okay. The thing is, I do. Because you're the only one who can open and close the door."

"No, Elder Ravel. You can too."

"How - "

"Just touch the wall."

After a pause, Erskine did. The wall melted back under his touch to reveal the all-too-familiar passage leading into the Sanctuary. He stared down at the stone steps, and then looked back at Lynott. "Who else can do that?"

"Only the Elders, Elder Ravel."

"There's magic for impersonating people."

"None strong enough to fool our security system. You, Elder Wreath, and Crossword Puzzler Extraordinaire Deuce are the only three people in the entire world able to open that door without my help."

Erskine stared. "I'm sorry?"

"You, Elder Wreath, and Crossword Puzzler Extraordinaire Deuce are the only three people - Elder Ravel, is everything alright?"

Erskine had collapsed against the opposite wall in laughter, and it took him a few moments to regain any semblance of composure - or even enough breath to say anything. "Did Deuce get to you already?"

Lynott frowned. "I don't understand. I am only using full and official titles, as I am meant to."

Erskine wiped away a tear and nodded, trying to take in a deep breath, and failing miserably when it expelled sharply into another snort of laughter. "I'll bet you are. Oh, I'll just bet."

His mood sobered very quickly when he emerged into the gleaming foyer, however. Here, it was obvious that Davina Marr's attempted bombing had its effects. Fewer sorcerers were working, for one thing. And of those that were, the grand majority shuffled along in silence, morose and quiet and jumping at the smallest noise, or anything even slightly out of the ordinary. It would probably remain like this, too, until Skulduggery apprehended her. Erskine wiped the smile from his face by imagining this entire underground structure in ruins, and caught Tipstaff just as the man was passing. "Where's Corrival?"

"Oh, he got straight to work," Tipstaff answered. "I can show you to him, if you like."

Corrival. Getting straight to work. It was so like him and so not at the same time that Erskine stood frozen for a second. Fortunately, it took only remembering Phil Lynott's words from a few moments ago to reassure himself that on a basic level, nothing had changed. "Yes, please."

[peacefullywreathed]

It was difficult not to feel some kind of petty amusement as the meeting broke up and Tipstaff was clearly at a loss as to how to accommodate a blind Elder. For one, Solomon couldn't read the Elder Journals, and Tipstaff had stopped mid-sentence, half flustered, at the realisation that no, Solomon could not pick his copies up from the Sanctuary.

Then again, Solomon suspected the main reason why the man had kindly suggested he get some rest was because he actually looked like he needed it. The fact that he did was the only reason he didn't feel irritated by the treatment.

Unlike Ravel, Solomon had gone back to the Hibernian and slept right through until about three-thirty in the morning, at which point he'd woken up and been unable to fall back to sleep. Leaving aside his need to find a new place to stay, it now seemed likely the Sanctuary would all but be his new home, which meant he should probably avoid having to run into walls. Which meant scouting the place while blind, and preferably while no one was around.

Which wasn't terribly easy when he was blind, and under fire, and given the last time he'd left the Hibernian Solomon rathered having company. So he wound up wandering down the halls, one hand trailing the wall, and taking a left each time until he'd run into Merlin. Almost literally.

"I beg your pardon," Solomon had murmured. Now that he wasn't delirious and actually had his eyes back, he found it oddly difficult to look at the man. The angels were bright, but in a way that encouraged you to look and be glad. Merlin ... shone. Like sunlight off snow. Solomon squinted and then had to look away.

"Not at all," the other sorcerer said pleasantly. "Can't sleep?"

"Not anymore, at least," Solomon said wryly, palm planted firmly on the wall and body oddly tense. Merlin's soul was overtaking nearly everything else, and made his head ring. "I had thought to go to the Sanctuary early, but of course that means actually leaving the Hibernian."

"Oh, yes; I heard congratulations are in order. Or sympathies, perhaps?" Solomon laughed. "I'm not likely to get any more sleep tonight either. Would you like me to escort you?"

Solomon couldn't help but hesitate. On one hand, it was Merlin. In one way, he was even more unbelievable than the Archangels. The Archangels went beyond disbelief and came full circle; they were acceptable because they were so utterly alien. Merlin was human. That made him just similar enough to make the differences more obvious. It meant Solomon wouldn't need to be afraid of an attack. It meant Solomon had no idea what to say.

It meant the man's soul was leaving a low-level buzz in Solomon's temples.

"I'm still ... adjusting to this method of sight," he said finally, trying to figure out a tactful way to tell Merlin, of all people, that his soul was too bright.

There was a pause, and something flurried across the man's soul which Solomon didn't recognise until Merlin spoke, his tone chagrined. "Oh. That didn't occur to me. Just give me a moment to ward myself."

Which was how Solomon found himself being escorted into the Waxworks Museum by Merlin, his soul not exactly dulled but feeling as though it was a several removes. Like looking in a car-mirror and knowing that although the object looked far away, it was closer than it appeared.

It took them a little while to find the figure of Phil Lynott, but once they had, Solomon discovered what Ravel would several hours later: that apparently he had an automatic key.

"Is that ability able to be copied?" he asked, intrigued, while Merlin examined the doorway.

"No, Elder Wreath," Lynott said patiently. 'Elder Wreath.' That would take some getting used to. "Only you, Elder Ravel, and Grand Mage Deuce have that ability."

Only because the Sanctuary thinks Merlin is a myth, Solomon thought, watching the man's soul gleam with interest in the challenge. Solomon couldn't see the sigils, but he saw the way the magic hummed around the doorway, and when Merlin's probing fingers tracing the lintel and touched the wards, Solomon saw brief sparks of magic in them, reflecting off his soul.

"His title's not Grand Mage," Solomon said almost absently. "It's Crossward Puzzler Extraordinaire." Merlin's soul rippled, glittering like the sun on river-water, and Solomon heard the scrape of his shoe as the man turned. The ex-Necromancer lifted his eyebrows innocently. "I heard him say so myself at the meeting last night."

The warmth of amusement made the ice mist over.

"Of course, Elder Wreath. I will make amends to my vocabulary."

"Shall we?" Solomon asked Merlin, and then added dryly, "I'll have Tipstaff make you a visitor's badge, if that makes you feel better."

That same flurry of chagrin ran across the man's soul, this time accompanied by amusement. "Of course. My apologies."

By that time it was getting close to five, but Merlin and Solomon still had time to walk through the Sanctuary, letting the newly-elected Elder familiarise himself with the place blind. There were some others around, but only one or two--the sort who were workaholics or crawlers trying to gain brownie points. Tipstaff was one of them, understandably. None of them had been expecting an Elder to show up at this time of morning.

The thing Solomon hadn't been expecting, however--the thing that made him stop short at the bottom of the stairs and pale--were the Cleavers. Exactly how the Cleavers were made wasn't well-known. Solomon still didn't know the details. But he knew more, now, about what they were than he ever wanted.

They were reflections. Each and every one of them, somehow copied far beyond any reflection should be; hollow and empty, rebounding the magic around them as if they were empty pits. There was a soul there, somewhere--deep, deep inside that maze of never-ending mirrors. Solomon felt like it was a soul he should know, except it was so distorted and distant, and he was so new to the Sight, that he couldn't tell who had been the original just on familiarity alone.

A little logic gave him a suspicion, though.

A little logic gave him chills.

Merlin's hand squeezed his shoulder. "Solomon?"

"Yes," he said, and sounded shaken. He stared at one of the Cleavers and felt it staring back. When he looked into it, he saw gold, and hastily glanced away. He didn't want to know if he could see himself in that abyss. "I need to find my office."

"Of course."

It was, frankly, a relief to have walked the Sanctuary and not have to pass the Cleavers anymore. To go to an office he could sit for a while and remain. He wasn't going to enjoy having to pass ... those every day. Of course, by then more people had arrived, including Deuce, which meant Tipstaff had found them and suggested the newly-elected Council should probably discuss how to go about holding Ireland together in the Grand Mage's office.

Deuce, annoyingly, had shown barely a reaction to being introduced to Merlin (under, Solomon was startled and amused to discover, the pseudonym of Solomon). "Oh, yes, I heard you were around," were the man's exact words; his soul had been turned inward. Focussed, to the point that even being introduced to a legendary sorcerer hadn't broken his weary resignation. "Go ahead and look around the Sanctuary. Tipstaff, visitor's badge."

"Of course, Grand Mage."

Solomon waited until the man had left before inclining his head at Merlin. "Thank you for you company."

"And yours," Merlin said, genuine warmth in his tone. "You're an interesting man, Solomon Wreath. Now, I believe I might take a closer look at those wards at the entrance, and I suppose I should find a reprobate angel at some point during the day."

Corrival had snorted. Solomon had laughed. Merlin, soul swirling amusement, had left.

And then they had been left to wait for Ravel to arrive. Solomon had groped his way to a chair, taken a seat, and listened as Corrival read some recent reports out loud, complete with peanut gallery comments. (The ex-Necromancer, of course, embellished with his own on occasion.)

[skeletonenigma]

They were, of course, in the Grand Mage's office. Tipstaff pointed out the door before hurrying off on some errand of his own, and Erskine was left feeling oddly out of place. He wasn't in the Sanctuary very often. Oh, often enough; he could handle himself. He knew most of the sorcerers who worked here. He even greeted a few of them on the way to this particular corridor, and felt an odd mix of pride and annoyance at the way most of them now treated him - like a leader. Like someone out of their reach, someone they couldn't even picture being friends with. Erskine resolved to fix that as soon as possible.

But the fact remained that he felt... oddly out of place. He was now a leader of the nation he'd grown up in. The nation he was once nothing but a lowly weaver in, not even a noble, barely a sorcerer. And a very uneducated sorcerer at that. Part of Erskine kept expecting - or perhaps hoping - someone to come up and tell him that there had been some horrible mistake.

No one did. The corridor remained empty.

Erskine allowed himself to continue feeling out of place for a minute longer, and then he pulled himself together. There would be time for more self-pity later. And later was when he would actually need it. He hesitated in front of the door, thought about knocking, then remembered he was an Elder now and he should be able to go wherever he pleased. So, with only a brief warning knock, he pushed the door open. "Morning."

Wreath was there, too, listening to a report Corrival was reading. Erskine stopped, and blinked. "I'm not late. I can't be late. This is the first day. We haven't even decided on a meeting time yet. I'm not late, am I?"

[peacefullywreathed]

"We're both here waiting for you, Ravel," Solomon said, lifting an eyebrow at the turn of Ravel's soul, nothing but disconcerted. It was like a rustle of leaves. Solomon resisted the smirk and continued deadpan, "What do you think?"

"It just means you're the smartest of the three of us," Corrival said dryly. "Seeing as Wreath has been here since five o'clock. Eager or something, are you?"

Solomon shrugged easily. "I decided it would be best to get all my meetings with the walls and doors out of the way before anyone arrived to see them happen."

"Almost disappointed I missed it. Erskine, come in and take a seat. Hell, open a bottle. Just one glass, mind. If we're going to do this, we might as well be comfortable while we're doing it."

"What, precisely, are we doing?" Solomon asked the question that had been plaguing him since he'd accepted the nomination since the night before.

"Hell, if I know," Deuce grumbled, which frankly wasn't very encouraging, but not precisely surprising. "I figured the first order of business would be putting those new eyes of yours to use and making sure there were no more Davina Marrs left in the Sanctuary."

He had to be joking. "You want me to interview every single employee of the Sanctuary?"

"No," Deuce corrected, "I just want you to meet each of them. Once. Maybe while banging into walls and doors."

[skeletonenigma]

Five? Erskine couldn't quite help staring at Wreath for a second before he moved to do as Corrival asked, trying to figure out if he was actually surprised, or just incredulous. No, he decided; definitely surprised. Surprised, and a tad concerned. If they were going to be meeting at five every morning, Erskine was going to resign right here and now.

"I could help." He sat down in the remaining chair with the aforementioned bottle and three glasses from the liquor cabinet. "Meeting every single employee in the Sanctuary at least once? That sounds like a two-person job."

He didn't mention he would have loved to see Solomon actually banging into walls and doors, or that it was the main reason he volunteered. Solomon may not have been a Necromancer anymore - and hell, Erskine might even end up liking the guy - but he was going to get his full quota of enjoyment out of this before that happened.

"Otherwise," Erskine continued, pouring a drink for each of them as he spoke, "I think the first order of business should be titles. Corrival already has one. We need to make the blind prophet official. And I still have no idea what I should go by."

[peacefullywreathed]

"I don't think I need any help walking into walls and doors, thank you," Solomon said deadpan. "If you'd like to parade them in front of me while I relax in a chair, however, I'm quite willing to accept."

That would be preferable, but he suspected it wouldn't be viable. There were too many people who worked at the Sanctuary; he'd have to weed them out one-by-one, and over time. Fortunately, meeting with the senior employees would be expected. They'd probably need to call them in for a meeting fairly early on, actually.

His head already ached. Why did he agree to this, again?

Because if you hadn't you'd probably be dead now.

It was a good reason.

Solomon put out a hand, finding the desk and running his fingers across it to try and find the nearest glass. He found three stacks of paperwork and knocked at least one of them over before then, and so it was with a sigh that he took the whiskey and took a mouthful. "How about the Reveller?" he asked sardonically. "How late did you stay up last night, Ravel?"

He wasn't sure how he knew. He just did. Something about Ravel's soul looked wearier than it had at the meeting the night before. As if his tree had autumn leaves instead of spring.

[skeletonenigma]

Erskine had to cover his sudden surprise by kneeling down to pick up the fallen papers, letting the mishap go without comment. Of course, he realised a little too late, it wasn't going to do much good. Corrival knew him too well, and Wreath... could apparently see his soul. Right.

That was going to take some getting used to. Assuming Erskine ever did get used to it.

"Okay," he decided, stacking the papers together and dumping them back onto the desk. "The first thing we need to do is find a way to turn that off. It's unnerving. Seeing my innermost thoughts and feelings, I can understand. But knowing where I was last night? I wasn't even thinking about where I was last night."

Erskine's immediate reaction, upon discovering what Wreath could suddenly do, was something along the lines of at least it's not mind-reading. He sent his silent apologies up to Hopeless, but seriously, training yourself not to think about what you wanted to keep hidden was difficult. Now, Erskine was pretty sure he preferred mind-reading. At least when Hopeless was just scanning surface thoughts, it was possible to hide things.

"Either that," he added on second thought, "or we come up with what we're allowed to do right now so I can't get called out on it later. I'm allowed to go out drinking, aren't I?" He glanced over at Corrival, almost imploring. "If Archangels are allowed to paint the town red..."

[peacefullywreathed]

"Deductive reasoning," Solomon said with a shrug. "It was either a bar or someone else's bed, and I can smell the liquor on your breath." All true, because Ravel didn't really try to hide his activities and Solomon hadn't quite realised that was what he was smelling until he'd worked through it logically, simply because he wasn't used to being able to perceive such faint scents. Then he ruined the mundanity by tilting his head. "That and you have autumn leaves."

Automatically he reached forward as if to touch them, then realised what he was doing and curled his fingers again, pulling his hand back. "You didn't have them last night. It looks like fatigue."

Then he laughed, amused and ironic in one. "Does anyone allow Archangels to do anything, save the obvious?"

One drink wasn't going to be enough. Solomon could feel the weight of all the events yesterday starting to creep up on him again, here in the Grand Mage's office where he was now one of Ireland's leaders, talking about Archangels pranking while analysing Erskine Ravel's soul.

"You're allowed to go out drinking, Erskine," Deuce said, amused, as Solomon gulped down another mouthful of the whiskey. "Go easy on that, Wreath, or you'll be four sheets to the wind on one glass."

"At this point," Solomon mumbled, "it might be preferable."

[skeletonenigma]

"You can smell the...?" Erskine shook his head in something approaching wonder. Yes, the blind usually had senses of smell that could pick something like that out even the morning after, but it usually took years to hone them to that level.

Magic, as always, being the natural exception.

And Erskine's soul was a tree. He decided he could live with that.

"Well," he said after a sip from his own glass, "I'm assuming God does. Allow Archangels to do things, I mean. Which pretty much sanctifies homosexual relationships, as far as I'm concerned, assuming Archangels are normally male." He hesitated. "Are they? Actually, that's something I meant to ask. Since Gabe is technically a detective of the Sanctuary for now, do we have the authority to demand details?"

[peacefullywreathed]

"Demanding details, eh? I wonder," Deuce murmured speculatively. "Worth a try."

"I don't think male or female matters when your reduce them to their basic forms," Solomon said with a frown of thought, answering without thinking. Because thinking, right now, held more dangers than talking did. Or so he thought, at least. "When I saw them yesterday morning they seemed to have qualities of both."

Not in terms of specific organs, but in terms of facial and physical characteristics, there had been a certain duality. A softness of the feminine and a hardness of the masculine at once.

Solomon was just taking another sip of his whiskey when Ravel's words actually sank in and he choked. Pretty much sanctifies homosexual relationships?!

His mind flashed back to the way the Archangel's wing had been curled protectively and almost possessively around Skulduggery's shoulders. To the way it had been there whenever he saw them in company the previous morning. The way that, whenever they drew close, something between them had vibrated gold.

Solomon spluttered, coughed, fumbled for the desk so he didn't fall off his chair, and almost dropped his glass. The sharpness of the alcohol hit the back of his throat, up his nose, into his head, and for several moments it was all Solomon could do to try and breathe through the wracking coughs, let alone think.

Saint Gabriel. Skulduggery. Really? Really? Solomon caught his breath, shakily groping for a place on the desk to put his glass down.

"Wreath?" Deuce almost actually sounded concerned. Solomon assumed it was him who took the glass before he dropped it. Probably for the best.

"That explains," Solomon managed after a moment, his voice hoarse, "the angel-wing cloak Skulduggery was perpetually wearing yesterday."

The words should have been of amusement. Mostly, they were just shocked.

[skeletonenigma]

For a long shocked minute, Erskine wasn't sure what to say. There was the obvious thing Solomon could have been reacting to, but Erskine was fairly sure everyone already knew about that. He'd made enough jokes in their company. Maybe most of them were still assuming it was all one big tease. Erskine couldn't exactly blame them; if the news hadn't broken Anton so completely, Erskine would be assuming that too.

He didn't quite apologise, but he did look suitably concerned without trying until Wreath had some measure of control back. "Jesus, Wreath. You had me worried someone was already trying to poison the liquor."

Truth be told, Erskine hadn't thought about that until just now, and he eyed his own glass with suspicion until the ex-Necromancer spoke again.

"An angel-wing what?" His gaze snapped back to Wreath, and he put his glass back down, grateful he hadn't taken a sip right at that moment, like Wreath had. He'd probably be choking too. "Perpetually? Does Skulduggery know about that?"

[peacefullywreathed]

Still trying to breathe, Solomon thought back on the way the pair's souls had interacted. The way they had painted the air gold. The way Saint Gabriel's wing had reached for Skulduggery. The way Skulduggery's soul had lightened, not just on the outside but inside, whenever the Archangel was close. The connectedness which indicate a mutual choice, not just one-sided yearning.

"I'd--say so, yes."

Finally his body decided it could cope and Solomon straightened up again, his laboured breathing easing, but still a bit raspy. He was rattled enough to let the curse slide, even though it brought sharply to mind the puncture-scars in his palms. Solomon closed his fingers on it, hiding the recent metaphysical wound, and shook his head.

"The first time I saw them metaphysically, I noticed an attraction. I just thought it was because Saint Gabriel rescued him from Hell."

Skulduggery. And Saint Gabriel. Together. He needed his glass back, and yet at the same time, after a few moments' thought, Solomon could only shake his head and say wryly, "Typical."

Typical of Skulduggery to break all expectations, all the rules, and come out the better for it.

[skeletonenigma]

Typical? Erskine wanted to ask. Typical? Did Wreath know the meaning of the word? Typical of, what, Archangels to fall in love with living skeletons? Did Erskine miss that fairy tale?

Mind you, it was fairly typical of Skulduggery to manage the atypical. Maybe that's what Wreath meant. Maybe that was why Erskine could accept the relationship as fact, even through discovering that Archangels existed at all.

But, now that he was thinking about it, what caused Gabriel to rescue Skulduggery in the first place? It wasn't like Skulduggery to develop Stockholm's Syndrome - or whatever it was called when damsels in distress developed affections for their rescuer - and certainly not in such a short span of time. Yes, everything about this screamed atypical, and even for Skulduggery, that was pushing it. Something else Erskine should ask the pair about.

Only then did he realise what Solomon actually said, and he leaned forward attentively. "An attraction, you say?" Erskine felt a grin spreading across his face and didn't even try to keep it in check. "Beyond just a wing around his shoulders? What does it look like?"

[peacefullywreathed]

"May I have my whiskey back?" Solomon asked in Deuce's general direction, and knew from the knell of the hearth before the man spoke that he wasn't going to get it.

"No. Can't afford to have you choke and die on your first day."

"Pity." He tilted his head, closing his eyes to escape the clarity of his Sight and reduce it to the dull swirl of colour so he could remember more easily. "Light, mostly. Light reflecting off a window, and turning the panes opaque, but in a way that sharpened the details in the rest of the window. It's ... hard to explain."

He wasn't even sure how it worked. It was a mixture of sight, sound, smell, taste and texture. His mind gave them descriptions he could understand, but he suspected it was, truthfully, nothing like them all over again.

He heard footsteps, and a ripple moved under the door which sent colours arching upward like a billowing veil. "Someone's coming."

Barely a moment later, a knock sounded, and Deuce answered, sounding just a touch bemused. "Come in."

"Grand Mage. Elders." Tipstaff. Of course it was Tipstaff. Tipstaff was more like a smell than anything else. Papyrus and wood and leather, and when he saw the scene in the office, something in him cooled. If that specific turn of warmth was amusement, then that sort of cool regard was probably disapproval.

Which, given that the new Grand Mage and Elders were drinking before noon on their first day, Solomon supposed he could understand.

Or he would have been able to understand, had his attention not been caught by the Cleaver which entered silently behind the man. Solomon looked away, trying not to pay attention to the way the ripples rebounded off each other. Cleavers weren't Necromancers, he told himself. They weren't alive enough to even be damned. They just came from someone who had been.

"The American ambassador is here, Grand Mage," Tipstaff said with equanimity, "and I have the Journals for your perusal." The man came close, paused for a moment, and then apparently put the books down on one of the tables to the side.

"Thank you, Tipstaff." Corrival's voice was a mix of disconcert and resignation. Solomon watched the lazily snapping eels, trying to summon amusement.

"I've also found someone who can install a voice-activated computer into Elder Wreath's office, though having the Journals transcribed will take a little longer. Elder Wreath, given your, er, limitations, may I present one of the Cleavers to act as your guide through the Sanctuary? It seems the most prudent course of action, given your situation with the Temple and--"

A bolt of visceral objection ran through Solomon so hard that he actually twitched. "No," he said flatly before the man could even finish, and Tipstaff cut off with a waft of dusty surprise.

"I'm sorry, Elder Wreath, but you need someone to guide you--"

"I'd rather walk into walls." His heart was pounding and he knew the reaction was an overreaction, but he couldn't help it. He was still rattled and just passing the Cleavers unnerved him. To have one of those giant sink-holes of metaphysical soullessness at his side, every moment of the day? No. "Cleaver, you're dismissed."

"I ... see." Tipstaff sounded disconcerted. "I'll--see what else I can come up with, then."

With that the man bowed and left, taking the Cleaver with him, and there was a moment of silence in which Solomon forced his grip on the chair's arms to relax and exhaled slowly, trying to regain control of his heart.

"He's right," Corrival said abruptly, breaking the silence. "A Cleaver's the best option."

"I'll resign before the week's out." Solomon said the words flatly and without even a hint of humour. The Temple had been Hell through pain. The Cleavers, Solomon could already tell, would be Hell through apathy. Best if he could minimise contact.

[skeletonenigma]

Erskine never really gave the Cleavers much thought before this, but Wreath's sudden and strange reaction to them made him realise he... didn't really know what they were. Very few sorcerers did. Drones, he'd always assumed, and he probably wasn't the only one. A silent, nonmagical, and lethal army. Not quite human, not quite alive, not quite anything. He certainly hadn't expected them to have souls.

Maybe they didn't. Maybe Wreath's new 'sight' held more wonders than just souls. Either way, it was obvious Wreath didn't want to be anywhere near the Cleavers, and after everything the ex-Necromancer had gone through these past couple of days, that was a simple enough request Erskine didn't mind helping fulfill.

"What's so terrible about them?" he couldn't quite stop himself from asking. "We'll find another way to help you, if you're that opposed to it, but... should we even be using them?"

[peacefullywreathed]

Solomon couldn't quite stop the short bark of sardonic laughter. "They're not inherently evil, if that's what you mean. They're not like anything reanimated with Necromancy. They're just ..." He shook his head, at a loss. How had their creation been possible? He'd never heard of anything like it.

"They're reflections," said Corrival, and it was only then that Solomon realised there was no curiosity in the man's soul at all. The ex-Necromancer caught his breath and looked at Corrival, at his weary resignation, and yet somehow wasn't surprised.

"You knew."

"I'm one of only two people still alive who does. I was there when they were created." Deuce's focus shifted with a short laugh just the same as Solomon's, the man's soul unbending toward Ravel. It was the way souls did, Solomon was learning, when people knew each other well or were referencing something shared. A mutual resonance. "Do you remember the day they were first deployed, Erskine? You asked me what they were, and I said you didn't want to know, half-hoping you'd ask again. But you didn't."

He stopped and Solomon heard the scrape of glass on wood as Corrival took a drink. "They're reflections, all, of them, of Mr Bliss. China put together a maze of mirrors, he walked in wearing a suit of armour and carrying a cleaver, and when he walked out again there was an army of him."

"He was the only one with the magical skills that might have translated in any way," Solomon noted, and smiled a twisted smile. "Necromancers dedicated decades to figuring out how you did it. They never came close, though I always did wonder how that research could possibly help us retake command of the White Cleaver from Serpine."

That was why it was Solomon and his peers who'd succeeded. He had been willing to keep an open mind, had remembered the past, had taken into account failed research everyone else had dismissed.

"I didn't like it," Corrival admitted. "Using reflections is risky enough, but that many, all at once? There was no telling how the magic could have warped. I was overruled, and I was wrong; it turned out just like Bliss and China said it would. I still didn't want much to do with them, after. It's one of many reasons I turned Meritorious down after the war."

The man's soul shifted again--looking at him, Solomon knew. "Just what do you see, Wreath?"

Solomon could almost see the man's thoughts in his soul. The eels coiled around one another in worry, snapping at each other. Self-recriminating.

"Nothing," Solomon said simply. "There's nothing inside of them. They're a void in the middle of a metaphysical ocean. Looking into them feels like I'm about to fall into an endless abyss, and never stop."

Except ... not quite. There was a realisation there, something lurking just out of reach, and Solomon frowned as he chased it. He hadn't quite seen nothing. He had seen a soul, or a vestige of a soul, in those depths.The reflection of a soul? Did souls reflect? Or--

All the blood drained from Solomon's face as the realisation came. Bliss was dead. Only he wasn't. He had dozens, hundreds even, of reflections walking the Earth. Fragile enough to be destroyed when killed, strong enough to not be killed easily.

What happened when someone died while they have a reflection active? Solomon didn't know. What he did know was that souls and the lifestream were so much more versatile, so much more malleable and present than anyone had imagined. Souls had weight. They had gravity. The interactions Solomon had seen the night before proved that.

What kind of gravity did a thousand reflections have?

What would that do to a soul departed?

"Wreath! Solomon!"

Corrival's voice sank through the ring in Solomon's ears, made the ex-Necromancer realise he'd risen and turned toward the door, and then frozen. Numbly Solomon turned back to the man, saw the cloudiness of confusion and the sharp twist of concern. Solomon heard himself say, "I think Bliss's soul is trapped in the maze of his reflections."

[skeletonenigma]

Erskine was numbly aware that he should probably be a little more thrown by the revelation. Or at least reeling. Or at least somewhat stunned, even if it was only for a moment.

It was hard to, though. Like trudging through sewer water. Everything Erskine had been forced to accept over the last week, on the fly and with barely an explanation, was slowing down what his reactions would normally do. Sure, he joked about it, but only because Erskine rather suspected he'd fall into a pit if he didn't. At some point, he was going to have to sit down and properly process all of this.

But he hadn't had the chance yet, and so Erskine didn't particularly feel anything when he found out what the Cleavers were. Compared to the last few days, their being reflections felt almost mundane.

He remembered the day Corrival was talking about, too. The day he first saw the Cleavers; hundreds of them, a synchronised and perfect army, but creepy in a very fundamental way, too - creepy just like Bliss, Erskine now realised. No wonder Cleavers never took off their helmets. No wonder they didn't have magic. A trick like that could never be copied successfully by anyone else, either, but it wouldn't stop sorcerers from trying. Particularly the international Sanctuaries, desperate for a cheap and easy way to strengthen their numbers. No wonder Meritorious kept their origin a secret.

But those Cleavers helped win the war. And Erskine knew, from far too much experience, not to question Corrival when the man said not to ask about something. So he didn't. Winning the war was worth it.

Metaphysical voids... Erskine shuddered. He was never going to be able to pass one in peace again, and he didn't even have any idea what Wreath meant. He couldn't begin to imagine what passing them was like for Wreath.

That last comment managed to burst something free from the sewer water, though, which was both a blessing and a curse. Bliss was a man Erskine respected. Even liked, somewhat, in as much as you could like someone who was scarily powerful and rarely smiled. News of the man's death had come as a complete and genuine shock, because no one ever imagined anyone being able to kill a man like Bliss. Of course, the Faceless Ones weren't human.

He wanted to ask if there actually was a heaven and hell, but it wasn't relevant right now. "And you're headed, where, exactly? To save him? Can you do that?" Can we help?

[peacefullywreathed]

"I don't know." He really didn't, and for several moments Solomon just stood there, at a loss. Things were building behind the veneer of action, and fast. Surely there was only so much the ex-Necromancer would be able to take before the dam burst.

He wasn't even sure which question he was answering. Or why he'd reacted as if he could, or wanted, to save the man. He'd never known Bliss well, or even quite liked him. Respected him, certainly, but liked him, not really. Solomon closed his eyes to take a slow breath, clenching his hands and rubbing his thumbs over the ridge of the nail-scar in his palms. He needed to calm down. To centre himself, as much as he could.

"Souls have gravity," he said. "So do reflections. If you want an analogy, I suppose you can call them black holes. When a soul departs from its body, it's subject to the currents of the lifestream, unless caught by the gravity of something else." This much, he knew. This much, he had witnessed with his own eyes, though that had been his father's soul and the gravity of his own Necromancy. Solomon opened his eyes, glancing toward the office's exit.

"I don't see why it wouldn't be possible to rescue him, though I don't know how we would. But reflections are conjured with a sigil, and we have at our disposal the Archangel of communication and the greatest sorcerer in history. If in the event that I'm wrong--" He hoped he was wrong. "--they'd be able to tell."

"It's worth pursuing," Corrival said grimly. "No one ever stopped to ask what would happen if Bliss died." He snorted. "Then again, no one really took the whole soul thing as seriously as the Temple does, no matter what they do with it. Either way, the man's a hero, and he's earned more than to be trapped in a void."

But it didn't stop Corrival's eels from gnawing on each other. Not snapping, as if with irritation, but more as if a problem was bothering him. Without anything to drink, anything to page through, anything to occupy himself but his own thoughts--and those, Solomon didn't currently want--the ex-Necromancer reached out and touched two of those eels, stroking one's head until it subsided and released its companion.

It made his fingers tingle, and what he felt wasn't exactly an emotion so much as semi-deja vu of a worry he hadn't had. "The question," Solomon said, speaking what Corrival was already wondering, "is whether we'd lose the Cleavers in the process."

"Do you mind not fondling my soul?" Corrival's voice was a mix of things. Gruff. Bemused. Disconcerted. Solomon blinked, cracked a smile and withdrew his hand.

"Sorry. Your eels were nibbling on each other."

[skeletonenigma]

And now Wreath could touch souls.

Erskine shook his head and sat back. And that, he decided silently, is probably how Skulduggery and Gabriel are doing it.

He couldn't.. quite believe he'd just had that thought. Suddenly, Erskine was grateful for not having an in-depth knowledge of souls. It meant he couldn't even try to imagine how metaphysical intimacy worked. Just the idea that it existed was enough for him, thank you very much.

Souls have gravity, Wreath had said. Souls that were released upon death. And Skulduggery was dead. And Gabriel, technically, never lived. Did that mean -

No. No, it didn't. Erskine had to violently snap himself out of it; he stopped barely short of physically slapping himself.

"Oh, get a room, you two," he murmured, managing a grin. "Go nibble and fondle somewhere else. In summary, we could possibly save Bliss's soul, but most likely at the expense of the Cleavers, and we won't know for sure until we talk to either Gabe or Merlin. How would we explain it, if that's what we ended up doing? A lot of people are going to want to know why we got rid of one of the Sanctuary's greatest assets."

[peacefullywreathed]

"We do have a room," Solomon pointed out dryly. "If it bothers you so much, you can always leave."

Corrival laughed, a bloom of warmth in him that took Solomon by surprise. It was so vivid that he actually saw the fragments of memories in it, voices more than images, jokes frequently passed between men who knew each other well. The realisation was both warming and unnerving, and both sensations felt strange enough that Solomon went on quickly. His mind, apparently, was working fast, the same whenever he did when he worked on the fly. For the moment, he was grateful for that.

"We might be able to come up with another alternative," he pointed out, putting out a hand to find his chair and ease himself back into it. Now the adrenaline was wearing off, he was starting to feel fatigued all over again. "Some of the research the Necromancers went into involved constructs, but they were never able to advance much further than the sorcerer who created the Golem of Prague, and I imagine you both know how that turned out. Still, with some help, we might be able to replace the Cleavers with something less ... gravitational."

Assuming it was necessary. Assuming the Cleavers would be lost anyway, not that Solomon would complain if they were. Assuming a great many things they would now have to deal with. If nothing else, this first day was turning out to be a leap in the deep end.

"Either way, it doesn't matter what we say," Corrival said. "That's a worry for after we've found out our options. For now, we'll settle for just finding out what those options are."

A ripple, the exact same ripple as before, washed under the door. "Come in," Solomon said absently before Tipstaff could knock, and there was a pause before the Administrator opened the door to take one step inside.

"Grand Mage, the American ambassador is still waiting."

"Right." Corrival sighed. "I'd forgotten all about him. Shall we, gentlemen?"

"Must we?" Solomon murmured sardonically.

"Only if we don't want to make an enemy of the Americans on our first day, Wreath." The chair scraped as Corrival rose.

"I thought you'd already taken care of that." Reluctantly Solomon followed suit, wishing he could have at least finished off his whiskey, and then spread his hands with a lifted eyebrow and a faint smirk in Erskine's direction. "Well, Ravel, here's your opportunity to service me after all."

[skeletonenigma]

Erskine nodded absentmindedly. Golems. Huge creatures made of clay. Yes, he knew how that turned out, but somehow, he didn't think having giants made of clay lumbering around the Sanctuary was going to win over too many people anyway. The Cleavers, tall and creepy though they were, at least looked human and moved without making a mess. Golems would probably get in the way everywhere, and leave giant footprints of clay and mud. Janitors would be cursing them for eons to come.

"You mean the Americans aren't already our enemies?" Erskine asked as he joined the others in standing up, reluctantly leaving his glass behind. "I thought Davina Marr would be a bit of a sharp stick there. Or Gabe. Hasn't anyone outside of the Sanctuary asked about Gabe yet?"

He didn't mind Tipstaff overhearing that. Gabe being an enigma wasn't exactly news anymore, nor was the fact that certain people did know who he was - the Council of Elders included. What Erskine did mind, quite suddenly and unexpectedly, was Wreath's last comment.

For a moment, the Elemental just stood there and blinked at Wreath, trying to figure out if he misheard. Necromancers with a sense of humour? Solomon Wreath with that particular brand of humour?

Finally, he grinned and stepped forward to put a hand on Solomon's shoulder. "Glad to hear I'm not an empty void," he remarked, his voice much more friendly than it had perhaps ever been toward the man before.

It didn't quite stop Erskine from shoving Solomon into the door as they passed through it.

[peacefullywreathed]

"Of course they have," Corrival said as he shrugged on his coat. "And most of them remember serving under me. For some reason, that puts them off asking too many questions once I start talking about background-checks." His words were bland, but his soul was amused and exasperated at once. He really did not want to have to handle the Americans, Solomon noted.

The ex-Necromancer grinned at the leaf-rustling astonishment in Ravel's soul. "If I didn't know any better, I'd think you never heard someone with a sense of humour before."

He found Ravel's elbow and followed the man's guidance toward the door, but unfortunately the surge of mischief was just a little too late to actually prevent him from hitting the frame. It was enough to ensure he only struck it with his shoulder. "I'm revising the magnitude of your tip, Reveller," he grumbled, wincing. "And disappointed at the service around here. Perhaps I should report you to the management."

"I am the management," Corrival pointed out, though not without amusement, as he followed them and closed the door behind them all. "And if you two children don't stop pulling each others' pigtails, I'm going to have to put you in separate corners."

Solomon laughed. He was also fairly sure that there was a faint strangled noise coming from Tipstaff's direction, and turned his head toward the man, still with amusement written across his sightless face. "Something you have to say, Administrator?"

"I, uh, forgot to remind sirs of the tailoring appointment. As soon as you've seen to the Ambassador." The man was almost babbling. Solomon would have found that amusing, if not for the words 'tailoring appointment'.

"What tailoring appointment?" Corrival asked, sounding bemused.

"For your official robes, Grand Mage."

Oh, lovely. "Just what I always wanted," Solomon murmured.

[skeletonenigma]

"Oh, cheer up," Erskine distinctly remembered saying at that point. "It won't be too bad. Just some of the usual pomp and circumstance sorcerers love so much, and then we can actually get back to work again."

He was eating those words now. And they tasted far too chalky for Erskine's liking.

He stared morosely down at the fabric he was supposed to try on, somehow wishing that they were still back in that earlier meeting with the Americans. At least all the Americans wanted to do was whip Ireland out from under them. The Americans weren't going to try and force Erskine into clothes like this. "Why can't Ghastly design these?"

"If he'd like to, he can," Tipstaff replied. "But he must follow the same basic pattern, or they will be inadmissible. And he wouldn't be paid, of course."

Erskine frowned. It was that exact 'basic pattern' he didn't like. It put him in mind of some unattainable wise man, meditating on the peaks of the tallest mountains. They were pretentious robes, designed to be worn only by the obnoxiously important. Or the stupidly wealthy. Erskine wasn't obnoxious, he wasn't stupid, and he wasn't wealthy. He refused to wear this thing.

"It's a tradition," Tipstaff added, probably because of the trepidation in Erskine's eyes bordering on outright disgust. "Passed down through the millenia. It's expected."

"I'll bet it is. Look, can't we change it?"

For a moment, Tipstaff seemed confused. "Change the tradition?"

"I'm okay with wearing robes. You won that war. But can't we change the robes? We're Elders. We should be able to wear whatever we want."

"Certainly not! You can't just change a tradition we've held since the inception of the Sanctuary on a momentary whim because you don't like the colour."

Erskine poked the fabric dully. "Ghastly could make us bulletproof robes."

"These are bulletproof. And immune to most forms of magic."

Well, that just wasn't fair.

[peacefullywreathed]

Oddly enough, Solomon was enjoying the fitting far more, he suspected, than either Erskine or Corrival were. Actually, he didn't suspect. He knew. He had an edge: he couldn't actually see the robes. For the first time he was approaching something like gladness that he was blind.

The meeting with the Americans had, oddly enough, helped calm him. Not because of what he could or couldn't see, but because the situation was very similar to ones he'd experienced before. It was politics, nothing more, and Solomon was very used to politics. It was amazing how subtly the barbs flew once things got going. The fact Solomon could now see souls only made that easier. Wreaking havoc in the same sort of tones he'd used on Craven, except slightly more polite, had been oddly soothing. Especially once he realised that one of the American ambassadors had actually recommended Marr as a detective. Amazing, how easy it was to humiliate idiots now he could see their innermost. It was almost fun.

Which meant Solomon was actually feeling something close to enjoyment when Tipstaff reminded them of the appointment. Solomon was startled and grateful when he realised the man had minimised the number of Cleavers in the halls as Solomon passed; in return, Solomon said nothing in the way of complaint as they were taken to the tailor. (Relief, apparently, was warm, but less like a fire and more like a soft wash of water.)

Of course, that meant both Tipstaff and the tailor had decided he was the easiest to work with. Corrival's eels were snapping madly at anything nearby. Erskine was dropping pine-cones everywhere. Tipstaff's parchment was burning, but only to the point of smoking. Exasperation and indignation, but no real anger. Solomon smiled to himself and obeyed as the tailor told him to lower his arm.

"They're actually quite comfortable," he said innocently. "Soft, too." More to the point, he knew he could carry them off well. He could carry nearly anything off well. That was why Skulduggery had bribed him into wearing so many different disguises as a teen.

"You should talk," Corrival grumbled. "You can't see them."

Solomon laughed. "I think I've come out the better, in this instance. I can't feel humiliated by what I'm wearing if I don't know what it looks like."

That, and he had worn a lot worse. Posing as a baroness's daughter sprang to mind.

Tipstaff chimed. Tipstaff had been chiming, softly but pleasantly, at various points in the morning, but this time there was a definite wash of relief in the man's soul as he answered whatever it was that was doing the chiming. "Please excuse me, Grand Mage, Elders. There's someone I must greet at the door."

Solomon waited for the man to leave before lifting an eyebrow at Erskine. "Did it occur to you to just not wear it, Ravel? I'm certainly not going to. I spent nearly four hundred years in a Temple with a strict and ridiculous dress-code, and never once paid any attention to it. Why should I change now? With all due respect to your efforts, of course."

The last was said blandly in response to the sudden surge of affront (hot, not exactly fiery; more like coals) in the tailor's soul.

"Step down, please," the man said stiffly, and Solomon shrugged. Oh well; he tried. Carefully the Necromancer eased off the stool, hands raised for balance and to avoid running into anything; a moment later he felt Corrival's hand on his elbow, just a little rougher than it needed to be out of a combination of amusement and irritation. Absently Solomon prodded away an eel trying to snap at his face.

"In my defence, changing all the time would be a hassle I can't afford. And if I need to fight to defend myself, better than I do it in clothes with which I'm familiar. Otherwise I'm liable to trip over my robes, and then the Sanctuary would be down an Elder again."

[skeletonenigma]

"And how would you defend yourself?" asked Erskine - not quite a snap, because he was a little too preoccupied, but definitely with something approaching pointed annoyance. "Throw insults at them? Tell them where they were last night? I wouldn't think what you're wearing would make any difference there. Apart from perhaps making them unable to take you seriously."

He wasn't being fair, really, and Erskine knew it. For one thing, giving up Necromancy was a hell of a feat, and apparently about as far from a walk in the park as oil was from water. He respected Wreath for that, he really did. But he'd be damned before he'd go in front of anyone else wearing this thing when one of the Elders didn't have to. In fact, strike off that last part entirely. He was really just resentful of a surprising amount at the moment, and Wreath insinuating he could get out of wearing these ridiculous robes simply because of practice with the Temple's dress code did not help.

"Sorry," he muttered. "I might be overreacting. Corrival, you're not blind, and you can be nasty to people. Why can't you just tell Tipstaff we're not interested? It's logical. Wreath just brought up logical points. Like defending ourselves."