"A Silver Sun?" Captain Murkagh stared at them in frank disbelief.

"We saw it ourselves," Faith went on. "He was part of the raid that captured a Brotherhood fixer."

"I think you've been underestimating him," Grace added. "He took the oath seriously."

"The fuckin' Night-Wolf raid?! Are you kidding me?!" Murkagh snarled. "He's lyin' through his teeth. Every young punk cadet fresh into the uniform trying to impress the local girls at the taverns makes up stories about bein' in Marraddon City during the riots. The more brash ones say they were on the raid on the Brotherhood's ordinance dump, or on the Pier-6 raid, or on the front lines on Bloody Tagium, or the stormin' of the Crown Temple, or Gentleman's Night, or on the Night-Wolf raid, or in the station-house when the sayanim stole back his body. There were thirty-six men on the Night-Wolf raid, three of them died. There were no spoiled Rendruan nobles on that raid."

Grace said, "Then where did he get a Silver Sun?"

"Probably bought it from a pawn-broker as a conversation piece. Look, Szalik," He leaned forward across his desk, rubbing his temples. "You're real good girls, and I'm glad to have you on our side, but you're young. I appreciate that you like this guy and you got some kind of rapport with him. At least that means I don't have to deal with him myself. But face the truth: Morphiel Hinterstrad is a spoiled egomaniacal wanna-be who can't even run his own county. He hasn't done a worthwhile thing in his life, his county is about to be up for grabs by every nobleman in Rendru, and he's gettin' off on letting you think he wasn't a complete failure."

Faith took a deep breath. "Captain--"

"I don't wanna talk about it anymore," Murkagh said firmly. "Now. I wanna hear about this sigil you saw at the beach."

Grace narrowed her eyes. "I don't know, are you sure we girls saw it clearly? I mean, we may have been dazzled by Hinterstrad's presence."

Murkagh glared. "Try me, Szalik."

Faith put a hand on her sister's shoulder. "Sir, Lord Hinterstrad thinks it's magic of some kind."

"Well alert the fuckin' press. I coulda told you that. I can even tell you what kind it was."

Faith and Grace squinted.

"A hexagon? and earlier you saw a mage with a cloak woven with obsidian?"

Faith felt her stomach drop. Grace gave voice to their fears. "The Father of Destruction."

"Good." Murkagh sat back. "Now let's start putting the pieces together. The children were stolen for...?"

"Sacrifice." Faith looked at Grace in alarm. Grace filled in the rest. "Their bodies and wills were slowly destroyed as part of a ritual."

"Or will be." Murkagh went on. "And Steuben Trent, who did what in his past life?"

Faith nodded. "A mercenary in Marraddon City."

Grace's face lit up with dark recognition. "Where he stole the Sword of Creation!"

"Bingo!" Murkagh pointed to her. "Now here's what's happening." He pointed at both of them sternly. "You get back to your Prince-Not-So-Charming, and you call his bluff. If he really was a Staff in Marraddon City, and he and Trent really did know each other there, you get his help finding where that Sworden bastard hid that sword! You got your orders, snap to!"

Faith snapped to attention. "Yes Sir!" she turned to go, not waiting for her sister. She did not have to--Grace was right behind.

---

Morphiel found himself down in the cellar.

He looked at the Silver Sun in his hand. It was dull, a patina of time and regret clouded rays that should have shone brightly, clearly.

He had not earned it, that much he knew. But he liked to pretend he did. It did mean something to him, the appreciation of the men he saved, the accolades for getting good results. It was everything he believed in as a Staff.

And for a moment, his two Paladins had believed it. He desperately wanted to let them keep believing it, but he could not. He respected too much what that medal meant. Besides...he had blood on his hands, blood that cried out for him to reckon up with justice before he could ever worry about earning a medal.

"Don't get used to my company, Officer Hines." The Night-Wolf lit up his pipe. "I don't intend to stay long."

"What you intend is of no interest to me," Hines growled.

"What does interest you?"

"Why the Brotherhood is involved in these riots."

The Night-Wolf took a non-chalant puff. "What Brotherhood?"

Morphiel walked along the junk in his cellar, letting his fingertips drift over the barrels, sacks, and cloth-covered furniture as he went. He stopped at a pile of bags of rice, imported from Talune. He picked up a bag, and set it carefully aside.

"If such a Brotherhood existed," The Night-Wolf went on, "They sound as if they would be very dangerous." He shrugged. "They might have friends in every corner. In every shadow."

"We know they exist," Steuben Trent said, "You're not impressin' anyone here. So how about you make this easy on yourself before I get bored."

The Night-Wolf pointed at Hines with his pipe. "People you trust could turn on you. Could be one of them. People close to you, could get hurt."

Morphiel shifted more bags of rice, carefully laying them all aside, into a pile. He dared not let go of his Silver Sun. The palm of his hand sweated as he clutched it. Once, one of the rays of the sun caught on a bag, tearing it. Rice trickled out of the rip. Morphiel paid it no heed, setting the bag aside.

BOOM! Hines felt himself thrown backward from the explosion. The scream never made it out of his mouth, but his mind screamed anyway. "ELIZABETH!"

She had been inside the tenament, waiting for him. Tonight, he was to meet her parents. She had urged him to go not as Murphy Hines, but as Morphiel Hinterstrad.

"You shouldn't lie to everyone," she had said. ''Some of us can know who you are."

Morphiel moved the last bag of rice aside. He stared at a bare, clean flag-stone.

"Ah, Officer Hines!" The Night-Wolf smiled. "You look chip--"

Bang.

The Night-Wolf fell forward unceremoniously. Blood spread from the hole in his forehead across the table.

Steuben Trent nodded. "That was a bit more efficient than I was expecting. You need to learn to have more fun with your work."

"They wanted him badly enough to kill Elizabeth, now they can't have him at all. The balance of suffering is preserved." Hines handed him the pistol.

"Let's get out of here before someone comes to check on that bang." Trent held the door.

"No." Morphiel pulled up the flagstone. "I want to take responsibility for this."

Under the flagstone rested a long, polished mahogany box. Morphiel lifted it out.

The Keeper smiled at him in friendly fashion. Hines met his gaze strongly. "I accept the Judgment of the Staff."

"May it be merciful." The Keeper tapped Hines with the end of his Gifted Staff of Justice, the implement for which the Staves were named. Hines felt a stone settle in his stomach. He knew only one way to alleviate it.

Hines removed all the insignia of his office from his clothing. He handed it to the Keeper, feeling his eyes cloud with unwelcome tears. "For what it may be worth, Sir...I believe in what we...what you...stand for." He handed his staff to the Keeper, letting his grip on the implement linger.

The Keeper nodded. "If that's true, you'll be back." He smiled.

Morphiel unlatched the box. He opened it gently,moving the cloth aside from the shiny blade of the Sword within. For the first time in many years, he put his hand to the handle.

A surge of power rolled through him. He suddenly felt as if he could create anything, even a new future for himself. With this implement, he could challenge Laszlofi, demand an explanation for the fate of the children. Those officers who died because of the Brotherhood's retribution for the death of Eliyahu Harrel, and because of Captain Stillwell's betrayal, their spirit could be avenged. Justice could be served. He lifted the Sword out of its box.

Hines turned on the light.

Captain Stillwell jumped. "Cydney Broncour, Hines, you scared me senseless! What the hell are you do--"

Morphiel siezed Stillwell by the throat, lifting him off the floor. "You thought I had no idea didn't you. You thought I wouldn't find out."

"Hines, what are you talking about--"

"You thought I wouldn't catch up to any of those mercenaries who betrayed us in the raid. It's funny, they all agreed on one thing."

Stillwell's eyes betrayed his fear.

"You gave the order to retreat from us. You paid them off."

"Hines, don't be stupid. I would never--"

Morphiel threw him across his desk with a crash. Stillwell cried out.

Morphiel towered over him. "That's what tipped me off. So I followed you around last week. I was there, Stillwell. I was there when you met with Benjamin and Abraham Riverkin. I watched you take a satchel of money from them. I heard them thank you for helping them avenge Harrel."

"Hines listen to me, they're powerful, they're...they frightening, they're--"

Morphiel roared, throwing Stillwell back through his own bookshelves. He collapsed in a rag-doll heap as books cascaded down upon him. "And WHAT AM I!?"

Stillwell did not answer.

Morphiel checked his pulse. He had not answered because he had not heard. Stillwell was in whatever afterlife traitors enjoyed.

Morphiel turned toward the locked cabinet.

With Stillwell dead, the Sword of Creation was a prize up for grabs. It was a cinch the Brotherhood knew about it. If Stillwell had been that weak willed, he would have spilled his guts about it. It could not fall into their hands.

Morphiel stared at the Sword.

He could fix it all. He could make it right. He put the Sword back in its box and under the flag-stone.

It was time to step up, to start fixing his land, and maybe to restore the rightful place of Hinterstrad among the Rendruan nobles. He would start by telling the Szalik sisters.