Don peered through his window at the early night sky, concern tugging at his stomach. The twin moons were still in their horn formation, a situation caused by the influence of the evil sea. At certain times, the power of the Moons was said to be weakened. They shrank and only small portions of them would shine with the holy light. It was the time in their cycle when they strayed furthest from the source of their power; their believers. During such phases, the movement of the waters affected the Two Moons, dragging them into close proximity.

He closed his eyes and prayed quietly to his inner self for strength. During the Twin Horns, for approximately five days, prayers could not be heard. The Moons, distant and weakened, focused all their limited strength on fighting off the evil of the depths. Don's prayers were useless, however often he repeated them. According to the Lord Church, if ever the Two Moons were induced to touch, a great cataclysm would befall the world.

Don, along with the majority of the population, had always believed this. Arran's lack of piety didn't usually worry Don, because he knew his friend's heart was true, but if ever there was a time for belief...

He sighed and took a slurp from his cup of spiced mead, closing his eyes to concentrate on the warmth spreading through his chest like a thick blanket on a winter's day. If sleep wouldn't come, he'd settle for the mild haze of inebriation.

Bang bang bang.

The front door! He stood from his 'astronomer's chair' in the back room and, knees creaking, headed cautiously into the hallway.

BANG BANG BANG!

With the light inside, his eyes couldn't penetrate the dark beyond the glass of the door. Instinct grasped at his insides, urging him not to answer - nothing of good import knocked on your door in the night. Oh well, no sense in hesitating now; he was clearly visible. Taking a deep breath, he opened the door.

A figure flew inside, knocking him to the floor and landing atop his form. A woman, he realised with little difficulty. His brief moment of panic at being struck so unexpectedly subsided when nothing further happened. The woman simply held on to his prone form, face pressed sideways against his ribs. She was apparently terrified, and muttering over and over into his chest.

"Thank the Moons. Thank the Moons."

Don used his foot to push shut the door and gently rolled the woman off him, suppressing a faint tightness inside. It was years since he last got so close to the opposite sex, and his body was responding regardless of the bizarre situation. He recognised her voice, and was trying to place it.

"Good evening," he said wryly, standing up. She looked at him finally, climbing to her knees as she did, taking his offered hand with a tight, tearful smile.

It was the minister's secretary from this morning, and clutched fast in her balled fist was what appeared to be an officially sealed scroll.

*

"Damn! In all the cesspits of shit!" The empty scroll case bounced from the floor, and Derwin Crescent stamped its ornate wooden design into as many pieces as he could manage. "Lenny!"

"Mr Crescent?"

"The document isn't here. Moons! What was that little turd plotting?"

"He can't really tell us now," replied Lenny. Anyone else would never have dared speak like that, but Lenny had worked with Crescent almost from the outset. He was loyal, all three hundred pounds and six feet of him. Crescent was taller (true, indeed, regarding all of his employees), but preferred to think brutally rather than act it. He introduced precision pain, but Lenny did all the heavy lifting.

Crescent smiled. "I must try to get hold of my temper. He just pushed me too far." He glanced briefly at Freeman's body, slumped against the wall with its neck sliced open. "Tough bastard, I'll give him that, especially for a cushy arsed Minister. I'm impressed." The black gloves came off his hands and he threw them on top of the body. His calling card.

"Okay. We're leaving, Lenny."

Outside in the street, Crescent sniffed in a lung-full of air and sighed it out in contentment, blowing a huge puff of vapour like a dragon. He beckoned, and a skinny shape detached from the black and approached from the opposite side of the road, becoming distinguishable from the shadows only when it was almost nose to moustache.

"Just because I couldn't see you sneering, Shadow, doesn't mean I don't know you were doing it."

The small, bird like face blinked its massive eyes. "Not at all. What with your work and all the pressure, I think you're becoming paranoid, Derwin. You should take a rest, maybe let me do your job for a while, then we-"

"Clam it. You're a Duelist. I could kill you now and most people would thank me for it, which is exactly why I'm not going to. I want you to go and see Arran Cartwright. No damage, no threats. Just don't let him leave the house, and try to find any recent official documents he has; I want them collected or destroyed, but for a believable reason. I don't care how you do it, just be friendly; use that industrial mouth of yours, and don't let him visit any friends."

"What's it worth?"

"Two more kills on your tally. If you fail, it's one more on mine."

"Accepted."

"It damn well better be."

Shadow melted and disappeared without a sound. Crescent turned and headed along the road, hearing Lenny's steps fall in behind him.

"You keep a tally, Derwin?" asked Lenny.

"Moons, no - not enough fingers. I lost count years ago. Besides, I'm no Duelist, so who gives a turd?"

"Some would say you qualify."

"Hey, I work for the government. I make Duelists, I don't join them."

Lenny smiled. "Where are we actually going, anyway?"

"We've got a witness who needs enlightening." They turned a corner, their footsteps echoing eerily in the dark. Crescent liked to make an impression, so he always wore heavy boots.

"Suits me," said Lenny. "That lot back there, in the office, it really got me going. There's nothing like violence to fire the blood, you know?"

"Yeah, I know."

They continued in silence for a while, casting an amusing silhouette against the ground. One fat, one slim, both tall. Crescent smiled, seeing the vast physical disparity between them. They made a perfect team, he thought. A look across at his colleague revealed a baffled expression, but Crescent didn't ask what it meant - he had planning to do.

"The only thing I don't understand," Lenny confided eventually, "is why it's so important that this Cartwright grunt doesn't disown his child."

Crescent glanced over, slightly annoyed in principal, if not on a personal level. "You're supposed to do what you're told without asking questions. 'Why' has no place in your vocabulary, and even if you got an answer, it wouldn't affect your actions. You do your job - we all do." They turned another corner.

"Understood. Sorry, Derwin."

Crescent sighed in defeat. "But since it's you, Lenny, I'll tell you what I know which certainly isn't much." He paused briefly. "I don't think these orders are from the normal sources; they come from up on high. I mean right up there. I'm not talking about the Council of Eight, or even the Prime Minister. I reckon it's the Moonfathers dictating the action this time."

"You're joking!" Lenny sucked in a breath. "That never happens. The Moonfathers don't take an interest in the physical world." He spoke the last with heavy sarcasm. "What's so special about this matter?"

"That's pretty much all I know," admitted Crescent, "but they shouldn't have walled me over further information - it got me interested. I visited some contacts. It seems this grunt Cartwright is going to be important somehow you know, fate and all that turd. Anyway, the Moonfathers see him as a potential danger to the future of the Lord Church, or their portion of it at least. They measure the best way to neutralise any potential he may have is to make him a Duelist, bit of the old Lupo Dexus. If he's not part of society, he can't do it harm. If he ever actually achieves Morta Siecle, he'll be past his prime, so the potential will never be realised.

"Of course, then they faced they next problem; how to make him a Duelist. Direct manipulation would draw a depthload of attention from the mystic community. That includes the Ralieri tradespeople, for starters. They'll be watching any being who sparks off omens like this Arran Cartwright fellow, and nobody really knows how powerful they are. So, rather than openly go for Cartwright, the Moonfathers picked on his wayward son. Did some meddling turd in his head," Crescent wiggled his fingers by one ear. "Stimulated aggression that was already there. Subtle, see? They talk to his thoughts, really mess him up. So with their help, the boy ends up murdering someone. Since he's under fifteen, his father is passed the blame along with the inevitable consequences."

"Duelism," filled in Lenny. "That's pretty nasty."

"Exactly, but the old wrinkling Moonfathers didn't count on the grunt disowning his son and blocking up the whole process like a capacitated latrine hole. They can't be seen to openly contravene their own rules. That, my friend, is where we come in. We're here to save the day by digging up some crap, as it were."

Lenny thought visibly for a moment. "Which is all very well, Derwin, but why didn't they just tell us to kill the man and save all this hassle?"

"I thought that myself, but one of my mystic informants said it wouldn't work. Some vague turd about tapping unused power resources. All mystic, finger jiggling stuff." He spat on the ground as a dirty taste filled his mouth. As he did, a house came into view, the light bold in one window, and he stopped walking.

"What?" asked Lenny.

"Better be quiet, let me think. We're almost there."