Arran sat and stared into his stone-work fireplace, chin resting heavily in his hand, and remembered the weeks of toil it took to hew the rough chunks into the shape Melissa wanted. There was glory in that, he thought -- in crafting something for the ones you love from the land, dragging function from the ground with muscle and determination. Against the politics and machinations he was playing with, it felt clean and honest. He thought about a young Xenn, hacking away at his father's side with the miniature pickaxe Arran made him, little face squeezed tight with concentration. And there it was again -- melancholy.

The day since his visit to the council offices was uneventful and standard -- a fact that might have reassured him, but he was not a man to hope lightly. Nothing, Arran believed, came so easily. There was a problem with being a pragmatist, he thought -- in times of anguish, he was left with no false carrot of hope to dangle -- no gentle optimisms. He found himself with nothing much to believe in but his own abilities, so at times when he was doubting himself, life's outlook was bleak indeed ...

Occasionally, he thought Don had a point with his harping on about the Two Moons, but Arran had difficulty coming to terms with the concept of complete religious belief. If the Two Moons represented the only true faith, why were there so many alternative religions in the world, all believing theirs was the only truth? In the past, there'd been freedom of religion. Now, the Lord Church of the Two Moons suppressed its competition, branding them heresy. Raleria was the only land to escape its influence, the Tradespeople exercising their ancient right to separated law. In fact, based on what he knew of them, Arran believed the Ralieri Tradespeople were much like him, putting stock in personal strength and the power of community. What, he wondered idly, did the skinny eight-footers turn to when they needed something to believe in?

Larka, came the answer.

"What?" he twisted in his chair, casting a gaze around the empty room. Then, he realised; what he 'heard' was not aural. He didn't even 'think' the word, as such. It presented itself, boldly, behind his eyelids. Yes, visual more than anything else, but combined with an immediate intrinsic knowledge of what the word sounded like and how to pronounce it. Arran sat back in his chair for some time, listening intently. He even closed his eyes at one point for several minutes, but in his rested position he found himself drifting sporadically towards sleep, so he gave up on that idea. Eventually, 'receiving' no further communications, he gave up trying. Larka? A strange word. His stomach tightened as he realised that, grammatically, it was probably a Ralieri word, and it came to him when he was thinking about them.

Arran shook his head, trying to clear the confusion. Maybe it was time for a visit with Don so they could put the world to rights. Just as the thought occurred, there was a loud knock at the door. Arran flinched, caught off guard. Perhaps he would be saved a journey.

At first glance there appeared to be nobody in the dark porch of his house, but as Arran opened the door a small man materialised in front of him, slinking from the shadows like a night hunter. He was perhaps five feet and four inches -- Melissa's height -- and as nondescript as a cloud, his physique and features fluidly undefined.

"Mr Cartwright?" emanated the figure, no mouth or, for the most part, even face being clearly visible.

"Yes." Confusion.

"My name is Raymond Shadow, I'm with the Lord Church Government."

"The, err, the Government?"

"Area of Duelism, to be exact. Investigations." The tone of voice lowered somewhat. "It really might be a good idea for you to let me in, Mr Cartwright."

"Oh," stammered Arran, "yes, of course." He stepped aside and the small figure slunk inside confidently as though he lived there. A large, heavy-looking black cloak covered his form, partly explaining why he was so difficult to make out. Two bony arms swept up, and a pair of skeletal hands pulled back the voluminous hood, revealing a small, crowded face. With a tiny mouth and disproportionately large eyes, blinking madly, Raymond Shadow now looked more like prey than predator, but something about him screamed warnings. Arran closed the door, never removing his eyes from the small man, who might have been comical if not for the decidedly bleak expression infecting his features. A sound from the stairs distracted Arran, breaking his momentary reverie. "The rest room is to your right, Mr Shadow," strange name. "Please make yourself comfortable."

"Thank you." The man passed from view.

Arran looked up at the face of his wife Melissa at the top of the stairs. She was worried -- distinctly, if her expression was a guide. Clearly, Arran's weren't the only instincts ringing alarm bells.

"What's happening Arran?" Her hands were clasped before her, wringing.

"A man from the government. I'll receive him in the rest room. You go back to bed."

"But I worry. I stay awake with worry."

Arran sighed to cover his own doubts, knowing he wasn't fooling his wife. "Well don't, love. Get some sleep; I'll take care of this. Everything will work out." She was clearly unconvinced by his words and not trying to conceal it, but she did amble back into the bedroom. Arran proceeded to meet his guest by the fireplace. A faint rustle from upstairs told him Melissa was leaning into the chimney so she could hear his conversation -- a source of comfort.

"Now, Mr Cartwright. What concerns us is an apparent difficulty regarding the manner in which you avoided taking responsibility for the recent actions of your son Xenn, or should I say ex-son." Shadow's face remained impassive throughout, no flicker of emotion betraying the intent of his words.

"Well, I wouldn't put it," began Arran, aware of the inference in the small man's phrasing, but he was cut off.

"You see Mr Cartwright, when a crime as serious as murder is committed, official notice is carried immediately to the concerned parties, and in this case those parties include yourself."

Arran was beginning to get angry. "It is carried immediately, once the body has been found, yes."

"Then you must agree,"

"Do not cut me off, sir," intoned Arran, hearing the anger bleeding into his tone. "I had not yet finished." A brief expression flitted across the man's face, perhaps irritation or contempt, or even a moment of temper. He hid it immediately, replacing any slip with a grudging nod.

"Thank you, sir," continued Arran. "Now, as I was saying, I was not informed of my son's misdemeanour," the cloaked man raised an eyebrow but smiled with it, "until my return here, after my meeting with church Minister Freeman. You can check with him if you want any verification. I already had the official document stating that I no longer have a son before any notification arrived."

"We have already been to see Mr Freeman. He was most... helpful, as I understand it. Now, that document." The man clapped and rubbed his hands together. "May I see it, please? It is somewhat central to this issue, so its authenticity must be verified."

Arran would have refused, but the man had let him speak, so he laid his suspicions momentarily to rest and retrieved the scroll case from the mantelpiece. He handed it hesitantly to his interviewer, trying to see any hint of the briefly-revealed malice in his face. Shadow popped the document efficiently from its concealment and scanned through the contents.

Arran sat down again, pressing his hands between his thighs. "Is there really that much doubt over my claims and rights in this case?"

"It merely seemed suspicious to us," replied Shadow, observing Arran over the top of the scroll with raised eyes, "that you should suddenly decide to disown your son -- a boy with whom you've previously shown remarkable tolerance -- mere moments before you were informed he committed a Duelable offence. An offence, moreover, for which you would take responsibility. A little too much for coincidence, wouldn't you say?"

"Not myself, no." He shook his head for emphasis.

"You see, Mr Cartwright, even now you are acting suspiciously." He was folding the scroll, rather than rolling it.

Watching, Arran was struck by a thought. "I'm not the only one. How many church officials make house calls, and at this time of the night? Is this not highly irregular?"

The spindly man paused mid-gesture. His eyes were almost glowing, as though his thoughts danced a visible jig to the thoughts clambering behind them. Then he smiled, but the expression went no further than his mouth. "Not for me, it isn't. Now, do you have a witness who can testify as to your stated actions and your general character?"

"Yes, my friend Don."

"Ah, of course. Friend Don. So that's who he was going to visit." The diminutive figure turned to squint through the window. "Well, I'm unsure of how much help friend Don can be. Given the light outside, he's probably dead by now."

The statement hung unmoving in the air as echoes faded around them like spent potential. Its quiet tone and calm delivery put Arran briefly off guard. "What did you just say?"

"My work here is about done." The man stood up. Then, with deadly fast and precise movements, he ripped the folded parchment into four and fluttered the pieces into the fire.

"What the..?"

"Sorry, Mr Cartwright, but I must insist that you not leave this house before dawn."

Arran felt his face burning as he stood, anger flushing through him like a torrent of fire. Shadow's eyes widened and he moved to run, but a huge hand clamped around his spindly neck, lifting him from his feet and ramming him against a wall. Arran could feel muscle and sinew wresting in his palm as he throttled the man. He knew the sensation of power, of inevitability, and experienced it through a pall of grey nothing. This was happening, and it would soon be over -- no doubt, not mitigation, and no pity. The black-cloaked figure was just a dangling flap of cloth when something slapped Arran hard across the cheek.

"STOP IT! ARRAN, NO!" Melissa's tears pierced the grey veil, their fear sparking something in Arran -- something more primal than the need for violence.

He watched his hand unfurl as a loved one's distress got through. Shadow hit the floor with a heavy thud and collapsed, croaking weakly. He met his wife's gaze and an understanding passed between them, beyond tears or threats or clamour. She nodded. Melissa looked about to say something more but Arran cut her off.

"Don!" he exclaimed, running for the door. Then, directed at the crippled man, "He'd better be unharmed."