Sand, when heated to a certain temperature, can become searing hot. A single grain cannot contain such energy for more than an instant, but several million will spread out the pain quite effectively. On some days, records have seen men and women baked alive under the sun's heat. I've felt that pain once. Strange that such a memory comes to me as I write this, but I feel no compulsion to push it away. This is no formal report; it is merely proof that these events really happened. Should my memory one day fail, I will not be left wanting.

I should not worry about such an inconsequential thing. Here, though, I know squarely where to put the blame.

That burning served to wake me. A simple bodily function, pain, was what finally broke through the fatigue that had put me under. As my back and side sizzled, the scattered shards of my mind pieced themselves together, one at a time.

Perhaps the hot sand accelerated the process. There are studies that show how those without sufficient discipline can be easily motivated by base desires such as impending demise. In that state I might as well have been a child. Even a child, however, knows what to do in the desert.

After regaining a modicum of solid footing I stumbled to the closest scenery that wasn't more sand. It wasn't particularly far, and within the minute I sunk against a familiar wall that sheltered me from the sun's rays. At that time my memory had yet to fully return, so I didn't recognize it as the foot of the great Sphinx, situated much closer to the pyramids than I remembered. Those same pyramids had been painted over with a battlefield's brush. I'd been part of that, I knew, but I could not recall how.

As the pain from the burning sand faded, a more serious pain made itself known. My arms and legs were stiff, as were some ribs, and a pounding head-ache that I'd mistakenly thought was from the sunlight started smashing away at the inside walls of my skull. It felt like my stomach had been torn out and replaced with hot sand, but when I felt around there was only scar tissue. Even worse than that, though, was the realization that I wasn't the one in trouble.

It feels awkward to write this. I'm not one for it, even now. But it will help.

Leaving the shadows was one of the most difficult decisions I've ever made. Something that a day before would've been an afterthought was, to a mind in turmoil, the choice between suicide and the rest I deserved. Stay and live or go and die.

It wasn't necessity that made that decision for me. It was the thought that there was someone else out there, someone that had believed in me and trusted me when no one else would. Even now that person was waiting, relying on my meagre knowledge, putting faith in someone that didn't deserve it.

I'm proud of that decision. It was foolish, unnecessary, and served no purpose, but I'm still proud of it.

It must've been hours. I searched until the sun went down and found no one. Our car was miraculously in one piece, and our supplies held a few rations that I would've helped myself to, had my stomach not been near the point of rupture. A rifle lay in the sand some distance away from the largest pyramid, its scope gleaming. I knew it had tumbled down from the very top dislodged by some force. That gun had a name, but I couldn't recall it. I could barely remember my own.

Neither could I instantly remember the name of the man I found slumped against the Sphinx, completely opposite the side I'd taken shelter at. It was the one place I'd never bothered to look; why would anyone sit in the light and allow themselves to be burnt? Too late did the memory return, of me putting him there after finishing my other task, of sealing… something. He stared straight at the sun, a half-finished cigarette dangling from his lips, seemingly unaware of anything. He didn't turn his head to meet me as I trudged through the sand.

"Are you hurt?" Usually he would break the tension, I remembered. I'd spent most of our time together saying very little, so doing the opposite was an unusual experience.

He took a drag, finishing off the carcinogenic and letting it fall to the ground. "All over," he croaked, and then raised the left hand I hadn't seen.

I'd never had someone point a gun at me before. It was a rather sobering experience, serving well to clear the remaining fog from my mind. I remembered this person. He was my ally. My…

With the minimum of movement he turned his head and gave me a once-over. He might have lingered on some parts of the anatomy more than others. After a moment the gun slipped from his fingers and fell to the sand. He twitched as grains splashed over burnished metal.

"Hey," he said. "I know you."

"You do. We worked together."

He tried to smile. At least, I think it was a smile. "Just that?"

I could have said many things. His eyes were empty. He had little to no idea who I was. I doubt he even remembered what we'd just accomplished. His look was more pleading than anything. He was completely lost, completely alone, and completely reliant on me, even more so than that time beneath the Nile.

He'd also helped me murder the one person that had always been on my side, since I was a lonely, useless child. My only friend in those dark years. That friend had wanted to help, and yet…

"We're acquaintances," I lied. "Thank you for saving my life."

"No problem, sweet cheeks. I'd tip my hat, but I think I lost it somewhere. This damn sun…"

He'd never worn a hat. At least, he certainly didn't have one today. As he turned his head to the left to look, I saw a stream of blood completely coagulated along his jawline. The sun had dried it out completely, sealing the wound that would've taken his head off had it been slightly higher.

"Here. Take my hand. The jeep isn't far."

He was lighter than I thought. The arm around my shoulder could barely hold on. We took the steps one at a time.

"Sorry," he said as we walked. "Ashamed to admit it, but-."

"Moriah," I told him and myself. "My name is Moriah."

"Sorry, Moriah," he said. His once strong voice had become weak and insubstantial. The pain of hearing it was worse than any sort of corporeal discomfort. "I've got this – well, the doctors had a lot of names for it. It ain't easy to deal with. Y'know what magecraft is?"

"Yes."

"This thing, granddad had it too. Never as a kid though. Apparently it was some kind of freak miracle. They couldn't figure out a way to fix it, so I just kept forgetting. A lot of things. New things, old things, sometimes really important things. Then I met this old guy and – he fixed it, I think. Maybe. Most of the time it's fine, but I'm all burnt out right now so I can't spell it away. I think I might've rattled my head a bit, too. Did we-?"

"We succeeded. Archibald, the third member of our party, is still out there, but he should be alive as well."

"Good," he said. Just speaking seemed to have worn him out. "That's good, but for some reason I ain't happy about it."

We reached the jeep. I carefully pried open the dented door and helped him into the front seat. He collapsed into it. As I moved to close the door his hand closed around my wrist. There was no power in his grip.

"Wait," he said.

"Archibald is still out there."

"Please."

I waited. I don't regret that, either. Archibald was better equipped to survive in the desert than both of us combined. He'd ended our struggle with one decisive blow. He would be fine. Probably.

Besides, I had no strength left to look.

The driver's seat was comfortable against all odds. I allowed myself to relax, letting the strain leave my body. It wasn't exactly going to do anything about all the internal injuries, but they could be ignored for later. Pain of the body would pass. Pain of the soul…

"I remember," he said. Still staring forward, he lifted the revolver and started at it. "Miss Daisy. Heh. Never lets me down. Damn near mothered me through the first year in London."

I remembered as well. Why I was here. What I'd gone through. The cobwebs in my head were no match for the power of several parallel processes working together to sort through the mess of information my life had been reduced to.

"Hey," he said. "Good for you."

"Hm?"

"You can go back in there," he said, grinning like a fool. "Waltz in and tell those assholes in Atlas that they fucked up. You'll be running the place. Everyone's gonna be telling stories about the girl that saved the world. 'Cus you were right and they were idiots."

It's strange. At that moment, when it should've mattered most to me, my original mission seemed completely pointless. Clearing my name? My family's name? For what, to impress some judgemental know-it-alls and put to rest the souls of people long dead? I'd accomplished much, yes, but all I wanted to do was sit down and sleep for a week.

"…thank you."

"Eh? For what?"

"Being there for me."

He tried to smile, but the happiness had faded too quickly. It was too strong to last. "Any time," he said. "But… I've got a question, and it's a stupid one. I've been wracking my brain but I just can't figure it out."

"Yes?"

His eyes were pleading. "Tell me," he said. "What's my name? Who am I?"

It isn't fair. He didn't deserve this. None of us did. Not me, and not Archibald. Not even Alfons, may he rest in peace. Yet here we were, having paid for the sins of the past with this week of terror. He saved me, but at what cost?

"My apologies," I admitted. "You were our Scribe. You are my hero. But your name… I can't recall it."

He deflated.

"That's fine," our Scribe said, turning back to the setting sun. "I'll remember. It'll come back one of these days."

"Always does."

-a-

There is a recent belief amongst the more idealistic philosophers that every man's life has value. Superstitious folk assign upon that belief the moniker of destiny. Zealots claim it to be God's Plan. Entirely divorced from those flavours of falsities, an intelligent man knows it to be potential.

We – and by that I mean magi as a whole – obsess so much over that potential. Too much. Men spend their dreadfully short lives chasing their own tails, struggling to know just how far they could go. And yet they will never know. Natural paramnesia replaces knowledge with delusion. The disease called ignorance leaves only one choice for us fools who are afflicted by it: Rise, rise, and never cease your ascent.

The only way for a blind beast to know where its path stops is to reach the end and fall into oblivion.

Man is not blind. This creature can see, and upon glimpsing those underneath, the brute knows satisfaction. It perceives that others are below, and so it must surely be above. Climb over the others, one man grasps. Knock them down and you will be elevated. Forget any noble ideals or principles that might obscure the affair. All you see is the end of an everlasting journey. This is the true, ugly philosophy of the creature called magus.

When is the last time Barthomeloi Lionel, Vice Director of the Clock Tower, walked with death?

Judging by the tang of expensive cigars that percolated in the top floor of the building many call the heart of magecraft's practitioners, it's been much too long. I should have brought a brolly for fear of that terrible odour impregnating my second-best coat.

He waited for me in his inner sanctum. Not the grandiose affair that is the main office, but the smaller, softer inner study, whose visitors in the past decade could be counted on one hand. Even the King of Beasts needs a place where he can seldom be challenged. As I nudged open a door carved from lumber more ancient than my great-grandfather, I saw the Vice Director sitting on his plush throne, utterly at ease. His head was tilted backwards, facing the ceiling and exposing his wrinkled and bony throat to any assassin's blade. A meaningless show. So secure was he in his power here that he felt no fear at exposing his weak points to me. Hundreds of years in power had left him accustomed to it.

"Lionel," I said.

"Lysander," he replied.

"It's been far too long," he said as he opened his eyes and met mine. From his position, Lionel can dictate which sort of etiquette is worth following. Most of it he discards as useless, but some protocols must be rather pleasant to observe. He didn't try to fake a smile, something I was grateful for. I'm not much good at it either.

"Not long enough," I said. After a slightly too long pause, I continued. "Some might say."

He didn't quite laugh. "Take a seat. Help yourself to the tea."

"I'd prefer to stand."

"I didn't ask."

Ah, that Lionel. He is known less for his Atticism and more for his deep distrust of everything and anything. Nearly two centuries he sits on top of the Clock Tower, and still each morn he checks to see whether it will fall out from under him, taking a jolt of pleasure each time the world confirms what his heart knows; that he is absolutely invincible. I took a seat across from the old cat, in a slightly less stuffed armchair. This low, the scent of tea leaves tempered the thick haze of smoke residue. He gestured to the teacups and kettle on the small table that divided us.

He began the moment my fingers wrapped around the handle. "A job well done. Congratulations should be in order. It is no small feat, what you've accomplished."

I began to pour. "Nothing a team of Enforcers couldn't have handled."

"I didn't send my Enforcers. I sent you." He took the proffered cup. I didn't bother pouring one for myself.

"Me and God knows how many others," I reminded him. I'm not some red-cheeked young lad, to be tamed with empty praise and table crumbs. When Lionel Barthomeloi compliments you, there's always a purpose behind it.

His answer confirmed one of my hypotheses. "Not that many, if that's what you're asking," he said. He paused and smelled the tea, drinking in the fresh scent but never touching the cup itself. He was so smug and satisfied that in that very moment I wished nothing more than to be able to reach across the gap between us and strangle that man with my bare hands. "Only… let's see, about half a dozen put in any sort of effort. Most of the recipients of the message promptly refused. It was rather entertaining to watch the separatist faction squabble over who should go."

Even as they curse his name, they bow and scrape, taking whatever scraps he throws them. That's what it means to hold the seat of Vice Director. How wonderful. How absolutely disgusting.

He must have seen the displeasure in my eyes. I am not one to hide such things.

"Oh, Lysander," the old lion purred. "There's no need to be upset. You've worked very hard for this. Earned it fair and square. Saved the world, didn't you? Now there's an accomplishment you can frame and hang on the wall. You've earned yourself a pat on the back, old chap. And a little more, of course."

"Spare me the honey, Vice Director. This worthless diversion is below you."

"No," he said smugly. "It really isn't. Come now, Archibald. Do you still hold a grudge after all these years? Even now, when you stand to clear away all that mud once and for all?"

A grudge? Nonsense. That sort of curse is something commoners enjoy. A magus has no time for petty anger. Resentment, plenty, but simple rage is forbidden. Oh the things one can do when driven by hatred… but my motivation will always be purer, greater than such base instincts. The anger of a magus is not a simple emotion, Lionel.

Besides, after dealing with a certain insufferable buffoon, old Lionel was as substantial as a stiff breeze.

So I changed the subject. "You've read the Record, I take it?"

"Of course," Lionel said, putting down his untouched cup and pointing to a stack of papers sitting on his desk some ways behind him. "The penmanship was lacking, and the author very clearly has yet to graduate from genre fiction, but it's a solid piece of storytelling."

"The favour?"

"It's yours, Lysander! All in good time. Before that, you'll need to elaborate on certain elements. Human elements."

There it was. Purposefully stalling, knowing I hated every second I spent in this room. That's just par for the course, really.

"…ask."

A Barthomeloi doesn't ask. "The Guide and Scribe. This Record is rather caseous. It only mentions their contributions in passing. Elaboration is required. I know of the man, but this girl is…"

"A nobody," I said. "She had some relation to Aten, and I picked her on a whim. Any other would have done just as well. The Scribe, on the other hand… well, I was curious."

He leaned forward. "Was that curiosity of yours satisfied?"

"The more I discovered, the less I wanted to know. You might think he holds his Master's magic, but it's merely an echo. The Crest you seek died in America, years ago. What remains is yet another drifter with no lineage to speak of."

The fact that this of all things was what finally wiped the smirk from Lionel's face is something that brings me no joy. It's as if that uncouth fool had fired the bullet himself.

"Lionel. The favour."

Irritation. I'd kept poking at my one bargaining chip. "Fine," he snapped. "Since you're sorely lacking in patience, I'll indulge you. What do you want? Status, I assume? Your old position? It won't be difficult to grant the Archibalds more power. Perhaps a title or two and a good slice of land. Will that be all?"

"No."

His eyes narrowed. "Something more selfish, then? Materials? Manuscripts? Mysteries?"

"None of that." I'll not reach the Swirl of the Root with your help. It will be by my own hand.

"Then what, Lysander? Keep in mind that even a favour has limits." By which he meant that any request which displeased him would be summarily rejected. That was the beauty of my reward. It put me completely at Barthomeloi's mercy. Rather than actual currency he'd given me his own fiat money, accepted nowhere else, with value completely decided by his every whim. A pension built on shoddy stock that would tie my destiny to his.

I'll have none of it. That foolish Scribe said something to the effect once. It's a ridiculous idea, but if I had to decide who I resent more between a fool that can't keep his mouth shut and an old man with a God-Complex, I'd have to go with the latter. At least the fool was honest with me.

In the dimly lit study, I would offer the devil a deal of my own.

"Do you hate me, Lysander?" he asked softly, as if he couldn't fathom any other notion upon glimpsing the heat in my eyes. "Is it revenge you desire? I'll never grant something so petty. Not in a million years."

He still didn't understand. He couldn't.

"I don't resent you, Lionel," I admitted. "It's our own name that I curse every day. It is my grandfather's, for throwing away our family's place in the world and forcing me to clean up his mess. No, your betrayal was to be expected. Our families were allies, but that bond only works both ways. If one is weakened, there's no reason for the other to hold onto it. The moment we became a liability it was your responsibility to let go, as is only proper. It was a hard lesson to learn, but learn I did, you bygone relic."

He stiffened. I saw the old rage building up in his eyes, while my own cooled as I exposed it. He and I evidently subscribed to different theories on the place of anger in a magus' repertoire of tricks.

"No, Lionel, I would never ask for your alliance. Not, as you put it, in a thousand millennia. What I desire is not even a tenth as valuable. You hold no obligation of your own. No services rendered, no property transferred. But it will never fade, even if my family name is dragged through the dirt again. You could refuse, I think, but you won't. Not something so insignificant."

I extended a hand.

"Barthomeloi, my name is Archibald. You and I shall be friends."

-a-

The check was for five thousand pounds. A small fortune to a guy like me, but definitely lacking the zeroes I'd been promised. Archibald said he'd deducted an amount for, and I quote: "Insubordination, incompetence, cowardice in the line of duty, withholding information, abandoning the assigned post, and a general lack of hygiene."

Fuck you, Archie.

Even that, and the small sum I was given for transport, is enough to last me a few more months. It's strange to be in London again, with a thick lining of cloud cover shielding me from the sun that now sent shivers down my spine with its gentle warmth. The early winter chill went straight to my bones after Egypt's heat, leaving me shivering through my coat as I trudged through the streets, side-stepping holes in the sidewalk that had yet to be filled from last year's bombing. They were good for rent prices and not much else.

The place was just as I'd left it. Though the name engraved on the plaque that hung from the door didn't feel like mine, it had to be. I ran my finger over the top and it came away clean. She'd dusted.

Muscle memory is such a useful thing, but I never realized that simple fact until that old pile of bones scrubbed mine. It took me a good thirty seconds of fiddling with the key to open the bloody door. Inside I found a clean and proper office that didn't at all feel like it belonged to me. I made a mental note to mess it up a bit after I slipped into a coma for twelve hours.

I didn't even manage two before I heard the front door open. My blood ran cold. Was it the Association? Had they finally lost their patience and come to cut me up and stick my brain in a jar?

A lack of sleep makes a man stupid.

"Hey," I greeted my housekeeper. "You're looking bright."

She really did. Her smile was tired now, though. "A week without you does a girl wonders," she said. Bundled up in a thick coat, she was almost unapproachable, and I really didn't feel an inclination to try. Times like this, a guy just wants to be alone for a while. She could practically read my mind. "I was just dropping off the mail," she explained. "Didn't suppose I'd get a chance to say goodbye, too."

It was a thin bundle of maybe four or five envelopes. They'd be bills, most likely. Speaking of which, I really should have cashed Archibald's check before coming back, lest the landlord be waiting for me with his ugly mug twisted into a frown.

"It was a pleasure." We shook hands. Hers was cold. I hadn't felt real cold in what seemed like forever. "You doing alright for yourself?"

She smiled and snapped her fingers. A small flame appeared, hovering above her thumb. "Saving money on heating, at least, thanks to you. Did the job…?"

"Yeah," I nodded. "I'm back. Doesn't feel like it, though."

She giggled. "Of course not, silly! Part of you is still in Egypt. It's written, clear as day, on your face."

Upon seeming my reaction, her giggling only increased in intensity. There's not enough of me left that I can afford to leave bits behind. Well, Moriah would take good care of it.

"Here." I brandished some pound notes. "Should cover what I owe you."

She shook her head. "Keep them. I have another job lined up. You look liked you need it more."

Not exactly good for a guy's self-esteem, but she was too sincere to turn down. "I'll miss you," I admitted.

She smiled. "Not too much, I think. Live-in housekeepers are a dying breed as it is. You should invest in a maid, or perhaps a secretary. Less hassle that way."

"Sometimes I think I hired you precisely for the hassle."

Her smile faded. "Will you be alright? With that condition of yours?"

She's a swell lass. I really will miss her. "Yeah," I said. "Won't be an issue. Just, before you go…"

"My name?"

I nodded. No need to explain things again.

"Christie. Goodbye, sir. I wish you well."

And then she was gone and I was alone again.

I took my souvenir from Egypt and my pocket knife and cleared the front desk. After five minutes of careful carving, Miss Christie was ready to be part of the arsenal. No idea how much use I'll find for an Etherlite whip, but Moriah says even a dunce can acquire an adequate amount of proficiency with a modicum of practice.

After that, I got to work on the mail. I was right. Most were bills. One was a receipt from Archibald confirming the termination of our contract. I added one more to the pile: A goodbye from Moriah, to be read in private only when I reached home. I even got a letter from the Einzberns, promising not to kill me for my brash behaviour concerning their family member.

Just as I put down the last, useless piece of paper, someone knocked on the door. It was a dainty sort of knock, the kind that'd come from an upper-class lady unused to bruising her delicate knuckles. The letters went into a spare drawer and I advanced to the door.

A quick look through the peephole revealed no assassins or Enforcers come to take my head. I'll count that as a victory.

She was shivering. The light dress and fur coat she had on weren't enough to stave off the chills of the incoming winter. I quickly ushered the lady in before she froze to death and deprived me of a potential customer.

"Should I put on some tea? Coffee, perhaps?"

She shook her head. "It's fine. Sorry, I'm just… in a hurry. You are the detective, yes?" She spoke with a light Russian accent. Evidently there'd been some attempt to disguise it, but I'd spent enough time next to a certain Ruskie to recognize a native.

"The one and only." I sat down. She took a seat opposite me, fidgeting nervously, with the office desk between us. "What's the rush, ma'am?"

She looked around and licked her lips. They'd been painted a bright red, with her delicate eyes a deep green, skin a pale white, and hair a thick, inky, wavy black. A new client. The first in ages.

"I need your help," she admitted. "I don't know where else to go. Everyone else has shut the door without even listening. I've been framed. The Yggdmillennia, they're after my Crest-!"

Oh boy. A family even bigger than the Archibalds. Mixing my business with theirs wouldn't lead to anything good. This was a catch, all right, but I wasn't sure I could reel it in without it biting my face off. Just my luck, to have something this big show up when all I wanted to do was sleep for a week.

Too bad I've always been a sucker for a pretty face.

"Alright, sweetheart," I said. "You've got my attention."

END