Silenio had not marked Casimir at first, his focus wholly consumed by his sister and the appearance of Ammas Mourthia. When he did look at Casimir, he saw not a small half-Summervale youth but the pallid shape of Jan Mourthia, his throat slashed wide open and his chest sheeted with blood, his soft gray eyes, so like his father's and his cousin's, gazing on him in silent accusation.

Whether that face had haunted his dreams for twenty years or rather he simply reacted to the shock of seeing the boy again was impossible to say. Either way, he dared not stay in this spectre's presence. He bolted toward the warehouse, his nerveless fingers dropping his sword, the jeweled blade ringing on the ground. Almost without thinking Carala scooped it up, reminded of how Silenio let her, Sarai, and Vetilius take turns playing squire when he was sparring in the Imperial training yards in Talinara.

"Quickly," Ammas said, drawing his dagger. "This mood of his won't last long. Hopefully he doesn't have a whole cohort backing him up."

Without waiting to see if the others would follow, he stormed toward the warehouse. In his eyes was a wild light that frightened Carala far more than her brother's unexpected appearance had done. She knew all too well what Ammas thought of Silenio, and she clutched his sword to her body as she followed. Both Denisius and Vos were at Ammas's sides, while behind her Barthim jogged along, Casimir at his heel.

Inside the warehouse they found not a cohort but a mere four soldiers seated at a long table and busy with a game of Whistling Jack, staring after their commander utterly bewildered as he pelted toward the shadowy reaches beyond large stacks of crates. Neither Vos or Denisius wasted their advantage: Vos had his blade at one soldier's throat before they even realized the warehouse had been invaded. Lord Marhollow launched himself at the other two, knocking them from their chairs and onto the hard planks of the warehouse floor, completely winded.

Barthim joined them almost casually, politely stating to the last soldier, "Please be handing me your weapons, or else I am thinking we shall be forced to break your arms." His smile was genial, his eyes warm and friendly, and the soldier swallowed once and turned over his sword without complaint. Barthim sent Casimir to a wagon full of dry goods stowed in a corner near the doors, where he could see several coils of rope. Within a few minutes the three of them had all four soldiers securely bound.

But Ammas had eyes only for Silenio Deyn. Through the crude corridors formed by pallets of cargo he followed the Prince, his eyes still alight with that near madness. Silenio had not sought to hide; all he wanted was to put as much room as possible between the ghost of Jan Mourthia and himself. Ammas found him bent over a low crate about the size and shape of a coffin, out of breath and slick with sweat. For a moment he looked far, far older than Ammas, even though he was in fact a few years younger. When he saw the cursewright and his sister side by side, the Prince began to sneer. As Ammas had suspected, the terror he had inflicted on Silenio had been powerful but short-lived. From a sheath on his thigh the Prince drew a curved dagger, bracing it against his arm.

Carala thrust herself between them, one hand upraised to each man, a desperate gleam in her eyes as she looked from one to the other. Ammas lowered his blade, but Silenio maintained his stance, glaring at Ammas, the flesh beneath his eyes dark and pouched.

"Silenio, please," she said, her eyes fixed on her brother. "I swear to you, Ammas has done nothing but help me, he can cure me, he came here to cure me, just talk to him -- "

Silenio planted one hand on his sister's chest and shoved her to the ground, seizing his sword as she stumbled to her knees. "I don't want to hurt you, Cara," he growled as he advanced on Ammas with a blade in each hand. The cursewright drew back, his dagger raised defensively, cursing his own foolishness in pursuing Silenio while the others were busy. "But you're not yourself, not so long as this traitor scum has a hold on you. Be silent while I deal with him."

Ammas had been considering turning and running. He had no intention of fleeing, but he knew perfectly well he was no match for a seasoned warrior like Silenio Deyn, while Vos and Barthim were. Even Denisius was better trained in the sword. But seeing the Prince knock Carala aside inflamed him as little else had done throughout this long journey. Not once had Carala ever spoken of her brother mistreating her. Her feelings toward him were so warm that she was not always successful in hiding the fact from Ammas. The hurt in her eyes at this reversal was plain to see, and Ammas found himself grinning furiously at the Prince, raising his dagger to eye level.

"Come on, then, your highness," he sneered. "Let us see how you fare against a grown man, and not a five year old boy."

The nature of Ammas's magic gave him no insight into what Silenio had seen when under the influence of the totems, but the sullen, frightened expression that crept up his features at this taunt led him to make an accurate guess.

Silenio, shocked as he was, seemed to recover quickly, lunging at Ammas. But some terror of the spirit of Jan Mourthia lingered, and his thrust flew wide of the mark, Ammas stepping aside, then twisting backward, away from the crates to a wider space. Silenio whirled, slashing his shorter blade at Ammas.

Again Ammas stepped aside, but too slowly this time: its razor edge caught him along the middle of his belly, slicing into the monk's robes and drawing a burning line of pain into his flesh. Blood began to well up and spill down his waist and thighs, and if he had reacted a second later Silenio would have loosed his guts onto the ground, just as he had promised. Grimacing painfully, Ammas continued to draw back, deflecting a few blows with his dagger. The skymetal blade threw up blue sparks as it clashed with Silenio's weapons.

"Silenio, stop it!" Carala screamed. Her brother ignored her.

"I'll take your head with the next one, cursewright," Silenio hissed.

"I was telling you this was not a fair match, good Prince." Moving with a silence that had surprised more than one Lioness patron, Barthim had positioned himself behind Silenio. The Prince whipped around, only to be met with a solid punch to the face, breaking his nose, blood pouring down his mouth and chin. The jeweled sword fell to the ground as he stumbled backward, spasming with the pain reaction.

Before Silenio could raise the dagger to strike at Barthim, the bouncer had seized his wrist in one huge hand, twisting it until the prince screamed, dropping the dagger to the floor. With his free hand he began to punch at Barthim's chest and throat, but he might as well have been sparring with an oak tree for all the good it did.

What Barthim did next Ammas had seen him do on several occasions outside the Prideful Lioness, but never to someone as highly positioned as a son of the Emperor. One hand on the scruff of Silenio's neck, the other at the seat of his pants, he hauled him into the air, armor and all, and hurled him toward the wide open area between the soldiers' gaming table and the stacks of crates, sending him sprawling with a nauseating crunch.

Gathering his breath, Silenio staggered to his feet, lips skinned back beneath the sheets of blood from his nose, fists raised in a boxer's stance. Ammas had to admire the prince's grit. Casimir, Denisius, Vos, and the four bound soldiers all stared, as fascinated as if watching a masterful gladiatorial match in Kyrantine's Odeon.

"I am thinking you should be yielding, my good Prince," Barthim said genially, hunching his round head down to his shoulders as he stalked toward the crouched Silenio. "You are not being too badly hurt yet, but that can be changing quick as a wink."

"I'd listen to him, your highness," Vos said.

Carala, seemingly recovered, now ran forward, breathless and wide-eyed, paying no heed to Ammas or his injury. "Barthim -- no -- don't hurt him, please -- "

"I am wanting to listen to your sister, my good Prince. Say 'yield' and this can be done with."

"Go fuck yourself, Siraneshi cunt," Silenio snarled, and hurtled toward Barthim, fists flying, raining down a rapid string of blows on Barthim's neck and chest, never quite reaching his face as the bouncer deflected anything that seemed in danger of catching his eyes or jaw. When Barthim began to laugh, Ammas knew it was over.

The closest the match ever came to being in doubt was when Silenio landed a single punch to Barthim's right eye, staggering him for the briefest of moments. After that, the Beast stopped playing with his opponent, abandoning his jibes and invitations for a silent, thorough, and terrible beating. Ammas doubted Barthim would actually kill him -- both Carala's pleas to spare him and Barthim's own awareness of what was likely to happen to all of them should the Emperor's son die at his hands made that unlikely -- but as was true of more than a few deadbeats and thugs who had been stupid enough to sully the Prideful Lioness, Ammas was certain this was an experience Silenio Deyn would never, ever forget.