Verge walked cautiously to the captain of the Teacup. He was leaning heavily on the boarding ramp, barking drunken orders to hired help who ignored him for the most part.

“Good morning,” he said cheerfully.

“No it isn’t,” the captain said, waving his hand dismissively.

The rest of his mind caught up.

“Who are you?” he asked cautiously.

“You don’t remember me?”

The captain scoffed quietly.

“Not particularly,” he snorted. “Should I?”

“Well,” Verge said patiently, “I was once a passenger on your ship. We took a bad shortcut that made the trip last a month.”

The captain peered out through his inebriated eyes.

“The stoner?” he guessed.

Verge cringed.

“Well, not exactly,” he chuckled. “But I believe that’s what you called me.”

“How the hell have you been?!” the captain burst out.

“Can’t complain,” Verge lied; suddenly remembering he was incapable of small-talk.

“What happened to that red-headed girl you were with?”

“We parted ways a while back.”

“Oh good,” the captain said as he turned to watch the help move a large box into the ship’s hold. “She was too good for you anyway.”

Verge frowned. The captain put his drink down as a symbolic gesture.

“Sorry,” he said quickly. “I didn’t know it was a sensitive issue. I just figured, what with all the fighting and yelling.”

“It’s alright,” Verge said forcing a smile.

“Well, it’s still good to see you up and about,” the captain said. “We all figured you’d be dead by now.”

“Thanks,” Verge said.

“Don’t mention it,” the captain chuckled. “Always good to know people have faith in you, eh?”

“Something like that,” Verge said awkwardly.

He offered his hand.

“I’ve got to catch a flight out of here,” Verge said quickly.

The captain shook it.

“If you happen to see her,” he added as he turned away, “could you tell her I’m looking for her?”

“Will do, kid. I’ll tell her the stoner that’s always picking fights wants to see her.”

Verge half-huffed away, scolding himself for the last bit. It was things like that that made Verge very upset with himself. But the part of him that wanted to let Mei rest didn’t always win out.

 

---

 

Death still haunted Verge’s dreams as well. The long trip back to the center was uneventful in a physical sense, but Verge’s interior world was a mess. He had thought about declining the request; running off to another frontier world and living as an even less noticeable shadow. But Polimi was right.

Verge often regarded the man’s words as wholesale lies simply because he was a politician. But there was the faintest hint of true concern behind him the night before. And, of course, Verge knew deep down that Polimi was actually right. Verge was a haunted man whose past tore away at him.

He hated to admit it, but the dreams were always the same and at the very least he wanted those to stop. It bothered him for some reason that Polimi actually cared. He hadn’t thought about it until now, but Polimi had been more like a friend to him than anyone else had been for a while. There was that look he got when Verge took a bullet or knife for him. It was a combination of disgust, concern, and pity; like looking at a puppy that’s been run over by a car but got up and walked off, dragging entrails and spare limbs behind it. He always bought Verge a drink the next day.

Then he remembered Polimi’s desk from the night before. He had taken out the expensive liquor from the cabinet. It hadn’t mattered at the time, but now Verge could see it in his memory as clearly as if he were still there. The golden glow refracting across the fine crystal glasses over the polished desk.

“Elsewhere, a candle flickered. In the blackness, more came into view. Thousands−millions of small lights glimmered faintly in a thick black soup. The blackness was heavy and moist. It rolled and moved in waves and streams, blowing the tiny flames about.

“In the distance a tall building loomed. It had many floors and stretched upwards beyond sight into the blackness. The pale gray stone it was hewn from was cut with regular windows. Each one faintly glowed with mundane yellow light.

“No sun or moon shone in the sky. There was no sky. No stars twinkled distantly in the heavens. There were no heavens. There was blackness and candles and the tall building.

“It is difficult to describe a place no one has ever seen. There is no observer to observe. Instead, it may only be described in words, but the images cannot truly be visualized. No eyes can see it so it can only exist in the mind’s eye.

“It is very possible for a place to exist, even if no eyes have seen it. The details are just as sharp and the colors as vibrant. But there lacks the feeling of experience. A place no one has ever experienced can only be so real. Such is the Candle Realm.

“You can believe me when I tell you of millions of tiny lights, sailing each alone in the darkness. Or, you may not. You may draw the line at the building, taller than can be comprehended−and I have tried. I have not seen the dim light of the windows or the pallid rock tower, but they do exist.

“I can see the doubt in your eyes. I would doubt this story too, were I in your position. But I plead; hear my story and judge when I have finished. You may find by the end that there is some truth to it.

“Very well. I made my trip to the Candle Realm a long time ago; when I was another man. When I arrived, it was a cold and unforgiving place. The air−what passed for air−was thick and humid. It rolled like the agitated sea and I quickly found myself being turned about in the blackness.

“Of course, I said that no eyes have seen the Candle Realm and indeed none have. I did not have eyes when I went. I simply was. What I was and how I was able to perceive my surroundings, I cannot say. But although I was not able to see, I was able to experience.

“In the midst of the turbulence, I quickly found myself surrounded by small flickering lights, as large as myself. They glowed a dim orange, much like candles. There was no wax nor wicks, but the flames much resembled candles in their tiny jitters.

“As I was lost in the ebb of the invisible, thick current of blackness, I came to notice small differences in the candles. Each was a slightly different color and I began to question both their nature and their origin. I tried to call out to them in vain; for I had no voice either.

“Then the building came into sight. It was tall beyond what I could perceive and I lost its top in the darkness of the realm. Rectangular windows glowed with a faint yellow light from the buildings base to beyond the veil of darkness. The gray rock it was made of has a semi-smooth surface and looked warm to the touch; although how I came to that conclusion, I do not know.

“By this time, the torrent that had pushed myself and the candles so far had been reduced to a small current. We came to a stop on what must have been a shore. The darkness silently lapped against itself here.

“Then I perceived him. He was a thin, bird-headed man in a suit. He carried a small basket and his hands were bare except for a light down that covered the backs. He gently picked me up and took the candles as well and placed us all inside the basket.

“I thought I heard him say something, but I know I could not have. I did not have any ears and there was no sound there.

“It sounded like he said, ‘Two abdals this time.’”

News of Alan Rem had reached all the way to the frontier worlds. Specifically, news had made it to the world of Perdaugh, where the Former-Eater-of-Worlds, Verge was quietly living his life as a personal bodyguard to a local politician.

Alan, it was said, had an ability similar to the one Verge became painfully aware he had as a child. Alan was able to bind Chi to himself as Verge did to Eye and Sish Ouah Mah all those years ago. The similarity ended where Alan was able to not only control this ability of his, but make use of captured Chi’s powers and use the threat of enslavement as a means of extortion over the entire race.

To a people made of pure energy, who spent their time regarding themselves as gods among the mortal races of the Fishbowl, this threat was no small issue. And so the self-proclaimed King of the Elementals began his ascension to power in an ever shrinking universe.

It was an exciting time in the Fishbowl. The death of the Twelve Gods had brought about an era of peace and curious stability; a firmness of existence that the universe had not experienced in quite a while. The people of Haven took it upon themselves to clean up the mess and fill the hole left by the gods.

Out on the frontier, nothing like that mattered. Haven’s peace-keepers were as present now as the gods had been then. Even less so than Talon, when he made his attempt at universal dominion. You still saw them every once in a while−soldiers of Talon, that is−waiting for new orders, refusing to believe the news that their empire was long since dead. Every six months or so, a small deep-space ship crewed by six or so soldiers would stop by Sulov, the capital of Perdaugh, to resupply, and head back out to the cold blackness, awaiting further orders.

Verge didn’t bother soldiers of Talon anymore. He was a different man. Ten years had passed since he first crushed that horrid empire. He had killed their king−and their princess for that matter. He shattered their temples and performed unspeakable acts upon their citizens. But none of that mattered anymore. He had finished with Talon the day he squared off with Faustave, and, against all reason, defeated him as well. Now he was a body guard for Governor Polimi, ruler of the city-state of Sulov.

Polimi was a good man; good as one could expect from a frontier politician. He was barely corrupt and generally operated with the public’s interest in mind. He only gave in to the demands of businesses when the bribes were large enough and most assassination attempts made on his life were from political adversaries, not public interest groups.

To date, Verge had caught eighteen bullets for the man and had taken at least thirty-seven knives for him. Of course, Polimi knew Verge was the Former-Eater-of-Worlds, but he only brought this up at dinner parties with expensive friends.

The days passed slowly and mechanically. Verge was grateful for the opportunity to fade away into moderate obscurity while the rest of the world passed him by. It was a lot like when Breaker was first stripped from him, all those years ago. When he came to, people were vaguely aware of his existence and he managed to get around on the basis that everyone thought he was dead. This was still a persistent rumor, he found, as most theorized he was killed when The Twelve were killed as well.

“Virgil,” Polimi said one day, “Do you know why I have this window?”

The governor faced his large window which, in turn, faced the city. The window took up almost the entire outer wall and the evening bustle of Sulov could be seen below.

Verge looked up from his magazine.

“So assassins can have a bigger target?” he said slyly.

Polimi turned from his desk, holding some papers, and walked up to the window.

“It’s so I can do this.”

“Oh,” Verge said, “So you can keep tabs on the city.”

“No,” Polimi sighed, “It’s so I can have conversations like this. The cinematic value of a window like this is immeasurable. You have to be able to turn towards it and have conversations like these to be a true ruler. When I hear things like the leader of the peace-keepers doesn’t even have a single window in his office, I shudder.”

Polimi fiddled with the papers in his hands. Verge sat up more attentively.

“How can he have dramatic conversations like this,” Polimi continued, “if he doesn’t even have a single window? Where’s the drama in that?”

“But we’re not in cinema,” Verge offered.

“No, indeed we are not. But cinematic effects, even outside of cinema, have an amazing significance.”

There was an awkward silence.

“And after a somewhat awkward silence,” Polimi said suddenly, “I will reveal to you the contents of this document. I know you’ve been curious. I’ve been fiddling with them this whole time.”

“I suppose now would be the most dramatic moment.”

“Please don’t make observations, Virgil, you’ll spoil the atmosphere.”

Polimi breathed in deeply and sighed.

“01 has requested that I return you to him−er, it. There’s a letter addressed to you here too. I didn’t open it,” he added hastily.

Verge said nothing.

“I know you’ve enjoyed your time here Virgil, but at some point you will have to go back. You should do so now, when the Fishbowl remembers you in a somewhat positive light.”

“Because it would be dramatic?” Verge said snarkily.

“No, because you need it. You’re a good man Virgil and you’ve served me well, but you are haunted as well. I let you run away from your life because I needed your protection, but I’ve heard the stories.”

Verge froze.

“That girl who traveled with you and then wasn’t with you anymore,” Polimi said distantly, “Like I said, you are a haunted man.”

Verge stood up slowly. Polimi stood facing the window.

“It’s already decided then, isn’t it?” Verge said quietly.

Polimi turned around dramatically. He gallantly tossed the document back on his desk.

“I’ve already filled out the paperwork and I have given you a one-month bonus for your good service.”

“I see,” Verge said softly.

“I don’t know what you’ll find back on 01, but I believe that it will help you.”

Polimi made a half-smile.

“Once you’ve sorted yourself out, you can feel free to come back. I’m sure there will be an opening for you if my opponents have any say in the matter.”

“Thank you, sir.” Verge said, still quietly.

“I’ve arranged for a flight to 01 for you as well. It leaves tomorrow, so be sure to get a good nights’ rest.”

“Thank you very much,” Verge said.

Polimi turned back to the window.

“No, thank you, Virgil. I look forward to seeing you again soon.”

Verge knew it was time for him to leave the office. He grabbed the letter addressed to him and turned towards the door. He stepped outside into the warm night air and made his way towards his apartment.

 

Verge’s apartment was a tiny, well-kept affair. His lodgings were paid for by the Governor and were close to the Governor’s quarters in the Capitol Building. As he entered, he picked up the envelope which had been slid under the door. The tickets were inside it.

Verge placed the tickets and the letter on the bedside table and sat down on his small, neatly-made bed. The thin, wire frame creaked and sagged under him. He lifted his legs up and turned to lay down on top of the covers. As an afterthought, he unlaced his shoes and tossed them in the direction of the door. His head hit the pillow.

It had all come so fast. He was happy working for Polimi. The pay was good enough and the work was interesting. He had a reason to stay in shape and occasionally got into a good fight. But Polimi was right about “that girl.”

Verge tried not to remember Mei. He knew it was stupid to blame himself for what happened to her−what Faustave did to her. What he did to her, he was all too right to blame on himself. At times when he was remembering her the most, he reflected on how hard her life was. He had been the cause of most of her suffering. He brushed it off as an accident back then, but deep down, he knew it was just carelessness. Now he had plenty of time to reflect on his wrongdoings.

But now she was dead and had been for some time and Verge told himself this in an attempt to force himself to give up on her. It wasn’t that he wanted to be rid of her. He simply knew how things were. When people are dead, they’re dead. There’s nothing more to it. Sometimes, if you’re especially unlucky, you can become an undead, but even so there’s no soul inside you. You’re an empty meat husk. At any rate, even Nanites couldn’t bring the dead back and it was partially because of that that Verge decided he wanted nothing more to do with them. He had spent his time walking among the gods and he had not enjoyed it. Better, he thought, to lead a simple life and pretend things like friendship and love don’t exist.

Verge was also getting to be about a decade too old for teen angst and mentally kicked himself whenever he had thoughts like that. It was at times like this−when Verge was acutely aware of the internal processes of his mind−that he wished he could go back and educate his younger self. How much better things could have been!

Verge awoke with a start in the gray hours of the morning. His flight left in five hours. He was too awake to make use of the remaining three hours he could effectively sleep through, but he was too tired to want to stay up.

In a rush of sheer will and determination, he hauled himself up and stumbled groggily out into the kitchen and put on a pot of coffee. The percolator gurgled as molten, black sludge poured from the pot’s head. He poured himself a cup to drink when he was ready and put the rest in a carafe.

With his one bag packed and carafe in hand, Verge set out a four hours early towards the port. He walked the two miles to the station and passed through the gates three hours early. By this time, most of the city had woken up. He wandered around the boarding area, inspecting the various private charters and cargo ships that were docked during the low-traffic hours. One ship−a particularly small ship−caught his attention.

A nimble figure scaled the cool slate rooftops of London. The thick fog made him nothing more than a shadow moving against shadows. He stealthily skittered across the chilly skyline until at last he arrived at his quarry; the Ingram’s Estate. Tucked away in a deep corner of this mansion was what the shadow sought. Somewhere, buried deep inside under lock and key−most likely with armed guards too−was a magical tribal mask brought back by Tyler Ingram on his legendary expedition to the heathen lands of the South Americas. It was a perfect target for the Illustrious Highwayman.It had taken him weeks to prepare. He spent a small fortune bribing servants for information on when the guards change and ascertaining the layout of the estate. And after buying one guard a total of eight drinks−incognito, of course−he acquired the combination to the vault. At the very least he had a very drunken man’s recollection of what the combination could be.

He began to wonder just how reliable the three numbers the man had slurred out would be. If the combination didn’t work, he would do it his way. He quietly positioned himself on the roof in front of one of the attic windows. He grabbed a small pouch on his waist and slowly brought it in front of him. He froze at the sound of a carriage ambling down the street on the other side of the house. Of course they couldn’t see him, but instinct made him freeze until the carriage was far enough away.

He carefully removed a small vial from his pouch and gave the window’s latch a healthy dose of nitric acid. He took out another vial and carefully oiled both the hinges. He replaced both vials, put the pouch back at his hip and slowly moved inside. The attic was dingy and moldy. Portraits of forgotten Ingrams lined the walls of the attic, leaning against the occasional joist. The Highwayman moved cautiously through the attic towards the center of the building where the chimney and, more importantly, the shaft for the dumb waiter lay. He ignored the eyes as they followed him. In his line of business, he had to know when someone was actually watching him and when it was his imagination. He placed his steps carefully, walking on top of where the rafters lay beneath the floorboards to prevent that awful creaking sound. A real thief has to know how to fool a house.

That’s what he was taught that thieves do; they fool houses, not the people inside. A house is like a living organism. It knows when visitors are welcome and it knows when they are not. A house may be loyal to its master or it may betray him. Some houses guard their treasures carefully; others guard their occupants. These things were the most important part of a heist. Getting a safe open or sneaking past a guard was simply a matter of practice. Knowing whether the house itself was going to rat you out was a far more important thing to know.

This was not the first time the Illustrious Highwayman had come to the Ingram’s Estate. This was, in fact, his fifth heist at the manor and soon to be his third successful one. The new master of the house was flamboyant and reckless. After succeeding his father, Young Master Ingram saw fit to banish all family portraits−save his own, of course−to the attic. He knocked down two walls on the east wing to put in a swimming pool of all things and had spent the last three months throwing at least three parties a week for all his young friends. Not classy parties, mind you, but the loud, rambunctious parties that disturb the neighborhood and go long into the night. The estate itself was apparently still reeling from last night’s soirée.

The Ingram’s Estate was a proud building that valued its history and lineage. It honored its past occupants and held them in great respect. It had made the job particularly difficult for the Highwayman during the last four heists; when Tyler Ingram Junior, Young Master Ingram’s father, was the head of the household. But Tyler Ingram Junior was a respectable man; a man who knew how to treat his house and had one hell of a right hook.

The Highwayman rubbed his cheek nostalgically as he fastened himself to the chimney with his supply of rope. He chuckled silently to himself as he remembered his last failed heist at the Ingram’s Estate. He was trying to steal the mask then too. Technically, thieves were not supposed to attempt to steal the same item from the same person more than once. But the mask had a new owner, and Young Master Ingram had it coming to him anyway.

As the Highwayman lowered himself by rope down the shaft, he couldn’t help shake the feeling that the estate was not going easy on him; rather it was about to make hell for the young master. Not that it mattered to him. As long as he safely slipped away with the mask in hand by the morning, his mission would be a success.

He slid the door open slightly. The guard was fast asleep. Silently, he pushed it the rest of the way open and slipped out onto the floor, rolling up to the safe. He brushed his cheek against the cool iron and placed a gloved hand on the dial.

Click! Click! Click!

Like magic, it opened. He glanced over his shoulder. The guard snored loudly in oblivion. He silently turned the handle and looked inside.

A feathered, red mask sat in an otherwise empty safe.

“Curses! Foiled again!” he shouted.

The guard stumbled awake, if such a thing could be done from a chair.

“Wha-? Who’s there?” he bumbled.

The Highwayman froze.

“Is that-Is that the Illustrious Highwayman?”

“What? No! I’m just a party guest. It’s a costume party, you know. Any idea where the water closet is?”

“No you aren’t. You’re him! The young master said you’d be coming one of these nights. “

The Highwayman stood silently, mouth agape.

“Look, it’s not as if it matters,” he moaned. “My sister beat me to the quarry.”

“The Red Mask II?” the guard prodded, moving to look inside the safe. “Well, I’ll be! She did get it. Right out from under my nose. And pregnant too! When is she due again?”

“In two months,” the Highwayman sobbed.

“Cheer up, mate,” the guard offered. “No sense in having you walk away empty-handed. Here!”

The guard produced a small bag and tossed it on the ground at the Highwayman’s feet. It clinked with the heft of coins.

“What’s this?”

“The young master says, ‘Think of it as a consolation prize.’”

“What? I’m not taking this!”

“Why not? It’s free money.”

“I’m supposed to be stealing rare artifacts and heirlooms, not petty change. And besides, it’s not stealing if you’re giving it to me.”

“Look fella,” the guard leveled. “The young master knew your sister was going to get the mask before you did. So he says to me, ‘Give him a little something for his trouble, poor bugger.’”

The Highwayman slowly became aware that since the appearance of his sister in London, his own career as a master thief had devolved into nothing more than a running joke. The bag of coin was the punchline.

“I’m not taking it.”

“Yes you are.”

“No I’m not.”

“Yes you are, because I’ll blow my whistle if you don’t. Them’s orders.”

“Well, I don’t care, I have pride, you know.”

“A thief with pride,” the guard chuckled derisively. “Look squire, the young master has given me this.”

He produced a brown bottle.

“Do you know what this is?” the guard asked.

“Whiskey?” the Highwayman ventured.

“This is enough whiskey to make me a very drunk man for a very long time. Now, I will go back to my seat and drink myself into oblivion and when I come out of it some time next morning, you and the bag will be gone. Understand?”

The Highwayman muttered.

“Understand?” the guard prodded again.

The Highwayman did not answer.

“Good,” he said as he made his way back to the chair. He bit off the cork and began his quest into the bottle.

The highwayman bent over and picked up the bag of coins. There had to be at least 100 pounds in there, enough to cover the costs of the failed heist and a bit more. But taking it meant−never mind.

He slowly climbed his way back up the shaft until he finally made it back up to the attic. he collected his gear and walked−floorboards squeaking the whole way−back to the window he had so carefully opened. Defeated, he slipped out into the cold, foggy night.

The Ingram’s Estate smirked.